Disclaimer: I do not own Life with Derek
A/N: I've been attempting another fic for a few months, but it's refusing to be written, and this came out instead, so if you like it, please review, because it might coax the other story out of its cave! I know Nora and George are a great couple, but please suspend your disbelief, because you'll (hopefully) enjoy the story more if you do :) Unbeta'd
The spark had always been there, and they'd always known it, no matter how hard they tried to talk themselves out of it. It was perfectly logical that they'd feel the way they felt; they'd met as hormonal adolescents, polar opposites, their personalities inevitably bound to antagonise the other, the same social barriers that forced them apart also kept them together. None of it made the attraction any easier to resist. Maybe that's why they fought so hard to keep their parents together, because they were used to fighting so hard to stay apart; if they gave up trying, it could all fall down.
Their parents made an effort not to argue when Marti was actually in the room, but as soon as she left, it was fair game. The older siblings tried to hang around as much as they could stand, hoping that the fights would be tempered if they were there, though it never seemed that way.
During the aftermath of one particularly difficult meal, Derek and Casey lingered, making forts and castles out of their desert that Marti would have been proud of. Their parents were locked in a stalemate, attempting to force their marriage to work. As Derek fidgeted, bored and uncomfortable, his foot knocked against Casey's, and he could see her resist the urge to yell at him, keen not to make the atmosphere any worse. He attempted a smirk, but fell short, and she nodded imperceptibly, his façade broke down a little at the display of solidarity. He was so busy trying to pull himself together that he nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt her stroke his leg with her foot. He knew she meant it reassuringly, but his blood was already racing and he needed the distraction. Her foot stilled as she took in his tongue darting out to lick his lip and the slightly rabid look in his eye. He kicked off his shoe, and she gulped.
His foot inched towards her, and he could feel his heart beating in his throat, but he was completely focused on the task at hand: she was going to squirm. His toes lifted up the leg of her jeans and tugged her sock down slightly, trembling a little as he strained the muscles in his leg to caress the sole of her foot. He teased her, shaking up his moves often enough to keep her flustered. He traced words that he shouldn't have been thinking on her calf, and hoped she couldn't decipher them, but that she could've guess was part of the thrill.
Their parents were too wrapped up in their own battle to see the games their children are messing with. So he continued with his exploration of this uncharted territory, enjoying the subtle signals that he was getting to her. He extended his leg, gliding up so softly she could hardly feel it, and then retreating back, before returning, higher and higher each time, but never coming close to satisfying the sudden need for contact.
She looked angry, stunned, flushed and like she was trying not to lose control. She looked beautiful.
As his foot became more brazen, she clenched her teeth harder, locked in eye contact with him, staring him down. But it was all too much, she had enough to deal with, and she couldn't go there. She abruptly pulled her chair out, the legs screeching across the floor and catching in a groove in the wood, throwing her backwards.
He laughed, but it sounded wrong. So he fled, grateful that their parents had found something other than arguing to focus on, and thanking his lucky stars that he hadn't been able cross the line he was about to; things were already crazy as it was.
They took to tapping on the party wall between their rooms, letting the other one know when they couldn't sleep, due to the shouting downstairs, or just memories of it. They curled against the wall, finding comfort in their proximity, but unable to bring themselves to cross the divide that they so desperately wanted to keep, holding onto the family that it represented.
The night before the MacDonalds moved out, Casey had given up trying to sleep and escaped to the dark sitting room. Her mum had taken to sleeping in her bed, having given up the pretence of normal married life months before. Casey had tolerated it, not wanting to make a big deal of it, or rather, not wanting Marti to know about the altered sleeping arrangements. But they were moving out the next day, so the gig was up, the fight was over, and Nora was crying in Casey's bed and Casey couldn't stand it, so she was on the couch, amidst dozens of boxes. Apparently Derek couldn't stand it either, because he crept down the stairs and over to her. Even by the streetlight filtering in the window, he could see that her eyes were bloodshot from crying, but he said nothing, just nudged her gently and squeezed in beside her.
The couch was small, but their bodies naturally aligned so closely that there was plenty of room. He laid on his side, studying her face and she looked back up at him. They were barely touching, the only unclothed contact was intermittent, between her fingers and his neck, her arm folded above his shoulder, holding him to her. He leaned into it and shuddered slightly from her touch, she continued to lightly trace the flesh there, relishing the effect she had on him. She struggled to repress whatever noise wanted to escape her when he shifted slightly, but she was betrayed as her breathing quickened and her pupils dilated. A smug smirk traced his lips, and she knocked him playfully with her knee. The change was immediate, he froze, the previous lightness eradicated from his face. The intensity of his gaze, and the realisation of where she had nudged him caused a soundless gasp to escape her lips. Suddenly she was torn, desperate to look away, to escape, but the moment was impossible to break from.
The course was painfully slow, inevitable, as her leaned towards her, locked in a trajectory that had a terrifying outcome. The frenzy of butterflies in her stomach bordered on nausea. He chickened out slightly, altering his course to kiss her more on the cheek than on her lips. It was an opt out clause of kisses; he needed to know that she wanted him as much as he wanted her, and though, if she had been thinking rationally, she would've be outraged at the perceived audacity of this, she was definitely not thinking rationally. In fact, as he drew back ever so slightly, she panicked; it had to happen, it was now or never, and it couldn't be never.
"No," she breathed, and misinterpreting, he flinched, wounded, "No!" she tried to clarify herself, but for once, she was lost for words, and could only repeat the same ambiguous one. Before he could move further, she reinforced her point far more articulately by tightening her arm and pulling his face to hers with too much force, their lips crushed together painfully, but if anything it fuelled them on, violently forging the connection they'd always known was there.
Apparently their problem was always that they talked too much, so there was an unspoken vow the next morning not to say anything that might detract from the beautiful, painful, finality of the goodbye that they'd found the night before. At least that was her take on it, as she pretended to sleep on after he woke up, listening intently to the sound of him picking his things up from the floor and putting them back on. He'd already made it clear that he wouldn't hang around today, making excuses about shifts he couldn't change, when really, he couldn't face watching them leave. Her heart hammered in her chest, tightening with the expectation that he'd just walk out of the door. But he didn't. He paused, considering it, then he turned and leaned over to press a lingering kiss to her forehead. Her eyes squeezed with the tenderness of it, and he noticed, but didn't say anything, let out a shallow breath and left.
They always wonder if the other thinks of them as much as they do. And always at the most inappropriate moments.