Author's Note: Just a short, one-shot drabble, if you will. Enjoy (o:
Disclaimer: I so do wish.
Foundation
--
It starts the third week of university.
She bustles through his door, without his permission, in his all-male residence. That alone contradicts every fiber of her being, because she wouldn't step foot in such a confinement without a space-suit and sanitary wipes.
"Dare I ask?"
She dismisses it as 'nothing, can't a girl visit her only step-brother within a twenty-mile radius?' And he dismisses it with an eye roll, because the guys are out and she'll probably be overwhelmed with the jock-strap slash man-sweat stench within a matter of minutes.
She complains, with a wrinkled nose and a creased brow, that his couch smells like pits and the dust bunnies made grandchildren under his dining room table. And it takes a special edition hockey tournament to drone out her rants and he wonders why she's even here.
Some things never change, even hundreds of miles away from home.
--
"What."
It's an unrecognizable hour, sometime early morning, days later, and he's not in the mood for a warm, homey greeting because his pool party at the Playboy mansion was rudely disrupted. She isn't fazed and claims she wants to get some pre-studying done for mid-terms. (Oh, yeah, they were a month away.)
He tells her to go study with her roommates, "That's kind of what they're there for, Case."
She explains that they're all either 'busy', hung-over or uninterested. He tries his hardest to look remotely surprised, and then tells her to 'get lost' as politely as he can muster.
Then she plops down on his musty couch and cracks open her textbook, patting the empty space beside her. He rolls his eyes, snatching his rutted textbook off of the table and curling up on her polar opposite. He uses it as a pillow.
"De-rek!"
--
"The period of political and social upheaval and radical change, also known as the French Revolution, occurred during what time slot?"
"The… seventeenth… century?"
"The late seventeen-hundreds," she corrects. "Let's think more powdered wigs and men in stockings and less your people, the cavemen."
"Your presence is endearing, really, and I'd really hate to conclude all this… 'fun', but I have somewhere to be."
"A date."
There's no question or confusion in her expression and untainted familiarity mars her face.
"Hockey practice," he says, his eyebrows pulling together.
She doesn't respond, instead buries her face inside her textbook and says nothing more. He grabs his keys and duffel and doesn't spare a second glance.
And she's still there when he gets home, splayed out across the couch ungracefully and dead asleep, all of her books and highlighted notes scattered on the floor.
He ignores the winks, playful nudges and 'you're a beast!'s coming from his roommates as they all bustle through the door and clamber up to bed.
She wakes up the next morning long before anyone else and quickly gathers her belongings, shutting the door quietly behind her and she tries to recall if that ratty blanket had been there before she fell asleep.
--
"Oh, my God."
He looks like hell when he opens the door, because the medication's starting to kick in and his nose is all red and drippy and it took too much strength to get out of bed to answer the door humanly, so his sheets are wrapped around his shoulders, dragging on the floor.
"You have a cold," she announces, placing a chilly hand on his forehead.
"Alright, at least that's established now. I wasn't one-hundred percent sure that was the case when the doctor gave me the prescription, so thanks for the confirmation."
She rolls her eyes, "Get your smart butt back into bed while I make you some soup."
He doesn't argue and drags himself back up the stairs.
When she comes in fifteen minutes later with a tray, he's splayed out across his lumpy mattress weakly, pathetically, rear end hoisted up toward the ceiling.
"Charming. Sit up, please."
She positions some pillows behind him, making sure he stays upright and pulls the blanket over his legs. She sets the tray in front of him; there's a small vaporizer, a mug of tea and steaming bowl of soup with crackers.
"I managed to scrape this much up. Nothing was organized correctly, so the soup might be a little past its expiration date and the tea might've lost its flavor. Nonetheless, you're getting something in that failed immune system of a stomach."
He takes a spoonful of soup into his mouth and scrunches his nose as he swallows.
She gives him a pointed, righteous look, "Told you."
"This isn't chicken noodle."
"No, it's a hearty vegetable and tomato broth."
"Yuck."
She motions for him to take another spoonful and orders him to 'stop complaining and eat.'
Despite his protests and ghastly expressions, he polishes the bowl clean and guzzles down half of the tea and falls fast asleep, snoring lightly. She shakes her head, making sure he's fully encased in blankets, and writes him a diminutive reminder on a post-it note ('drink lots of fluids and rest up!'). She leaves him to sleep, shutting the door delicately behind her.
He has a dream about her.
--
He's a bit flabbergasted when he opens the door and she's standing there expectantly, because she hasn't visited since she last nursed him (fairly) back to health.
"We're watching the game," he explains, when she walks in and there's a group of beer-guzzling, pretzel-attacking cavemen suffocating the couch.
She looks reluctant at first, but they greet her warmly and offer her a bottle and she makes herself (somewhat) comfortable. They start to educate her on the barbarity that is hockey and he sits off at the end, watching both with equal anticipation.
And pretty soon she's cheering and booing at the right times and they're all doubling over with laughter over inside jokes that they won't remember the next day and her beer stays (predictably) untouched the entire time.
He offers her to stay for dinner. She decides she can 'jog off a few slices of greasy pizza tomorrow.' ("Make one the veggie-lover's.")
The remainder of the guys that haven't already passed out on the couch bid her a lethargic 'g'night' and she thanks all of them for a great time.
And she decides to start cleaning up.
"You're a freak; you do know that, right?"
She smiles, gathering the salt-and-crumb-encrusted bowls and empty beer bottles, making sure everything is just how she likes it; clean and orderly.
"I had fun tonight," she says simply.
"Good."
He deposits the empty pizza boxes into a black garbage bag, because he doesn't mind helping her just this once. She doesn't thank him and he doesn't take offense.
Because they've established somewhat of a friendship. Sort of.
--
He's feeling better, but at the same time, he's not.
"I failed my mid-term." He says harshly upon opening the front door.
Her face falls, "Oh, Derek."
"Don't. Honestly? Just don't."
She looks taken aback.
"Derek, you can just retake it next–"
"That isn't the point, Casey," he says brusquely. "The point is that I failed. Miserably."
She looks sheepish when she tells him 'it's not like you haven't failed before,' and regret quickly masks her face, because she didn't mean for it to come out as harsh.
He narrows his eyes at her, "Is that supposed to be you brightening the mood?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean–I just…I tried to help."
"Well, we can see how well that always works out," he spits venomously.
Hurt flashes in her eyes, but he's far too upset to even consider apologizing. He knows it isn't her fault, and he wishes his mouth would process this the way his mind did, but his jaw's clicked into place, refusing to back down now.
"You're such an ass."
"You're such a prick."
Her jaw is set and her arms are crossed when she says 'is that so.'
"Do you know my neighbors know who you are and who it is whenever the buzzer goes off? My roommates know your schedule and the classes that you're taking. They're always talking about you, always. It's like when you leave, you never actually leave. Like it's not just the familiar presence anymore, and you've already made your way under my skin, in my blood stream. Like you're always here and I can never get away from you… do you see where I'm going with this?"
Her nostrils flare and she blinks back hot tears, "I'm sure you're going to tell me."
"You were the one that was so adamant on getting to Queens and finally getting away from me. You can't have it both ways, Casey. It's just like you to wan't it like that. Sometimes I don't get you, I really don't. Because we live on completely separate ends of campus and you spend more time over here rather than at your place. That alone says all too much. I think we'd both be better off if you get back to perfecting every inch of your own fucking life and allow me to get back to mi–"
But she's already storming out the door, wiping furiously at her eyes.
--
And thirty-seven unanswered voicemails later, he's leaving yet another message.
"It's me again. I'm sorry."
--
"Now's seriously not a good time, Casey."
He covers the mouth-piece on his cell, trying to muffle his conversation with a hysterical Sally.
"I need to see you. Nothing's going right and I'm trying so hard to make things fall into place here and I just… I want to see you. I knew taking the acceptance would be a stupid idea…"
"Hold on," he speaks into the phone, while Casey pushes past him indignantly.
"… and it's miserable, absolutely miserable. My roommates are incredible and my professors and classes are completely blasé, but nothing's right and I keep forgetting what your voice sounds like, and God, I don't mean to sound so needy all the time…"
"Casey, leave. Now. I'll call you later toni–"
"You're all I've got."
She cuts him off and his mouth is still hanging open in mid-sentence. And then everything's silent, except for Sally's subdued voice carrying on over the other line.
"I miss home. I miss home so much," she grips at her chest as if her heart might combust if she doesn't hold it together tightly enough. "I miss my mom and I miss Lizzie and I miss George, Edwin and Marti. And there's always been that something missing ever since university. And I think it's that familiarity, that… that home feeling."
He swallows, and Sally's still going on and on but he drowns her out the best he can.
"And whenever I… whenever I'm here, whether we're studying or watching a game or even arguing, I feel like I'm back at home. And God, I miss that feeling so much. And, astonishingly enough, you're the only one that can fill that empty void. You're like home."
He stares right into the core of her (diamond-blue) watery eyes with intensity and she's fumbling with the hem of her shirt with her other hand like she doesn't know what else to do.
His mind is processing (slowly) and he sighs, finally.
"Sally, I'm going to have to call you back."
--
She's a frequent visitor. She'll show up after class on some days with DVDs or enough takeout for the entire household. She lectures the guys on how to use a vacuum-cleaner and reminds everyone that 'a toilet seat has the uncanny ability to go up and down.' She has a spot on the couch with her name on it for some nights and, on rare occasions (and always unplanned), the right side of his bed, which he fights endlessly for, but begrudgingly surrenders when she's past the point of waking up.
But she's sixteen again and she's back home.
And so is he.