Dirty Laundry by JACmRob
Disclaimer: I do not own Life with Derek. If i did there'd be some damn dasey by now.
It started with a jersey. His hockey jersey, number 39, left in a crumpled ball on the front porch. A yellow post-it note was stuck haphazardly on it. He found it after stomping back home from a disappointing practice. Plucking off the note, he saw only one word hastily scribbled on it.
Sorry.
It was all the proof he needed to confirm that their fight last night had been the last. She had slept in that jersey every night, even those nights when she should have burned it, even those nights when he'd stood her up, even those nights when she'd done the same to him. She'd worn it faithfully to all his hockey games for good luck, despite the fact that she'd bitch for hours about how fat it made her look (and even he couldn't disagree to that).
Its return in a sodden heap to his doorstep meant one unbearable truth: that his relationship with Kendra was inevitably over.
Derek kicked the side of the house forcefully. He hated that he was so cut up over it, that there was this aching emptiness where she used to be. He shouldn't even care. He should've been glad it was over, in fact, he should have ended it long before. His friends would keep telling him to stop letting Kendra jerk him around, and he'd open his mouth to defend her, only to find he had nothing to say. Nothing at all. Everything had started that night when he'd bailed on their date. If he had known the disaster it would leave in its wake, he would have skipped work and gone to that frigging Cameron Diaz movie. He could have easily had someone cover his shift. But instead, he'd given Kendra a quick call and served cappuccinos to disgruntled pedestrians for the next five hours instead.
Crumpling the note in his fist, he grabbed the jersey and trudged into the house. He threw down his hockey bag and yanked open the door to the washroom.
There was a muffled gasp and a bang as someone tumbled off the washing machine and a basket of laundry went flying. Casey quickly pulled herself up to her knees and began sifting through the clothes that had scattered on the floor, piling them and muttering excuses.
"S-sorry Derek, I didn't see you—it's just that—well, you startled me is all—I was just surprised and um—I'll clean this up—I just didn't know you were home…"
She trailed off. Casey straightened up, a large bundle of clothing hiding her face, and busied herself to sorting them, facing the opposite wall. He bent over and picked up a t-shirt she had dropped, wordlessly handing it to her. She looked up at him. Her eyes were red.
"I can take that if you like," she mumbled, gesturing at the wadded up jersey in his hand. Derek tossed it to her and she caught it. Unrolling it, she saw what it was. She glanced up at him in askance. When he didn't answer, she said in a small voice,
"Isn't—Isn't this Kendra's?"
"Yeah, well," he replied, his voice rising, "Apparently she didn't want it anymore. But it's not like I fucking care. It's not like I give a fuck what she does with her fucking stuff! She can wear whatever she damn well pleases and I won't give a fuck because it's not like it ever has a fucking thing to do with me. Let her BITCH all she wants because I JUST DON'T FUCKING CARE!"
He let out a cry of frustration and kicked the washing machine. Casey jumped. It felt good to let out all of his pent-up anger. Shouting another stream of swear words he grabbed a bin of clothing and threw it across the room, followed by a bottle of detergent, and an old hockey stick. Casey watched silently with an odd expression on her face—almost pity, or was it jealousy? He couldn't tell, he was so blinded by the rage that had erupted in him. Swearing again he threw another basket of laundry at the wall. Its contents landed on the ground with a dull thump.
Panting heavily, he sank to the ground. Casey's eyes were still on him.
"I'll clean up," he muttered, gesturing helplessly around the small room. "Sorry…" Feeling an uncharacteristic lump in his throat, he pulled the article he was sitting on out from under him. It was Max's black football jacket. He threw it to Casey.
"Here… you probably want this."
"Actually," she said in a high voice, "I'm washing it before I give it back to him."
She dropped to the floor next to him.
"He thinks we should see other people," she said, in the same high voice. "Or more specifically he should be seeing Amy—"
She broke off.
He looked at her. There were tear tracts down her face, but her eyes were dry. Their bright-blue irises were locked with his.
Suddenly he was kissing her—fiercely, angrily—and she was kissing him back. And she had placed his hands on his chest, pushing him to the floor. He rolled over, on top of her, and was kissing down her neck as her hands ran up and down his back. She grabbed the hem of his shirt, pulling it off, and pressed her hands to his bare chest. He pulled off her shirt, and unhooked her bra—and their bodies were pressed together, lips wanton, hungry; hands greedy, searching—searching…
A week later Kendra called. He hadn't returned it, but when he heard the news that Casey was getting back together with Max, he hopped into his car, grabbing his jersey from the bottom draw in his room. He took her to dinner that night, and suddenly they were back again, Kendra and Derek, as if they'd never even separated. As if that afternoon in the washing room hadn't even happened at all.
Everything seemed to be back to its usual mediocracy, although his dad had pointed out that he and Casey were being strangely civil to each other; but then, perhaps they were both getting older… No, everything was back to normal.
It continued with a jersey. That same hockey jersey, number 39, abandoned on the front porch again, after the usual night of fighting. He clenched his hands into fists as a surge of white-hot rage pulsed through him remembering last night's row. It was so low for Kendra to accuse him of cheating, so low when it was she who had admitted to it, so many weeks ago. And he had forgiven her! He remembered that night so clearly…
"Sorry Kendra, I just can't get out of work tonight," he said, holding his cell phone to his ear while cutting himself another slice of the chocolate cake left on the café's counter. Cutting off her protestations, he replied "I know, babe, I'm sorry. We can go see that movie another night."
He crinkled a piece of paper near the mouth piece of the phone. "Sorry babe—vzzz—I'm getting some static—vzzz—bad signal—vzz—I'll call you later, bye."
End call. Mission accomplished. Sally walked into the room, smirking slightly.
"Bailing on a date? I thought Derek Venturi couldn't resist getting some action."
"There is no way in hell I'm wasting ten bucks to go see that Cameron Diaz movie," he replied, "besides, you know my rule about PDA."
"Well Kendra didn't sound too happy," Sally answered.
He shrugged. "She'll get over it."
"Fuck Kendra, I can't believe you'd do that!" he shouted.
"Oh please," she yelled back, scarlet in the face, "Don't give me that, Mr. 'I've-got-to-work!' I know whenever you're at that place you're hooking up with Sally!"
"Don't act for a second like this is about me!" he raged. "I would never cheat on you… looks like you can't say the same anymore!"
"It was you who bailed on our date!"
He whirled around and let out a roar of frustration. "It was one—fucking—date! You've bailed on me before and I haven't gone off and screwed the first person I came across! You know what, I don't need this shit. We're done, Kendra."
But they weren't done, he reflected. And he wished they had been. And the right thing to do would have been to end it on that day. Instead, he'd forgiven her. And the vicious circle had begun.
He trudged into the house, dirty jersey in hand. He didn't even bother to throw it in the washroom, just walked up to his room and threw it on the floor. Turning on his light he saw someone had left a basket of dirty laundry on his bed. Muttering under his breath, he grabbed it and dragged it downstairs. Opening the washroom door, someone was waiting inside.
Casey was sitting on the washing machine. Her face was hardened. She stared at him for a long time.
"Kiss me."
He impulsively dropped the laundry and closed the door, flicking off the lights.
It always came back to the jersey. His hockey jersey, number 39, or Max's football jacket. They'd meet in the washroom after the latest break-up or fight, kissing hungrily, grappling at the thing they needed most, bodies intertwined, clothing strewn across the floor. It was a guilty, desperate sort of need, one they both would never admit. Coming back for each other whenever they were hurt or vulnerable, trying to transfer their pain by wrestling across the floor. He didn't mind that it wasn't his name she moaned, because it wasn't her name he'd whisper into her ear. An unspoken truce led them to reveal themselves at their weakest moments, and then mask each other the rest of the time. Two strangers, living in the same house.
Some days Derek felt he was suffocating under the weight of what he was doing with Casey, and what Kendra was doing to him. Yet he'd always find himself crawling back to both of them, even after he'd promised himself never again. It always came back to the jersey, that damn hockey jersey that tied him to both of them.
Once again he picked himself up off the washroom floor, pulling on his jeans. Casey was fastening her bra as she turned around to face him, looking him in the eye for the first time in weeks.
"What are we doing, Derek?" she asked him wearily.
"You tell me," he replied, with a bitter laugh, gesturing at the old hockey jersey and football jacket on the floor. "We've got our dirty laundry, Case. You and I are just drowning in our dirty laundry."
He pulled a t-shirt over his head and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
He was sitting at his desk, considering attempting his already week-late homework when she came in.
"Get up," Casey said. "We're going somewhere."
Too tired to even question her he pulled on a pair of shoes and a jacket. When he got downstairs she was already standing by the door, car keys in hand. He followed her out.
"Are you even going to tell me where we're going?" he asked, as Casey backed the car out of the driveway.
"Nope," she answered.
They had been driving for about then minutes when Casey pulled into a vacant lot on the far side of town.
"Get out," she said. "We're here."
"Here?" he questioned, slamming his door shut. She was now rummaging around in the trunk. "What the hell is here?"
Without answering, she pulled out his hockey jersey and Max's football jacket and tossed them on the pavement. She then extracted a bottle and poured an oily substance over the clothes. Derek's nose crinkled at the acrid smell. Gasoline.
"What are you doing?"
Casey stuck a hand in her pocket and pulled out a box of matches.
"I'm done, Derek. No more dirty laundry, no more one-last-times, I'm done. And you are too. This time we're not going back. Not to them, and not to each other. Not unless we mean it. I've put up with enough. I'm done."
He looked at her, the fire surging in her eyes.
"I am too."
She struck the match and dropped it.
It ended with a jersey. His same hockey jersey, number 39, blackening in the flames at his feet. They both watched it, engulfed in fire, slowly shriveling into nothing more than a pile of ash.
"Are we going to be okay, Case?" he asked.
"I don't know Derek." She looked at him, cocking her head. "I think so."
The end.
I was going to add this to my collection of one-shots, but it turned into a little more than a drabble so I published it as it's own story. It's pretty dark and angsty, but I still couldn't resist giving it a semi-happy ending. Reviews pleaseeeee... Tell me what you think, where I should improve, flames if you like, but just give me some form of a comment. I revel in them.
Hopefully by writing a longer story I can prepare myself to write a chapter fic, which I want to start soon. Of course, that project may be put on hold due to my return to the hellhole I call school... sigh Ah well, I'll write soon. In the mean time, everyone else give me some stuff to read!
--JR