Odd Couple
By: The General
TG/N: I sort of just had a spark of inspiration, and I needed to (well, wanted to) post it. See, while I love Paul and Suze—they will forever be my first OTP—to be perfectly honest, sometimes writing for them can get kind of stale. Which brings me back to my point: I needed a change of pace. So I've decided to create this little gem, writing various vignettes focusing on pairings (okay, more like unusual pairings) that don't get much air time because for me, they are the most interesting.
The first pairing is Brad/Suze. Now, while this will probably offend a lot of people (I'm looking at you, Incest-Is-Bad crowd!), I've always just been eerily fascinated with the possibility of this pairing. Yes, it probably makes me CRAZY, but I just wanted to experiment. So without further ado, I bring you:
Part One: Buze Sackerman (Brad/Suze)
i.
It's only the first time he has met her, and already he can't stand her. Her abused leather jacket makes her look like she's in some sort of biker gang; her nails are painted a violent shade of blue so blue they look like popsicles; and whenever she says a word ending in a vowel plus 'r', she sounds exactly like Fran Drescher from The Nanny, only, less annoying.
He thinks it's the moment she looks him up and down, sizes him up to absolutely nothing that really bothers him. Although, technically, there really is no reason why this should be at all.
He has enough X-rated memories to make a whore blush, but even among the sweat and the flesh, the one thing that truly sticks with him is when her hand brushes his as she sweeps by with her luggage to enter the Land Rover.
Pull it together, Ackerman, he repeats the words of his wrestling coach to himself before promptly falling asleep in the car, head lolled back on the headrest.
ii.
He knows it's wrong. He's paid enough attention in religion class to know that much. Plus, anyone who as ever watched an episode of Cops could tell you the same thing. You know, about the whole incest thing. Still, it doesn't stop him from hiding out in his room, subconsciously plotting reasons why it would just so happen he would need to walk past her room just to, you know, catch a glimpse inside. To check that she's safe, of course.
It's not like he's obsessed or anything. He's only done it a couple of times. Besides, she's his step-sister.
Still, he's sixty-eight percent sure he briefly saw her naked through the crack of the door during one of his walkabouts.
He's eighty-seven percent sure it was one of the greatest moments of his life.
Other than when the wrestling team went to Nationals and won in his sophomore year, of course. And when he and his dad watched Rocky II for the first time.
Well, maybe he was eighty-eight point two percent sure, if he thinks about it a lot.
Which he hasn't...much.
iii.
He's sitting on the couch, his feet propped on the coffee table, a bowl of popcorn to his right, and he's watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer with Slater, who is seated at the opposite end of the couch—guy code. His friend has never seen a single episode of the series, and while Brad has never been a huge dork over the whole thing—that was more David's thing—it has some decent elements to it, one of which is Buffy. He's always had a thing for petite blondes.
Still, he finds himself agitated—also kind of wigged—when Suze shoves the bowl of popcorn at him and situates herself on the couch cushion between him and Slater. There is absolutely no reason why she should affect him like this. She wasn't even his type.
Also: step-sister.
"Feel free to take up the whole couch, Dopey," she says, not even bothering to look at him. She's too engrossed in the TV, anyway. "It's a common mistake to believe no one exists in this house, except for you." She finds the remote and punches the 'volume up' button a couple times. "Ooh, it's Wesley!" she exclaims, before promptly collapsing into the back of the couch with a big grin. "So, Slater, what the hell are you doing here?"
"Dopey" is the nickname she's been calling him every once in awhile since they've met. He supposes he should be offended, but the only emotion he can manage is a mutated hybrid of amusement and pride over the fact that she took the time to come up with a nickname for him. He can't decide whether that is moronic or just plain makes him a dumbass.
For whatever reason, he leans toward the latter.
Meanwhile, Suze and Paul are carrying on with their conversation. "I never pinned you for a fan of the Slayer," he says, giving her one of those off-handed grins that are supposed to look casual, but Brad knows otherwise. The thought annoys him, and catches him off-guard, hands clenching into fists at his side. Viciously, he grabs more popcorn.
"Oh, yeah," Suze replies with a wave of her hand. She pulls her legs up and under her. "Back in Brooklyn, I used to watch it religiously. I felt like I could really relate to Buffy. Plus, I've always said that if I was forced to go lesbian, I would totally go Sarah Michelle Gellar."
It takes two whole minutes of pounding him on the back before Brad stops choking, and even then, he's still coughing. He excuses himself from the two and races upstairs to the bathroom.
It turns out to be one of the longest cold showers of his life. Probably because he can't seem to get the image of Sarah Michelle Gellar and his step-sister in an intimate embrace out of his head.
Later, when they ask, he tells them he got some butter from the popcorn all over himself and had to wash it off. Slater gives him a look of blatant disgust, but Brad brushes it off. There is no way he could possibly know what is going through his head.
At least, he hopes so, anyway.
iv.
He hasn't thought of her in months. He's kept contact to a minimum, and other than seeing her at mandatory meals and occasionally at school, he stays away from her which seems to work pretty well.
He has signed up for the SATs which take place in less than a week, he's been forced to take remedial chemistry, and just in case he's not busy enough, he's gotten back into the dating game once again.
Obviously, she's not Kelly Prescott, but there's something about Debbie Mancuso that is simple, and right now, he's okay with that. Plus, if he is being totally honest, it's sort of nice.
Two weeks into the relationship, she invites him over to her house after the wrestling team's victory over RLS. The excitement over the match is overwhelming, so he decides to head over there after he cleans up. The worst that could happen, he thinks, is he could get lucky.
They eat cookies she made for the occasion (they're chocolate chip), and she alludes to her abandonment issues during the slow parts of The Notebook, but to be honest, he's not really listening. Not because he doesn't care—well, actually, that's pretty accurate—but because he can't help but be annoyed that she forced him into watching this movie.
Still, for whatever reason, he can't seem to remember his complaint, let alone what it was over, when her lips touch his. And he can remember it even less when she slides her hand down his pants. For once, his mind is completely void of thought save for the one planning a gambit (one of his SAT words, he thinks idly) that will lead to the actual fun part of the making-out process. She straddles him and begins pressing kisses on his neck, along his throat. A feeling of immense pleasure begins bubbling from the pit of his stomach, up his esophagus, until it finally holes up in his mouth, exiting in the form of an elongated groan. His head lolls back, eyes closed, and before he can stop himself, he moans in sheer bliss, "Oh, Suze, yeah . . ."
Immediately, the kisses stop, and Debbie sits up straight, her pelvis a lot less enthusiastic. For the first time, he realizes she's sort of heavy and that his legs kind of hurt. "What did you say?" she demands, fires igniting in the pits of her pupils. Her lip is trembling, but he's pretty sure she's less likely to cry than punch him in the nuts.
He's shocked, to say the least, that those words even left his mouth, and he's been doing so well, what with the not thinking about Suze and all. Suddenly, his hands start shaking, they're gleaming with sweat. If he really thinks about it, he knows it's due to an overwhelming sense of fear and not the familiar nervousness pre-sex.
"Debbie," he protests, unsure, really, of what to say, "I—"
After glaring menacingly, she rolls—yes, he decides, it's a definite roll—off of him and stands, jabbing a mauve painted finger at the front door. "Eww, Ackerman! God," she shrieks, her eyes bright with tears, "she's your sister, you freak!"
Step-sister, he thinks automatically, flinching at both his patheticness and the pillow Mancuso hurls at him as he sort of limps out of the house to the Land Rover.
In his defense, Mancuso did have her hands down his pants.
v.
He enjoys lifting weights. Even if it wasn't necessary for wrestling, he knows he would still pump iron. He always lifts to music because the sound of Van Halen in the background always dulls the tension in his muscles, plus, David Lee Roth has always been somewhat of a hero to him. He has a match next week, and it doesn't look like he's going to make weight even though he's been lifting for the past three weeks. Only within the past month has he been given the shot to graduate from weight class one eighty to one ninety-five. No matter how much he's eaten, he still can't gain the last three pounds, and he has never been a huge supporter of shooting 'roids. But as the weeks dwindle, he's seriously considering going against what he believes in . . .
Three reps complete. Two more to go. First, one lift up, then down. One lift up, then—
His muscle cramps, and before he can place the dumbbell on the rack, his left arm quivers, causing it to drop on his stomach, roll off, and land on his foot. The air is knocked out of him, and even though he's struggling to breathe, he still manages to hurl the nearest object—a Rambo DVD—at his CD player in frustration, which causes it to repeat the same "Jump!" lyric over and over again.
"Son of a bitch!"
He rolls the dumbbell off of his foot and hobbles over to his bed, clutching his stomach as he carefully takes a seat on the bed's edge. The pain is numbing, and it sucks, but he's suffered worse. By worse, of course, he means the damn CD player that keeps repeating the same freaking lyric.
And, also, that one, and only, time he sat through Titanic.
At the sound of footsteps, he goes to twist around, but pain seers through his stomach, so he decides to stay put and wait for whoever entered to come closer. He reaches for the nightstand's drawer and opens it, grabbing the photograph under his secret stash of condoms and an abused copy of The Old Man and the Sea from remedial English he was supposed to read, but never actually picked up. He turns the photo over. He hasn't looked at it in ages.
"Are you okay?" It's David, and he looks concerned. Not concerned enough to drop the graphing calculator he's grasping onto for dear life, currently. But concerned all the same. "I heard a crash coming from your room," he continues, kicking aside a stray tube sock nervously, "and I thought—Are-Are you crying, Brad?"
He bats at the few tears clinging to his lashes angrily before stashing the photograph away hastily and defending, "No, I'm not crying! Get outta my room, Dave."
The last part's not so much defending as it is being an asshole, but he kind of wants to be alone at the moment. For multiple reasons.
David refuses to leave and instead walks over to the CD player, stopping the repeating monstrosity. The following silence is a stark contrast to the previous rambunctious calamity (two more SAT words, he thinks again) that it shocks him, but at least he's grateful to have regained his sanity. Still, it'd be nice if David would leave him the hell alone. But he doesn't voice any of this. Instead he explains, "I dropped the dumbbell on my foot, satisfied? Now if you don't mind, I would appreciate it if you would get out of my room."
David ignores all of this. He walks over to where Brad is and takes a seat next to him on the bed. "I know you were crying," he says defiantly. "Your tear ducts are enlarged, and the skin around your eyes is swollen."
"Dave!" Brad explodes, emphasizing his point by punching his brother in the arm roughly. "Get the hell out of my room!"
The little guy's bottom lip trembles, and he feels badly, but the damage is already done. "Fine! But I'm taking my Guild Wars game back!" David informs him, grabbing the thing and storming out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
By himself once again, he takes the photo and turns it over. No matter how many times he looks at it, regret still manages to eat at his insides until it's difficult to breathe. Regret at not having enough time together. Regret at not showing he loved her all the time. Regret at not having her in his life anymore to share his biggest accomplishments. Admittedly, he had always been a bit of a momma's boy, but to date, he can't come up with a better friend than she had been to him.
Dad was too involved with Helen. Jack was doing his college thing, and David was way too young to have the kind of relationship he had with her. He can't count the number of times he's come up here just to sneak a peek at an inanimate photo, holding out for some glimmer of a life sign coming from his mom. It gets lonely. And hopeless. Like watching a dog chase its tail.
Once again, the door clicks open. Without turning around, he roars angrily, "I thought I told you to get the he—" His heart sinks. "Oh," he says dryly when he sees it's Suze and not his brother, "it's you."
Suze, untouched by this, rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. He notices she's wearing green, in a distant part of his brain. That same part of his brain registers that the color looks good on her. "And it's you," she replies, mocking his greeting. He barely notices. "I heard a crash. And not that it's a huge concern of mine or anything, but are you okay?"
He looks up from his photograph and glares at her, hoping she will spontaneously combust. No such luck. "Yeah, I'm just great," he assures her. "Now, get out of my room."
She ignores him, and he begins to wonder if he has suddenly gone mute or maybe everyone else, deaf. If so, he never received the memo. Taking a turn he never expected, she asks, "What've you got there?"
"Nothing," he replies automatically, making an attempt to once again hide it. However, she's too quick and grabs it before he can do more than shift it to the right a few inches. He protests loudly, but again, he goes unheard. He seriously considers investing in a bullhorn.
Suze looks it over before saying in a superior, mocking fashion, "Aren't you a bit too young to be into Soccer Moms with kids?"
Bitterly, he snatches the photo out of her hand and mutters hastily, "That's my mom, you jackass!" For whatever reason, calling her a foul name makes him feel a little better. Actually, a lot. Better than finishing the SATs.
For the first time since he has known her, she looks apologetic, possibly even humiliated. Maybe sympathetic, but that's stretching it.
"I-I'm sorry," she apologizes quietly. "I didn't know."
"Yeah, well," he bursts, unable to keep his temper in check any more, "there's a lot you don't know about me."
There is silence, and for a moment he is led to believe she left the room, but the mattress shifts downward slightly, and he knows she he has taken a seat next to him. For whatever reason, the knowledge causes his heart to go crazy and in turn makes his stomach, foot, and head throb. And since when did his palms sweat?
"You know," she starts, "after my dad died, I could barely take it. I dropped everything—school, friends, extracurrics—because suddenly none of that mattered in comparison to losing my dad. It was like 'what's the worst thing they can do to me?' But what really bothered me was when my mom forced me out here to go live with some strange guy. It was like she didn't even care that Dad died, or at least, that's what I told myself, anyway. And it sucked, you know?"
He can only nod because never in a million years could he guess that his step-sister and him would be sharing this in common.
"I felt like I was the only one who still cared enough to remember him," she continues, talking with her hands as usual. "And sometimes I still feel that way, but then I realize I'm just being selfish. My mom still loves my dad, and she always will, but she's moving on, which is something I just have a more difficult time of doing. Plus, I mean, Andy's good for my mom, as I'm sure my mom is good for Andy. They're happy together." She pauses to brush a piece of hair behind her ear. "At least, we've still got the memories, right?"
"Right," he agrees, completely unaware how this . . . thing changes their relationship. His confusion is cleared up within the next three seconds.
If only Algebra II had been that easy.
She reaches out and covers the hand that's not holding the photo with one of hers. He's surprised to realize they're kind of clammy. Just like his.
"Hey," she says softly, patting his hand for emphasis, "I can't believe I'm even offering this, but if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm always available."
He can't seem to breathe, let alone speak. Whether it's because of the giant lump in his throat or a short circuit wiring in his brain, he can't tell.
Mistaking his silence for grief, she continues, saying, "Normally, I'm not Miss Optimist, but don't worry. Things will get better. They have to. Trust me."
He manages to swallow the lump in his throat and utters a, "Thanks," because anything else just sounds ridiculous.
She continues to stare at him, and he at her, each either unable or unwilling to move. It's difficult to say. All he knows is that when he drops the photo and reaches up to cup her face with the free hand, he never actually planned for any of it to happen. Not even the part where she kind of leans in first to kiss him. Or the part where he actually does kiss her, and she actually responds.
He doesn't want to say that when their lips touch, it is one of the single greatest moments of his life (behind the aforementioned list) because it sounds stupid and overly sappy. But if anyone tires of logic, it's Brad Ackerman. To date, it's one of the least X-rated kisses he's ever received (or given). In fact, just when he finally presses his tongue in her mouth, she pulls away abruptly, her eyes wide. But it doesn't change the fact that it's the first time he's ever experienced all that bullshit from the movies when kissing someone. The electric shock. The heart flutter. The weakened knees (although that one could very well be an aftershock from the crushed foot, he decides). The slight fear and guilt that you may just have been on the giving and receiving end of an incestuous encounter, which in many states is considered a felony.
You know, the basics.
Immediately, Suze bolts off of the bed. "I have to, uh," she says, stumbling as she backs out of the room as quickly as someone who has committed incest can actually go. "I have to go, uh, you know, check on that thing . . . um, later."
He barely gets a word out edgewise as she scrambles down the hallway, but he can't seem to get mad about it or even a little annoyed. In fact, he's too busy thanking the Powers That Be that no one walked in on him kissing his sister.
Step-sister, he reminds himself, though it doesn't do much to soothe the part of him that just knows the cops will be there in a matter of minutes.
vi.
The Winter Formal is in about a week. He can't help but feel slightly put out. He hates dressing up, and he hates bowties even more. Something about the size of his neck in proportion to the daintiness of the bowtie makes him feel like a putz. If it wasn't for the fact that girls actually melt at the sight of guys in tuxedos, he would not bother going at all.
Luckily for him, all things considered, Debbie's come down with mono, and the only other girl who is even interested in him is in love with one Paul Slater.
And the other girl? Not worth mentioning. Also: STEP-SISTER.
It's a gorgeous day outside; the sun is shining, the conversation is pretty good, and, surprisingly, a gull hasn't attacked him as of yet. He's feeling pretty arrogant until Paul Slater sidles up to his picnic table and sits down in the seat next to him without so much as asking.
"Hey, Ackerman," he poses, straddling the seat so he is looking directly at Brad. Brad shivers. Still, after a couple months, the guy gives him the heebie jeebies. "I've got a question for you."
"Shoot," Brad allows, his mouth crammed full of masticated corndog. He can't remember the last time he has tasted something so . . . well, tasteless.
"See, I was thinking of asking Suze to the Winter Formal," Paul explains, talking low and evenly. "And since I'm a gentleman, figured I'd run it past you, what with you being her step-brother and all. What do you think?"
He doesn't even take a minute to think. He knows his answer already, and Paul's probably not going to like it. "No," he says simply, returning to a geology assignment he never finished the previous night. He can't really explain it, but just the thought of Paul being near Suze makes his skin crawl.
Also, the thought of that thought makes him feel sick. Where were the self-help books instructing one how to fall out of love with your step-sister? Huh? Where were those books for sickos such as himself? His stomach turns inside out. He feels like he's going to hurl.
Paul frowns. He swings his leg over the picnic bench so he's now facing forward. He turns his head so he can give eye contact to Brad. "No?" Paul questions, looking, rightfully so, confused. "Why? I mean—" He laughs. "—it's not as if you're going to take her, right?"
Brad laughs far too loudly to sound normal. Luckily, the only one who realizes this is himself. "Dude, of course not," he deflects, filling in some random answer for multiple choice number two. It is most likely wrong. "But I've seen the way Suze acts around you. She's going to say 'no.'"
"With the right amount of persuasion—" he insists, cocking his head to one side in a thoughtful manner.
"No," Brad says defiantly. For unexplained reasons, his free hand clenches around the end of the picnic table. He used to be cool before he met Suze. "She's going to reject you. You know I'm right. But, honestly, I think you should take Kelly. She's good for you."
"I'll think about it," Paul says. He grabs his things and stands up in preparation to head towards third period. Before doing so, he gestures to Brad. "What about you, Ackerman?" he asks. "I thought you said she was flickin'."
Brad shrugs. Really, when he thinks about it, he has the gayest conversations of all time. "Dude, ever since you showed up, I'm being cock blocked twenty-four seven," he laments only half seriously. "Besides, I got other stuff I can do that night."
Slater grins. "You do realize that's code for spending the entire night whacking off, right?" he questions. Brad nods. Sadly, he does realize it. "Whatever, man. Catch you later then."
"Yeah. Later."
Paul stops. "By the way," he pronounces, "this thing you've got going with Suze? It's borderline incest. You know that, right?"
Brad gulps.
TG/N: Up next . . . Slebb (Paul/Cee Cee) (Or the really immature name: Pee Pee Slebb)
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