August '13 exchange for sparkle filled hearts

prompts: 'there's no place like home,' red nail polish, balloons, & Italian ice

pairing: massington

an: i don't know that i love this.

i usually write derrick as a lovable goofball, so this was kind of weird to write

anyway, hope you liked it!

It was the sharp tap of a pencil which brought Derrick back to consciousness. He'd taken this particular poetry class because its professor was quite reputable -he'd actually come across the name several times in literary journals and the New York Times. Although his poetry was most exciting, the man himself was surprisingly dull. He used too many metaphors that no one understood. He had a monotone voice that put students to sleep as he droned on and on about Keats. Or Rimbaud. Derrick didn't even know anymore. A first for him since he'd always paid attention.

"How would that fare on a philosophical level though?"

Derrick craned his neck to see who had asked the question. No one had interrupted the professor for forty five minutes. "I found the comparisons too... literal." Glasses covered amber eyes and the brown cashmere cardigan was almost unrecognizable, but that trademark smug smirk could only belong to Massie Block. He'd see it every time he accompanied Claire to one of those benefits at the Club when he'd accidentally drop almost-melted mango Italian ice on the front of his suit. He'd heard Massie had also gone to NYU, but it was a big school in an even bigger city –he'd never expected to actually see her.

Derrick had no idea that Massie Block, of all people, would be taking such an intensive class.

Derrick watched in amusement as the professor tried to answer her question. He tried using more profound metaphors to prove his point, a ploy to further confuse his students into silent submission, but Derrick could see Massie was having none of it.

She started quoting Nietzsche and Socrates, engaging in a coolly tirade with the professor until the bell rang about ten minutes later. They crossed paths as they were both exiting the door, and Massie could see a look on Derrick's face she couldn't quite place.

"Let me guess," she began, "you disapprove?"

"Actually, I thought it was quite refreshing," he replied.

"Refreshing?" Massie repeated, taken aback. She obviously was not expecting a compliment.

"Your argument was probably the most exciting thing that has happened to that class since…I don't know, since that girl in the front dyed her hair green last week."

"I hear she's planning on dying it pink this week."

"Anything to keep the excitement alive," he answered sarcastically. He and Massie shared a laugh.

In high school, Derrick Harrington and Massie Block had not been friends. Where Derrick read comic books, Massie read Vogue. Derrick spent his weekends studying, she spent hers partying. He sat at the front of every class, she sat at the back, usually texting her best friends. Their friendly encounter was bizarre, to say the least.

She noticed it too. "Well, Harrington," she said curtly through pursed glossy lips, as a form of goodbye.

"Block," he nodded, as she left him reeling in from their brief conversation. She was no longer a copy of every other girl in Westchester County, a shallow, glossy shell in Manolo Blahnik shoes. She even mentioned Goethe, one of his favorite authors.

The thought of Massie Block being a real human being -a human being who knew her poetry, no less- made him feel slightly nauseous.

The next time they saw each other, they were at a crossroads of a Coffee Bean and a Starbucks. Derrick was the first one to greet her. The moment the word hello escaped his lips, he immediately decided that he probably needed to get some sleep because greeting Massie Block nicely was just too insane. The stress was taking a toll on him. Massie lifted her gold-tinted aviators and sipped from her cup.

"What's your fix?" she asked.

"Coffee, black," he answered.

"Figures."

"What are you drinking?" he continued, trying to be polite by keeping the conversation going. Actually, he just thought she smelled good. Like warm laundry and flowers. It was a welcome break from the smell of old books and pencil lead. Maybe the lead was affecting his head.

"Black," she replied casually, downplaying the similarity. She'd developed a taste for it while cramming for Calculus exams. It was more effective than coffee diluted in cream and chocolate (and less fattening, too).

Derrick stared at her. This was unfamiliar territory. In high school she could have hidden behind cliques and Claire Lyons and oversized Marc Jacobs bags. Today, however, they were both wore sneakers and sweaters. The coffee cup was too small a fortress.

"Huh," Derrick mused, "I always thought you were a tea person."

"I was. Tea gets boring."

Derrick took a sip from his cup.

"Nice watch," she noticed, eying the silver piece of adornment on Derrick's wrist.

Derrick glanced at it, the letters ROLEX registering in his brain before the time did, and shrugged. "My mom sent it to me."

This time, she smiled. "Harrington."

And he did too. "Block."

Derrick decided he liked college parties better than Westchester benefits. A keg was all it needed, and there were no designer dresses to ruin. Cheap balloons were scattered around the dorm, girls wore short skirts, and no one cared that he had every Marvel comic to ever be printed back in his dorm room.

He navigated, quite tipsy, across the room, making sure to remember he was aiming for the kitchen. He frowned upon seeing the fridge door open, thinking someone had already gotten to the bucket of chicken he saw when he first came in. Peering over, he saw Massie Block's tiny figure leaning on the shelves. Frosting had made its way onto her face. Feeling responsible (and since she was being nice to him, he thought) he pulled her up as she giggled through a bevy of names before settling for Derrington. He assumed it was a drunken combination of his first and last names.

"Well, I'd have to say that Marx got it right," she mumbled drunkenly.

Derrick feared she might be a secret communist, though the behavior might have clued him in. "Why do you say that?"

"It's all in the proletariat," she laughed. Red polished fingers clasped his arms. Derrick wasn't sure if she was insulting him or making a point.

"You have frosting on your cheek," he observed.

"And you came into the kitchen for food. Instead you have a drunk girl in a four-hundred dollar dress with frosting on her cheek."

Derrick decided he would probably never understand her. But it was oddly compelling to try.

"Sanity is a madness put to good uses," she quoted Santayana, and that was that, Derrick was taken in. He went for the frosting near her lips first.

At Kendra Block's annual Thanksgiving party, Claire Lyons tried to pry him about Massie at NYU. They both had so much work to do that free time only allowed for a quick phone call or a hastily written e-mail. He'd missed Claire. But something was wrong.

Derrick didn't say anything, wondering if they'd ever agreed to not talk about it. He reckoned the omission came with kissing your ex-girlfriend's best friend. And he didn't even want to remember after that, though the images keep replaying on his head and he could not, for the life of him, clear them out.

Soon he'd had to give in and buy some girly journal just to accommodate his thoughts. Claire finally gave up and made a beeline for the cute waiter with a tray of hors d'oeuvres. Derrick downed a flute of champagne in one gulp, and contemplated on trying scotch.

Massie Block was at the other end of the room, nodding at Cam Fisher's probably interesting stories about his travels. She laughed distractedly and finished her drink a little too quickly. She patted Cam's chest gently and convinced him to get her another glass of whatever she was drinking. Her glossy smile turned into a scowl as she made her way to Derrick.

"Let's get out of here," she whispered, and tugged on his tuxedo jacket, pointing him to the empty foyer. Derrick was more than happy to oblige her. He didn't like small talk, and his mom's friends always smelled of strong French perfume and cigarette smoke.

"Insipid," Massie complained, as they were walking downtown. The air was brisk, but not too cold.

"Really?" Derrick taunted. "I thought it was rockin'. Nothing like a good old stuffy, snobby Westchester party. I guess there's no place like home."

Massie learned that, once exposed to enough, sarcasm was quite humorous. It was like intelligent backbiting. "I can't wait to get back to the city, to NYU." She hesitated, knowing she was about to bring up a touchy subject. "You talked to Claire."

"She asked about you," Derrick said.

"And?"

"I told her I saw you at the library sometimes."

Massie laughed hollowly.

"How was Amsterdam?" he asked bitingly.

Massie frowned. "You know Cam…I tuned out after a story about pot brownies."

They stopped in front of Tiffany's and Co, where the silver display caught Derrick's eye. He thought of nights when Massie would make him stay up all night watching Breakfast at Tiffany's. In high school, she'd been a member of the Old Film Association, a club Derrick had actually considered joining. Of course, before finding out that Massie Block was the president.

"Honestly Massie," Derrick asked, "what are you doing? You hated me, remember. And I hated you."

"Did you really?"

"Cam's waiting for you with that drink."

"At some point, hating you became too exhausting. So I just stopped."

"You can't just stop feeling."

"Well then I never hated you in the first place and you never hated me. And don't you think this conversation's a little bit overdue? Just stop making things difficult, Derrick."

"Stop being difficult, Massie."

Massie paused for a few moments, noticing the pale blue illuminated by festive lights. She sighed. "I don't want to fight with you here," she insisted. "We're at Tiffany's, where everything is pure and good and shiny." She sounded ridiculous. But he loved it.

"Ah, yes, Tiffany's," Derrick said, smiling at her, his annoyance immediately dissolving.

Somewhere in those nights lost in old movies and tangled limbs and lips, he'd begun to understand that she was a tad bit insane. It was endearing, he thought; it only made him appreciate her more. And she knew that he was a tad bit intense and yet, whenever she felt particularly Audrey, or horny (he smirked at the thought) she would dial those numbers without even looking and ask him to come over.

She held on to the lapels of his tuxedo, moving closer. "I'm not going back," she said stubbornly. She leaned in for a kiss, just in case he needed further persuading (something she knew would work, even in the direst of situations) and she thought of Holly Golightly and Paul Varjak and realized this was how it was supposed to feel.

All they needed was a cat.

He laughed. "And I'd be stupid to even try and make you."

And he was glad that she wouldn't, too.