A/N: Okay, so this is super duper old, and has been sitting in my mailbox for well.. years. This was an old collab that both I, and fellow author Contemperina wrote. These are Duncney interactions from behind the scenes on the episodes we loved so much. I felt like sharing it with you all, thinking that after the disaster that is TDAS, you would enjoy it.
Enjoy, loves.
I cautiously crept my way to the communal washrooms, towel clutched tightly in my fists to cover my shivering, drenched frame. Damn Chris for not telling me that the water heater in my private bathroom was broken before I went to take a shower. Kindness? A foreign concept to him.
No, he made me find that lovely fact out for myself, forcing me to stomp over to him—clad in nothing but my towel—soaked, just so he could smile at a thousand watts and tell me, "Oops! Forgot to mention that to ya. I suggest going to the communal washrooms for tonight." As soon as I'd taken a proper shower and had gotten a good night's sleep, I'd be suing Chris all over the place with my lawyers.
Shivering from the cold—it was dusk, and the horizon was quickly swallowing up what little sun was left—I glanced around at my surroundings to make sure I was alone. Hastily opening the door to the washrooms and dashing inside, I stayed still for a few short moments, listening for any odd noises, which would have revealed another presence in the building.
Fortunately hearing nothing, I turned on the water to one of the crappy showers, took off my towel, and stepped into the filthy stall, sandals still in contact with my feet. I didn't want to get some nasty, fungus-y disease from the filth-ridden shower floor! Who knew what kind of infections were lurking there, especially considering that Owen had no-doubt showered on the very spot I was standing. Taking this into consideration, along with all the filth from the day's tar set… Ugh! The mere thought of showering made me shudder, and that wasn't a normal response.
Trying to push such thoughts out of my mind, I let the warm—barely warm, for the record—water run over me, washing the grime from my body and hair. It wasn't clean, and it wasn't filtered, but it was still water and felt amazing on my skin. I did my best to enjoy the feeling, so it was only after I'd washed my hair with all my beauty products that I actually took a serious look down at the floor. When I did, I screamed. Loudly.
"Duncan!" On the shower floor was a thick, black, gooey, sticky tar mess that someone had conveniently "forgotten" to clean. After a second's thought, I knew he was the one who'd left it there.
The only other possible suspects were Lindsay and Justin, whom I knew weren't planning on showering because of how good Lindsay claimed the tar was for their skin; Heather and Harold, whom I'd just seen trying to stomach something down in the Craft Services tent; or Duncan. That jerk! I squatted down, and, as if to further prove my point, one of his fluorescent green hairs stuck up from the gunk around the drain, mocking me.
"Oh, that disgusting, selfish pig!" I whispered angrily, pounding my fist against the wall after examining the damage the tar had done to my perfect, hundred dollar French pedicure. Does Chef know how to do nails? I wondered. Maybe I could get him to… Never mind. That idea had trouble written all over it. Just the mere thought of Chef with nail scissors and polish scared me half to death. Perhaps I could threaten Chris with lawyerly action unless he let me use his personal spa benefits to get my toenails redone. Better yet, I could sue Duncan for ruining my nails in the first place and then threaten to sue Chris until he let me in on his spa benefits! Nowthat would show those egotistical jerks.
At some point, I became aware of the fact that the water had run out of what little warmth it'd contained in the first place, so I stepped out, nearly cracking my head open after slipping, thanks to the amount of black tar on my shoes. Angrily grabbing my damp towel, I dried myself off the best I could. Unfortunately, the cloth didn't dry me off completely because I'd just used it earlier, and I cursed Chris in my head yet again.
Seeing that there was nothing I could possibly do to temper the situation, I got dressed in my tiny nightwear. Regrettably, it didn't provide much warmth for my still-dripping torso, but I ignored the drops and grabbed my brush off the counter, beginning to pull it through my large tangles, a result of my shower.
There mirror had fogged over, so I couldn't see what I was doing. Even so, after yanking it through one side and starting on the other, I realized that something was feeling strange—uneven, almost. As if my hair was longer on one side... No. That clearly wasn't not possible. Noone had touched my hair besides myself all day! I let out a shaky breath, pushing the thought aside and continuing to work through the knots blindly.
"Stop being so paranoid, Courtney," I told myself shakily. "This stupid competition is getting to you." Yes, I'd said it, but I wasn't feeling confident in my own words. I continued to brush my hair, but when I pulled it away for examination, small clumps of tangled strands were stuck to the brush like glue. Almost nervously, I continued to brush the tangles from the strands, nearly glad that the mirror was so fogged up, I couldn't see a thing; I probably looked terrifying. Alas, there was nothing left to brush out after a few more minutes, and with much force, I ran a hand throughone side of my hair to calm down my jittery nerves.
"Everything is fine..." I told myself. "Everything is fine...Everything is perfectly, one hundred percent fine!" I repeated, running my hand down the other side of my tresses.
I'd been wrong. So, so, horrifyingly wrong.
Hastily, in a daze, I snatched my towel off the counter and rubbed the condensation from the large, industrial mirror. Revealing my reflection slowly but surely, I gasped in utter horror as I discovered the damage done to my hair. My voice caught in my throat, and the cry I released came out strangled.
"Oh my gosh! WHO DID THIS?!" I screamed at my reflection. Despite the fact that she looked positively livid, she had no answers. I was forced to scrutinize my doppelganger. On one side of my head, my hair lay perfect like usual, clean and untouched. On the other, however, a hefty chunk of hair was missing from the front. A large, noticeably hideous chunk.
Who could have done that to me? And why? I fingered the shorter-than-the-rest strands delicately, fighting to keep tears from forming in my eyes. Were the other contestants really so jealous? Had someone really sunk so low?
I knew that Lindsay would have never done such a thing. Her hair was lovely—for a blonde, anyway. Besides, she and Beth had hung out together after the challenge, not even coming near me. Heather had been too busy obsessing over that pile of horsehair she was calling a wig, and Leshawna had been ogling Harold—she always denied this when asked, but it was obvious—and none of the guys would have dared touch my hair for fear of what I would do to their 'unmentionables.' Except for, of course, one boy in particular…
And then it hit me.
"Duncan, you freaking desperado!" I shouted to no one in particular. "When I get my hands on you, so help me God, I will castrate you!" I pounded on the walls with so much force, I was sure I'd left dents in the siding.
How dare that lousy bastard do that to me!? What had I done to him to deserve it, anyway? He bothered me a hundred times more than I ever bothered him! Sure, we'd broken up before, but cutting my hair? Completely unnecessary, not to mention evil! "UGH!" I let out a frustrated cry as I examined the damage yet again, contemplating what I was going to do.
I couldn't go outside like that; everyone would notice and snigger and laugh at me. Look at her! Doesn't her hair look dreadful? The answer, of course, would have been a resounding "yes," which was unacceptable. If there was anything I really couldn't stand, it was being mocked. Perhaps this was why Duncan peeved me so.
Suddenly, the door to the washrooms burst open, and in a sad attempt at covering my ruined hair, I threw my towel on my head and hastily wrapped it like a turban. Because this isn't too conspicuous, I thought sarcastically. Not at all. I turned around to see who'd interrupted my self-assessment and found myself face to face with the grand offender himself. He took one look at me and stifled a chuckle unsuccessfully.
There! Absolute, unquestionable proof that he was the culprit!
"Well, Princess," he started, leaning in the doorway. "I heard your threat and came dashing over. The least you could've done was be prepared," he remarked smoothly, eying my towel-turban and pajama-clad figure.
I walked over to him slowly, putting on my most murderous death glare. If looks could have killed, he'd have been lying on the floor, twitching uncontrollably. "You—you think this is funny?" I questioned. "Well, it isn't. How could you do this to me!?" I demanded, jabbing a finger at his chest—his bare chest, which I note for posterity's sake only—for extra impact.
His face held a perplexed expression for a moment before he raised his hands in defeat. "I don't know what the Hell you're talking about, Sweetheart. Care to explain?"
Liar! I mentally accused. Filthy, filthy liar. He knew exactly what was going on; I could see it from the amusement in his eyes. "You know what I'm talking about," I accused, narrowing my eyes. "I know what you did, so you may as well confess now, so I can get on with castrating you."
His eyes widened slightly as he tried to lower my hands, which had frozen into deformed claws. "Um, Babe," he said, obviously struggling for the right words. As if there were any right words for such a situation. "Before you take any extreme measures here, would you mind telling me why I'm in trouble? You already smashed me once today, and then you yelled at me for it, so…" he trailed off while I cried out angrily, kicking the wall.
With a loud, exaggerated sigh, I yanked off the towel, revealing my almost-dry yet severely ruined hair. His eyes widened slightly, and he chuckled once again. "Now, I'm no hairdresser, Princess," he said, reaching out a hand to look at the offended strands. I swatted it away. "But if you want my two cents, you need to go get that fixed."
I darted forward again and punched at his chest, provoking a complaint or two from him, which I ignored. "You depraved, deficient, inhumane beast! I know you did this to me! WHY?!"
"Whoa, whoa, Darling, back up for a second," he hedged, furrowing his eyebrows. "You think I did this?" I nodded hastily, already frustrated with him for denying it for so long. "What would I want with your hair?" he asked honestly. I pondered for a few moments, in which we both remained silent. He had a point, but if it hadn't been him…
Oh. My. Goodness. Heather. Heather had been the one complaining about her desperate need for hair. Heather had been the one sneaking around the set, almost like she was stalking me. Heather had been the one who'd "accidentally" snipped my cavegirl costume. She'd probably just chickened out over cutting my hair! First attempt jitters.
"Oh my God," I muttered softly, pushing myself against the wall and weakly sliding down. Suddenly, I found myself unable to stand anymore. "It was Heather," I announced, continuing my train of thought aloud.
Duncan nodded thoughtfully. "See, that makes a lot more sense. Heather's bald. She needs hair," he said, squatting down so he was at my level. "Clearly, your hair is the prettiest in this whole damn place." I blushed as he said this, yet he continued smoothly, not letting any hidden emotion shine through. "So, she opted for cutting yours off and taking it for herself. Luckily for you, she only got some before getting her screwed up wig." I bit my lip.
"Eh, whatever floats her boat," he concluded smoothly, standing up and heading to the sink, beginning to brush his teeth with the utilities he'd brought along with him.
My voice caught in my throat again, and I found myself unable to speak. Instead, I laid my head on my knees to calm myself as Duncan turned on the faucet. What was I going to do? I couldn't leave the washrooms looking like such a mess. Obviously, Heather had gotten what she'd wanted—this alone was enough to leave me in the dumps, but coupled with the fact that my hair was defaced, it seemed like almost too much to bear.
Duncan, noticing that I hadn't uttered a single word since his explanation, looked at me and smirked, a toothbrush dangling from one hand. "Awww. Is her royal highness upset that her hair is spoiled?" he asked with a fake pout. I didn't answer, worried that if I did, my voice would come out strange and choked up.
He chuckled and came over, sitting next to me and twirling a fair amount of my hair around oneof his fingers. "Don't worry. I can fix it for you." I looked at him feverishly, wondering if he was high. Perhaps he was—I wouldn't have put it past him.
He laughed again, continuing to play with my hair. "Woah. If you're that freaked out, you better not sleep tonight." I looked at him curiously. In explanation, he said suavely, "Next thing you know, you wake up and the rest of your hair's gone too, courtesy of moi." Mimicking scissors with his fingers, he pretended to hack off the piece of hair he'd been twirling.
I gasped, my hands flying up to my head, shocked that he had the impudence to even consider such a thing. I flew off the cold tile and backed away from him warily. By that point, I'd known I wasn't going to get any sleep! Tears sprung to my eyes as an uncontrollable sense of paranoia bloomed at the front of my mind. Perhaps this was all an elaborate prank. What if everyone was out to get me?
Duncan snuck up behind me, wrapping his arms around my bare torso, but was caught off guard by my shaking in his arms. "Hey," he said, his kinder half finally making a much-needed appearance. "You okay?"
"How could I possibly be okay?" I moaned, trying to get a handle on the Courtney's Waterworks Show. "Heather's out to steal my hair and make me bald, said hair is completely destroyed, and now you tell me that you're going to cut off my hair while I'm asleep." My voice dropped down to a throttled whisper as I struggled to continue on without crying. "Now, in addition to all of that, I can't sleep," I whispered frantically, my voice barely rising a few octaves. Despite what I wanted, my eyes let loose a tear.
Upon noticing this, Duncan spun me around on my feet and wiped it away with his thumb. "I was just kidding, Princess. You take things too literally." I blanched at this accusation, though I knew it was true. "All right, let me make it up to you," Duncan said, eying me seriously. "I'll fix your hair for you. It'll look good as new."
I scoffed, crossing my arms and rolling my eyes, which had, to a certain degree, dried. "Now Ireally know that you're going to cut it all off and make this worse. You would never do anything to actually help a situation." As an afterthought, I muttered, "God forbid."
Duncan pulled his head back in mock offense. "I was just trying to be a nice guy. So sue me! …Oh wait, I guess you already have that covered," he added cockily. That one had obviously been prepared for a while. "But hey, if you want to go out like that in public, then by all means, go right ahead."
I huffed, weighing my options carefully; I could take the plunge and let Duncan attempt to fix my hair, or I could camp out in the washrooms until the competition was over. Sadly, it didn't really seem like I had a choice at all. "Fine," I mumbled, wondering if I would live to regret the following words: "You can try to fix my hair, but if you dare cut anything unnecessary, I will castrate you like I promised."
Duncan laughed and gently pushed me to the dirty floor, sitting down behind me and whipping out his switchblade. I winced, but nothing more.
As the time passed, I brought my knees to my chest; I couldn't tell exactly what he was doing back there, but it was taking a long while. From what I could see through the window, the dusk outside had turned into pitch-black night. What if Duncan was secretly cutting large amounts of hair, just to irritate me? It was a possibility, but it was too late—there was nothing I could do. If I stopped him then… Bad idea. Bad, bad, bad idea.
After what seemed like an eternity, he stood up, lending me a hand. I nervously stood, not knowing what to do. Would it be better to risk looking in the mirror or to never look in the mirror again?
"You do know that you can look at yourself, right?" Duncan asked, gesturing in the direction of the sinks and, beyond those, the mirror.
I nodded, cautiously making my way over. I felt around for the offending area and examined it. Where butchered hair had once lied, it looked almost…normal. The severed strands were hidden rather skillfully, I had to admit.
I grimaced anyway, knowing that my hair wouldn't be completely restored unless I cut it all to the same, short length, but Hell would freeze over before I even thought of letting Duncan handle that! Thatwould just have to wait until I got home. But for the time being, the haircut was acceptable. More than acceptable, even. It was…okay.
"So, whaddaya think?" Duncan asked uneasily, thoughtfully trying to avoid triggering any more anger or hurt.
"It'll do until I get home," I said. ("Okay," after all, was not "perfect" like it had been before.) "Thanks for trying." With that out of the way, I began to gather up my meager belongings, my eyes prickling around the edges.
"You okay, Babe?" Duncan asked, sneaking up behind me—again—and wrapping his arms around my waist—again. I nodded as my answer, not quite sure that I could speak. "You know, I tried," Duncan said defensively. "I did the best I could without breaking any of your demands. Didn't want to lose the family jewels. In fact, I think you'd regret it if you couldn't have children due to my lack of functioning—"
"Shut up, Duncan," I cut him off sharply, sensing where that sentence was headed and not liking it.
"You look fine, Princess," he announced after a second, ruffling my hair with one hand, the other still around me. "No one will care. Just you wait."
I turned around furiously, still in his arms. "I care, Duncan! I don't like going out in public looking anything less than perfect! It's not professional!" Duncan put a hand on my face to caress it, but I promptly shoved it away. Because we were over…Right?
"If it helps," he started, "to me, you always look perfect." With that said he let go of my waist. I stalked out of the washrooms, quite annoyed yet oddly touched. It must have taken him guts to say such a thing. And it was so—so chivalrous. Maybe what I had seen in Duncan last season was still there. Maybe we could be friends, at least.
"Oh, one more thing!" Duncan called after me, sticking his head out the door. He smirked before continuing. "You know, if you need something to take your mind off your hair tonight, I'm always here to give you some relief…" He trailed off suggestively, wiggling his eyebrows at me.
I gasped and hurled my hairbrush at his head, disgusted by the mere thought. He slammed the door quickly, so the hairbrush bounced off and landed harmlessly in the grass. "Not in a millionyears, Neanderthal!" I screeched at what I could see of him through the window.
Screw being friends! Polar opposites would work just fine.