Fractured

He offered up his RV for practice, every day after school. Every day, he persuaded her, would be just enough, as coordinating a fight scene took exhaustive planning and endless practice. Every day, he reasoned, would be just enough.

Never mind the scene was only thirty seconds long.

They'd hung out in his RV before, of course, but never alone. She was a little awkward at first, worrying her lip and looking at his couch, his TV, his fish tank, everywhere but him.

So after that, he swore that no guy in history ever worked so damn hard to make a girl comfortable.

He went out and rented every Disney fairytale he could to play on the TV as she arrived. He found out her favorite snacks from Tori and stocked the mini-fridge with enough to feed a small army. He did everything humanly possible to make her want to stay as long as she could, and soon, between fake slaps and scribbled scripts, he found their little sessions stretching from a half hour to a full . . . one hour to two . . .

Sometimes it was that long before they even got started. Wednesday, as Beck was holding the door for her, she clambered in and shrieked. He bolted in to find her clapping her hands and dancing on the spot like a child. "Omigod, The Princess and the Frog! I love this movie! Can we watch it, Beck, please, please please?"

How could he say no to that?

Those were the golden moments he lived for, precious and bittersweet: sitting together on the couch while she sang "Almost There" with a gusto that put Princess Tiana to shame; sloppily scooping peanut butter from the jar with an Oreo because she swore there was no other way to eat it; seriously debating the pros and cons of different kinds of jelly; holding her as she cried because in the heat of the scene she'd accidentally hit him for real. Some days he seriously considered locking the door and never, ever letting her go.

Of course, those idyllic afternoons had to end eventually. She would realize the time and rush home to where Daniel was invariably waiting. And if Beck thought watching her scurry out the door was painful, he was surprised at the rush of acute agony brought on by watching her paint over her pain every time she left. She would stand in front of his mirror, pull out a rainbow of eyeshadows and concealers, and work as quickly and expertly as a professional. She never did it before they started; sometimes she would actually wash her face, revealing a faded yellow eye he had promised not to comment on, to "let it breathe". Only after they ran out of time, when she had to face the wide world again, did the mask go back on.

Something must have showed in his face during one of her makeup sessions, because she paused and turned around. "Sorry," she said quickly, making to shove the compact back in her purse. "I don't have to put in on here, I can do it in the car –"

He shook his head and stood up, taking her hands lightly. It was one of the few times he'd allowed himself to make the first move. "Don't ever apologize. You're just . . ." He struggled for words. "You're not you with all that makeup on."

He'd gotten too close; her eyes slid away from his. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Well no. But . . . I like you."

The atmosphere changed subtly, and from the rose creeping into her cheeks he knew she felt it too. The ghost of their kiss stole across his mind. "Cat," he began hesitantly.

"I gotta go," she said simply, slipping her hands away from his and heading for the door. "Bye."

"Bye," he said, far too late; she was already gone.

He punched the mirror. Fractures spiraled outward, and his knuckles began to bleed, but nothing distracted from the pain.

. . .

He was sprawled out on the couch watching The Little Mermaid because he was a sick masochist who needed to get a life when his phone rang. He pulled it out; Cat's beaming face flashed across the screen. He answered it on the second ring. "Cat?"

There was no answer for a moment, only indiscriminate shouting followed by a heavy bang. Amazing how fast one's sanity can fly out the window. "Cat? Cat! Answer me!"

There was a rustling noise. "Hey, Beck. Did you hear that?"

He stood up abruptly, clicking off the TV. "Yeah, I heard that."

"Oh good, so we're on the same page." She didn't sound afraid, just absolutely exhausted. "Look, I don't mean to be pushy, but I've never seen him this mad and I think he might actually hurt me, so do you think maybe you could pick me up?"

He was already snatching up his keys. "On my way. Where are you and where is he?"

"We're at my house." Panic was starting to rise in her voice. "I'm in my room and he's outside and he really wants to get in."

"Lock the door," he said, jumping out the RV and hitting the ground running.

"Okay, but I think he's about to break it down," she said nervously. "Oh, hang on –" There was the sound of someone covering the phone, and a muffled scream of "That's not a nice word!" She uncovered the phone. "Seriously, this isn't the strongest door."

Beck revved the truck impatiently. "Push the damn dresser in front of it, just don't let him in! I'm coming!"

"Kay-kay." She sounded much more reassured then he was. "Hurry." She took the phone away from her ear, and Beck realized his mistake.

"No, Cat, don't –" The dial tone cut through his sentence, and he swore and dropped the phone on the seat beside him.

He left skid marks in the street as he floored it.