Don't have too much to say about this chapter; it's kinda...weird. But this is my first real attempt at angst-ficcage (for this fandom), so I hope you'll all be a lil' lenient wiff me. Preeeeze?

*ahem*

Once again, many wildly exuberant thankings for the feedback, chums. It's kinda ridiculous how awesome you guys are at this business. (Thanks for the marathon-reviews, pips. ^_-)

Warnings: I stereotyped the shyeet outta the Russian Hockey Player OC I threw into the mix, so sorry for that. Also, you should probably be warned that this chapter is drivel. And not proof-read. Eh.

[i have officially watched the whole series FOUR TIMES. i'd say this qualifies me for at least a meagre share of the rights to the show. daphne? jeffie? pretty please?]

::in which Derek and Casey receive matching head wounds::

There's absolutely no preamble, not a hint of warning, she just smashes through the doors like she has every right and reason in the world to be there, though, admittedly, at first he doesn't mind so much because he figures he's probably just delirious from his injuries (he is, however, somewhat alarmed at the subject matter of his hallucination), as this is clearly the only explanation for seeing her here, since she doesn't come to his hockey games. Since she isn't invited. Because she's Bad Luck. And distracting. (To his teammates, obviously. They all try very hard to impress her and invariably end up making fools of themselves. It is extremely aggravating.)

"Where is he?" She demands of the first boy to approach her (Max, his mind supplies through the dull haze of pain, and he's puzzled when the thought makes him queasy), shifting the poor kid a dangerous look before she casts her sharp gaze outward, sweeping the locker room for all of half an instant before her eyes zero in on him (no, he doesn't know how; maybe she's got ESP or something), even though three of his wings have formed a crude, semi-circular barricade around him where he sits on a bench, trying to hold his jaw in place (where some asshole on the opposing team had nailed him with a goddamn hockey stick).

"Where is who, pretty…lady…?" Max tapers off, turning in bewilderment as she, suddenly fuming, brushes haughtily past him like he doesn't even exist, and within seconds she's elbowing rudely through his teammates, only to brace her fists at her hips and glare down at Derek as if he's done something unbelievably stupid. As if he could somehow have stopped the ape-sized human being from trying to break his face with a stick. (The gall.)

Ten, maybe twelve seconds after all this has taken place, his mind catches up with the situation and comes to terms with the fact that she's really truly HERE. (It's very much not a happy revelation.)

"—referee should have called that because he so clearly hit you with the stick, the bastard," (is he hearing this correctly? is Casey angry for him and not because of him? he panics because this probably means he's hit his head much harder than he'd thought), "-but YOU did not have to jump in there and hit him BACK! What kind of suicidal moron are you? Don't you know violence only begets more violence, Derek?" (okay, phew, there's that good ol' fashioned Casey rage. he'd been worried there, for a moment.) "Plus, he was way bigger than you! And you were on their side of the ice! Have you no capacity for forethought WHATSOEVER?"

"Stop yelling, Casey." They're the first words he's spoken, and they sound like they're coming from someone else, far, far away. It's the way everyone and everything else around him sounds, too (except Casey. irritatingly, her hysteria is ringing through loud and clear). Then, "The hell are you doing here, anyway? You shouldn't be here." She ignores him and says something softly to Eddie, who's hovering silently beside her, and he wonders confusedly if he'd actually said any of that out loud or not. (Or maybe it'd just come out garbled…?) Then he wonders if this means he's concussed. Why is everyone just standing around letting this crazy person shriek at him? God, his head hurts.

"Anyway," she says, calmly Moving Right Along, and then she's leaning over him, fingers lightly on his brow, and he reacts immediately, snapping away with a sneer. (He's not in so much agony he doesn't still understand that Casey isn't supposed to touch him.)

"What are you doing?" She looks offended. (Where's his fight-or-flight response? Why isn't he running for the hills?)

"Derek, you're hurt," She says (like he's the one being completely unreasonable), and has absolutely no right to sound or look so concerned. "Let me look at you—"

"You don't have to touch me to look at me." He snaps, and has no idea why a lance of pure, white-hot terror scores through his entire body when she visibly represses a look of shocked hurt and starts to straighten, as if she means to leave—

"Don't be such a baby, Derek." She scolds at length, somewhat wearily, and then he's watching in mystified astonishment (not the good kind) as she commands his wings to move, and they immediately obey. He aims incredulous glares at each of his comrades in turn as they give way for her, as they make no attempt to stop this lunatic from sitting beside him on the bench, as they only stare hypnotically at Casey when she combs cool fingers through his sweat-dampened hair, pulling stragglers out of his eyes and back, away from his face. "How's your jaw?" She asks him, (too-)softly.

Every muscle in his body is painfully tensed as she quietly regards him; naked concern openly apparent, blue eyes sparkling with unshed tears in such awful, awful proximity, but it isn't until her hand cups lightly over his, where it's (shaking now) clutching at the lower half of his face, that he reacts.

(It isn't pretty.)

"Why the hell are you here?" He finally explodes, recoiling instantly away from her touch (because, in his potentially-concussed state he cannot handle this…this…this!) and jumping to his feet to glower down at her, where her vague terror only makes him all the more violently eager to be rid of her. (She's not supposed to be here, coddling him like some child, looking at him like that, watching him fail –it's probably her fault all of this is happening in the first place! Hadn't he made it abundantly, explicitly clear that she's NOT ALLOWED to come to his games?) "I TOLD you you're bad luck! You're the reason we just lost the game!" His free hand has curled absently into a fist at his side from the effort of not breaking down and crying at the pain all this yelling is causing him.

She doesn't seem to notice—or care—about any of this, however, because in the next instant she's on her feet, too, in his face (and does she HAVE to get so close to him? it's hard enough to think as it is without having to fight off noxious vanilla fumes—), yelling right back.

"You're such a gigantic BLOCKHEAD! Don't you dare try to blame YOUR stupid, barbaric idiocy on ME! I didn't force that-that fiend to hit you anymore than I forced YOU to try to fight him!" She makes a quick, stuttering movement with her hand, like she'd maybe been about to shove or poke him, but her eyes flash to his jaw and she retracts it just as fast, and he has difficulty satisfactorily justifying the fury that starts building (excruciatingly) somewhere right behind his eyes (he suspects, however, that it has more to do with all these strange new disruptions to their combat routines than it does her curious reluctance to touch him in an aggressive manner –the only contact from Casey with which he is familiar, or comfortable). "I only ever come to these primitive, asinine testosterone fests because I—because George thinks you need the support! If I had a choice in the matter, I'd stay as FAR AWAY from these games as possible—"

"You've been coming to all of my games?" He wonders dimly, stunned. (He places the fury carefully on the backburner, in case he has need of it again soon.)

"Not…not by CHOICE! This is the stupidest game ever! And your juvenile superstitions are JUST as stupid! If you lose, then you lose –just suck it up and get over it, don't blame whatever or whoever's convenient! That's irrational and silly and-and just…stupid!"

Maybe it's just Casey and her incendiary provocations, maybe it's simply because his head is throbbing and this is too public and he thinks his pride has suffered enough for the night, maybe he's just sick and tired of the whole thing –who can say? All he knows is he can't think straight when she's around, so he grabs her by the arm (with his free hand) and pulls her roughly aside, intending to drag her out of the locker room and toss her back out where she belongs –away from him. (He diligently ignores the twisting stab of pain that screws into his gut at the thought.)

And then Dmitri, the big, hulking brute (qualities Derek has always rather admired of the defenseman on the ice), abruptly materializes before them, glowers steadily down at Derek, puffs out his chest (in true Discovery Channel fashion), and rumbles (in his very broken English) that Derek can't treat her this way, which is followed in short order by a gruff command to let her go. And he'd been about to tell his very-imposingly-large Russian teammate to stuff it and get outta the way –really, he had, except there's this light, tugging pressure somewhere behind him, and he whips around, confused, to see Casey, slightly panicked-looking, trying to pry his fingers (clutched into a grip by far more harsh than he'd realized or intended) away from her skin. He releases her immediately, sick with shame, and instinctively steps in front of her (because Casey is his problem. His, damn it—),

"She's fine." He asserts, willing Dmitri to back down. But the idiot forges ahead, reiterating that Derek can't treat her 'that way,' that she's a 'lady' (yeah, right, he wants to protest, but doesn't), that maybe he should just walk away and let her go and they could talk about this later, once he'd had the chance to cool down.

Derek will later cite mental unbalance and the crippling ache of his jaw as cause for the unbecoming and thoroughly bizarre flare of wild, possessive anger that assails him when Casey appears at his side and he catches that look in her eyes, like she thinks this moron is being noble, like the guy is her long-awaited 'Ivanhoe,' come to rescue her from her Evil Stepbrother (except here, in this place, nobody knows they're supposed to be related but the two of them). He doesn't know what to blame for any of what he says in the wake of this unbidden hostility, though.

"Chillz, 'Mitri. My Casey here's a progressive, forward-thinking kinda gal." He's never been more uncomfortably conscious of her gaze on his person before; his periphery is insisting that her expression is eager, hopeful, quietly surprised at his proclamation. (He wonders if the icy-hot sensation prickling over his skin has anything to do with that 'remorse' concept everyone's always on about.) "She likes her guys to be assholes; gives her a cheap little Drama Queen thrill to pretend offense for the attention, but at the end of the day? She likes us rough, rude, and unfaithful, and as long there's an apology for any misbehavior after the fact, she'll latch onto the first jerk who'll look her way..." He knows she knows he's alluding to Truman, and the look on her face is almost enough to get him to shut the fuck up, but he doesn't, he has to keep going because he's Derek, because she's Casey, because this is the way it is, the way it has to be—

His train of thought derails in a disastrous, fiery cataclysm when he catches the single, glittering drop slipping down her cheek, and he's prepared to throw himself at her feet and recant if he has to, but apparently Dmitri catches the development, too, and heads Derek off by reaching forward and grabbing his jersey, unibrow dipping furiously and furrowing the sharp planes of his massive, hairy face. He reflects darkly that this isn't quite how he'd expected to go (most of his Untimely Death Scenarios involve scantily-clad Caseys and any number of unspeakable positions, though there are a few which feature him Dying Heroically and Triumphing Over Insurmountable Odds –while Casey wails in despair at his loss) when a giant, meaty fist pulls up and cocks back, gearing up to pulverize his (really-so-very-pretty) face, and he swallows grimly as those rolled digits start to swing forward; irritated but resigned, he's ready to accept his comeuppance –but then along comes that idiot, Casey, trying to avert the violence, nudging her way in between him and Certain Ham-Fisted Doom, tripping over her own feet while Derek and Dmitri realize in horrified simultaneity that she's directly in the line of fire and it's too late to withdraw.

Vaguely, he hears Dmitri make a strangled noise, but it's only dimly, the sound muted and dull beneath his own frantic cry of warning, and both exclamations are drowned out by the soft crack of impact as the defenseman's fist grazes her jaw, and it doesn't matter that the other boy didn't mean it, it doesn't matter that he's obviously immediately, overwhelmingly sorry, because Casey's slipping to her knees on the floor, and the only thing Derek knows is that Dmitri has to die, to hell with the future of the team's dynamic, to hell with his future in hockey, period. All that matters is that the idiot hit Casey, and Derek scarcely has time to register that he's flying forward before he's tumbling with Dmitri to the ground—

-and then it all just goes straight to hell.

When he makes it out to the parking lot (limping-wheezing-wincing with every agonizing step he takes), Casey's sitting behind the wheel of the Prince, and he doesn't look at her, doesn't say anything when she orders him to give her the keys, he just complies.

They don't speak the entire drive back. He barely bothers to breathe, partly because he wants to help the silence along in its unremitting quest to be Oppressive, partly because he has no idea what the hell to say (for probably the first time in his entire life), but also partly because it feels like his lungs are on the verge of collapse and might well fail on him if he doesn't take it easy.

He does keep shifting his gaze toward her when she isn't looking, however, eyes sweeping the smooth line of her jaw for evidence of the violence she'd suffered on his behalf. (He keeps hoping he'll wake up, laid out flat on the ice, or maybe wrapped in the sterile, soft whites of a hospital bed, that all the myriad unthinkable events of the evening have just been the result of one incredibly unpleasant dream…)

Casey's hand folds gently over creamy skin (purpling darkly along the ridge of her jaw), and he's never hated himself more.

No sooner are they over the threshold than she's got a hold of his wrist and starts pulling him silently to the back of his apartment (and for one terrible moment he thinks she's headed for his bedroom, but then they're past it, stepping toward the bathroom, and his heart crawls slowly out of his throat and back into place); he's equally mute on the trek, dropping his gear thoughtlessly somewhere along the way. When they reach their destination, she gently, firmly guides him to the toilet, and softly commands him to take off his shirt while she turns away to start raiding the cabinets for (he guesses) medical supplies. He considers protesting for one long moment, then wordlessly complies, stretching the cloth up over his head as his muscles strain and protest against the action. Apparently sensing his distress, Casey steps closer to help him out of the shirt, one sleeve at a time, with extreme care.

Then she's pressing a cool hand to bare flesh and he sucks in a strangled breath which she appears to mistake for pain.

"That hurt?" There's the distant echo of concern glittering in her eyes as she catches his gaze, and he can't look away.

"No," he says, because it's the only thing that gets through. She frowns at him and sighs angrily.

"Look, Derek, if it hurts somewhere you've got to let me know; I can't help you if you refuse to cooperate—"

"I'm fine." He insists, getting angry (anger is familiar, anger is safe). She glowers heavily at him now.

"Let me put this terms your unevolved brain can understand: I need to know where and how much it hurts, because if you've got an injury I don't know about and just gloss over and it turns out to be, oh, I don't know, a broken rib or something, it could do some serious, long-term damage and endanger your hockey career—"

"Casey," his voice is rough, cautionary, "It doesn't hurt there." He grabs hold of her wrist (careful to be gentle, this time), and he drags her fingers down, over his sternum, and left, his eyes actively holding hers captive. He catches her swallowing tremulously and stops himself from doing the same. "Here." She glances down at the hand locked around her wrist and he lets it go at once.

"O-okay," and he's glad to have her off-balance, maybe even a little nervous, because he can already tell he's not going to be at his best and sharpest tonight after having his head used like a punching bag (twice).

Only, in the minute or so she's been poking around his bathroom and laying out various instruments and bottles in a mystifying configuration around his feet, she seems to've become Suddenly Impervious, because by the time she lightly nudges his knees apart and kneels between his legs, she doesn't appear to be affected in the slightest. He searches frantically for something scathing to say, but he's finding it nearly impossible not to be conscious of the fact that she's pressed right up against him, probably a lot nearer than she needs to be, and incoherently frustrated that it doesn't seem to bother her, that she doesn't even really seem to be aware of it.

He, meanwhile, has never been more aware of her, and the infuriating insight brings its close friend terror along for the ride. He doesn't like it. He's always been aware of her; he can't not notice her when she's in the same room, and it's annoying, maddening, and he really doesn't have a choice but to fuck with her to make her just as aware of him as he is of her. (Because if he has to suffer, she should have to suffer, too.)

But that's always just been something he's had to deal with. Now she's between his legs, on her knees, one small, cool hand resting lightly on his bare arm as she cleans the cut on his lip with delicate, focused care. And, what's more, she's refusing to look him in the eyes (he knows because he's been doggedly trying to catch her gaze) and it's driving him absolutely crazy because he needs to know what she's thinking (-after all, how can he win this game if she won't play it?).

Eventually, the dam breaks.

"It was none of his business." He says out of nowhere, and immediately curses himself for it. (He hadn't approved the order for the release of that statement. The chain of command is breaking down.) But she finally looks at him and he sucks in a breath because they're so close to each other. (And they have been in the past, plenty of times, but this is the first time his brains have been swiss cheese inside his skull, so it's different.)

"What?" Her fingers are hovering near his mouth. He could bite them, he muses insanely. Send her shrieking into the sink. Might be funny.

His fingers (with a mind of their own now, apparently) curl softly under her chin, instead, and tilt it carefully to one side, his thumb grazing carefully, gently along her jawbone, where a nasty bruise is already forming, and he swallows heavily (this guilt thing tastes terrible). "Casey," He rasps, and his voice breaks (damn it) as he says her name, willing her to understand (so he doesn't have to say) that he's sorry.

Her lips part faintly, as if she's about to say something, but then she appears to think better of it and firmly shuts her mouth.

And he realizes, with a sick feeling, how very small she is; she'd crumpled like paper at a glancing blow. To him, she'd always been this immovable, implacable force of nature, impossible to force into submission. But she'd just gone down, overpowered in an instant, finally cowed before him; he'd been there to witness her fall, he'd seen a truly and completely vulnerable Casey McDonald –and the big, terrifying secret?

He'd hated it. Wished he could take it back. Especially since…since it was pretty much entirely his fault, especially since she'd done it for him. But the only part of these emotions he can properly identify is the rage, because he's also beyond pissed that she'd so thoughtlessly throw herself in the path of an oncoming fist.

So that's what comes spilling out.

"What the fuck were you thinking, getting between us like that?" She seems to notice him shaking before he does, and looks away, biting her lip, and he could just—

"I was thinking you have to…you have to look out for…family." She meets his gaze steadily at this last word. He tastes bile. "Any sister would've done the same." Her hands are on his knees, his fingers fall away from her face. And while he calmly freaks out (and doesn't even properly know WHY), she finishes patching him up, silent and stony-faced while he sits there, trying to understand the indisputably insane impulse to grab her and…and…actually, that's where the impulse ends and the ambiguous, unsettling confusion begins. (He doesn't attempt to sort through the uncertainty, because he has a petrifying notion that he will not like what he finds therein.)

At long last, after several more quietly fraught moments, she secures a final bandage around his abdomen and mumbles softly that she's done. With all due agony, he bends left to pick up the salve she'd been carefully soothing over his more shallow injuries, and he tries to return the favor of her tending, but she slaps his hand away with a faint hiss.

"I can take care of it myself." She growls. "I'm not totally and completely useless."

She starts to lift herself, laying her hands on his thighs and pushing herself up, and by the time she's standing between his legs (before she can move away), his hands (again, entirely of their own volition) snap out to grab her around the waist and hold her in place. She looks down at him with an unreadable expression on her face, and he shoves mercilessly at the Realization trying to surface, determined not to see what it's fighting so tenaciously to show him. Then he stands, and it dawns on him belatedly that he's shirtless, in the privacy of his apartment, holding Casey.

"I must've hit my head really hard," he whispers unsteadily, and doesn't give her the chance to respond before his hand is on her face (again), half-concealing the burgeoning bruise, and he's looking at her eyes, trying to get her to look at him, but (again) she's refusing. (She's so much smaller than he is that even his hand against her cheek seems so very large –he's never noticed before because she fills a room so completely when she enters it-)

He has no idea when his eyes had fallen to her mouth, so he's startled when a falling tear slides over her lips.

Then she's looking him straight in the eye,

"I broke up with Truman at the beginning of the semester." She says evenly, and he just stares at her because he'd had no idea. "Contrary to what some people believe, I don't enjoy being treated like trash, I don't like assholes, and I won't stand for being hurt at some idiot's expense." And then (while he struggles not to vomit), she's disentangling herself from him and moving away, bending to pick up her bag, and just like that…she's gone –from the room, from his apartment, and (he discovers shortly thereafter) from his life.

LOOKIE! I addressed the Truman Issue! Finally! (Barely! Hardly at all! But at least it's out of the way and Casey's officially single!)

Also. Yeah, Derek'd probably have needed to be hospitalized after all the Violence (!), but let's just pretend that Casey's a totally competent medical professional and knows Exactly What She's Doing. I declined (for the sake of ANGST) to let him go to the ER. He was pretty miffed about the matter, but he's prettier when he's pouting, anyway.

AND! Just want to assure everyone that this is by no means the last chapter. Got the next one all planned out, just gotta write it. No worries, kidlets. (Cliffhangers are GOOD FOR THE SOUL.)

(I just tried PEACH COFFEE. It is bewilderingly delicious.)