Americana Psychotica: Oh, don't worry. He's too much of a chicken to kill himself anyway... -hides-
Tenno-Megumi: Wow, thank you! Of course he's going to wake up, he has to eventually xD
naien543: Indeed 8D

Thank you to:
-lost-dark-soul, for adding this story to their favourites and alert
-DoctorNicotine, for adding this story to their alert
-mamoru3193, for adding this story to their alert
-and Meepofawesome, for adding this story to their favourites

So I felt I owed it to you guys for a fast update. It's short, but at least there's no two-month gap...

Smashed on the pavement
Stunned in amazement
Everything you make comes crawling back to you

You can't believe it
You didn't mean it
But they saw you do it and they know your name
-Local H's Hands on the Bible

"Wake up."

A hand was lightly tugging at his shoulder. Desmond forced his tired eyes open to find Shaun kneeling in front of his face.

Frustration boiled over into anger, and Desmond rolled away. "Fuck off."

"I need to talk to you." It was spoken flatly, no emotion.

"Fuck!" Desmond bolted upright and glared at Shaun. "Do you have any idea how badly I've needed that sleep? Who knows when the next time I'll be able to will be?"

Shaun stared back at him, eyes hard.

"And another thing!" Desmond felt himself building up to rant, and was surprised at how good it felt. "How could you leave me last night? I had to walk home in the fucking rain! It took me an hour and a half!"

Shaun was definitely starting to look guilty; he bit his lip and shrunk back a little bit, avoiding eye contact. "I'm sorry," he muttered.

That wasn't going to be good enough. Although Desmond felt bad for yelling, he didn't give in. He jumped out of bed, yanked his pants on, and stalked out of the apartment, grabbing Shaun's keys as he left. The historian didn't follow.

As Desmond drove - using Shaun's car - his anger boiled down into exhaustion. Again. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles turning white against the dark leather.

Next thing he knew he was in front of Lucy's apartment, knocking on the door.

The fuck...? He jerked his hand away and backed off. How'd he get here?

Too late. Lucy emerged, thankfully clothed this time, in black suit pants and a white sleeveless shirt, coming up to her neck.

"Can I help you?" she asked, sounding irritated, as he stood there.

"All right, I was just leaving, so if you're not here to do anything other than gawk—"

"Where're you going?" he heard himself ask. What the actual fuck am I doing.

"Work." She eyed him, as if daring him to say something.

He didn't, instead asked, "Can I walk you down? I want to talk to you." Although he desperately wanted to know where Lucy was "working" - Stillmans didn't work, at least not the women - he didn't dare ask.

"All right," Lucy agreed, still looking extremely suspicious. She shut and locked her apartment door, and didn't protest when Desmond led her down the stairs rather than the elevator.

He was nervous. Sweaty, hands shaking, he walked in silence down a flight of steps until they turned a corner.

"So what exactly do you need to talk about?" Lucy asked, rather sharply, and that was all it took.

Desmond's hand shot out behind her, and he gave her a shove. It was much easier than he thought; Lucy's high heels were already making stairs difficult, do she slipped and went down with barely and effort on his part.

The sound was sickening. Lucy fell down an entire storey of stairs, twenty feet all the way down, making a thump or a crack each time her arm or her head or her back slammed against a step. It was a dreadful, bone-crunching sound, and Desmond just stood and watched.

Worst of all were her screams. Each time her body impacted with the ground, Lucy let out a small cry, and it would've been better if she yelled her lungs out on the way down; at least she wouldn't sound so small.

At last, with a final thud, she hit the wall at the bottom of the stairs and stopped falling.

Desmond stood for ten seconds, waiting for movement, shocked to his core at what he had just done.

Slowly, he made his way down the steps, heart sinking lower as he got closer. He got on his hands and knees next to her head - her face was toward the other direction - and bit his lip. There was definitely blood in her hair.

"Lucy?" he whispered. Gently, he reached around and turned her head to face him.

"Shit" was the only word for it. Her nose was bloodied and most likely broken, there was a large wound on her forehead, and her eyes... They were wide, staring. That could only mean one thing.

Sure, he'd had a dream about it, but he never actually thought he'd kill his ex.

Gingerly, hesitantly, Desmond put his fingers on her neck. There was nothing, no movement and certainly no pulse.

Lucy was dead.

I swear, this idea came to me before I read any reviews about pushing Lucy down some stairs...