Hey everyone! This is Luce speaking.

It's been a while, but I am back……to post what I think is the greatest thing I've ever written and which no one probly cares about because I write GG fic. So big deal. Regardless, I have 6 new chapters of this rather AU saga involving two characters I met last fall when I actually watched the show…..and who deserved better than what the show made them out to be.

Thanks to all the loyal fans, and to all of you who've stumbled upon me, I'm humbly grateful that you took the time.

Enjoy.

Luce

Exquisite

She knows this time, it is her fault and she alone can fix it.

She does realize (really, she does) that it's her responsibility to approach him and explain her insensitive and rather offensive behavior.

But somehow, she keeps hoping that he'll put two and two together.

Somehow, she wishes that he could sense the embarrassment, the terrible shame she feels every time she sees him. It's hard for her to even think about how he saw this miserable thing in her life, this dimension of her that is so hidden.

She wishes he understood how terribly quick this all was, that it was too soon for a stranger such as him to see this devastation.

She just hopes, waiting, knowing that it's her turn to give in a little.

She just needs  a push, a reason, something! It's hard, she tells herself. She justifies it in a million ways and still knows she is in the wrong at the end.

Maybe she'll draw him a wonderfully mediocre, angsty, melodramatic, almost pathetically comical picture that he can make fun of. In doing so, he'll feel they're even now, and maybe feel more sympathetic towards her, which will lead to kindness.

But she doesn't really think so.

She stretches out on the shiny wooden floor of the gym, next to the other lithe girls who bed like rubber bands. She hates bendy girls. Her legs are too long for her to reach her toes. She flips Lila (whose wrists reach over her toes) the finger. Brooke giggles, a smirky, hoarse little sound, like a 40 year old waitress flirting with a trucker for extra tips. She loves Brooke for always seeing these little things when no one else does.

The Many Reasons I Love Brooke, she thinks.

Another crackpot essays. She's always making them up in her head.

She gives me free booze, sleeping pills and condoms. She got me on the squad. She hooked me up with Nathan. She fills up my spare time and makes Lila Slater mad.

She cocks her head to the side, watching her friend shake pompoms cheerily.

The Many Reasons I Hate Brooke.

See 1, 2, and 3 previously listed above. Because she knows my secrets. Because she made Lucas hate me.

She sighs, picking up the poms and staring at them as though they were some alien object. What the hell am I doing is what passes through her head. Then she remembers. These poms are what saved your ass from social leprosy, Peyton. Hold fast to them. Stuff them down your shirt, between your legs, lick them up and down. That would have the same effect as just holding them, because that's what people think about when they see them anyway. You're a sex machine, Peyton. That's what all those people pay two bucks at the door for.

He goes home early that week, not stopping by anymore. He's pretty sure what happened. She was embarrassed that he saw her in that state so early in their friendship. It's understandable.

But that doesn't do anything to alleviate the hurt he felt when she stood there in her doorway insolently, grinning at his ludicrous bag of sandwiches.

Fuck fuck fuck, he thinks. Don't think that. She didn't mean it. She was drunk. She wasn't trying to embarrass you in front the world's biggest loudmouth. He's surprised he's not the Sandwich Man by now around school. Veggie or not? Who gives a fuck. Not Peyton. To top the humiliation, he ate her sandwiches on the way home cause he was hungry, and he realized they tasted like shit cause the bread must've been old.

Whatever.

Because of all of these things, this time he can't swallow his pride and be understanding enough to go to her. He just waits, and ignores her long legs, forgetting not to smile as he watches her struggle to reach her toes, sticking out her tongue and flipping Lila, aka Gumby, the finger.

It was just funny, that's all. He's not done being mad at her yet.

She remembers when Brooke found out her secret.

She'd felt such horror, such fear. How carefully she'd guarded their relationship ever since, how cautiously she'd stepped around Brooke's insensitive comments and careless treatment. She'd been nothing but the model friend since, save for that one lovely little outburst during practice that had quickly been resolved. Does that mean that she and Brooke aren't really friends?

Of course they are. Brooke was the one that demonstrated to her how to shove up a tampon, no qualms. Brooke is the one who finds her cheat sheets. Brooke was the one that secured her status. Brooke is the one who suffers with her.

But now, after meeting Lucas, for the first time in her life she's not sure that this history with Brooke is what friendship means. For the first time, she's gotten a glimpse of what the word friendship could potentially really mean.

And Brooke……seems pale and weak, almost demented by comparison.

Nothing's right side up anymore, she contemplates. Fuckin shame. And she had it so figured out before this cocky little nobody boy came along and screwed it all up for her.

Figures.

So she shows up at his café in the evening when she passes by and sees him working there. Maybe she was just passing by. Maybe she came intentionally. No one will ever know.

She clears her throat and cracks her knuckles and sits down at the bar, ordering an iced tea. He brings her one, with a wedge of lemon, which she stares at for a second.

He just punches in her bill and prints it, signs it with a "have a nice day, J Lucas"

She feels very insignificant. She sucks it up and tries to start conversation.

"Hey, what's up?"

He looks at her incredulously.

"What's up?" he asks back, a little sarcastic and bewildered. "I dunno, you tell me."

She writhes and wrings her hands.

"Look I was drunk."

"Oh geez. Ok, that's a Paris Hilton press-junket excuse. I know you can do better. Get creative. Hey, I was being insensitive. Hey, I was being stupid for letting Brooke get me drunk after I had taken pharmaceuticals on top of it."

"Yeah, all that too," she whispers, taking a dry swallow.

Seeing her dull countenance, her hands knotted in her lap, her sagging shoulders, he softens a little bit.

"I'm not nobody Peyton. I need to be treated like a human and you need to understand that since I like you, I will worry about you. And since I like you, I'll maybe feel that your reaction to my small discovery shouldn't be so extreme. What, are you afraid I'd tell people? Everyone has bad days, Peyton."

"Not like that, Lucas," she whispers, her tone low and flat. "Maybe I was embarrassed because I like you too. Maybe I thought you didn't want to see that, that it would make you dislike me."

This plain admission pauses everything in him for a moment. He didn't expect her to be so frank. He's not sure how to respond, but then instantly, he feels something warm in him again, something that pushes away the anger.

There is nothing left there but tender sadness for her.

And general raving lust.

And a little bit of this thing he can't exactly name If he were a girl, or if he were honest, he might call it love.

He walks her home. The house is dark. They sit together on her bed against the headboard, ignoring physical attraction. He decides to be a friend only for tonight. Her leg swings off the side of the bed in rhythm to the music, and she picks at her nails, not looking at him.

"How long?"

She sighs.

"Since it happened. It was bad at first for a while, like that everyday. Then gradually, it went down to once a week, then now and then. That's where it is now."

He considers this slowly.

"What does it feel like."

Her mouth twists a little, but she sighs again bitterly and obliges.

"Like I'm already dead, just a corpse. I can't stop crying and being stupid and I take medication and sleep a lot. Happy Dr. Scott?"

He puts his hands up, backing off.

"Sorry."

"Yeah, whatever."

"How come you don't get pills for it or talk to somebody?"

She shrugs.

"Cause then I'd be Brooke."

His eyes open wide a little, and he whistles.

"Guess she's not so well either," he says. "I kinda figured she wasn't all there though. She has no problem letting the world know when she's not happy."

"Yeah, well, that's her style. I prefer martyrdom."

He laughs.

"Martyrdom isn't martyrdom if no one really hears about it. It's just plain stupidity. But considering your choice of friends, I wouldn't tell anyone either."

She winces a little, uncomfortable. He notices, fine tuning his perception to her facial expression and body tics. He stores it all away to remember later. Note: pulled up shoulder, bad (unless accompanied by smile). Crossed arms, bad. That little lip thing, when she draws then into a thin line like string for a second, bad. Wincing, definitely bad. Picking at nail? Who knows.

"Listen," she says, "why are you doing this? If I decided to never sleep with you, would you still do it?"

He pauses for a second, uncomfortable at the position he is in.

"Would you let me at least still kiss you?" he asks lightly, expecting her to laugh.

But she seems quite serious.

"Yes."

He can't believe he's striking this kind of deal. He really doesn't think he'll be able to deal  with this.

"Never is an awfully long time to not have sex, Peyton, but if you want me to I will."

She looks at him in shock, disbelief, and all the related emotions.

"Are you serious?" she whispers.

He shrugs, and nods.

"Well, yeah."

She laughs then.

"Liar."

He does not respond. She throws him a cautious look over her shoulder, and takes a deep breath which she lets out in uneven bursts.

"Look, maybe that is a little extreme. What I meant is I'd just like to take it slow. This just isn't like anything I've ever done, you know? You brought me sandwiches. I don't know how to act."

He seems to consider this reasonable, cocking his head to one side and grinning agreeably.

They lay down on the bed, stretched out, face to face, looking at each other. His hand reaches over towards her face.

"Can I cross the middle line?" he asks, and she smiles and gives a little nod.

His fingertips trace her sullen lips, her small doll nose, her slightly dented chin, those flyaway curls. He makes her think of those children's picture books, of a little Alice in Wonderland.

They skim lightly over her throat, and trace the curve of her ear, and cradle that magic place on the back of her neck where soft skin meets even softer hair.

In return, her hand wanders hesitantly towards him. She can't help but smile shyly.

Her small palm with it's long, slender fingers cups his jaw, stroking his cheek. She leans in slightly towards him and kisses the place where his ear and his neck connect, sending a little shiver through him. This is different, she knows. Different than that terrible party where things were so screwed up and she was buzzed and depressed out of her mind.

She'd just been trying to fuck then, she guesses.

Not like this.

He leans over and kisses her eyelid, just a little butterfly touch. She smiles delightedly and curls up in pleasure, her knees touching his stomach. His fingers trace circles on her the thin, bruised appendages.

"What is wrong with your knees?"

She sighs.

"They're just ugly, that's all. I have to kneel on the wooden floor for all these pyramids and they bruise easy cause they're bony….."

He grins.

"I like them."

"Shut up."

"No, I said I like them."

She rolls her eyes.

"Are you going to say something corny?"

He laughs.

"Yes, and you're going to enjoy it."
She sighs.

"Guess I don't have a choice. Go ahead."

He thinks for a moment.

"I like other things too. I like your ankles and how exquisite and small they are although your feet are messed up."

"Thanks."

"And I like your small little wrists with this sharp bone sticking out the side. I like your fingers and they way they hold a pen. I like your paper-cut thin lips and I love you big, blinky china doll eyes when you put that black stuff on the eyelashes and it makes you look like porcelain."

She pauses for a second, trying to hide her satisfaction, failing miserably.

"Not too corny."

"You loved it huh."

"Don't get cocky," she warns him, and with a touch of smugness, he leans forward and lays down a little kiss on her lips, a bare touch of a kiss, a small connection. She kisses back a little, but they are still apart. Their lips press together sweetly, and she feels such a strange feeling, this feeling she hasn't felt for a long time.

It's something akin to happiness.