In recent stupidity, I forgot to cover my butt with a disclaimer. So, just for anyone who can actually do anything about said non-coverage, I don't own the OC or anything related to it. But if you're looking, Josh Schwartz, I am currently unemployed (ofcourse, I live no where near LA, or wherever you may be, and I'm not exactly legally allowed to work fulltime. But I'm sure we can make an exception!) I also don't own the song 'With or Without You.' No, duh.
Ryan woke up to the sound of more retching in the bathroom. He started to sit up when Teresa came back in, wiping her mouth and wearing Ryan's shirt. "You're….wearing my shirt," he said, blinking a lot and staring at his old wife-beater.

"So perceptive," Teresa replied sarcastically, sitting on the bed close to Ryan. "I…needed a loose shirt," she continued, twisting the button closest to her chest, "all mine are too tight." Ryan just nodded, tuning her out. "And besides," she began, reaching for the hem of his undershirt and pulling it up, then stroking his trimmed chest and stomach, " you look better with it off."

"Maybe we should, uh…" Ryan stuttered, shielding his chest as she leaned closer, his voice hoarse from his obvious discomfort.

"What's wrong, sweetie? It's not like you haven't done this before." Teresa began kissing his chest, slowly moving down to his navel, becoming content in doing so while trying to unhook his belt.

Ryan took a deep breath, composing himself for what he now had to do-something surprising even to him. "Okay, okay," he said softly, pushing her hands away casually. Teresa didn't give up that easily. She eventually successfully unbuckled the belt and busied herself with the button following it, giggling and kissing his stomach. Ryan grabbed her hands and pulled her up by them, sitting up. "Teresa, stop it!" He yelled, shaking her frail hands in his. Teresa's lip began to tremble, and she began to sob, still held up by Ryan.

"I…I'm…sorry," she sniffled, "it's the hormones. I…I don't know what's wrong with me," she said, crying harder now.

Ryan let go of her hands, suddenly feeling terrible. Teresa was hurting, and it was his fault. Maybe. Possibly… "It's okay," he managed after a while, then enveloped Teresa in a hug. "It's alright," he soothed, "it's gonna be okay."

Marissa got in her car and started driving. In the beginning, she had no idea where she was going, but as the ride went on, it became all too obvious. It was her turn. Her turn to 'save' Ryan. He had helped her so much, and now she had to save him from the past. Her love for him wasn't going to just go away, so she decided to be proactive. Not a usual part of a hangover, unless it included a bottle of pills. If trying to commit suicide was proactive.

She turned onto the street where Teresa lived, shaking off the last of post-party drowsiness with an old diet coke in the cup holder. It tasted funny, probably because it was old, but more likely because it was old, but more likely because it didn't include alcohol. Marissa stopped abruptly, right next to the mailbox, and got out.

She walked to the door and took a deep breath, praying for the best, and for forgiveness, as usual. She rang the doorbell. Nothing happened. She waited a while longer, feeling the coke kick into her weakened digestive system. Still no answer. Marissa became more impatient, knocking hard on the painted door. "Hello? Anybody in there?" She sighed and reached in her purse, pressing a newly opened liquor bottle to her lips and sipping. She banged on it harder and harder, each time more and more tears streaming down her face. "Hello? If you're in there, let me in!" She screamed, sobbing uncontrollably. She pressed her palm to the door and slid to her knees, turning and leaning her head on the doorframe, then pouring the rest of the warm liquid down her mouth and coughing, still crying.