I am probably crazy for continuing to post this, but I hold out hope that there might be a few of us out there searching for a little Brian/Angela to get us through the day. Although, if you are needing a bit of fluff to brighten your day, stick to the 1st chapter. Oh, and if anyone besides me is reading this, I encourage you to read "The Passion According to Angela" because it is fantastic. Except you, Schedherazade Bet...you don't have to.

Not really an alternative ending like before, more of an expansion of a scene, in Brian's room again, of course.

D: Not mine.

(italics are from the ep)

BETRAYAL

She didn't deserve this.

The revelation hit him like a ton of bricks the second his head popped through the neck of his shirt and he caught sight of her. The simple act was taking far longer than it should have, since his hands weren't cooperating and he couldn't seem to pull the fabric over his head fast enough, a million thoughts were swirling around inside his head. And okay, maybe if he told the whole truth he was a little nervous about having to actually face her. He knew what she was here for before she had to say a word, and the knowledge filled him with dread. She had seemed almost embarrassed when she first charged into his room, but now it was obvious she was here on a mission. All he could really make out as he situated his arms through the sleeves was a whirl of red hair, flaring violently behind her as she ransacked his room without any respect of his personal space, but even just that was enough. It was obvious just from the way she was moving around so frantically, almost like she could break into a million pieces at any moment, just how wrong he had been about her deserving whatever heartbreak she had coming to her. Because, okay, yeah, he had managed to convince himself that she did, somewhere deep down in the bitter and vindictive part of his heart that was controlled by that stupid jealous streak he wasn't willing to admit he had no reason to possess. It was there though, healthy and thriving and all to often ready to remind him of how she had jutted her chin out defiantly when she said she would laugh at him when he fell in love, of the look of that smirk on her face like she was so wise, when really she had no idea...none at all. So if she had said she would laugh at him, he should have every right to do the same to her, right? And so, theoretically, he should be laughing at her now, shouldn't he?

Like, by all logical reasoning he should be enjoying this moment, just as he should have savored each and every downward spiral in her tumultuous relationship with Catalano, numerous as they were. It should have tasted sweet, as revenge was supposed to, but all he was ever left with was a bitter taste in his mouth. Because somehow, the equation had never seemed to balance out in his favor. Every time he had gone to gloat at her heartbreak, ready to tell her 'I told you so' like an insufferable toddler and finally gleen the satisfaction he felt was deserved from her pain, he couldn't bring himself to carry it out. Sure he could throw in a few insults, be a self-righteous jerk and insensitive prick and mean every word of it, but in the end he knew he would always be there for her, no matter how much it hurt him along the way. It was an old routine for the two of them, and it didn't matter how many times he told himself he didn't, couldn't, wouldn't care about what she got herself into anymore, it was like...understood that he didn't really mean any of it. He only wished he could lie to her as straightforwardly as he did himself.

Because when he tried, the falsehoods that came spilling from his mouth where obvious and paper-thin. It was hard to think on his feet when she had barged into his room to find him naked from the waist up, and even though he was only doing something as innocent as listening to music, he still felt like he had been caught in the midst of some obscene act. Putting his shirt on backwards with his heart pounding like crazy definitely didn't help matters any, and his anxiety showed in how clumsy his lies came out. He could hear the nervous break in his own voice, and she brushed off his rebuttals as easily as she had always managed to do the notion that he had feelings for her. She couldn't be bothered by things as trivial as his right now, he could tell. Her thoughts were focused entirely on another person, another boy who could never be him. She was like a hurricane tearing into his room, fear and anger smeared on her face like a surrealist painting, all hard angles and swollen eyes and snapping teeth. It was beautiful, in a very dangerous sort of way, and he was amazed and disgusted by the way his feelings for her still managed to surface in the most inappropriate of situations.

In spite of it all, in spite of the fact that she barely seems to register that he is even there in the room with her, all he wants to do is take her in his arms. He could never, of course, because she is terrifying right now and pretty much always, though in a much different way, but still. He can tel that she is on the verge of shattering and he desperately wants to catch the pieces before they hit the ground.

"You shouldn't see it." The words are expelled from his mouth before he has time to really think about them, about what he even means by saying so, but it's too late and there they are, a great deal louder than he intended.

It couldn't have taken more than a few seconds for him to speak, but he feels like it takes years for the next few moments to play out. Everything shifts once those words hit the atmosphere, and now she definitely knows he exists. And from the palpable tension thrumming in the room he knows there is no way to take anything back. Strangely though, he doesn't think he wants to, even if he could. He holds his breath for a moment to study her reaction, and honestly, he has no idea what to expect.

Will she scream at him, like she is always so quick to do? Yell that he has no right to tell her what she should or shouldn't do, which is so completely and disgusting true that he hates himself for it? He waits for the familiar impact her wails of protest have on him, but when none come he feels something heavy settle in the pit of his stomach. Because this is worse than their fighting, her silence. His eyes finally meet hers straight on, and he finds her frozen in his doorway, the tape clenched in her white-knuckled fist. Her face is still a mask of anger, but her eyes are wide and she is looking at him with a strange sort of apprehension, like she's contemplating whether or she could trust what he was saying. Whether or not she wanted to. And it's then that he realizes just how badly he needs her to.

It's not hope, whatever it is he feels tugging at the dead weight within him, but it could very well be something dangerously close to it. He struggles to hold her gaze, but it's hard, because he never has been good at eye contact, and especially not with her.

But he knows he has to at least try, because it could very well be his last chance. And if she could just trust him, just this one time, if she would only see that when it seemed like there wasn't anyone else she could count on, that there was him, that there had always been him, and always would be. He doesn't know how he could possibly put all of that into a look though, and in the end he is pretty sure what ends up being conveyed is simply defeat. Because why would she put her faith in him now? It wasn't like he had ever given her reason to, had he?

That heavy feeling sinks down, and he feels it pulling him down with it.

"I mean...I don't think you'd really want to see it." His voice trails off and he feels lower than low, like he was the one who caused her all this pain, and maybe in a way he is.

He's not usually one for admitting fault, or at least not his own. He used to think it was because he wasn't usually wrong, but lately, it seems that being wrong is like...all he is.

He wishes he had destroyed that film, or better yet had shut off the camera as soon as he saw the two of them that night. He should have thrown it aside and gone over to where they leaned drunkenly against that old chainlink to punched Catalano in the nose, even if it meant severe fractures of all the bones in his hand (and his face, probably, in the aftermath), because nothing could have hurt worse than watching what this was doing to her now. He could pretend that it was her fault for letting herself care about people who obviously didn't care about her, but that would make him nothing more than like, a hypocrite. And she still had no idea that she could make him feel this way, even as he stood right there in front of her...and maybe that made it hurt all the more. His mouth has gone dry, and he chokes on the words that follow.

"It'd just make you feel worse."

His statement sounds flat, even to his ears. They are the kind of hollow, worthless words of false wisdom a person says when they can't think of any other type of advice that might actually prove useful. Except that they aren't, not from him. Because he means it, even if his voice betrays the fact that he's given up hope she might believe anything he says. She should though, because he knows that it will. Knows so because it totally did to him.

She still isn't saying anything, and it's so much worse than all the times she has cut him down with daggers on her tongue as quickly and as easily as drawing a breathe. Her silence is saying much more this time though, and the room seems to be reverberating with everything that has been left unsaid between the two of them. It's almost deafening, this pregnant, unnatural quiet, and he desperately needs her to break it. He wants her to yell at him, to accuse him of being jealous, or over analytical, or just a pathetic nerd, for crying out loud. If she would just call him all the names he knows he deserves he might feel a little bit vindicated in what he's done, and he holds his breath for a moment he knows will never come. Because this time he knows she won't grant him this small mercy, and he thinks he might even agree with her on that. He doesn't think she is even going to look at him, with her hands on the tape and her feet poised for escape in his doorway, but just he thinks he's lost her forever, her eyes meet his. But when she does, there is something akin to a pitying disgust in her red-rimmed eyes, and suddenly it's like the floor has dropped out from underneath him.

She throws the cursed tape down and storms out, but he doesn't call after her. He can't, his throat has closed up and it feels as though all the air has been sucked from his lungs, leaving nothing but a painful friction scraping through him every time he draws a breath. He couldn't speak a thing more to her now, not even if he had any words left to say.

And he isn't sure, but he doesn't think he does.

Because who is he, to her, anymore? What right does he have to say how or even what she might be feeling right now? He only knows what he would, what he does, every time he sees her with her arms around Catalano, looking at him like...like she does. How stupid of him to assume she might feel the same sort of pain that he has almost grown accustom to, when really, their situations couldn't be any more different.

Don't shoot the messenger, right? And yet he kind of wishes she would have, because with things like how they are, he had no idea what he is supposed to do now. He isn't really sure of anything, not anymore.

He picks up that stupid tape with steady hands, and for a second, he envisions himself sending it soaring through his bedroom window. He can almost see the shiny black ribbons bursting forth and becoming entangled in the branches and wound around the leaves, can see her stop, in his minds eye and stare up in wonder at the strange sight unfurling above her, and he stops himself before he can smile at the look on her face.

Because it's not really how she looks right now, and he isn't doing himself any sort of favor by pretending that it is. Really, she's probably crying, with a blotchy face and runny nose and even he doesn't find her particularly attractive like that. Especially when he knows he is a huge part of the reason she looks this way. And anyway, his window is shut and even if it wasn't he probably couldn't pitch the tape the short distance across his room, much less into the tree in his front yard. So he just stuffs it back into his backpack, mostly just to get it out of his sight.

He'll deal with it in the morning. For now, he's got homework.

Brian's linguistics were much harder to mimic in this one. I want to make him all wordy and passionate in his conflicting emotions, but alas...I fear he is not too far behind Ron Weasley in his emotional range. (teaspoon).