a/n- Such a wonderful, wonderful chance for some Trollman bashing, and I couldn't do it.
Ughh.
( And a special thanks to all my anonymous reviewers; AnimeRox, Dorinda, Sarah, Dasey-love, Mo, since I haven't been able to reply personally :)
She used to like control. She might even have been in love with it. She understood cool, clear-headed logic. In fact she thrived on it.
(And then he had rushed into her life and; head meet disorientation.)
By the time he comes in from his last class, she's sitting on her bed, dry-eyed. Sally holding her. He stops short, then…
"Sal, is there something you'd like to tell me? Like a recent change of sexual preferences, perhaps. Casey, I've always had doubts about, but you?"
Then maybe he catches a glimpse of her, because he's by her side in a nanosecond. "What happened?"
Sally looks discomfited, "Truman…he broke up with Casey."
She catches Sally giving him the be-nice expression, while she gets up. "I'll make you some herbal tea, okay, sweetie?"
She nods, or maybe she doesn't. She doesn't really know what various parts of her body are doing at that moment. They don't have any connection with her brain for sure.
He just sits there by her side, and she keeps looking straight ahead.
(The thing is; nobody will understand. They'll sympathize and curse Truman with her, but she knows that every single person will be thinking the same thing: it was going to happen.)
They never understood why she liked him. He was a jerk, a complete cad and had resorted to underhand means to get her attention. But…
(She doesn't know. It had felt right. He didn't agree with her when she wasn't right, he challenged her, called her up on her bullshit. And he would do the occasional things which made her feel as if he really cared. For once in her life she hadn't felt predictable. She'd been the rebel. For once she'd known what it was like to be Derek…or Truman…or well, not herself.)
He sighs dramatically and looks at his watch, "You can start now. But five minutes max."
She doesn't reply, so he continues, "Ranting, I mean. Since I know you're probably dying to. Truman is scum; Truman is a slime-bucket. And De-rek somehow this is all your fault."
She still doesn't reply.
"Call Emily."
"Tried. She's not picking up." She can feel him looking at her. Probably as surprised by her tone as she herself is. (She's too tired. Too tired to pretend everything's fine. Because it isn't. It isn't fine, okay?)
"Don't sound like that." He puts a finger under her chin and raises her head, trying to meet her eyes. She still stares resolutely at the fabric of her comforter. "Casey, don't sound like that."
"You know," she swallows hard, and smiles slightly (manically probably, by his sharp intake of breath) because it strikes her as hilarious, "You were…right. Truman has changed."
"You're defending him?" His voice sounds loud, but maybe it's because he's so close (why the hell wasn't he moving away. Couldn't he "be nice" from the other end of the room?) "He doesn't need defending. He's absolute scum. Some people never change."
(Like you, she doesn't say. Because he has changed, hasn't he. Why couldn't she have been Truman's Sally?)
"No…I mean," she stops, because her brain refuses to cooperate and let her jumbled thoughts transform into coherent words. "It's just…he broke up with me."
"I know." And his voice is gentle, like that day at that party where Truman had kissed Vic…toria. It throws her off-balance slightly. Because this wasn't comfort-zone, this was something…else. And she's not sure how to handle it.
"Derek, he broke up with me. He could have easily…cheated. We're so far apart. He could've kept me hanging, and then pretended nothing was wrong, but he broke up with me. He did the right thing.
(Then she starts crying.)
"Here." He tosses her the phone.
She looks up, he'd moved out at the first sign of tears (big surprise). "Who…who is it?"
"Em." He avoids looking at her.
"What. But I couldn't get through and…"
He scratches the back of his head (like he always does when he's uncomfortable) "Yeah. Emergency number. I asked her mom. I mean you're you, this is probably end-of-the-world-emergency in your vocabulary, and you need someone to listen to your freakish rants, and you think…"
"You called up your ex-girlfriend. The one still waiting for you to discuss post-breakup feelings?"
He backs up, hands held out, "Hey, hey, don't get used to it, okay. I just have better things to do at the moment than sit here with you."
She holds up the phone (why can't she stop crying)
"Em...?"
"Come."
She's still lying on her bed (not thinking about Truman at all. Not one bit.) when he re-enters her room for the third time.
"Where?"
"We're going." He's jangling the car keys, and it makes her head hurt.
"Where?"
"Are you sure you're allowed to be as annoying as usual? Doesn't it violate the script of your life- 'The Most Clichéd Thing To Do In Every Occasion.' And that thing in this situation would be to act like a zombie. So you should just stop asking questions and just come."
She gets out of the bed slowly, feeling strangely weighed down. But she has to do this. (Even if it's only to make that concern in his eyes, that he's trying so hard to hide, go away because it makes the knot in her stomach ten times worse.)
She goes to the mirror and makes a great show of looking all over her skin.
"What now?"
"Just looking, you know. For that tattoo. The one which reads 'Property of Derek Venturi.'"
She can see him smile slightly in the mirror and it's stupid and cliché but she can't tear her eyes off. "You'll have to go deeper than that, Case. I'm probably in your bloodstream by now. Running through your veins. There's probably not a part of you left that doesn't scream my name." He stops abruptly, probably realizing it had come out sounding completely, utterly, irrevocably wrong.
(And it's hilarious that there's nothing funny about it.)
So she sighs, "Why are you doing this."
He avoids looking at her, "I thought we could put up with a little…sibling bonding."
("…annoying brother" "Step-brother" "Same difference.")
They're silent for a minute. And she notices the stark details, the tinge that the blazing sunset leaves on the walls. (The reddish-brown strands of his hair.) The sky-blue of her comforter. (The flecks of green in his brown eyes which she's too far away to see.) The mirror relecting the lamplight on her cheekbones. (The soft curve of his lip. Could the mouth that produced so much venom, look so soft?) And she gets a little drunk with it all. The sharp contrasts, the color, and everything. It's what she's living on, breathing in.
But life doesn't wait for her to complete her pause, and she gets it, (finally) "You mean Sally thought we could do with a little bonding." (She just repeated what he said almost verbatim, so what if she forgot a word in there somewhere. It isn't criminal or anything.)
"It's all right, Derek. We can pretend we had a nice time together, and I'm completely fine now. You've completed your duty. Go tell Sally she needn't withhold her kisses any longer."
(Those broken shards of her heart are really beginning to cut off her air supply. Is there some sort of operation for that?)
He takes hold of her shoulder in pure frustration, "God, Casey. Can you stop it! You're not fine, okay. What d'you want me to do? Get on my knees and beg?"
It's only for a millisecond, but she still has it. The imagery. He's down on his knees in front of her and...(and she's sick with the guilt.)
(Besides he doesn't beg. He takes. She knows that. It's generally her kneeling before him. All he has to do is look at her and say please and suddenly she's singing love songs for his girlfriend.)
"Please…"
(She hates him sometimes.)
a/n- Derek saying "Please" like that in Open Mic Plight (It took me a year to come out of the ecstacy-induced coma.)