a/n : Dasey all the way. And updated fast. I'm so happy :) Rating is a little higher for language. Also, this is my LONGEST chapter till date of any chapter fic, because I just added every cliche I could think of!

What it should be titled: In Which The Author Gives Up All Pretences of Ever Having Had A Plot And Lets The All Round Dasey Snark/Love Fest Commence

Disclaimer: It's a disclaimer.

(It had always been an… abstractedly real concept- Derek and sex. It was one of those hazy undercurrents of his life that she had never- would never – explored. Sometimes she would catch an unmistakable glace directed at one of his girls-of-the-day-and/or-week and realize just how…potent that look was. And strangely enough, she'd be the one blushing.

But it had never seemed real - that aspect of his existence. Reality was their fights and relentless insults which formed the fabric of their daily life. Reality was fighting with him and not noticing that his hair was a little red in the sunlight. Those other girls had never been important enough to penetrate in her consciousness.

But now he and that girl, who is important enough, are in the room together and it's real. So goddamn real.)

She wakes up on the couch, drenched in sweat and uncomfortably hot. The persistent, harsh pounding in her chest (and the mind-numbing guilt) is the only recollection of her dream.

(Which hadn't involved reddish-brown hair and green satin and a voice that usually made her want to kick something hard. There was no way she'd just…dreamt…that…him…her…just, no way.)

And she realizes with a sort of dispassionate interest that she's shaking. Hard. And that the only thing she can remember is that she still has to complete her English project (or that his eye-lashes are too long for a guy's. It's hard to tell which, they're so much the same).

The thing is; dreams don't actually prove anything (she'd even dreamt about kissing Truman and look how that'd turned out) because it isn't like she can control them. And that particular dream might have been about a traumatizing thought. An extension of (his writing please on her bare skin) buying lingerie for Sally or ("Did you want me to stay?") his sweatshirt that she was (still, inexplicably) wearing.

Or maybe it's the fact that she's (stupidly) decorated Sally's room with roses and actually brought champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries.( Because over the sound of Lyra laughing, there was the far more subtle, softer sound of a little piece of that guilt, firmly lodged in her chest, melting away.

And it had felt good.)

She needs a shower (she's heard it doesn't wash sins away- Lady Macbeth- but you don't know till you try, right?)

It's a cold shower and she finds it (wryly) ironic that he's reduced her to taking cold showers at three in the night (morning). She's never read that in any of her books, it's always been the guy in her position. (Conventionality is way overrated anyway).

And when she comes out, it's almost with a sardonic acceptance she notices him sitting on the couch, the television playing. (Maybe she's still dreaming. This counts as a nightmare, surely).

He looks up for a second at her sudden arrival and then goes back to his contemplation of the (epic) design of the flooring, "Your craziness extends into the night? I thought Little Miss Sunshine's like you never survived past eight o'clock."

She bites back a retort and says with quiet (bruised) dignity, "I don't need to always provide an antidote to your poison. So I'm not going to say anything."

His mouth twists into a poor imitation of a smile, "You got nothing."

She moves closer (because her stupid feet are obviously not connected to her brain and can't seem to process the "stay away" signal that it's -so loudly- transmitting). "You're the one with the beautiful girlfriend waiting for you in her room and I'm insane?"

"Jealous?" (And it's the way he says it, a sort of half-joking way. Which obviously means he's half-serious. His left eyebrow raised in silent mockery. And he's –still freaking- not looking up).

"Of you?" she scoffs (because what else could he have meant anyway), "Despite having lived with a total moron in my formative years, I'm still- very, very surprisingly- straight. Although do keep up with being… you, it's sure to put me off boys eventually."

He (almost) laughs before the order of the world reasserts itself and he very obviously realizes that he's laughing with her and not at her, and he immediately stops and gets up.

"What you mean is that the frustration is enough to turn you into a nymphomaniac."

"Like it's turned you into one?" she retorts (and this feels good, like it's supposed to be and never is).

He puts a hand to his (bare, fuck, he's not wearing a shirt. How dare he) chest, moving forward. "I'm touched you have so much faith in my abilities."

"Not at all," and she's moving back and his eyes are narrowing and he's realized (no, just…please…not again. Not this time), "Just a dubious faith in your low tastes."

"Why did you do that?" He's asking quietly (and he's still moving forward. Moron).

"Do what?" she's snapping (but he always does this. Always makes her lose and she hateshates him).

"Move back," (why the hell can't he raise his voice, so she can start breathing again? Isn't this illegal?) "Since when have you been intimidated by me?"

"Why don't you go wear a shirt? I refuse to talk to you like this." And it says much for her state of mind that she doesn't even call him on his use of the word 'intimidated'. (She's not… he's just…not wearing a shirt…and it's…degrading. Because if he stops wearing a shirt around the house, she's going to start objectifying men and that would make her a…female Derek. Right).

He looks down at himself, surprised, as if that had been the last thing on his mind. And as her words register, his eyes flash back to hers and she clutches the handle of the bathroom door at the second of fierce joy in his gaze (She's imagining it).

"Do I make you… uncomfortable?" (She's heard the tone before, but it's never been directed at her).

"No." she says, defiantly, almost challengingly.

He takes another step forward, his eyes fixed on the slowing rise and fall of her chest. "No?"

"Not at all."

And then she's trapped between the door and him (and she'd have been laughing at this in the movie because it's so stupidly cliché and it never actually happens in real life. Maybe her life follows his script), "What's the matter, Case? Siblings see each other fully naked all the time. It doesn't affect them."

("Derek, you are the most annoying brother…" "Step-brother." "Same difference.")

She raises her face to his (and he always gets too damn close, what the hell is he trying to prove?) "Sally's waiting for you inside."

The half-mocking smile slides right off his face, "God, those roses were overpowering. I couldn't stay inside a minute longer."

She feels the indignation of an artist whose work is criticized by morons unable to appreciate its true worth. "I took three hours on them."

He stills completely, dropping his hand, "You did that?"

"Yes." (Why does he look like that? Please stop him. It isn't fair).

His eyes light up with understanding, "And the champagne and the strawberries," his mouth sets in a grim line, "You created your fantasy for us?"

(It wasn't…it's not…like that) "It's every girl's fantasy. I was just trying to help."

"Sure" and his expression is inscrutable, "When the guy is allergic to strawberries…"

"…and gets drunk on champagne." She finishes, on the verge of a mini-panic attack (how could she have forgotten).

His expression turns sullen and it looks like he's (not succeeding in) stopping himself from pouting with difficulty, "I do not get drunk on champagne."

She snorts, "Please, Derek. Might I remind you…"

"No." he interrupts, hastily, "You might not."

"What did you do," she interprets his confused stare, "You know, to keep up the pretence that you can hold a drink."

He glares at her, "Firstly, I do not get drunk. And if…this was an alternate universe then…I told her it would taste so much better if I…licked it off her."

She can't help it, she laughs. "Smooth. A classic Venturi. Just like that time you told Sandy in my Psychology class that there was a water shortage and so the students had been asked to save water and got her to shower with you."

"Hey, she was always in a towel whenever I went to her dorm. Like she had a radar or something. I just took heed of all your lessons on gentleman behavior and gave my lady what she wanted"

She snorts again (because Derek and 'gentleman' are listed in the Theasaurus as antonyms. Now Derek and manwhore...has possibilities). "Or the time when you told Hailey that she would never officially be considered out of virginhood unless she'd had sex with a porn video playing in the background."

He looks at her for a nanosecond like he's about to say something and then turns away, "Yeah. Standard line."

(Except Hailey had been a social outcast. A misfit among the girls of her college who looked like catalogue Victoria's Secret models with every strand of hair set right, every pout practiced. She'd come on scholarship to the university, wearing over-alls, her hair having never seen conditioner and glasses to complete the movie farm girl-look. And overnight she'd changed into a Derek Venturi girl and now she was on the debating society, her self-confidence not restricted to the glasses or the overalls she -still- wore.

"It's easy for girls," he'd said when she'd forced him to watch 'When Harry Met Sally', "The guy can't even pretend to be turned on if he isn't. He can't fake it". In his incredibly strange Derek-way, he'd been nice or something. And she knew that, because she knew him, he never deviated from his type -hot- usually).

"You remember their names," he notes, "I don't", and then abruptly (it couldn't have lasted anyway), "Was it deliberate."

"Was what deliberate?"

"All that stuff which I'd hate for sure- the roses and all? Was that a deliberate attempt at sabotage?"

(How dare he), "Just because your look-up-in-the-dictionary word-of-the-day is sabotage, does not mean you can say anything you want. Why would I do that?"

"I don't know, you tell me."

"I did all of it, for…Sally, okay. Because she deserves to have a perfect night."

And for some reason he's angry, his hands are clenching into fists (and he doesn't understand about guilt. He doesn't understand anything). "You know, someday it's not going to be how you think it is. And you'll hate yourself for loving the screwed-up version more than how you'd imagined it."

"You mean," and she's snapping at him (who does he think he is), "You never care about anyone to actually make it special. Maybe we should buy you a life-size mirror. That's the beginning and end of your love."

"I do care," he says (and he's hurting, why didn't she see it before), "I care, Casey. That's why I'm here. I can't hurt her."

He's not making any sense, but she's reaching out for him without even registering it (he cares about Sally and he's hurting for some reason) and then she's holding him (it's ridiculous) and telling him (stupid) things about how it's going to be okay (when?) and he's not moving away (but she's not close enough) and they're looking at each other (why doesn't anything make sense) and her (trembling) hand is on his (bare) back and then he's flinching like he's been burned (just like she has).

"As much as I appreciate your sisterly concern, I should be going back, Sally's waiting." He drawls.

And then she's angry, without reason, but the hard knot in her gut isn't leaving much room for thought. (He can't leave now. Not after that). "Maybe you should wear a shirt first." (And she knows she's inciting him, but he'll go back to the roses and green satin and she'll be left here. Just like she always is).

"I can't find…" and then he's looking at her again (really looking at her now) with that unreadable expression, "…you're wearing my sweatshirt."

She looks down and…

(Oh. Shit).

And he's standing with his arms crossed across his (still bare, she hates him) chest. Like he needs an explanation or something. Even when he knows very well (too well) that she doesn't have one. Just like the time he'd stolen all her clothes and she'd worn his shirt to school (because she didn't even think of Lizzie or/and her mom). There wasn't any reason, it just was. And he's ruining the game because he wants answers that she doesn't have.

(The thing about madness is; there isn't any outward indication mostly. All she knows is that he's going to go back to Sally –wasn't that what she'd wanted? - and then it'll be different. And she's not supposed to care but she does and is that so hard to understand? Because for a moment she has the same vision of Sally, smiling in the dressing room, and so fucking gorgeous. )

It's temporary insanity (and she wishes she had alcohol because she needs something to put the blame on).

Her gaze is deliberate and maybe he sees it in her eyes before it happens (did she mention she's the only thing he ever reads), because he's reaching out his hand and – "Casey, no, don…"

She's already taken his sweatshirt off and his hand lands on her bare shoulder. She's standing half-defiantly, her body tense and for a moment the only thing she feels is a sense of vindication because he's not so in-control after all.

She holds it out to him, 'I'm sorry it's wet. I didn't dry off after the shower.' (Except she doesn't say it because she's not exactly sure she remembers how to speak any longer).

Her heart skips a beat (and then starts pumping extra hard to make up for it) and she's throwing his words back at him. "Siblings see each other half-naked all the time, Derek."

"Siblings don't organize 'perfect' nights for each other," he snaps, "Or are you expecting me to prepare yours? An extension of my brotherly duties?"

"I can make my own nights," she says slowly, deliberately, "Like always."

He looks away, "Who was it."

She laughs (it almost sounds real), "Max. And Truman. Don't ask me how many times, I've lost count."

"Liar."

(Learned from the best) "You go on believing that, Derek. Everybody knows how protective you are of your sisters. I just didn't want to have to deal with that."

She's trying to stop shaking (because his hand is on her and he'll feel it) but it's so goddamn hard and he's looking at her (her step-almost-brother is looking at her) with undisguised…something. And then his hand is on the strap of her bra (he's her brother) and he's sliding it down slowly, just a finger enough to make her give up every pretence. He's suddenly closer, and can feel him breathing against the hollow of her neck (breathing, only breathing) and just that one millimeter and he could…

But he's pulling away; almost physically "I'm going back." And his voice is tired, "Back to Sally. Back to your fantasy. I'm going to touch her in ways that would make you blush. Sally. Because she wants me and I want her. And maybe that's enough. I'm going to make the night perfect. Because I care. A lot. More than you'll know."

(…and she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror across the corner. Her hair is scattered around her face, her make-up –which she'd not bothered to remove-smudged and she's wearing bunny slippers and plain, white cotton underwear. Sane and sensible. Not blonde hair and beautiful green satin. Because that's who she is. And he's the guy who can make a girl in plain cotton feel beautiful with a glance. And he's also the would-be brother of her mom's child.)

And then she's tensing under his hand (and maybe the problem is that she only knows how to spell 'wrong' in one language) and he immediately moves away, his eyes half closed, hands clenched in fists at his side and she's covering herself up (inadequately) with her hands (but the dull ache in the pit of her stomach just refuses to go away). And then he's pulling the sweatshirt over her, his fingers too gentle for hate and too harsh for anything else.

And he's gone really (maybe she never woke up) and she's left wearing his shirt.

(It still smells like him and –fun fact- it's always going to).

Derek might seem mean at the end, but keep in mind that Casey herself hates all forms of cheating herself, and he would definitely be cheating on Sally if he did anything. And that whole reason why he's saying that whole "I care, okay" thing is because he feels like he's cheating on Sally in a way because he's thinking of Casey while inside.

And also he's really confused. I mean, on one hand she's disturbed by his close proximity and on the other hand she's planning his and Sally's night and wants her -Sally's- night to be perfect. Like, mixed signals much?

(Btw, Sally's not a virgin to anyone confused. She just thinks that something btw her and Derek should be special). And Derek's outside because he's feeling really (strangely) guilty and he's not used to it. It's like someone coming out to smoke after (to be excessively crude) round-one. (And though Casey didn't deliberately sabotage the night, I think her subconcious might have helped a little). And she's a little sick at the thought that Derek might think this night to be important, unlike ever before, ie why the strange display of taking off her shirt. She isn't thinking clearly. And she wants him to want her for once.

The next chapter might take a little time. Or it might now. I'm not exactly sure of my timing abilities really! :)