a/n Well, I was sitting at home (having slept the wrong way and cricked my neck badly) so I decided to write :) I am so excited, it's the first time I've really written a story that's turning out so long. Your reviews are...I run out of words here. But thank you, you guys are unbelievably, crazily awesome. Now hopefully this chapter won't disappoint. There is more Dasey in the next. I've reached to the 100th page of 'Mill on The Floss' and I'm already shipping Tom/Maggie (thus the reference!) :P
You know, all your reviews are pretty accurate. You totally guess what's going to happen! (Although you also seem to think I am capable of extending torture indefinitely :) Oh, and absolutely right-- it was Jab We Met!
Disclaimer: Disclaimed
(It starts with a storm. And that is just stupid. And cliché. And wrong. So wrong.
And beautiful.)
_*_
He saunters in, whistling, with a small bag in his hand. She's standing in the room, her face muscles contorted in horror. She can feel him looking at her, and his loud, theatrical sigh makes her want to hit him with something. Preferably pig iron. It's called poetic justice.
"What is it, now?"
(Can't he see)?
She's about to point (with a stupidly trembling finger) at the too small bed, the scratchy-looking sheets, the TV that probably hadn't been dusted circa 2000 B.C., when she catches a glimpse of his expression through the mirror. The half-amusement in his eyes makes her stop. He looks like…this is what he expects of her. Just like all his other girls-- who scream when they see a spider and use horror movies as an excuse to hold on to him. (And she won't ever be that girl. Not for him. Because he isn't allowed to look at her like…like he knows her. Because honestly, he doesn't know a single damn thing).
"Nothing," she says, just as nonchalantly as she can manage, "I thought I saw a mouse on the floor…or maybe two," and has the satisfaction of seeing him practically jump on the bed (pretending, of course, that that had been his planned course of action all along. Stupid Derek and his stupid pretences. Who did he really think he was kidding here?)
He's already switched on the T.V. and changed the channel to wrestling, when it finally registers;
"De-rek!"
"Mmm?"
"Where's my bag?"
He looks up briefly from the screen to smirk at her, "Don't tell me you've already lost it Space-Case. Haven't you ever been taught about responsibility? Really, sometimes I think…"
"…As consuming as that unfamiliar activity must be for you," she snaps, "I want to know where you left my bag."
"Downstairs", and he's glaring holes through the T.V. screen now, "I didn't want to spoil your wonderful exit by reminding you of it."
("When you're done here, bro, kindly call room-service and ask them to change the sheets.")
She won't (can't) react, "And you couldn't have brought it up because…?"
"Because it's my brotherly duty to make your life as miserable as possible. Haven't you read Mill on The Floss?"
She stares at him, "You haven't read it."
"I've heard you go on about it," he says, "it was almost as boring as having had to read the damn thing myself."
"That was different," she retorts, "Their relationship has inc…" she shuts up forcibly before she can complete 'incestuous overtones' (for no other reason than she would've had to explain the…terms involved and she doesn't have the time for it…because…because…because her bag is downstairs).
He doesn't ask about the half-completed sentence and she turns again, her hand at the door knob. Before something hits her on the back of her head.
"DE-REK!"
She turns around in anger and picks up (his sweatshirt?) from the ground.
He's not looking at her and (why doesn't he look at her). He sighs in exasperation when she continues to stare at him, "If you die of pneumonia, Nora isn't going to be too happy with me. And I don't think a post-natal, furious Nora is someone I want to deal with. She's perfectly capable of making me sit with your…" he pretend-shudders (and sometimes she wonders if he knows he's so easy to see through), "...album of baby pictures. And I don't think I can stare at that thing without losing…"
(He's going on. But he still isn't looking at her. And her shirt is still transparent).
The guy at the counter looks up from his contemplation of (what she hopes is) his mug of coffee.
He glances at his watch when as she comes down and mutters to himself.
"I didn't quite catch that." She says politely.
"He's only been up there since ten minutes! How could he have completed a round already?"
(Was it true that mad-men had ten times the strength of a normal man?)
She inches towards her suitcase, as inconspicuously as possible, "Maybe, he's fast?"
The manager looks at her (his) sweatshirt with an almost-predatory gleam (and without any preamble she wishes he was down here with her. Because…not that she feels safe -or anything- with him. It's just that…he has a lifetime of experience of beating up people with a huge stick), "He's fast all right."
She smiles politely (It's always best to placate clinically insane people) and lifts up her heavy suitcase (his -- 'We're not running away to China, Casey. Could you be any more of a princess?' running in her head).
"Don't your parents mind?" (Which is a surprisingly sane question).
She thinks of the dented Prince and the fact that she's spending the night alone (with him) in a Psycho-style motel, "They don't know."
"Be careful, young lady," (and it's the strangest thing ever, but in that bizarre moment he reminds her of…no way was she thinking of her dad), "these things have a habit of blowing up in your face. You're young and he's young and if it ever goes beyond the physical, you're going to be heartbroken. It's not…a generally accepted…thing."
(If mom and George came to know, 'blowing up' would be an understatement).
It's only when she's standing at her (his, their) door that the second part of his sentence registers (had they even been talking in the same language?)
"You're back," he notes, with a skill capable of putting the highest ranked FBI official to shame.
"No thanks to you," she's lugging the suitcase behind her (and would it kill him to be sensitive for once and actually –God forbid- help her?)
"Yes," he says, effectively reading her mind, "You packed your suitcase and so must you carry it. Think of it this way; if a rakish, exotic hula-dancer from Hawaii wanted to whisk you off to be his grass-skirt wearing slave then you won't even need a trip back to the dorm."
And quite suddenly she realizes she's exhausted. The whole day (not to mention the night before) has taken its toll on her and all she wants is to sleep.
(Which is of course when it strikes her with all the subtlety of a grand piano in a one-bedroom apartment--)
"Derek," she tries to inject her tone with ominousness, "Where are you sleeping?"
And she also realizes, in a very long second, that she was the only one who hadn't registered…this. Because his face remains carefully blank.
"On the bed, Case. But you're welcome to follow whichever sleeping ritual they do on your planet. I won't think less of you because of it."
"Derek," she said, tiredly, "we can't sleep on the same bed." And she knows she's opened herself to questioning, but it's just too much right now.
"I never said we're sleeping on the same bed. Call for a mattress, the ground looks comfortable enough."
"So you'll..." she begins hopefully.
"No," he says, effectively stemming her flow, "you will."
"Derek, I'd have thought that even with your general lack of decency and decorum on ways of polite society..."
"Casey", he says, and she can tell by his tone he's not just messing around with her for the hell of it, "you have a problem here. So you find an alternative. But I'm not getting out."
"You honestly have no problem with us sleeping on the same bed?" (Because she needs to know).
"I've slept with Marti a lot of times," he says (that goddamned one expression she hasn't been able to read, on his face).
"What the hell does that have to do with…" she lashes out…and then cuts herself off abruptly.
(Because.
"Derek, you are the most annoying brother."
"Step-brother."
...
"Same difference.")
He's still looking at her inscrutably (and she can't handle this. She just can't. Not right now).
"Fine," and she needs to take a deep breath simply because (her mother is in the hospital, about to give birth to their sibling) she's not going to fight, not on this. "I'll call up room service."
He looks oddly frustrated, like he'd expected more out of her. Because giving in (or giving up) wasn't something that either of them were good at. They fought till the end and (more often than not) got stuck on stalemate.
The mattress is already laid out when she comes out of the bathroom after having showered. She's still (inexplicably) wearing his sweatshirt (for no other reason than that it's warm and smells like...). There's a moment when he looks up at her, her hair still plastered across her face, shivering, when she thinks he might (just might) offer to take up the mattress. Not that it makes any difference but ... (maybe he cares, just a little, very little, but still cares).
Then he turns back to his mobile and she feels an odd disappointment settle in the pit of her stomach.
_*_
It's too dark and the lighting too bright and the thunder too loud. She wakes up with her head filled with images from an Alfred Hitchcock movie which she most definitely shouldn't have seen. And it's stupid and completely ridiculous (and she's eighteen for God's sake, in college) but that doesn't seem to matter because she's scared and (she's crying?) And it's too much and where the hell is he?
"Casey," she hears his urgent whisper, almost drowned out by the thunder, "what happened?"
She clutches to him in blind fear which knows no reason and threatens to drown out all logic. He's holding her and even in the middle of (it's too dark) all she can think of is that she knew they would have their family moment sometime. Because for the first time he's not running away. And she's breaking his name but it's not intentional, she simply can't say it without crying. And he's still holding her. That's important. She's not sure why and she's too tired (too drained) to pretend. But it's important. He's dragging her off to (his) bed and there's that detached part of her that's laughing because their fight had been useless. He's whispering words ('shhh…it's all right. Casey, I'm here. Baby, it'll be fine. Shut your eyes. I'm here") which don't make any sense and what language is he speaking anyway? And she wants him to change his tone (doesn't he realize it's dangerous?) but he's holding her too tightly for her to care about anything else. Which in itself is a damn shame, because not caring about anything else means she can't pretend in the moment. And she wants so hard to pretend. The moment's too broken and too…much. And she's feeling a lot more than she's thinking ("Stop thinking the music and start feeling it") and its wrongright and rightwrong.
(And she's not exactly sure which is which).
_*_
"Why did Sally kiss Paul?"
It's only much later, she's calmed down enough for her breathing to return back to normal.
"Because she was angry with me." He says, in a way that makes her feel that he's too old (or she's too young). And somehow she remembers him with those kids at her summer camp and with Marti and thinks she might have loved him fiercely if she'd been them. (And she thinks she might love him fiercely anyway which makes her a little sicker than the thunder had done).
"Why was she angry with you?"
He laughs and the bitter sounds cuts through the rain far less effectively than his whisper had done, "I won't blame her. It's not every day a guy gets off on his sister's name."
"What?" (because she's obviously not hearing right).
"Casey", he says, and he sounds just as drained as she feels, "Don't make me say it again."
"It was the champagne, wasn't it?" She says, reflectively (it doesn't have to mean anything).
"And the roses. And the strawberries. And the satin sheets. And Sally's lingerie. You couldn't have been more there even if you'd…been there."
"It was a reflex action," and it's strange she's defending him but she remembers how he'd looked on the bathroom floor and she wants to hate Sally, "I guess I just made the whole thing so much into what…I'd wanted…that obviously you couldn't think of anything else. I shouldn't have and it makes sense you'd think of me, especially when you're allergic to strawberries and that's just the kind of prank we would pull on each other. And it was my fault. I wasn't really thinking…"
"Do you think that was it?" Maybe he's asking something different and maybe some other time she'd have understood better.
"Yes. Yes, I do."
(No. No, she doesn't. Think. Or hope. Or…whatever).
His grip tightens on her back (he still hasn't let her go?) "What will it look like?"
"What?"
"The baby." He says "Nora's baby. Our sibling."
"It'll probably have brown eyes," she says, a little in awe (because everything is different, but she's going to love it, even if...everything changes), "It's the more dominant gene."
He tangles his hand in her hair and she closes her eyes, "It'll probably have your hair. That thing's a mutant growth on its own. I can't imagine it not being the dominant gene."
She smiles against his neck, "You're going to spoil it rotten. And it'll still like you better."
"What can I say", his voice lights up with the arrogance which makes her sometimes think his ego must require a planning order to fit in a house, "It's the Derek Venturi charm."
And he's silent for a while. And without warning he's moving close (closer). His damp hair against her neck and if she just turns that little bit maybe she can…
"We're going to be siblings," he says quietly, "Scared McDonald?"
(Just a little. Not quite.
Maybe.)
"No," she says defiantly, "why would I be?
He doesn't say anything for an eternal moment the half-exasperated half-tender look in his eyes making her stomach drop unexpectedly.
"I am," he says finally (softly, so softly she can't even be sure of it).
And kisses her.
Heh :)