I really apologize to fadedmystery and ereshkigalgirl and SoRightItsWrong whom I haven't been able to reply to because they have excellent views and I need time to think them out. Sorry, I'll get down to it! And mayfair22 probably brought about this chapter much faster than it would have come out actually ^_^
Oh, and you guys, read Faulty Relations by bsloths (which she's kind enough to say I 'co-wrote') and while you're at it, prod P. Satori for a USteps update (I think that's been longer not-updated than this :P)
Disclaimer: Disclaimed. Any M&B that might have found its way in here is also not mine.
It's always talked about in whispers and secret glances, the morning after. Because there's always the possibility of future trysts and maybe lust turning into...something more. Something that would result in a fifty-years later and side-by-side graves. Definitely not a shared sibling.
(She wonders if there's a manual for 'The Morning after the Night I Slept with My Step-Brother.'
Somehow she thinks she might have set the precedent).
"Good morning."
She's always known that his vocabulary comprises of fifty-four words, but this pleasantry, drenched in sarcasm though it may be, seems rather anti-climactic in the wake of blinding sunlight and drowning guilt
"Good morning," she repeats, stiffly. She doesn't know what he's playing at now but she's damned if she's going to let him beat her at it.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
His voice sounds strained, like he's gritting his teeth while speaking and the change in tone is so surprising, she turns to look at him through half-lidded eyes. Like he's the one with the patented right to be angry here. And she doesn't even want to know what he's talking about because she. doesn't. care.
"Tell you what?" She asks politely, childishly. (And maybe they've always been irony's favorite children because the reactions of her body at his close proximity are far from childish, and if she still wrote poetry maybe she'd talk about corrupted innocence). And she wants to tell him to move away because he's already messed around with her mental system in four years and now he's ruining her physical systems as well. She's going to end up in some mental institution talking about this guy named Derek whom she used to l...oathe.
(This is still Derek. Her annoying almost-brother whom she dislikes very intensely. Because...he's Derek. That's justification on its own. An incontrovertible fact like...like gravity or something. Casey very intensely dislikes Derek and all objects fall down because of the force of gravity. Both statements are absolutely true.
They are.)
"God, Casey," he runs his hand through his hair and succeeds in messing it up even more. (She did not run her hand through his hair and make it look like that. She. Did. Not), "you're the most naïve, basketcase of a person that I've ever had the misfortune of...why the fucking hell didn't you tell me? What the fuck was that about Truman and Max and you don't know anything about me."
She falls back against the hard mattress, where she'd almost risen in half-indignation with a suitable retort aimed at his mental capacities or a lack thereof. And quite suddenly, without even enough strength to be surprised at the fact, she realizes she's tired. Too tired to fight right now and pretend she doesn't know what he's talking about. Too tired to look at him and see the look in his eyes and realize that she's been reading too much into it. Too tired to wonder if the remote-fights and babe-raider outfits had meant a lot more to him unlike the prom dresses and hula-hoops that she keeps locked away in some tiny corner of her mind and doesn't think about at all.
(And it's not like she'd thought otherwise. Because that'd have been stupid. And even if she's the girl stupid enough to sleep with her step-brother, she's not going to be the girl stupid enough to read too much into wimpy tag teams).
"You...you just," and the truth is she has no idea why, it's not like she'd been thinking it out (yeah, it isn't like understatement is one of her faults) and he'd made her so mad and he'd...always gone on and on and..."you treated me like some cast-iron virgin and kept making fun of me. It's all your fault."
"Yeah," he retorts, falling back too, "just like global warming and separatist policies."
She turns her head to glare at him and resolutely keeps her eyes above his neck, "Whatever, Derek. If you hadn't taunted me so much then maybe..."
He sits up in confrontation, the sheets falling down, and it isn't like she hadn't known that they...they're not exactly... dressed and it's not like her brain has been a particularly active member of her body till now, but she can't help gasping at the crescent shaped marks on his chest.
He follows her gaze and looks down, "Yeah, you might want to look into cutting those talons the next..."
She interrupts (of course she does), "Should I dial emergency? Did you just have an attack of 'Have you lost your fucking mind'? The next time this happens is over my dead body."
"Necrophilia is hardly my style. And if you would just resist the allure of hearing yourself speak and let me finish, I was going to say-- the next time you find some other freak."
There's this moment she thinks she's going to hit him. Hard. Wipe that look off his face and make him hurt just as much as her body hurts. Break him a little like he plain sailed through all her secret fantasies and dreams of champagne and satin. And she thinks she might hate herself a little more because she knows that it hadn't mattered in the end. And she's not ready to question why. But she doesn't because then it'll be more than it is, and she's not going to allow that.
She turns away, every line of her body screaming rejection. She only has time to process his sharp intake of breath before his hand is on her bare back and to her utter mortification her stomach clenches in something so close to desire, it makes her sick.
"Don't touch me."
He doesn't listen (years of practice, she'd say). And continues to touch her. And through the haze in her mind, it registers that it stings every time he puts his finger on yet another spot, and it's not like that's symbolic or anything. She flinches as his fingers burn through her skin almost literally and shifts away.
"You're hurt," he says grimly.
She almost laughs. That's not a secret; her whole body feels like it's been whipped and if this is what that feels like afterwards then she's pledging celibacy post-haste. (Except she can't because then Derek will be the only one. Ever. And she's damned if she's going to let that happen.)
His hands are on her back again, except this time it's soothing. Like chocolate ice-cream after heartbreaks. And he's not allowed to make her feel like that. He's not allowed to touch her except to shove her back when she tries to create feel-good-family-moments. He's not allowed to pretend that he cares.
And the sight of the lotion in his hands is almost surreal, and for a moment she wonders if this whole thing's been a particularly potent dream/nightmare, "What are...what do you think you're doing?"
"You're hurt," he repeats sullenly, as if it's explanation enough, "The bed sheet…it's left burns over your body. Seriously, mattress burns, Casey? Can we say princess," he adds in for good measure. And if she hadn't known him, she may have been fooled. Problem is, living with someone for four years really does a number on you, "...so just shut up and let me do…whatever."
His hands are on her back again and she leans in a little (because she's a stupid girl anyway, with a foolish boy and that's sort of both the beginning and the end) and she knows- this is the point where she should say something.
(And this is the point where she doesn't).
"Okay," he says, cradling his head in his hands, "You're delusional if you think I'm going to break it to Nora. Crazy, hormonal new mothers are not my forte, you deal with her."
She speaks (or tries to but her tongue seems to be stuck to the roof of her mouth in outrage), "I'm sorry? What did you just say?"
"Are you fucking deaf, Casey?"
"No," she snaps, "Insane more like it. I thought you just said we're going to tell mom."
He looks at her in something that's so close to surprise that she might even have mistaken it for the real thing, "Oh, you'd rather she find out from Mrs. Davis that we're in a relationship? Since you'll obviously tell Emily, who'll even more obviously broadcast it in the local news channel if she can't get the nationals. If that's what you want…"
(She thinks that this is one of those moments in life in which she should have had a glass of water so she could spit it out dramatically. Or one of those moments where there should be emergency oxygen masks). But it's not like her luck's been anything to write home about recently, "We're in a...what the hell are you talking about?"
"Hell," he snorts, "what a joke. Caught by a half-witted virgin without enough sense to know what the time of the day is. A relationship with you will at least teach me to appreciate my life when I'm not in a relationship with you more."
"Why," she says, and she's not sure she has enough strength to combat the dangerous gleam in his eyes.
"Because," he looks at her steadily, "it's not in my routine to go around seducing innocent basketcases. Even if they happen to have occupied the bedroom next to mine for a better part of my teenage life."
"You," she flounders around for a word strong enough and then settles for an old favorite, "you jerk."
"It'll be pretty easy," he muses loudly, "since our bedrooms are practically together and the rest of the people are too far away. My room's bigger and it doesn't smell like a powder-room at a sorority house so I think that narrows it..."
"Are you planning a relationship that's one long orgy?" She asks, furious beyond belief.
"Hey, at least we finally found an area that we're compatible in. And to think you've been waiting for some sibling bonding since forever now."
"How can you," and she's too quiet (maybe he won't hear), "how can you act like this about…this."
"Why aren't you freaking out," he counters just as quietly, and maybe she's just making this out to be what she wants it to be, it isn't like she doesn't have imagination (idiocy) enough for it, "how can you not have freaked out about how wrong this is and how it's probably illegal. How can you fucking not have mentioned that you wanted chocolate and strawberries and soft music? Some retarded Ivanhoe to carry you over the threshold and...worship you...or whatever."
And maybe she should stop him shaking her like that because it hurts a little, but he's looking at her and it doesn't seem to matter a whole lot, "I ruined your first night, Case. Your first time and why the fuck don't you say anything. Why did you let me...unless you..."
She shoves his hand away with unnecessary violence and gets up, wrapping one of the sheets around herself, because she knows what this is about (this is about that guy who plays dolls with his kid sister and feels her hugs can cure broken hearts. This is about the guy who goes on national television for a dance competition when he doesn't know the first thing about dancing, this is about that guy who has too many smooth lines and calls her mother when her boyfriend kisses her cousin), "I'm not going to get into a 'relationship' with you, so you're just going to have to live with yourself." She shrugs a little, trying to match his matter-of-fact tones (learned from the best), "Anyway, virginity is overrated. I'll just pretend this never happened."
"Oh, will you," he asks, his fists clenching against the mattress, "Are you sure, Casey? Because from what I remember of last night, those gasps and sighs didn't sound fake. Will it be that easy to forget your first feel of skin against skin, even though virginity is apparently so overrated. It never even registered with me because you were so eager with your hands and mouth and those…"
"Shut up," she said, her anger flaring again, "You're so smug. You think you took a part of me because you took my virginity? It doesn't mean a freaking thing. I'm not getting into a 'relationship' with you because your under-active guilt complex is overheated. You have enough experience to override last night? You needn't worry your head about it, bro, I'll gain my own experience, from someone with whom I'm more than a sex toy with easy availability..."
His eyes glint dangerously and for a moment she thinks she's gone too far (maybe three years ago), but he just continues, his voice made of sugar-coated steel, "You know, we seem to have hit a snag in our relationship already. You appear to be implying that this is somehow all my doing. Let me remind you, if I treated you like a sex-object then you did the exact same to me, sis. And if that makes me an irredeemable lecher, then where does that leave you? The female equivalent, that's where."
She opens her mouth but he's already beat her, "...Or are you implying that under this whole veneer of 'intense dislike' and chagrin you've been in love with me all this while."
(It's almost a nano-second and it's with scientific interest that she wonders whether it's possible to judge that miniscule broken piece of time, but he's looking at her with wide eyes and for a moment he's that innocent kid she's seen in his younger pictures).
"Don't be ridiculous," she bites out, "your over-inflated ego seems to have extended beyond the room capacity."
(That's obviously the reason why she feels like she's suffocating. Because she is and...could he just stop looking like that).
"You are, aren't you."
She walks forward without any clear aim, and it's when she's in front of him that she decides.
And this time she's kissing him and it feels like…like. She had a vocabulary for it, except she doesn't seem to remember half the words and it's still Derek. And maybe...
"Lust," she says, lifting her head from his, her wild eyes meeting his inscrutable ones, "Don't tell me you're confusing it for something else. I thought you were experienced."
(And she doesn't remember the trembling of his hands against her shirt buttons and she definitely doesn't remember not tonight. Not one bit).
"Maybe," he says running his tongue over his lower lip, "maybe next time you can try and work on the delivery. Just a little actor-to-actor advice. Don't ruin spectacular comebacks with shoddy acting."
"Fuck you," she moves away to the bathroom, because he's a moron. And he can't understand. And she has a sickening feeling she's going to cry.
"You already did."
Derek is very deliberately trying to do a 'relationship' thing and Casey doesn't think they're compatible. So this should be a little payback on Casey's behalf for all those people who felt she was getting the worse end. Derek's snarkiness is just guilt talking.
And the "same difference" line shall not be repeated in all chapters now because I personally don't think it applies any longer. Too much line crossing, I tell you :)