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12 July 2012 @ 12:23 am
fic: then you come crashing in [3/4]  
title: then you come crashing in
pairing: Derek/Casey, Derek/OC, Casey/Jesse
summary: he's still composed and it's so annoying because she learned to read him by heart; every phrase, every word, every glance and then he went and…translated it all in a language she doesn't know. In her head, that metaphor totally works.




She opens the door, and there's Sam.

"Hi," she tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly feeling self-conscious, even though she isn't quite sure why.

"Hi," he repeats, staring at her, absently running his thumb over the handle of his suitcase.

"Are you—" she begins, the same moment he start with "how are—" and they both burst out laughing, and suddenly it's not awkward anymore. It's Sam.

She links her arm with his, and pulls him inside after her, "So, Mr. Richards, how have—"

"Dude," Derek's voice calls from the staircase, interrupting her, because obviously.

He's down in seconds, elbowing her aside, as he pulls Sam in for a manly handshake because he still has his stupid 'no hug' policy and doesn't do the manly one-armed hug thing unless it's Sally or Rachel or her when she's pissed off and wants to be touched the least.

"Insane man," Sam clasps his shoulder with a free hand, keeping his suitcase down with the other, "you're getting married."

"That is insane," she mutters darkly, idly rubbing her arm, which still stings a little with the force of his collision into it, "we're all very happy for him, and all very sorry for Rachel."

"She's just jealous," Derek dismisses her with a wave of his hand, the idiot, "because who would let that marry them."

She squeaks indignantly, "you're just lucky you found that one girl in the entire world who'd even so much as consider—"

"I'd marry her," Sam suggests, mildly, obviously trying to ease the tension like he used to before, and they fit so easily into before, it makes her ache a little, "she's smart, beautiful and passionate— about what she believes in," he continues hastily, as both of them turn to look at him.

"Dude," Derek raises an eyebrow, "this is so not cool."

"What did I say," Sam stretches his arm in silent defense, "I was just saying."

"If I want to sleep with Sam, I'll sleep with Sam," she declares heatedly. For some reason she can't force out the word marry.

Derek immediately rounds on her, "you seem to be under the mistaken assumption that anyone, let alone my Sam wants to sleep with you."

"He isn't your Sam, and he can decide for himself. Isn't that right, Sam?"

"Sam, is my best friend and I know everything there is to know about him and I can give you a signed and sealed paper testifying to the fact that he's only capable of making that kind of mistake once."

They both turn to him, looking for all intents and purposes like a civilian caught in a cross-fire; "you're…both right?" he tries, as usual. And in trying to please both, pleases neither, as usual.

"I know it's considered traditional," Derek stretches out the word to make his opinion of the tradition clear, "for the best man and one of the bridesmaids to hook up. But Casey? You're my best friend, Sammy boy, and I like to think I have a certain standard in that category. We don't go in circles around here."

"Don't we?" there's this moment when he's just watching Derek with this unreadable expression on his face and she has the oddest feeling she should turn away. This is between them.

"But you've nothing to worry about, dude," Sam continues, and he's not laughing, "after all, I'm guessing the Male Code still applies, yeah?"

They stare at each other for what seems like several eternities and she's almost at the point of wishing she'd never said anything. It's not like she wants to sleep with Sam.

Or something.

(She doesn't know what it means, but Derek looks away first, and that always feels a bit like winning.)

Dinner that night is a bit like a stock reel with snapshots put together to make a film. It's odd how cramped she feels with Edwin and Lizzie and Marti away with their friends to make space. Because they'd understand, she knows that, they'd know. Nora's smile seems too bright, George's jokes too loud and it's an unconnected montage and she doesn't seem to remember how to hold the fork.

Rachel is all dark hair and bright smiles, and she's sort of getting the stepsister role down again, but because she hasn't played it in so long, her line delivery is weak. And this one time Sam's hand brushes hers accidentally, as he reaches across to pick up the table salt, and she's furious to find herself blushing. She's not that girl anymore. She is not.

And obviously Derek notices, because that's like his life mission or something. To catalogue every single humiliating moment of her existence and then note it down for the comic, side characters in his films. It's not like she hadn't noticed the nerdy best friend who fell a lot when she was crushing on someone, or that girl who used too much blue eye-shadow or that girl who declaimed at length on the pig-skin in fling flong, or that girl who thought ballet was a competitive sport and tried to get the high school to transfer the hockey money into holding tournaments, or the unpopular girl who ran for student council or that clumsy waitress who got fired after her first job or that girl who compulsively sent back everything after each break up or the girl who dressed up in superhero costumes to 'play' at feminism.

(It's a bit like watching pieces of herself scattered all over the screen. Just there, for everyone to see. And even if they don't know, she does. And it's embarrassing and it's invasive because it's all those little things in shadows with different faces and different words and different smiles that she thought no one knew, and sometimes it doesn't even seem like it's deliberate and it's terrifying. The camera is his battle-field these days, hers is mostly torn pieces of paper in the trashcan.)

At first, it's an accident. She's sure of it, because Sam looks at her with a wide-eyed apology and she smiles in the it's fine and this is not weird at all and stuff like this happens and don't worry about it sort of way. Because it isn't. At all. Weird, she means. But then he does it again— just for the briefest moment, his leg tangles with hers, and she looks up to see the same expression on his face from before.

She pulls her foot back immediately, biting her lip hard, because of course, she won't. Not all over again. But Derek has his hand in Rachel's on the table, and if he can, she can. She's a grown up girl okay, and there's a frisson with Sam. And she doesn't know. Doesn't know if it's nostalgia, or loneliness or something else, and she won't know till she's tried.

So she drops the sandal, allows her foot to slide back, touch his jean-clad leg for just that one second. He doesn't look up, and her heart sinks. Maybe it had been an accident the second time round as well. There's no giant sign that the universe is building from these could-be moments. God, she's so stupid.

Her glance inadvertently slides from Sam to him. For once, he's looking back, and even though she can't read his expression, these days, she knows, with absolute certainty that it wasn't Sam's foot at all. And she thinks something like it's not fair, even though she doesn't know what it is. Even though she doesn't know why. But this is what she does know: it's not, not, not fair.

He holds her gaze for longer than necessary, and then deliberately looks at Sam, before turning back to her, his lips curling in something close to derision. And suddenly that's what it feels like; Derek's getting married to his best friend from college, and she's on the verge of getting back with her first high school crush. For every one step he takes forward, she takes thirty seven back.

"So, Casey," Derek says with false brightness, and she can feel everyone tense, hold their spoons a little tighter, their smiles get a little more fixed, and she can't remember if it's always been like this, "you never did get around to telling us what happened with Jesse. You looked so happy together that night you visited us, Rachel was almost ready to print out two separate set of wedding cards in bulk."

She reels back, stung. Sam puts his spoon down carefully, like he's trying especially hard to not allow it to make any sound that might betray what he's thinking, while Rachel shoots her an apologetic look.

"Derek," George's voice sounds harder than usual, "I can't see how that's appropriate dinner-time conversation. Casey's relationships are her private business, which means you need to stay out of them."

"Come on Dad," says Derek, "I would never interfere in Casey's oh-so-private life, but then again, that clause would hold only if there was a relationship to begin with."

"Derek—" Sam and Rachel begin simultaneously.

She follows her first instinct, "Derek kicked me," she says, childishly, to Nora.

Nora turns the glare she'd been shooting at Derek on her without missing a beat, which she thinks is rather unfair. She's the real daughter here, while he's the evil stepbrother from what he'd probably think is Snow White, "Casey," her voice is light, but the warning undercurrent is unmistakable, "you're too old for this."

"Tell Derek that," she mutters.

"So it's my fault she's trying to play footsie with me under the table?"

Bastard.

Her face heats up, as he stares at her unabashedly, only partly with annoyance, "and this guy thinks he's mature enough to be getting married? For your information, Derek, I was playing footsie with Sam. Which I'm free to do, because I'm old enough to make my own decisions about what to do, when and with whom, okay."

"I'd prefer it," his grip on the corner of the table tightens and she's so mad right now she could hit him, nobody can get under her skin like he does, not even now, maybe not ever, and that'll never be anything but sad. And by sad she means lame, obviously. "if your what-when-whom didn't involve my best friend."

"God," her laughter has an edge of hysteria to it, "Like me liking your best friend is so threatening to you."

She freezes then, and across the table he does too, because how did they get all the way back here?

Rachel's smile is a little less bright, a little more fixed, and she can tell by both her parents' looks that there's this one line they both crossed twenty steps back. There's no poetry here.

"That was me," Sam chimes in, and she shoots him a grateful look, "I was trying— I mean, it was just—"

"You don't have to explain, Sam," Nora says kindly, "Casey, Derek, you can do the dishes, since obviously you haven't had time to catch up. It seems the wedding planning is taking its toll on both of you."

That is the official and only explanation, her mother's tone says, and there is always an official explanation, she knows that.

"I'm so disappointed in both of you," Nora whispers as she passes them by, not looking at either of them, and somehow, more than Derek being a bastard or Derek getting married, or the freshly re-opened wound of Jesse leaving her, that's the worst of all.






"What is your problem?" she hisses, as soon as he follows her into the kitchen.

"You," he replies, without missing a beat, "don't think I don't know how this is going to go down."

"Please," she crosses her arms over her chest, leaning against the sink, thinks they've been here before, always end up here somehow, "enlighten me. Since you so obviously know everything there is to know in the world."

"I don't want to see him get hurt, okay," he runs his fingers through his hair in frustration, "he's my best friend and you're like— the Queen of Breaking Hearts in the deck or whatever."

She uncrosses her arms instinctively, the surprise lining every single curve of her body, "what?"

"Casey," he sighs, and somehow he sounds as tired as she feels, "you're going to play footsie under the table, have sappy sex in your room, and it'll be all sunshine and roses and purple unicorns. Till one day, he's just not good enough. And he won't know why, and you won't know why, but he just won't be. Nobody ever is."

She keeps her eyes fixed on the plate, he just won't be, nobody ever is. "You can't know that, okay, Derek. Nobody can. Maybe it just wasn't the right time last time. Maybe this time—"

"—maybe this time," he cuts in smoothly, "it'll last longer than a month. Maybe this time, you'll break his heart slower."

"I don't—" she protests, and stops, because this one time she doesn't know what to say. Her head is throbbing for some reason and she mostly just wants an aspirin and to go to sleep.

"Don't you?" Derek asks slowly, like he needs her to get this and she won't if he's too fast, which is ridiculous because he's the one who was failing English in high school, "you remember Alex? From college?"

She looks up at the abrupt change in subject. Of course she remembers Alex; wild, beautiful Alex, dancing on bar tables till the break of dawn and still managing to hand in every assignment in time, double spaced and justified. With an actual list of every eligible guy on campus and a mission to sleep with every single one before college ended. Alex's List was infamous. Irrelevantly she wonders if Alex ever managed to work her way down to the bottom of the list.

Maybe her look of recognition is enough, because he's continuing, "I was in a relationship with her."

"You mean you slept with her more than once," she corrects sarcastically, "using the definition from the Derek-dictionary, special edition, version two point oh."

He rolls his eyes, like she's so predictable and she hates that look. Like he knows her, or something. "No, we were in a relationship. The watching-Oprah, day-in-bed, sitting-together-in-class, plans-for-the-evening, what-you-would-call-it kind of relationship."

"Oh," she absently picks up the washcloth, twisting it in her hands. She doesn't know why she remembers it, but she does, she always does, "was Alex—" she stops, clearing her throat uncomfortably, "was Alex the girl Marti called about that time?"

"Yeah." he's still composed and it's so annoying because she learned to read him by heart; every phrase, every word, every glance and then he went and…translated it all in a language she doesn't know. In her head, that metaphor totally works.

"I don't see how that's related to, well, anything." Need a hug is what the sixteen-year-old version of herself would have said, because the sixteen-year-old version of herself was horrifically obvious and setting herself up for a fall at every given opportunity. He would have refused if she'd asked anyway. Because he always does. And somewhere along the line she stopped asking.

"Alex made it clear she didn't want anything serious," he says, looking straight at her. She can't quite meet his eyes for some reason, so she looks at a point slightly left to his head, "and it ended exactly like it was always going to. That very evening, I got over it."

"Clearly," she adds in, just for the sake of saying something. She's fidgeting she knows, because nothing's broken yet and nobody's screaming or running off and Derek's telling her his deep, dark secrets like they do this confession stuff all the time.

He ignores her, "I got over it, because I'd always known. She'd wanted what I wanted and it was easy and uncomplicated. But you, you're confusing and crazy and completely messed-up."

She makes an indignant sound of protest somewhere at the back of her throat. From the corner of her eye, she can tell he's looking at her expectantly, like he expects her to just get the whole point in a pointless story which he'd presumably only recounted for the sake of insulting her in the last line. It's Derek.

"If we can't have a conversation like mature adults," she says petulantly, childishly, "then I don't have to listen to you, so there."

He stares calmly at her for a beat, "you don't get it, do you?"

She snorts indelicately, "like there was anything to get. You're just trying to get around the Sam issue. And badly, I might add. You used to be better at this."

"Casey," Derek says, and she can tell that exasperation is the predominant emotion in his voice, even though he probably can't even spell the word, "you're insane. Every guy who, and as much of a mind-fuck the concept is—" he stops for a moment, then continues with an inflection that suggests that he's forced to use the phrase for the lack of a better option (and a limited vocabulary, she would say), "falls…in love with you, knows exactly what you want out of it. A picket fence and undying romance and three children with fifty seven percent shade of the color of your eyes and figures and probabilities that the middle child will graduate with a degree in Economics and the youngest girl will need braces."

"So?" she asks bluntly, she doesn't know what it's leading to. She doesn't know if it's leading to anything at all. Or if it's one of those moments that seem so much more and then just aren't. Like stupid hula hoops and zombie dances and phone calls and driving lessons that seemed to mean something till she was old enough to know that all meaning is defined as the space between two objects.

"So," Derek looks at her calmly, "they fall anyway. They know you and they still fall. Even over the crazy and the freaking out about sex or the holding off of sex entirely, because god knows you're the promotional poster for the 40 Year Old Virgin, and the obsessive compulsive cleaning and those control-freakish, neurotic tendencies of yours. Alex, it's easy to fall for. There's nothing you're particularly asking for, and she won't give any more than that, but you already know that. But you? You ask for everything it's possible to ask for and it'd take someone exceptionally stupid and hard-headed to fall that low, that hard, that deep. They're the ones falling into picket fences, and then it's always easy for you to do the un-falling first. To just pick up your bags and walk out the door and send each memory back as a giant, unmistakable fuck you."

She smiles, almost; she can't help it, "are you saying I'm a hard person to get over?"

He backtracks immediately, "I didn't say that."

"You did," the hard knot in her chest loosens a little, just a very little, "you totally just did."

"I'm just saying," he says defensively, "don't do that to Sam, okay. Not again."

She turns back to the sink, picking up a plate. He'll forget all about the dishes and leave her to do them, she knows. They're kind of a cliché that way. She can feel him staring, but she doesn't turn around.

"Tell me that's not what happened with Jesse," he says quietly, "go ahead. I dare you."

Like Derek of all people has a right to assume the high ground in this conversation with his track record. And anyway, that's not what happened with Jesse, she wants to say, he walked out first She's not a…a chronic heartbreaker or anything. (Just tell me why notJust say it, and we won't.)

"Why aren't you helping Casey with the dishes?" Rachel's voice calls from the doorway, cutting off any answer she might have wanted to give. (There was no answer, and she's sort of glad she doesn't have to make up anymore. Mostly.) "Derek, don't be an ass."

Rachel's voice is different. The brightness seems almost unnatural, like the harsh brightness of a naked bulb, she thinks, because she thinks in poetry. Only sometimes. But sometimes.

When she turns around, Rachel's arms are wrapped around his waist, as he holds her shoulders in an awkward one-arm hug, their heads together. And quite suddenly she thinks something ridiculous like the kids should have his hair. And Rachel's eyes, because Rachel is beautiful. But his hair. She doesn't even like his hair, but, still.

"I apologize on his behalf," Rachel smiles at her, "for his appalling behavior tonight. And I promise to reconsider the whole wedding thing." From beside her, Derek snorts, he's still looking at her for some reason.

"That's okay," she says lamely. She has this distinct feeling she should be saying something brilliant to highlight the welcoming-sister-in-law, bonding-over-the-immaturity-of-the-brother/husband, why-do-we-love-this-idiot-except-in-totally-different-ways sort of vibe, but she can't quite seem to get it right. She's the dancer, okay, Derek's the actor. Director. Whatever.

She finishes the last dish, and wipes her hand, brushing past them into the dining room, just as Rachel turns back to him, "what am I going to do with you," she sighs in mock exasperation, before leaning in to kiss him.

It's sort of fascinating, she thinks in some hazy corner of her mind, like a train-wreck which is disturbing and depressing and fascinating all at the same time. She wants to look away but it's like all her motor functions went and died on her without the requisite two week notice.

"Casey," Sam's voice calls softly from behind her, and she looks back, unseeing, before she blinks and he comes into focus.

"Hey," he says, all over again, his eyes darting between the scene in front of him to her.

"Hey," she says, mechanically, all over again.

He's looking at her like he understands. Something. She doesn't know what. But he understands, "you wanna go up to Edwin's room and catch up maybe? We didn't really get the time earlier."

"Um," she dimly registers that Derek's pulled back and is observing them while Rachel's still looking at him with an expression that isn't particularly one. She tries not to, but she unintentionally catches his inscrutable gaze anyway, before breaking off and looking back at Sam, "yeah. Okay."

Sam nods, and links his hand through hers as she'd done earlier in the day. It feels like a lifetime ago for some reason.






"I'm kind of tired tonight," she says awkwardly, "what say we postpone the talking thing for tomorrow?"

"Sure," he nods immediately and in this moment she can't remember why they ever broke up, "I bet the wedding preparation's starting to take its toll too like Nora said."

There's something strange in his voice; like he's not exactly saying what it seems he's saying but that's all he's going to say about it.

She nods, and clumsily puts her arms around him, "good night."

"Night," he echoes, pressing her tightly once.

She's halfway through the door, when she's turning back and she'd like to say she trip and fell because she can't actually be kissing Sam.

It feels a little like relief. Like maybe she can do this too. The whole moving on thing.

"Good night," she says again, when she's finally pulled back, and he's staring at her with a slightly dazed look.

And smiles.






"Space case?" his voice calls from outside, before the knob of her door turns and a shaft of light breaks the darkness for a second as he enters without knocking.

"What?" she snaps, her voice muffled by the covers, annoyed by his constant use of those old nicknames he used to all the time, like everything isn't different and won't always be, "and knock."

He's silent for a moment, like he hadn't expected her to be here. Which is ridiculous. Where else would she be anyway, Sam's room? Her face heats up, as it strikes her that that's probably exactly where he thought she'd ended up.

"You left your ring downstairs," he says abruptly. She probably took it off while washing the dishes. It's the toy ring, the one she didn't return. The one Jesse had pulled out of a cracker and dramatically proposed to her with, going down on his knees. She doesn't know why she didn't just send it back with the other stuff, or why she still wears it sometimes, "and since you'd have found some way of blaming me for it and gone into tear-jerking throes of theatrics, I got it back. Don't leave your shit lying around, if you don't want it falling into the sink."

He throws it on the bed, the jerk.

She keeps it on the dresser, the covers falling down, when she notices he still hasn't left.

"Derek," Rachel's voice sounds from outside, "are you coming in?"

"Just a second," he calls back, not moving.

She deliberately looks between him and the door, "actually, you don't need to wait a second, please feel free to leave three minutes ago."

"What," he says grimly, "no 'thank you, Derek', no 'I would have totally lost this if it weren't for you, Derek', no 'you're such a good brother to me, Derek'?"

She fakes surprise, "what's the matter, Derek? Can't script real life like one of your movies? We were waiting to tell you this but I think you need to hear it now— there's no Santa Claus. It was George and mom all this while. Now get out."

"Why did you keep it," he asks gruffly, "the ring."

"I fail to see how that's any of your business whatsoever."

"It's a toy ring." He points out, like she hadn't noticed.

"I am well aware," she replies, "and as much as you don't know and can't understand symbolism because you failed first grade, it means something."

"What—" he says, "that your boyfriend wanted a constant out? Or couldn't afford a real one? Or just didn't want to be bothered."

"You wouldn't understand," she says dismissively, "when you're in love, it doesn't matter. It could be a paper ring and it'd mean more than anything money could buy."

He laughs, he actually laughs, "where did you get that from— the MasterCard 'some things money can't buy' commercial? You've always wanted the most expensive ring in that display downtown in Toronto. The one that doesn't even look like it'd likely make you sell a house to be able to afford half the price."

It's a beautiful ring okay, very subtle, with a ring of emeralds encrusted in a gold setting and—and subtlety costs money. And it's not like she thinks she'll ever get it, it's been absent from the display since a long time anyway. It's just— she just wants it, that's not criminally culpable.

She flushes, "I'm not materialistic."

"You're— you," he says cryptically. Although it's Derek, whatever that means, it's probably insulting and nothing she wants to hear elaborated.

"How do you know…about that anyway?" she asks tersely.

"Derek," Rachel's voice calls again and it strikes her that she sounds tired, so very tired, "it's really late."

He leaves then, shutting the door behind him. Doesn't answer.








[6]

She opens the door and she's engulfed from two sides before she's had any time to register.

"Casey—" Ralph and Emily shriek together.

This is something she knows: things change. But right now, this is something she's willing to forget.





Emily watches knowingly, as she inconspicuously links her hand through Sam's.

"So," she says, when they're alone in the kitchen, "you and Sam, huh?"

She blushes, "yeah, I mean, just, sort of. Only since we've been back here. Nothing's really…happened yet."

Emily wisely changes the subject, "so who is this Rachel girl anyway? Should we be starting the bitchfest?"

"She's very nice, very pretty and much too good for Derek," she replies on autopilot, before registering, "wait— the bitchfest?"

"Oh, you know," Emily looks at her significantly, and it strikes her then. She's so stupid.

"God, you and Derek had— this must be hard for you," she says, stumbling over the words, "I'm so sorry. I just didn't realize it. We can totally have a bitchfest, I swear."

Emily looks at her blankly, "me and Derek?"

"Yeah," she says, "I mean, you guys were together, right? And you— I mean he— both of you, had liked each other from before and everything. I don't know how I missed that."

Emily looks mystified, "that was a long time ago, Casey. I've been dating someone since the past two years."

"Oh," she starts, confused, "I just thought, because you said—"

But Emily only laughs, something like realization coloring her eyes, "you haven't changed at all, have you."

And when she thinks about it, she thinks it's kind of sad that's not a question.






"Casey!" Ralph says enthusiastically, before engulfing her in another bear-hug, "smashing to see you again."

She grins widely, "smashing to see you again too, Ralphie."

Rachel smiles at them indulgently from where she's reclining on Derek's Chair. Absently, Casey wonders if the Rachel knows that it took a broken leg for her to get the Chair, even for a day. But obviously, Rachel is marrying Derek; it's a whole different thing.

(If you ask her, this is what doesn't happen:

"It's so strange, Derek getting married. Always thought you and him would get it on," the words sound muffled against the food, he's shoving into his mouth. Maybe he said something else. She hopes to god he said something else.

He turns to Rachel and smiles openly, "no offence, of course." She sneaks a quick glance; the other woman's smile seems frozen on her face.

Her throat closes a little with something close to panic, "um, Ralphie, we hate each other, remember?"

"Really?" he looks at her, surprised, "I thought that was to hold off admitting you were madly in love till the end. Like in the movies, you know. Amanda watches a lot of those kinds."

"How is Amanda?" she asks brightly, conscious of changing the subject in the most obvious way possible, but that's a ridiculous line of thought and that way lies madness so she'll cheat if that's what it takes. Rachel leaves halfway through her question, and she heaves a sigh of relief.

His face lights blissfully and hers softens watching him, "smashing. As always."

"What is that," she laughs, "you word of the day or something?"

"Yeah," he says simply. "I've used it eleven times already. There's nine left now. So you hate Derek? I know he can be a little mean sometimes. But he's a nice guy, I swear. You just have to get used to him."

"We're stepsiblings, you know," she wishes she could go back and erase the entire conversation so this can be her first objection.

He thinks about that for a minute, "oh, yeah. I forgot. That would be weird, wouldn't it?"

"Yeah," she says dully, "it would. Very weird."

"But," Ralph says, settling down into the couch, "it would also kind of be smashing."

If this actually happened; that would be number twelve.)







                                                             [Parts: One Two Three Four]

 
 
 
Ishi-chanishi_chan on July 11th, 2012 08:50 pm (UTC)
I swear, if this doesn't end in Derek/Casey sex I will hunt you down and skin you alive *all that emotional turmoil must buy me something, right?*
youcallitwinter: tonight i think i'll walk aloneyoucallitwinter on July 11th, 2012 09:55 pm (UTC)
Hahahaha, ALAS I CANNOT SAY ANYTHING WITHOUT SPOILING. But hopefully your drunkenness will make you forget the threat by the time you reach the end ;)
Florencia: DE (I Dreamed a Dream)florencia7 on July 15th, 2012 12:02 am (UTC)
Your writing reads SO FAST. It doesn't even read. It happens. This is so fantastic to read. Can't wait to see how this fic ends :)