Nope, not even brucas is safe from my angst. This is set in late season one.
For Team Supermags, who put up with both my whining and my insecurities. I love you all, and thanks for reading this and voicing that you don't think it's total shit lol.
She hates herself for doing it. But even that self-loathing can't force her feet to stop. They're intent on their destination, and the rest of her is just along for the long, torturous ride. Even as her hand raps away at the wooden door, the skin on her knuckles scraping away gently, she's thinking of a thousand reasons why she should turn around and get the hell out of there. But then the door swings open. It would be easy to keep knocking, her fist could hit his face instead of the door, maybe knock some sense into him. She doesn't, though. She stares straight ahead, almost looking through him, the way he used to do to her. She doesn't see him, not really, not after all this. She tries to pretend her eyes don't fill with tears at the mere sight of him. For his part, he doesn't look surprised to see her. He shouldn't. It's not like this is rare.
"Hey Brooke," he nods, the dim light from the bedroom behind him illuminating his fair hair. It creates a halo of sorts, and she finds the irony tragic. That's what he was supposed to be—heaven-sent. He was supposed to save her. Saint Luke of Tree Hill was supposed to help them all. He wasn't supposed to be her greatest downfall. He wasn't supposed to be a lot of things, though.
His voice always sounds hesitant as he greets her. In her mind, she mocks him for that, hating him just a little bit more. He knows when she's coming, and he knows that she'll be back. Still, she's a little bit grateful for it. If he acts any other way, she'll feel too predictable. Brooke Davis is a lot of things, and she's been called even more, but predictable has never been among them. Pile that on with how pathetic she already feels, and she'll have to find somewhere new to run. Peyton's is out; Tutor Girl's was never in. Brooke Davis is a woman who stands alone, and now it's literally as well as figuratively. She consoles herself, knowing that this time it's not her fault. She didn't push them away, or into each other's arms. They did that all by themselves, and a few times over, from what she's heard.
"Lucas," her voice is strangled in her throat. She hates being here, but she can't bring herself to move. She winces a little at the obvious stench of vodka on her breath, but when she sees he does the same, she smirks a bit. There's nothing happy or playful behind this smirk. It's like none that she's given him before this, but he's slowly growing used to them. It's all that he'll get, so he has to accept.
"Are you okay?" he asks, a concerned frown puckering his forehead. She rolls her eyes, bright green that's stopped blurring. She isn't going to cry over him anymore. If she is, she's going to do it sober and alone. Tonight, wasted and heartbroken, she's with the one responsible for it. She finally feels empty, completely and totally numb, and it leads her back to the one who was never supposed to be part of that. Brooke is done trying to hide her darker parts from Lucas. She wanted him to know almost everything about her, but she can't bring herself to care anymore.
"No," she shakes her head slowly, almost feeling the blood rush from side to side. Everything's so much more intense in his presence. She hates him for that, the one thing that made her love him in the first place.
Like. Like him. Not love him. Like him. She doesn't love liars or frauds or boys who pretend to be completely wonderful when they prove that they're anything but. She doesn't like cheaters. She doesn't even like him anymore. Which does nothing to explain why she's on his doorstep in the middle of the night, but Brooke Davis has never been one for logic.
He pauses for a moment, but she doesn't elaborate. She doesn't have to, really. They were only "them" for a short time, but he can read her with uncanny accuracy. It makes her feel naked before him, much more so than any time she actually was. She doesn't flinch under his stare. It's still relatively early, at least for teens of Tree Hill, but Brooke's tired now. She's weary, and she's got nothing left in her. She's got nothing left to hide. He can stare until the end of time, but right now, there's nothing there for him to find. She doesn't find the thought as depressing as she figured it would be.
"Do you want to come in?" he asks, the quiver of nerves still present in his voice after all this time. It's a pointless question, because they both know where this is going.
"No," she shakes her head vigorously, her long loose hair flying about. A chocolate strand sticks firmly to her glossy lips, as stubborn as the girl herself when she blows at it. On instinct, his large hand reaches out to brush it away. She flinches now, away quickly, before any contact can be made. Another pair of hands made their way through this hair tonight. Tongues had fought viciously, teeth clicked occasionally. He tasted of rum. Her lips still stung.
She never did catch his name.
He steps away, backing slowly into his room, but at an angle that allows for her to slip past him. She does it, of course, just like she always has. But she's careful not to brush up against him, suggestively or even accidentally. Neither could deal with the fall out, and she's not even willing to try.
"Do you, uh, want to sit down?" he gestures awkwardly towards the bed, and her eyes widen just a little bit more. She's shaking her head, even as she plops down. She doesn't want to sit. She doesn't want to be here. There's just nowhere left for her to go, and nothing better for her to do. Her perfectly manicured fingernails play along the fraying edges of his comforter. She likes how nervous she makes him. It's nice to see that she can still affect him, even when she's so untouchable. She's too far gone to be affected by him.
"Are you drunk, Brooke?" he asks with a sigh. She sneers at the condescending tone of his voice. As if Saint Lucas has never been plastered. Nikki knows first hand that that's sure not true. With a smile far too bright to be true, she nods enthusiastically. She doesn't mention that she's not nearly drunk enough to be in his presence, just like he doesn't mention that her smiles never reach her eyes anymore. Those are both obvious statements that are better left unsaid.
With a sigh, she drops further back. Her hair rests on pillows, her hair fanning all about as her eyes droop closed. Subconsciously snuggling closer, her surroundings smell of him, the distinct scent of soap and light traces of cologne that are permanently ingrained in her brain as his. She can tell without looking at him that his eyes are still on her. Her skin crawls, but she does nothing. There's nothing left to do.
The ringing of his cell phone shatters the silence that had dominated them. Her tired eyes fling wide open, but not in surprise. She set all his ring tones for him, personalizing those of her favorite people. This one is Peyton's. If she still felt, this might have hurt. Instead, she stares unblinking at him, and he stares back.
"Your phone is ringing," her voice is flat as she points out the obvious.
"Yeah," he nods, but seems to be having an internal conversation, and she doesn't feel like fighting him for his attention. She doesn't want it anyway. The phone eventually stops ringing, and her eyes fall closed once again.
"Why didn't you answer that?" she questions, her eyes still closed. She doesn't really care what the answer is, and she's not quite sure why she put the question out there in the first place. There's nothing he can say or do to redeem himself, not in her eyes. Brooke's a firm believer in "what's done is done", and this is most definitely done. She's just waiting for it to be over.
"It wasn't important," he says, and one of her green eyes pops open. She stares at him, trying to decipher the meaning behind his words, before she reminds herself that there is none. They don't mean anything. He doesn't mean anything. Nothing means anything.
"It was Peyton," her eye slides closed again, this time to shelter the tear forming there.
"Yeah," he breathes out, and it lingers there. She says nothing to break the silence this time. There's nothing left to say, but she's fairly certain he'll keep trying. She's comforted that he's the predictable one, not her.
"Hey Brooke… I was wrong."
Her eyes shoot open this time, and not out of interest. It's shock this time. She's heard every apology and excuse under the sun from the (former) two most important blondes in her life, but never this. It stirs something in her that she's almost forgotten the feeling of.
"I know," she nods. Their eyes lock in a stare, a familiar occurrence for Brooke and Lucas. Brucas, as she had secretly doodled with lopsided hearts in her notebooks during the long school days. But it was different this time. Not even familiar habits could etch out the guilt on his face or the pain in her eyes. He nods sullenly, and drops down onto the bed as well. She shifts, barely an inch, but relieved by the added distance. It was as close to the flame as she could get without being all consumed.
Brooke was tired of burning.
She was just so tired. It had been a long month, compromised of longer weeks and endless days. She was weary and broken, and all she wanted was to fall asleep for all of eternity. The cruelest trick of all was that she could only find peace with him, the one who'd destroyed it all. And even now, she couldn't sleep, because with him so close, her numbed heart conflicted with her tingling skin. It's this contrast that lets his rough fingers play softly across the smooth skin of her shoulder without protest. Her eyes slide open again, silently, observing him as he observes her. She closes them again as his fingers slide down the straps to her top. When her eyes are closed, they can pretend that its two months earlier, and this still means something. She lets the rest of her clothes fall from her body, kisses him back as his lips touch hers. Her eyes never open, not as she climaxes, not as he grunts out a declaration of love, not as he cuddles around her afterwards. She just lets it happen before she falls into a dreamless sleep, peaceful for the first time in longer than she cares to remember.
It's not because she still loves him, of course. She's just so tired.
Now, I'm post-accident and into recovery, and part of that, for me at least, is writing. I'm trying to ease back in before I start updating my stories, so PLEASE review and let me know what you thought of this. I'll love you forever! Thanks for reading-