I Will Keep the Bad Things From You
Summary: A BL fic taking place after 3x16. Brooke's POV for the most part. Mainly about what they go through after Keith's death.
A/N: I'm not even going to apologize for starting another fic because I warned you all that I can't keep focus for very long. But DON'T WORRY – SOON ENOUGH IS NOT ON HIATUS. I'm going to start an update of that tonight. I don't know how long this fic will be yet, but it is NOT a one-shot
I love all you faithful reviewers who have read my other fics, and to anyone who has just stumbled upon this fic, please review, because they really brighten my day.
THANK YOU to Cas, (imnotmark) who gave me this amazing title, which has been stolen from a song by The Damnwells. And to both her and Cami in general who listened to me go on for hours about how "g" this fic was going to be.
And now I'm just wasting space to give the impression that this first chapter is longer than it is.
OKAY OKAY HERE YOU GO
Faith has a good side still everyone she ever loved they all turned bad. Constance his own way of breathing and you know
You couldn't will him to survive
Couldn't will him if you if you tried,
And there's a concrete sky, falling from the trees again and you know now why
It's not coming round too soon
It's harder than a heartbreak too
- Beth Orton
Brooke Davis wakes up with a crick in her neck, and she wonders why her head is in such an awkward position. Sitting up, she has to blink a few times until she is completely aware of her surroundings. Where is she? She's lying across the backseat of her car, the dew on the rolled up windows clinging to the glass in the early morning air. As she pulls herself up all the way into a sitting position, she glances to the dashboard to read the digital clock.
6:03. Brooke can't remember the last time she's woken up at 6:03. She can remember the last time she got home at 6:03. She can remember plenty of those – falling into bed, still too drunk to take off her clothes, her eyes shutting just as the sunlight begins to creep through the window shades in her bedroom.
She climbs into the front seat, shivering beneath her jeans and sweatshirt. She glances into the rearview mirror and for a second she considers fixing her hair. Then she realizes that it doesn't matter. That itshouldn't matter. So with a sigh, she gathers the brunette waves into a high bun. Her eyes are bloodshot and red – a significant sign of her lack of sleep, but she doesn't care about that either.
She hesitates before opening the door, looking out over the humble house that she's parked in front of. It looks so dark, so lonely, so dreary. She wonders whether it would be best if she just drove home now. And then she realizes that she needs to see him. She needs to see that he's okay. She needs to do more than sleep in her car outside his house.
She opens the car door and steps onto the cool concrete of the sidewalk. She's met with a blast of cold air, and shivers slightly as she clutches her sweatshirt around her body tightly. Walking across the yard, the wet leaves crunch under her flip-flops, and she tries not to make noise as she ascends the porch steps.
His door pops out from the rest of the house with a deep black, and a pang in her heart reminds her of the deep red that used to line it. Before she completely fucked up. Brooke pauses with her hand on the doorknob, wondering why she's so nervous to just open the door. She belongs here.
The door is unlocked, something she's grateful for as she steps into the dark room. The shades are pulled down over the windows, and her eyes immediately go to the bed. He's just lying there, on his side, turned away from her. But she knows he's awake because as she shuts the door behind her, he shifts, rolling on to his other side.
She pauses like a deer caught in the headlights, momentarily frozen. Even though the room is dark, she can see the sadness etched along his face. His blue eyes seem dull – they've lost their shine.
She just stands there for a minute, staring stupidly back at him, until he gives her a sad sort-of smile, speaking to her in a soft and scratchy voice.
"C'mere," Lucas croaks, lifting his arm up and beckoning to her. She obliges, moving across the room, crawling into his bed. She moves closer to him, snuggling into his chest, breathing in his scent – peppermint and soap.
"How are you?" she mumbles into him, before realizing what a stupid question that is.
He chuckles hoarsely. "I've been better."
She gets up after an hour, when she Lucas' breathing becomes steady, and his eyes drift close. She has to untangle herself from him, as he's wrapped himself around her tightly, his head tucked into her neck, his lips resting against her skin.
The kitchen is a mess – breakfast dishes from the day before (when everything was sonormal) stalked high in the sink. A mug is shattered on the floor, coffee spilled over the linoleum. A cold uneasy feeling creeps over Brooke as she realizes Karen must have been drinking her morning coffee when she got the phone call that there was a gunman in the school holding people hostage, and that no one could find Lucas.
Brooke bends down to pick up the shattered glass, before retrieving the mop from the kitchen closet.
"Brooke – this is a mop," he says with an amused grin as he pulls the mop from the closet.
Her expression looks skeptical as she eyes the cleaning device.
He laughs. "Here, I'll take evens, you take odds. I bet we can bust this thing out in like a half hour."
She looks up at him, pleasantly surprised. "Thanks, Luke."
"Anything for you."
It's almost 8 as she finishes cleaning the kitchen, and she stands for a few moments in the hallway. Then she cleans the bathroom and the living room, not because either of them are particularly dirty – mainly because she wants something to do with her hands.
At one point Karen comes into the kitchen for some water, treading like a zombie across the floor. Brooke hides in the bathroom until her boyfriends mother retreats to her bedroom.
Brooke isn't very good with dealing with death.
He comes into the kitchen at about 10, in search of something to eat. He heads right for the cheerios, but Brooke gently leads him into a chair, placing a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of him.
He stares blankly down. "What is this?"
"Breakfast," she says softly. "You haven't eaten since yesterday morning, Luke."
He pushes the plate away. "I'm not hungry. You eat them"
Brooke shuts her mouth to avoid protesting as he stands up and exits the kitchen. She winces slightly as his bedroom door slams. With a sigh, she scrapes the eggs and toast into the trash.
She wasn't very hungry either.
She locks herself in the bathroom around noon and dials Haley.
Brooke sobs something incoherent into the phone. It's her first breakdown since it happened, and she's hyperventilating, saying she can't handle this – she's not strong enough. Haley tries to calm her down, but Brooke isn't really listening. She's trying to stop her tears – she doesn't want him to hear her cry.
At the end of the hallway, Lucas opens his bedroom door. He stands for a moment, leaning against the wall. He can hear her strangled sobs creeping out from under the bathroom door, and he shuts his eyes tightly.
It breaks his heart.
Please don't tell me I'm mad depressing. Cause Chey and I are the angst patrol.
Deal with it.