a/n - It just goes to show I love Derek beyond poetic, profound endings.

DISCLAIMER: Yep mine. Mike and Ash promised to act this out.

Floating, falling, sweet intoxication
Touch me, trust me, savour each sensation
Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in
To the power of the music that I write
The power of the music of the night

Phantom of The Opera

Rewind. Pause. Play.

"Casey, you haven't touched your food." (Don't touch me.) "I'm fine mom…just not very hungry." "Maybe you should consult the local vet, Nora." "De-rek." (Don't touch me.) "Careful Lizzie, you're starting to sound like your sister there. You wouldn't want to grow up to be a fragile princess." (Don't touch me.)

It ends up with him being sent up to his room.

(Don't touch me.)

He has a reputation to live up to. And so he does. Because he's the director, he supervises the script. (He never begs.)

He knows she knows. She can hardly miss the constant stream of girls in their house. He doesn't know why they're there at all. He never promises anything, and they don't ask. (Apparently he's not the only fucking masochist around.)

There are times when he almost forgets. When his body takes over, and he actually feels. (And then he closes his eyes and ohgodherfuckingeyes.)

He hopes she hears through those thin walls. His name (that she never said) from someone else's lips. (Except its Derek and it's like a knife in his gut each time it isn't broken in half.) He hopes it keeps her awake at night. He hopes she hates all those girls, because they aren't her. He hopes he's so deep in her memories; she can't close her eyes without seeing him. (Because those marks on his arms just won't go away.) He hopes she remembers him, and touches herself and hates herself for the thoughts. Just like he does.

(He hopes she screams his name.)

He opens his door and she's there.

Her hair is tangled, and all over her face. She's wearing her dad's shirt, and she's heartbreakingly young. And he's angry. At her. For looking so untouchable, and innocent, and wrong. For making him stay awake at night, his heart pounding to the faint rhythm of the music she'd created so many days ago. For scarring his skin with memories. For leaving him. (Don't touch me.)

She looks straight at him (goddamnyou) "Touch me."

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... SIX YEARS ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

He's been walking in the rain, and he's soaking wet. The cold cutting through him sharply, till he's completely numb. And he should go home. Go home and stay away.

He ends up at her door.

She isn't even surprised. She feigns and she's a good actress, sometimes he almost believes her. (And then he looks into her eyes.)

"I thought Sam was holding his stag-party tonight."

(She likes to pretend. She always did. He doesn't know why. She knew as well as he did; he'd end up here.)

"Yeah, well I couldn't have all those dancers falling over me. Sam should get his two minutes of fame. What about you? I thought you were having a last minute girls-only session with Nora and Liz."

(He likes to pretend too.)

"I…I came here.

She moves in, not inviting him in. Except the difference between then and now is that she doesn't need to.

She's cooking something on the stove. And it hits him hard, the feeling. Of being home. Of something he never knew he wanted, and something he lost. (But something he never even had.)

Because tomorrow, she'll be his best friends' wife.

He doesn't know what it is. (He just can't fucking distinguish, because that's what she does to him.) He hates her, and sometimes he…doesn't hate her.

He moves closer (nevercloseenough) till he's standing right behind her. He doesn't say anything, just stands. The unnatural stiffness of her body the only indication she knows he's there. The water droplets from his hair fall on her, slowly sliding down her skin (and he wants her soohgodbadly). She shivers at the contact of the cold with her burning skin. But he doesn't move away. And neither does she.

"I'm so scared." She whispers it. And he wants to laugh, for admitting she's scared, to him. But he doesn't.

He bends his head and trails his lips down her neck. Her ladle stills, and she closes her eyes. He slides the strap of her nightgown and continues his movement. Never kissing her. Never lingering. Because just this once he wants her to want him. (And somewhere it changed to more than just want) He wants her to open her eyes and just see him. Not Sam. Him.

(She always says Sam's name. Like it absolves her of her revulsion and guilt. Like she sends it out to the universe, her faithfulness, the penance for her sin. She's with him, but she always says Sam's name. And this time pleasejustonce he wants to hear De-rek. Just once.)

He runs his hand on the soft skin of her wrist, taking her inside the house. Every room imprinted with a night before and the morning after. She's shivering from the pressure of his cold body on her warm one. And maybe a little bit of need. And something else (or maybe he's just deluded.)

Her nightgown is completely wet and sticking to her body like a second skin. The water-droplets on her skin make her look like a marble statue. But he can hear her heartbeat in sync with his own (so loud, too loud) and she's so fucking real.

He slides her nightgown off, and drinks her in. His eyes caressing her in a way that makes her blush as she twists her head away. He turns her head, because he wants her to see. He's never been good with words, and this time he wants her to read his eyes. (Cansheseethedesperation?)

(And he doesn't know when it changed. When he learnt how to make love.)

He touches her breasts almost reverently. Committing each sigh, each sound to his memory. (And it feels so much like goodbye.) She tastes a little like sunshine and secrets. Like a want that's almost a need.

The fire glows in the grate, lighting her up. The flames dancing over her skin, and here's something; he never pretends to himself. For him it's just her. It always has been.

His hands tease and tantalize till she's moving of her own violition. His tormenting hands bringing her to a point where (he hopes) she forgets how wrong this is. Till she forgets Sam, and that fucking white dress that he never wants to see. Because it always feels so right. He kisses her hungrily, wanting her taste to remain on his mouth forever. (Becausehe'sfuckinginsane.)

And soon, there are no more barriers; it's just his skin and hers, and that heady mixture of hardsoft. She's coursing through his vein like holy wine. Intoxicating and addictive.


It pierces through him. That name.

He raises his fingers to his mouth and tastes her. She stares at him, wide-eyed. Her skin flushed with a mixture of arousal and embarrassment that always gets him on his knees.

He enters her, and she closes her eyes again, and this…this is his last chance. She tries to move, to finish it, so she can go and wash off her sin. Pretend it never happened. So she can skip off to her happily ever after, while he stays in his own private hell.

But this time; he's done pretending.

It's agony, this staying still. But he manages. Because (did he mention he's done pretending?)

He's breathing his heart into her skin. Stay with me.

Her eyes fly open again, filled with confusion. And she's scared (she's always been scared of taking chances.)

"I'll make you happy." He whispers. "So damn happy. We'll fight like hell, and you'll rip my name apart. And then I'll be down on my knees for you. Till I've apologized without words. Because I don't do words. You know that. And you'll pretend to remain angry. But you'll love me too damn much, and I'll be able to see right through you anyway."

She tries to turn away; she doesn't want to hear this. But every movement makes white hot ecstasy run through their bloodstream so she stills again.

He strokes her hand gently with his finger, eliciting sharp goosebumps on her skin.

"We'll have to host all these stupid parties. And you'll pretend to be perfect. And then you'll Klutzilla and drop the wine on Amy's beautiful, new Paris original. And you'll go off tangent about how hockey is such a foolish testosterone-filled sport, and my teammates will look at you as if you're crazy. But secretly...secretly they'll all envy me."


He wants to stop, but it's like all those dreams that used to wake him up, with a curious longing in the pit of his stomach, are all tumbling out. He's etching his words, his most secret fantasies onto her skin.

"She'll look like me. Her hair will always be a mess, and she'll love hockey. But she'll have your eyes." He looks at her, his hand forming his name on her skin, "Your fucking, gut-wrenchingly beautiful eyes. I'll spoil her so much, and you'll scold her. She'll love me the best, but she'll go to you for all her skinned knees and heartbreaks. And she'll grow up thinking love is two dysfunctional people who never stop fighting, but just can't stay the hell away from each other."

She turns away, refusing to look at him. Ever line of her body screaming rejection.

He starts moving (because yes; this is how it ends.) The white hot desire is just not compensating for the emptiness. (For earth is hollow and I have touched the sky.)

Her breathing labors and she's so beautiful. Like a fucking goddess. Her eyes are shut again, and she's biting her lip, trying not to make any sound. Let go, Case, let go.

And suddenly he picks up speed, and her nails will leave their mark (but she's already left so many of them in places he swore he didn't have. And they won't ever heal.) He's kissing her frenziedly, touching every part of her he can reach, because right now (only right now) she belongs to him.

She's so close, and he opens his eyes. He loves watching her, it's the only moment she ever really lets go, and feels.

And just as she goes over the edge, she opens thosefuckingeyes and looks straight at him.


You alone can make my song take flight
Help me make the music of the night

The End.