an: disclaimed.

June 23, 2011

It's her day—or it's supposedly her day. But she can see it in his eyes. It's not her day. It never was, it never will be. Somehow, Nikki Dalton's face pops up into her already distressed thoughts. She knows why he was so head over heels over her; her eyes were a dark, dark blue—a shiny purple. Her starless-night black hair popped against her ashen complexion, the freckles sprinkled over her nose all the more visible. Aside from her haunting exterior, Nikki Dalton was perfect.

Nikki Dalton, the girl who knew when to crack a joke. The one who knew when to lie to her parents about her rendezvous the night before. The girl who volunteered her hours to tutoring dyslexic fifth graders. The girl who knew when three beers were enough.

She was everything Claire Lyons wanted to be, and all Claire Lyons would never be.

February 3, 2011

Claire remembers when she first encountered Nikki. In a Victoria's Secret store, her arms looking ready to collapse with all the bags she was handling.

Claire remembers "accidentally" bumping into her. She looked exactly like the photo in Cam's wallet. Claire remembers their conversation, their back and forth on over-embellished underwear to their favorite place in the White Plains Galleria to their Valentine's Day plans to, eventually, Cam Fisher.

Claire remembers Nikki's wistful and somber expression. She looked so fragile and so broken and so in love. Claire remembers that.

She even remembers bragging about her Cam, going on about their perfect relationship (at least to the naked eye) and that she was sure he was the one. She remembers relishing in Nikki's tortured expression and she remembers thinking that Nikki could suck it, bitch.

February 10, 2011

Cam comes home, slightly tipsy, suit and hair disheveled. She greets him at the door, warm, comforting, home. He tosses his suitcase near the couch, slams the door shut. His speech slurred, Claire barely registers the hopelessness behind his, "I need you now."

He makes love to her swiftly, without care. She remembers rolling on top of him and asking what the matter was. She remembers pushing his hair back and forcing his eyelids to open, revealing watery, bloodshot eyes.

"She's dead, Claire, my Nikki is dead." It's barely even a whisper.

June 23, 2011

Claire doesn't remember why she said yes to Cam's proposal. She knew it was his obligation, his inevitable next move. It was his fault for being the gummy-giver. That's what she told herself—this is all Cam's fault. It was her mantra to stay partially sane.

As she looks up at his blank pair of green and blue eyes, those that were once so bright and joyous to see the world, she remembers it all.

The priest, an old, balding man, booms something, something about anyone objecting their marriage. She watches Cam's eyes trail to an empty seat in the bridesmaids' row. She remembers that he wanted her to be there.

"Do you, Cameron David Fisher, take Claire Stacy Lyons to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and—"

He doesn't even let him finish. He nods and slides the silver band onto her finger; it was as if he was just tying his shoe.

The priest asks Claire next and she gazes into his dead eyes. Despite Cam's love for Nikki, despite the fact that she feels a part of Nikki's suicide, despite the fact that Cam is never going to love her the way he did Nikki, she can't help herself. She won't let him go.

And so she forces a happy smile, exclaims, "I do," and slams her lips against his.

She swears on her life that Cam mumbles against her mouth, "I love you, Nikki."

an: so, like, i'm slowly making my way back onto the clique fandom.

this one-shot was done while listening to parachute's the way it was album and that 70s show blaring in the background.

constructive criticism is always appreciated, thanks(: