Time After Time - Degrassi, PG-13

Spoilers for season 8 up to 804 and the "Curse of Degrassi" special (sort of). Written for aphrodite_mine.

Jane didn't flinch at Holly J.'s offensive comment. She wasn't one to succumb to stereotypes, and besides, she was happy with Spinner—he was a great guy who really cared about her. He protected her. He came to her defense when things got rough. She wasn't here to start any sort of social movement, really—she just wanted to play football, and she knew all along that she was as good as the guys. She could play as hard and dirty as the rest of them. Harder, even. Dirtier.

During games, Jane scanned the crowd for Spinner's eyes, his encouraging smile. She just needed a glimpse of him, and then she could regain focus, running even faster than before, holding the ball tighter, throwing it harder. When she was really in the zone, nothing could disrupt her concentration. The Power Squad might be jumping and screaming only a few feet away, reciting whatever ridiculous rhymes they had written out the night before, but Jane hardly noticed.

It wasn't Spinner's fault when he was out of town and missed that one game, which just happened to the one where Jane scored the winning touchdown. She had no eyes or smile to find in the crowd, so she sought Mia's instead. It would have been impossible to miss how brightly her former best friend was beaming. And hey, "former best" didn't even really apply anymore. They were friendly again. Sort of. Which is why Jane thought nothing of it—really—when Mia enveloped her in a hug and shouted in her ear, over the chaos of the crowd, "We should do something tonight to celebrate." Because Mia was right; they should.

So they had a celebratory dinner and dessert and Jane figured it was only polite to invite Mia back to her house to watch a movie, "Like old times." Mia enthusiastically agreed and, fifteen minutes later, Jane was browsing her DVD collection for the perfect flick and Mia was sitting cross-legged on her bed, examining the dozens of photos on her wall and reminiscing. Jane sat beside her when she decided on the movie and pressed play, but somehow the night turned out to be more like old times than they had originally planned—or at least, more like that one time in grade eight when they got drunk and made out on a dare.

It was, however, a welcome diversion from old times for Mia. She was used to partaking in sinful acts in Jane's bed, but previously could only imagine that she was kissing Jane instead of Jane's brother. And now she actually was. Jane, who was so used to playing rough—tighter, faster, harder—found that Mia's embrace calmed her down. She wanted to go slowly. Gently. She wanted to appreciate every minute.

But, like old times, Mia wasn't the type to wait around, and Jane was too stubborn to admit when something was right. Or in this case, someone—and about her. (A budding lesbian indeed.) She pulled away and told Mia to leave, and that she was sorry, but this meant nothing. Because she was in love with Spinner, she said, and although she knew how stupid those words sounded, and although Jane could tell that Mia knew she was lying, the truth would have been impossible to admit.

"You're not so different from the guys after all," Mia told her, and Jane didn't dare to look up as she walked out the door. And in the tradition of reliving the past, Mia didn't feel too bad about participating in some potentially destructive behavior, which apparently involved a wild party with alcohol and loud music and grinding up on an equally intoxicated Holly J., and it certainly was not like old times at all.

"This," Holly J. said right afterwards, "never happened."

"What? You don't want people to know you finally swiped your V-card? But Holly J., I thought that's what you wanted." Mia was surprised by how cruel she could still be to this girl she hated so much, even when they most certainly had just had sex.

"Be glad there's no chance you'll get pregnant this time, Mama Mia," Holly J. sneered, pulling her shirt over her head and gathering her things. "And if anyone finds out about this, I'll make your life hell." Her clothes were back on and she was on her way downstairs to join the party again before Mia could form a response.

Within minutes, though, Holly J. realized that the party was absolutely the last place on earth that she wanted to be right now, so she went home to her own bedroom and sat on her own virginal bed, reaching under her pillow for that infamous list, the one with every guy's name crossed out because none of them were good enough. Was that it?, she wondered. Was it because they were guys?

Back at school on Monday, she surprised herself by being nicer to everyone, especially Mia. Maybe it was the fear that her secret would come out. But Mia actually kept her end of the bargain. And life returned to normal—kind of. Except this reformed, nicer Holly J. actually felt sympathetic when she walked into the girl's locker room during lunch to take a shower and found Jane sitting alone on the bench, sobbing.

Holly J. hadn't meant to ask what was wrong, but she did, and found out that Jane had been dumped by Spinner because he found out that she cheated on him. Holly J. certainly never intended to sit beside her and rub her back and say, "It's going to be okay," but she did. And she definitely never expected that Jane would respond by pressing her lips to hers, but she did, and Holly J. kissed her back, surprised by how rough and urgent the other girl felt against her. They were already breathing hard when they pulled away a few moments later.

"I think I just hit a new low," Jane said, making a face.

Suddenly insulted, Holly J. warned, "You better not tell anyone about this."

Jane rolled her eyes. "Trust me, I don't want anyone to know either."

Her words stung briefly, but later, Holly J. couldn't help smiling as she walked through the halls—locking eyes with Jane and Mia, all three newly aware of the connection they shared. She wondered if it would really be so bad if people found out, and if it made any difference. She wondered if she might be budding too. Maybe they all were.

Floating - RPFS (Demi/Meaghan), R

Written for aphrodite_mine for her birthday. :)

Demi spotted her almost immediately—which would have been meaningful, she thought, if she hadn't been actively scanning the set for that hair, those eyes, that smile from the moment she arrived. And she had to stop herself from sucking in her breath, from blushing, from doing anything that might get her into trouble like it had over the summer.

"So... what... exactly... are you trying to tell me?" Selena asked, and with every pause Demi could feel her heart being suffocated.

"Forget it," she said, and laughed. "I don't even know, really."

"Okay," Selena said, and they never mentioned it after that.

But looking at Meaghan made her feel it all over again. Free. As if she were floating. Demi remembered spotting her across the room when she went to the audition. (It was impossible not to see her, after all. Her beauty seemed to radiate.) And she had to command herself to stop looking, to stop wondering how soft her hair was, or how soft her lips were, or how sweet her mouth might taste... and then the casting director had called her name and she disappeared. Meaghan. Meaghan. It was all Demi knew about her, and truthfully, she never made any attempts to find out anything else. She had other things on her mind, which was what she tried to tell Selena that rainy night in July—

"I don't know if I could ever have a real boyfriend, you know?" Selena shook her head. "It's just, um... I think I like girls more," and the words slurred together when she said it and Demi cringed because it wasn't even true; it was such an understatement. And Selena obviously didn't want any part of it, so they spent the rest of the summer avoiding the topic.

But summer was over now, Demi reasoned, and she lifted her eyes just in time to catch Meaghan's, whose whole face brightened in a way that seemed to Demi to say more than just hey-I-recognize-you. Maybe hey-I-remember-you, or hey-I've-been-thinking-about-you, or hey-I-think-you're-pretty-and-I'd-like-to-know-you-better, or...

"Hey!" Meaghan said, and nothing followed it.

Demi grinned. "Hey. I remember you." (Understatement, again.)

"Yeah, you too." She laughed. I'm Meaghan," she added, and surprised Demi with a hug, and it was one of those good hugs, the kind that stays with you all day, and Demi could feel the softness of Meaghan's hair against her cheek and smell whatever fruity body splash she was wearing and feel every curve of the other girl's body pressed against her own, for just a moment. "So who are you?" Meaghan asked when they separated.

"What?" Demi laughed nervously. "Um, Demi. Demi Lovato."

Meaghan giggled and rolled her eyes. "I know who you are." Demi's stomach lurched for a moment—had Meaghan been asking about her?—and then she added, "I've seen your show. I meant, which part did you get?"

"Oh! Right. Mitchie. I'm playing Mitchie."

"Oh my god, that's awesome! I'm playing Tess. We're going to have a lot of scenes together. And"—she pointed to a trailer not far from where they stood—"we're sharing a dressing room too."

Demi stared dumbly at the trailer. "That's... that's awesome," was all she could think to say.

"Let's hope we don't end up hating each other like our characters," Meaghan teased.

"You know, I have a good feeling that that won't happen," Demi said, smiling, and she realized at that moment that she was probably flirting.

But Meaghan smiled back. Whatever they were doing, she didn't seem to mind.

They grew much closer in the weeks to follow, and it seemed the more Demi hoped her ridiculous crush would just go away already, it only got worse. It probably didn't help that she saw her costar in just a bra and panties on a daily basis. Meaghan wasn't very modest—Demi liked that about her. She liked everything about her, really.

"What's this?" Meaghan asked one day, snatching a necklace from the top of Demi's bureau. She looked a little more closely and laughed. "Oh, you have one of these too? Is this a requirement for working for Disney now?" She waved the promise ring in the air.

Demi blushed. "Um... Selena gave it to me, actually, after she got hers. I don't usually wear it," she added, wondering how defensive she sounded.

Meaghan put the necklace down and asked abruptly, "So, do you really think you're going to 'wait till marriage'?" She put air quotes on the final three words.

"I... don't know," Demi said honestly. "I don't know if I even want to get married."

"But don't you want to be pure and perfect for your husband on your wedding day?" Meaghan grinned.

"I'm not a pure and perfect type of girl," Demi responded, watching Meaghan carefully, trying to see if she could find a sign of something, anything, in her reaction.

Meaghan held her gaze, unflinching, and then her cell phone rang, signalling the end of whatever this might have been.

Most days were pretty mundane.

But one day, Meaghan burst into their shared trailer practically glowing, grinning so widely that her face seemed to be frozen in a state of eternal elation. "Party tonight!" she nearly shrieked. "Finally."

"What? Here?"

"Yeah. I just talked to Kevin. He bought all the beer and got us a hotel room. A suite, actually." Meaghan fussed with her hair in the mirror. "Oh my god, you don't know how happy this makes me. I need a release."

"But how did he..." Demi began.

"Stop asking questions!" Meaghan said. "Seriously, for someone who swore to me that she's not pure and perfect..." she turned to Demi and grinned. "It's going to be fine. Don't worry, no one at Disney is going to find out."

Demi wasn't about to say that Disney was the least of her concerns.

They helped each other pick out their outfits, as if they were going to some fancy gala instead of an impromptu party with a couple dozen underage cast members. It didn't make too much difference to Demi, really—it's not like she ever wore dresses. But Meaghan did, and this one seemed impossibly small and tight and clung to her in all the right spots and holy crap she could not stop staring.

Meaghan noticed. "I look pretty hot, don't I?" She giggled and Demi almost resented her because this was torture, seriously, and she would now have to spend the whole evening pretending it wasn't.

Once they got to the party, Meaghan's outfit seemed pretty silly. Mostly everyone else was dressed casually and weather-appropriately, and a number of jaws dropped when the girls entered the room. Meaghan owned it, though, greeting everyone with a curtsey and promptly asking for a beer. Demi watched in awe. Seconds later, Meaghan shoved a can in Demi's hand too. "This," she said seriously, "will make all your worries disappear."

A few beers later, Demi felt somewhat drunk and Meaghan, apparently, was already wasted. "Lessee what the guys're doing," she slurred, grabbing Demi's hand and pulling her over to the dining table, where they were apparently playing some kind of drinking game involving cards that was clearly too complicated for the girls in their inebriated states of mind. Meaghan sat down and patted the seat of the chair next to her.

"Meaghan, I don't think we can play," Demi said, laughing, but she sat down anyway.

"Whatcha guys doing?" Meaghan asked loudly, and no one bothered to answer. She leaned close to Demi and whispered, "I dun think they like me very much." Her lips just barely grazed Demi's earlobe and she shivered at the contact.

They sat for a bit in silence, the alcohol having mellowed them out. Demi wasn't sure how long they had been sitting before Meaghan grabbed her hand and placed it on the skirt of her dress. "I was stupid to wear such thin material," she said, sounding a bit more coherent now. "See how thin that is?"

"Um," Demi said, trying to ignore how hard her heart was beating. "Yeah. But... it's, um, a really nice dress." She didn't dare move her hand from Meaghan's thigh. She wondered how long she'd be allowed to keep it there.

"I was stupid," Meaghan repeated, and they fell silent again. Demi wondered if maybe she was cold, but then again, she didn't feel cold—she felt, actually, warm. And nice, really nice. Demi could feel her face flush as she realized that a similar heat was forming between her own legs, and she still didn't dare to move her hand.

As if she were reading her mind, Meaghan leaned close and whispered, "I'm really horny right now. If I don't make out with someone I might die." At that, Demi was positive her face turned bright red, but before she could think of anything to say, Meaghan added, "Your hand is on my thigh."

"I know," Demi whispered back. Something—the alcohol in her system, or plain old stupidity—convinced her that it would be a good idea to clarify, "I like it there." Immediately, she cringed. Of course, she had to go and say something completely idiotic. She braced herself, but then Meaghan surprised her.

"I prefer it here," she whispered, and pulled away the fabric of the dress so Demi was touching only skin. Fearfully, she looked up at the guys, but they were too immersed in their game to notice what was happening.

What was happening? Demi tightened her grip on Meaghan's leg. "What, um, do you want me to do?" she asked softly.

Meaghan brought her mouth so close to Demi's ear that at first she felt only her breath. "Touch me," she whispered.

Demi couldn't move for a moment, wanting to preserve this moment exactly as it was so she would never forget, and then thinking—the hell with it. She slid her hand slowly across Meaghan's smooth skin, trying to keep her touch as light as possible until she reached the fabric of her panties. Which were damp. She pressed and rubbed small circles and could feel her fingers getting sticky, and Meaghan whimpered, and then—Demi pulled away.

"I can't," she said, standing up.

"No, no, no..." Meaghan cried, reaching for her in desperation. Demi had already left the room and was pacing down the hallway when Meaghan caught up with her. "Demi! I'm sorry. I just, I had this feeling that you wanted to, and I wanted you to, and—I mean, why do you think I pretended to be so drunk? Why do you think I wore this dress?"

"I would have liked to kiss you first!" Demi nearly shouted. "I've never even kissed a girl."

"So... kiss me," Meaghan said. "That is, if you still want to..."

Suddenly it registered. "You wore that dress for me?" Demi whispered. Meaghan started to nod, but was interrupted by Demi's lips on hers, and hands on hips and fingers in hair and tongues tasting the insides of mouths.

"I think, maybe, we need to get a room," Meaghan said finally, giggling, but since they were too young to get one in the hotel, they held hands and walked back to the dressing room they shared, mutually undressing and discovering each other in the dark, not stopping until they felt they were floating. Free.

Caged, free (you and me) - Degrassi High, PG-13

Response to prompt “Heather/Erica, mirror” for the ficathon at Degrassi Femslash. Title is from an Imogen Heap lyric. Implied incest.

It wasn’t like she had planned it. But if that was supposed to make it better somehow, it didn’t. It made it more worthy of obsession. The kind of fixation that kept her up all night, every night. Thinking without trying to wonder too much. Without being jealous.

Jealous: that was her immediate reaction. It didn’t make any sense to Heather that, despite being identical, all the boys fawned after only Erica. It was like they knew something that she didn’t.

So Erica was gone. (Again.) Out, again. With what’s-his-face. (Jason.) Right. Jason. And Heather was alone again, always alone, trying to focus on anything except Erica being out with a boy doing god-knows-what. Letting him do god-knows-what to her. Heather didn’t want to speculate and theorize—not like she had to. Deep down, she knew exactly what was going on, and it wasn’t because of the twin intuition thing. This, unfortunately, was just common sense.

Jealous. Jealous. Jealous.

She was practically saturated in jealousy. No, she didn’t want to hear the details of couple life, of her sister’s sex life... not that they were having sex. There was no way Erica could be having sex. It was incomprehensible. But even without sex, plenty remained for Heather to agonize over, to recreate in frantic unwanted detail. Jason kissing Erica... Jason slipping his tongue inside Erica’s mouth... Jason moving his hand slowly up the inside of Erica’s thigh...

Focus. Read a book or something. Anything. But it was summer. And there was nothing to do. She would have to learn how to be an individual for once. She would have to find friends who weren’t Erica to go out with. She would have to be independent. And she didn’t want to. Heather never cared, like Erica apparently did now, that she and her sister were so codependent. She liked it. No, she loved it. She never gave much thought to how unhealthy that might be. Even if they didn’t always get along—hell, even if more often than not, Erica drove her crazy, especially lately—it didn’t matter too much.

“I liked things the way they were,” she said aloud, but no one was around to hear. The words didn’t come out when Erica came home in the evening (and later, in the night, and later, in the early morning, and eventually, just as the sun was rising). Heather couldn’t bring herself to say it. Didn’t want to upset her sister. Didn’t want to sound jealous. Didn’t want to answer the question that would inevitably follow.

Jealous of whom?

It was already there, though. Already suffocating her in nightmares laced with visions of touching that skin, kissing those lips, fingers twisting through hair and gliding over skin, slipping into orifices unexplored. When she awoke, she was breathing hard and dripping beads of sweat. Jealous of whom? What did that even mean? She was jealous of Erica, of course. Erica, the outgoing one, the flirty one, the one who got all the attention. The one who got all the boys. Heather knew she was jealous.

Only she didn’t want attention. And she didn’t want boys. She just wanted her sister back. No, more than that—she wanted her sister for herself. She considered, momentarily, how fucked up the implications of that might be, but then she couldn’t be too sure. She and Erica were each one-half of the same, after all. Everyone knew that twins had a special connection. Maybe this kind of attachment was natural.

Maybe not.

Summer ended—finally—but then, so did everything else. Erica revealed that she might be pregnant. Heather realized, then, that it was all over. Everything. So Erica and Jason had, in fact, had sex—her worst fears confirmed. But that seemed insignificant now. Jealousy (of whomever) seemed insignificant now compared to the enormity of her sister having a human being forming inside of her. An unborn someone who was already becoming a new piece of both of them... and then, suddenly, wasn’t.

Heather found herself plagued once more by sleepless nights, for different reasons altogether.

But she got her wish: Erica was hers again. Maybe that explained her guilt. It took an abortion to get her sister back, but maybe she was responsible. Heather found herself feeling guiltier still when blood-stained cruelties were etched across lockers and washroom mirrors. Maybe, Heather thought, if she hadn’t been so passive... maybe Erica wouldn’t have spent her entire summer misbehaving with Jason. Maybe she would have stayed home, with her, where she belonged.

“I’m sorry,” she said one night, months later. She hadn’t meant to. They were supposed to be past this, and Heather knew it, but she couldn’t be with so many feelings unshared. “This summer, I should have said something... I should have stopped you.”

Erica didn’t get it, of course. How could she? “You couldn’t have stopped me,” she said. “I’m my own person. I make my own choices, and I chose to sleep with Jason.” She said it all so matter-of-factly. As if it were obvious. As if she wanted her sister to shut up before she said something stupid. (As if she could prevent it.)

Heather shook her head. “No, I mean...” And she stopped herself, suddenly unsure.

“You were jealous,” Erica said simply. Only it was not that simple. And Heather knew her sister still didn’t get it.

“Yes,” she confessed. She would have to be more direct, not just if she wanted her sister to understand... but because she needed to make sense of it herself. And she needed Erica to help. “But not of you.” And even though at this point she didn’t have to, she clarified. “I was jealous of him.”

Erica said nothing. Her attention drifted. She turned to look in the vanity mirror they shared, so Heather looked too, for the first time really noticing their shared reflection. There were four of them. Four of the same person, the same DNA. And all those complicated feelings—love, hate, jealousy, sadness, desire, protection, devotion, possession—multiplied. And then Heather turned away, facing Erica again, and all those other pieces disappeared. Perhaps this was her true reflection. Perhaps this—perhaps she—was the only other piece she needed.

Finally her sister met her gaze, and the mirror and the rest of the room and the rest of the universe, even, faded into the background. Four became only two. Heather reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind Erica’s ear. They seemed to melt into one another. Lips pursed. Eyes steady. Heather held her breath before leaning in—and then they were one.

(Maybe it was a bit fucked up after all. But it wasn’t like she had planned it.)

Calamine - RPFS (Demi/Selena), PG-13

Warning: Real-person femslash.

Selena wondered if things would be easier if she were a normal teenage girl. If she hadn't jumped headfirst into show business at the age of seven, if she wasn't faced with this insanely grown-up task of holding a career, if she didn't have to balance the responsibilities of actress and singer and dancer and Disney star and ROLE MODEL in big capital letters. If she could just... be.

Because sixteen-year-olds shouldn't have to complete five rounds of the talk show circuit in a span of a week. A sixteen-year-old girl should be able to sleep in during the summer and not wake up at the crack of dawn and make herself look presentable for an interview that's airing only on the radio, for god's sake. She shouldn't have to work fourteen-hour days shooting episodes, and she especially shouldn't have to field embarrassing questions asked by important strangers more than twice her age about who she is or isn't dating, because most sixteen-year-old girls wouldn't dare to talk about that even with their own parents.

She loved her job, of course, but sometimes she just missed... the little things, the normal-girl-things, the past nine years of her life that she didn't get to have because she was running from audition to audition to audition. She felt tired. She wanted to sleep. She wanted to be one of the sixteen-year-old girls watching the Disney stars on TV and wishing she could be one of them, rather than, well, being one of them. Because to be Selena Gomez was stressful, exhausting, even terrifying. And she wasn't stupid. She saw what the media was doing to Miley; she recognized that she could be next. All she could do was wait helplessly for the impending backlash, sure to start the second she broke the facade of her flawless good-girl image.

And Selena knew it was about to break. She had known for months—at some unconscious level, maybe for years. Maybe for what seemed like forever.

If she were to go back and change the decisions she had made as a little kid, it would have started with Barney, and it would have started with never asking her mom if she could go to that audition. But just thinking about that audition made Selena smile, because had it not been for standing for hours in line with thousands of other bright-eyed oblivious seven-year-olds—too young to know any better—she never would have met Demi. And without Demi, there just... would be no point. Selena couldn't imagine life without her.

So despite her own selfish wishes for that irretrievable normal teenage life, Selena smiled for the thousand flashing lights at award ceremonies and drank the never-quite-sweet-enough coffee served to her on the morning talk shows and waved to the paparazzi when they deemed her interesting enough to take her picture. Because, at least, she knew that in a month she'd have one day to herself, when she wouldn't have to work, when she and Demi could goof off in her bedroom and make five new ridiculous YouTube videos and sing along with Paramore on the radio and play Twister in their pajamas and collapse into heaps of sprawled arms and legs and breathless giggles before falling asleep under the covers, side by side. Maybe that one day of teenage normalcy could be enough.

But when it came to the Teen Choice Awards on that scorching night in August, Selena felt an itch, and it wasn't just her uncomfortable (though breathtaking) cerulean designer dress that no normal teenage girl would ever be fortunate enough to wear even to prom. She felt restless—which was crazy, considering she'd hardly slept in weeks—and anxious and as if she could burst, and the only thing keeping her sane was the fact that Demi was sitting beside her. And the reporters were at it again, asking her about Miley, about Nick, about the supposed feud between the three of them and Selena thought that maybe tonight would be the night that these walls (too poorly constructed, because she'd built them herself) would come crashing down and they'd stomp all over her broken pieces. The anxiety was killing her, her heart was racing, her skin was hot, and then—and then—Demi's hand would slip across her back to Selena's shoulder, and it was like calamine lotion: soothing, cool, relief. All the little nuances instantly melting away.

Selena didn't want it to be temporary, as this relief so often was, because she remembered getting poison ivy as a kid—maybe the one "normal kid" event that she could actually recall—and that feeling that the itch might never go away. Stay, she thought, but she didn't dare say it aloud. Don't leave me. (And what was there to be afraid of, after all?) But she felt herself regressing; she remembered a time when they were little, when their mothers took them shopping and somehow they ended up alone, maybe not even for a full minute, and they would have (should have) been terrified—had they not had each other to cling to, the two little girls alone in a store. Selena felt like that again, so she felt herself reaching, grasping, clinging, shamelessly putting her hands where most sixteen-year-old girls wouldn't dare with their friends, but Selena and Demi were different, after all. And Selena knew it. She always had.

It was easier to smile for the camera with Demi's soft finger tracing slow circles on her shoulderblade as Selena tightened her grip on Demi's knee, and Demi giggled, but neither of them said a word. And soon, like that, their hands were all over each other the entire evening, pulling, groping, longing, neither wanting to let go, not caring that these pictures would be plastered all over the internet by tonight, and the magazines by the end of the week. Would anyone notice, or care? They were just being sixteen-year-old girls, after all. So they didn't have to come up with excuses, or reasons why, and besides, it was obvious already: because they were best friends, or because they needed each other, or because of course they wouldn't leave each other's side, or something else. Or something else.

And so tonight they would climb into a limo, side-by-side, bodies turned towards each other, knees pressed together, smiling-speechless-laughing. They would go back to Selena's house and maybe, if they weren't totally exhausted, make another YouTube video for their fans to enjoy, because that webcam, despite its inability to pick up good lighting, somehow always managed to capture their true "Demi Selena Lovato Gomez" moments.

Or maybe, tonight, they wouldn't turn on the webcam at all. Maybe they wouldn't need to use the Twister mat as an excuse for falling so hard, so fast, hands and legs intertwined. Maybe, tonight, they'd create new moments altogether, tracing circles over skin as smooth as calamine, and finally finally feel that relief they had been searching for since the day they met. Maybe fancy cerulean not-prom dresses could lie in comfortable heaps on the floor with black leather pants and button-down jackets and high-heeled shoes, and fingers could reach to touch the spots where calamine lotion is never applied, to relieve itches in places no one sees.

Flying - Wizards of Waverly Place, PG

Written for Wizards of Waverly Place Weekly Prompts. Implied incest. 178 words.

We could put a blanket over this, they said. We could cover it, fold it up and lock it away. We could find a rug to sweep this under, they whispered, like it never happened. We can hide this behind closed doors, closed mouths, closed eyes and closed hearts in order to keep it from all the closed minds.

But the blanket would come out again when they needed something to keep themselves warm.

And the rug would grace the floor once more when it became too cold and uncomfortable to walk over.

Doors were opened for exploration; mouths were opened for exploration; eyes were opened more widely for better searching, even if they didn't always like what they found. And hearts—definitely hearts—were open, because if they weren't, they might combust.

"This isn't working," Alex sighed. "We need to find something else."

And since the blanket didn't work, and the rug didn't work, and closed doors and mouths and eyes and hearts never worked either, they decided to find a carpet. Not to hide under, but to set themselves—finally—free.

Songs Not Yet Written - Camp Rock, PG-13

Mitchie meant it when she thanked her parents for giving her the best summer of her life. She made friends she wouldn't forget; she performed in front of everyone; she proved to herself and to the world—as it existed in that moment—who she truly was and what she was really about. She had held Shane Gray's hands in both of her own and won him over completely. These were the picture-perfect moments that she would talk about and share for months to come.

But when she thought about that summer, none of those memories came to mind.

From the moment Mitchie arrived on the campgrounds, it had been about her. The summer had not been about proving herself, or forming a connection with Shane, or sharing her music with the world, or bonding with Caitlyn, or trying to be popular. It had always, only been about Tess.

Mitchie didn't want to think about what that might mean. Because at first—at first—it seemed simple. It seemed a matter of making new friends, of standing out for once, of being popular. And it had nothing (absolutely nothing) to do with the way she had noticed Tess' hair gleam in the sunlight the first time she laid eyes on her. It had nothing to do with the feelings she got watching the way Tess carried herself, the way she laughed, the way she smiled, the way she moved with the music when she sang. Because those were just feelings of admiration, of wanting to be accepted, of borderline idol-worship so common among teenage girls. And it definitely had nothing to do with being so excited to share a cabin with her, or the way she felt her mouth turn dry and her stomach do flips when Tess insisted that Mitchie take the bed next to hers.

Of course it had nothing to do with any of that, Mitchie told herself. Yet she was the only girl at the entire camp not obsessing over Shane Gray's presence, instead focusing all her energy on trying to impress Tess. On trying to win over this girl she barely seemed to know, on forming a relationship that she could not explain—not to Caitlyn, or her own mother, or to Shane months later when he'd ask her about it as they lay in each other's arms pretending—because explanations were too complicated.

What scared Mitchie the most was that she did know Tess. One look at her was enough to know that Tess needed to be saved as badly as she did, and Mitchie—out of her element as she was—convinced herself that she would be the one to do it. Regardless of the lies she'd have to tell along the way.

And naturally it fell apart, because that was how these things went. Because Tess had the upper hand; she always did. Mitchie hated her for it, for using that magnetism on her and pulling her in, because now there was no way out. She could sit in classroom corners, she could hide from the world and cry, but escaping Tess's forcefield was an impossibility. She could sing, she could dance, but she could not start or stop this.

Mitchie shouldn't have been surprised when their fight felt more like a breakup than the end of a friendship. And she shouldn't have been so pleased when Tess finally apologized. She shouldn't have acted like it was nothing, because it wasn't nothing, and she shouldn't have been lying in bed wide awake at two a.m. on her last night at camp still thinking about it, so she stopped. She needed to get out of her head and out of these thoughts, so she grabbed her sweater and walked around outside for a while but of course found herself standing before Tess' cabin, because it was the direction she had been walking in all along, the entire summer. The door was unlatched and she made her way across the room quietly, placing a hand on the other girl's small shoulder.

"Tess," she whispered. "Tess."

A few moments passed before Tess opened her eyes, and she smiled when she saw Mitchie. "Hey."

Mitchie realized her hand was still on her shoulder, and she pulled it away. "I just... um. I wanted to tell you how much your apology meant to me. I felt like I didn't make that clear before."

Tess pulled herself up in bed and rubbed her eyes. "You came over here to tell me that?"

"Well, sure. I guess."

Tess smiled. "My apology shouldn't have meant much. I treated you like shit."

"It's—it's okay," Mitchie said, embarrassed. "I mean. You didn't. I mean, I guess, it could have been worse..." She could feel herself blushing. Tess always had that effect. Mitchie wanted to hate her for it, but—couldn't.

Tess didn't say anything, and Mitchie found herself feeling increasingly stupid. Maybe this was a bad idea. But then—somewhat shyly, Tess said, "The ironic thing is how I tried to drag you down, when I'd give anything for a mom like yours." Mitchie was quiet. "I mean, did you see my mom tonight? Did you see me?" Tess laughed; it was harsh against the silence. Then, softly, "How do you like that? The girl who tries to be so big and scary is the most fragile of all."

Mitchie still couldn't think of anything to say, but she tried. "Tess, I—"

"No, forget it. I'm happy for you, Mitchie. Look at all you've done. You were so brave tonight. You really proved yourself"—she paused, smiling—"and Shane Gray seems quite fond of you."

Mitchie could see her eyes shining in the dark. She had trouble finding the words, but finally they came: "It was never really about that though, was it?"

Tess didn't respond, and for the first time Mitchie felt like maybe the playing field had evened out between them, the power had finally shifted and for once, she could be in control. Maybe she could take charge for once and Tess would let her. Maybe, this time, she could lean in and kiss Tess on the lips and not worry about how she would react to her every tiny move. So Mitchie leaned in. And she kissed her. And she stopped thinking about what it may or may not mean, because it was the first truly honest thing she had done all summer.

She still had a long way to go, of course. But she could smile later that night as she finally fell asleep, thinking about how the next summer would be even better. She could hum lyrics to songs not yet written.

Six weeks, three months, six months - House M.D., PG-13

Written for Femgenficathon '08 on LJ.

Prompt: “Some days you must learn a great deal. But you should also have days when you allow what is already in you to swell up and touch everything. If you never let that happen, then you just accumulate facts, and they begin to rattle around inside of you.” - E.L. Konigsburg.
Warnings: references to drug use, minor self-injury, slight language, spoilers for episode 2x07 “Hunting.”
Summary: Occurs in the aftermath of Cameron’s HIV scare in season two. She doesn’t think about dying anymore. She isn’t sure if she’s anyone’s doctor now. In a life defined by a relentless desire to save everyone around her, it was fitting, maybe, that it now came down to this: the need to save herself. Special thanks to aphrodite_mine for beta-reading.

--

She doesn’t think about dying anymore. She isn’t sure if she’s anyone’s doctor now. In a life defined by a relentless desire to save everyone around her, it was fitting, maybe, that it now came down to this: the need to save herself.

She is told to wait: six weeks, three months, six months.

Just hours after having been exposed, she’s certain that it’s eating her alive. She can feel it: settling in, coursing through her veins and sucking out whatever dreams and aspirations that hadn’t already been shot to death by insensitive colleagues and drugged-up patients and a once—as recently as yesterday, which seems so distant now—rewarding job.

She takes the drugs because now there is nothing left to lose. Cameron wonders, though, how much she ever really had. She had spent the last several years working to make everything and everyone around her unbreakable, the past having been broken too many times. An entire life spent watching it all fall apart as she remained the solid force, unwavering, and only now willing to allow herself to break.

And the drugs work. They shatter her, rattling around, mauling her senses, fucking with her brain, erasing her ambitions and inhibitions. She had been so sick of trying to save everyone else with no one around to save her but this bit of pale pink powder in a grimy plastic bag, designed to help her unwind and unfind, to enable her to get lost and never be found.

The meth does just what she wants it to do. It makes her forget. It empowers her—or she thinks it empowers her. It allows her to take control, to achieve what she doesn’t even want, because to achieve what she does want has long been proven impossible. The drugs take her to a place completely unknown, far away, where she’s not Allison Cameron, M.D., where it’s not tomorrow or today or even sweet distant yesterday. It turns her eyes wild and blind.

Six weeks.

Her showers are now twice as long as they used to be, but she can only ever be half as clean.

She nicks herself in the morning as she shaves her legs and she lets the blood run, watching it swirl around the drain. It turns pink, then clear, then disappears, and she wonders if she can drain it all. Maybe try bloodletting. Why keep up with modern times, sterilize every surface, every syringe, every stretch of skin? Nothing here can be sterilized now. She’s learning that nothing can be stable. Nothing is safe or sacred.

She studies herself a little longer in the mirror, paying close attention to the whites around her eyes, staring and not blinking. She doesn’t understand how they can be so white. At first she washes them fastidiously, standing directly under the showerhead every morning with her eyes wide open, flushing them out with saline solution every night, as if it would make any difference.

Finally it dawns on her that she can’t clean out whatever may or may not be there, so she stops trying, and soon sees no point in making herself look good and healthy and alive every morning just to go to work and be surrounded by sick people, when she feels like the sickest of all.

Three months.

She tells herself be strong be strong but it’s impossible to be strong when she feels so weak. When, in spite of herself, she tells everyone that nothing’s wrong. She surprises everyone in the staffroom when an older doctor whom she has never even met—but everyone knows; they’ve been gossiping in the halls of the hospital because she’s famous now, practically a celebrity (“Did you hear about Allison Cameron?” they’ll ask, voices low), not knowing she can hear them everywhere, through office doors and walls, in the cafeteria, in line at the coffee shop four blocks away, in her dreams every night and still echoing in her mind when she wakes up, every morning—asks her pointedly how she feels, and she stares at him for a moment, then laughs. When they all look at her like she’s lost her mind, she laughs even harder.

Every day at work begins to feel a little easier. She understands now that no one is healthy. No one can be healthy. No amount of drugs will cure their diseases—that was a lesson she had learned firsthand. But every day seems to offer a new discovery, a new way to be or not to be. So she stops showering every day, lets her hair get a little greasy and stops caring if her clothes are a little rumpled or a little unwashed when she steps inside the hospital each morning. She stops being whom they expect, and whom she once expected too.

She keeps inspecting the whites of her eyes, amazed by how they can be so white still. She watches her pupils dilate and contract under the harsh bathroom light as she slowly flicks the switch on again, off again. On, off. On.

Six months.

She feels perfectly fine; better, actually, than ever before. And it’s not because today is the day that she finds out for sure.

She doesn’t really give much thought to what she’ll find inside that envelope. She realizes that it simply doesn’t matter.

And even though she no longer cares what her results will be, she feels different when she wakes up that morning and prepares for her day. She does not dread that piece of paper. It cannot define her. It will not change a thing. She isn’t about to let it tell her whether she will live or die, and it doesn’t make a difference anyway. She isn’t about to let a piece of paper tell her what is inside of her—not now, when she is only just starting to find out.

Before she steps outside, Cameron looks in the mirror one last time and notices how much brighter her eyes shine when she smiles.

Just This Once - Wizards of Waverly Place, PG-13

Warnings: Incest. Spoilers for episode 1x11, "Potion Commotion."

Unlike every other time, Alex had no idea how she had gotten herself into this mess.

For a while, she couldn't quite place why she got so annoyed when Harper droned on and on about her crush on Justin. She knew why she was supposed to be annoyed—because he was her brother, because it was weird to hear her best friend talk about how amazing and cute and wonderful he was, and because, what she supposed to say? That it made her uncomfortable? It did make her uncomfortable, but not for the reasons that she supposed were common and natural and socially acceptable. These feelings were more barbaric and territorial. Defensive.

When Justin dated Miranda, Alex experienced a different feeling altogether—something closer to pride. Because all she could see was how similar Miranda was to her. A slightly goth version of herself with the added bonus of being of a different bloodline. But in the end, a lesser version. And substitutions wouldn't do.

That was how they found themselves this Saturday evening, sitting on the sofa together, watching a movie marathon on TV and not waiting for the phone to ring with calls from significant others that they no longer had.

The credits were rolling now, and Justin stood up and stretched with a loud yawn. "Bedtime." It was close to two a.m. Everyone else had long gone to bed.

Alex slumped deeper into the couch. "This was a perfectly pathetic way to spend my Saturday night." She was lying again. Her only defense against these feelings (the ones she told herself that she didn't have) was to lie and lie and lie.

He eyed her carefully, then smiled. "You loved it."

"Did not," she argued. But he had that goofy grin on his face and she had to give in. "Well. Maybe a little."

He sat back down, and seemed to hesitate before asking, "Why didn't you call Riley?" As if it were an afterthought, he quickly added, "Or Harper?"

"Harper's out of town this weekend. And Riley... I'm so over that." Alex grinned. "He wasn't good enough for me." She hoped this would provoke some sort of response in Justin, but he barely moved. And why should he? She sank back down in frustration.

Suddenly Justin laughed. "Sorry, sorry," he said in response to Alex's annoyed glare. "I was just thinking about that love potion spell."

She smiled. "That was pretty funny."

"You know," Justin said, a smile curling on his face as if he had just thought of a great joke, "sometimes I think you're still under that spell."

"What!" She tried to appear shocked.

"Well, you are pretty in love with yourself... most of the time," he teased.

"Well... I am a very loveable person," Alex said. "You can't deny that."

"Sometimes," Justin clarified. Alex smirked and another silence followed before he stood up again, this time with an exaggerated, clearly forced stretch. "Bedtime."

"Yeah," Alex said softly. "You said that earlier."

"And this time, I mean it." He began walking away. "Goodnight."

He was halfway across the room before he stopped and turned around. "Hey, Alex?"

She realized she probably should have been getting up and following him upstairs to her own bedroom, but something felt right about staying right here, waiting. For anything. "Yeah?"

He took a few steps toward her before asking, "Do you ever wonder what would have happened if I drank the other half of that potion?"

Alex swallowed, thankful it was dark enough that he couldn't see how flushed her face had become upon hearing that wholly unexpected question. "What?" she asked, partly from shock and partly because she thought maybe she had dreamed it.

"Never mind," he said, turning and heading towards the staircase again. "Goodnight."

She stared at his retreating figure, unable to move or speak.

An hour later she found herself in bed, this time staring at the ceiling, still turning it over and over in her mind. This was ridiculous. This was not about to consume her all night, and she walked briskly down the hall to his bedroom and stood in his doorway.

"Why would you ask me that?" she demanded. She kneeled at the foot of his bed, facing him. "You're making me have... thoughts... that I don't feel like having."

He turned and faced her, propping himself up against his pillow. "Sorry. I didn't mean to gross you out, I was just... wondering. It would have been hard to explain to Mom and Dad... and then Dad would have to tell us how to undo it somehow. And you and I would probably feel really weird afterwards... I don't know. It was just a thought." Alex didn't say anything. "Look, I'm sorry I brought it up. I didn't mean anything by it. I bet we're immune to the spell anyway."

She knew better than to say what she was about to say, but she said—whispered—it anyway. "I don't think we're immune."

There were no excuses for what was about to happen. There were no lies they could tell themselves in the morning. They were both breathing heavily now, and before she lost her nerve, Alex pressed her lips to his. As expected, he pulled away. "Alex! What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm—I'm showing you. Without a potion. Because—because you wanted to know," she said. "And because... I did too."

In the dimness of his room, she could see him close his eyes and shake his head. A long silence passed before he finally conceded, "Just this once. Just this once."

Maybe it only happened because it was dark enough that they couldn't really see each other—the eyes and mouths and noses that were so similar, almost identical—and she kissed him again, harder, falling on top of him in his bed, both of them touching and caressing skin that they had known their entire lives, but never like this.

Eventually—later than she expected—he gently pushed her away. "Okay. Okay. I think I get it now," he said, more confused than ever. A potion would have been far easier to explain than this.

She wished she could think of some way to comfort him, to tell him it was nothing, just a weak moment of curiosity, something, anything. They'd never mention it again. They could pretend it was a dream, but all of this was pretext—the hypothetical question, the weird thoughts, the promise that it would never happen again. Because soon enough, it would. Over and over.

This time, there would be no spell to undo the mess they had made, but unlike every other time, neither wanted out.

You Had Me But I Never Had You - Gossip Girl, PG-13

Note: Written post 104, "Bad News Blair." Title is from a lyric by John Lennon.

What the fuck was he talking about? Going on and on. About his mother, as if he knew anything about hers, and the words rushing out of his mouth like the cabs on Sixth Avenue when she needed one the most. What did he know about guilt-ridden bites of breakfast, of discarded unworn dresses, of endless self-loathing? What did he know of not ranking on the to-call list during vacations in Paris, or late-night business meetings, or her own heart?

What did he know?

And he was staring. At her. And had stopped talking and she was staring back and she noticed now, knowing he had noticed too.

Staring at her with those big brown eyes. Like hers. Putting a hand. On hers. Saying, "We're not so different, are we?" and smiling until she found herself smiling back.

"Sorry," he said, shaking his head. "I came here to talk to you about your mom, not mine."

"No," Blair said automatically, surprising herself. "It's okay." It was the first conversation she had had in—in as long as she could remember—that wasn't about Serena or fashion or Yale or that stupid blog. It was the first time she had talked to a man about another woman without the ulterior motive of plotting something totally evil.

He continued his story and she listened this time but couldn't bring herself to share hers. That would have to wait. And she stood in her usual spot on the sidelines when she heard him ask out Serena and didn't even feel a tinge of jealousy, because at this point she was used to everyone, everyone, everyone choosing Serena over her. Even Blair did it constantly too.

Not to worry. Her time would come.

Something More This Time - Instant Star, PG

Note: I think I wrote this last summer...? I just found it in a notebook that I forgot I had, so I'm typing it up now. I wrote it for a challenge (to write 15 fics about 15 different ships from the same fandom) which I never completed. The prompt was "friends first, lovers second."

When they were five, they pretended that the lightning bugs were fairies and wished to be swept away to a magical land.

When they were six, they rode their bikes around the neighborhood. Jude's training wheels came off too early and she fell and twisted her ankle. Jamie scraped his knee on purpose so she wouldn't feel so bad.

When they were eight, they locked themselves in Jude's bedroom and danced to the macarena all summer long.

When they were nine, they swore that the events of the previous summer had never happened.

When they were eleven, they pored through Stuart's record collection and memorized every lyric that Bob Dylan had ever written.

When they were twelve, Jamie helped Jude write her first song.

When they were fourteen (gawky and pubescent), an article in Seventeen magazine inspired her to kiss him without warning in her living room and then go back to reading like nothing had happened. He never forgot it.

When they were fifteen, she became a star.

When they were sixteen, they got matching tattoos and swore to stay best friends forever. A few months later, she broke his heart.

When they were seventeen, they went their separate ways romantically and, finally moving on, he found out how easy it was to forgive her.

When they were eighteen, she had an important decision to make.

When they woke up this morning, her warm skin against his bare chest, she looked into his eyes and smiled.

"You see? This is how it always should have been. This is how it always will be."

She kissed him and he squeezed her tight, hoping to god she was telling the truth. They'd gone too far to go back now.

Easy Way Out - The Big Bang Theory, PG

Penny doesn’t know anymore why she does it—or why she keeps doing it over and over.

She tells herself that if she keeps it spontaneous, Leonard will never ask questions, but the questions that she’s most afraid of answering aren’t his. Mostly she doesn’t want to start asking questions herself. Like what it means, or why. More accurately, why not.

If she were as shallow as she used to be—which she tells herself she isn’t—maybe her hesitation would have something to do with social status, or lack of attraction, or some immature delusion that they were of different worlds. But Penny doesn’t believe half the lies she tells herself now.

She doesn’t want to notice how well they complement each other. Because they are opposites in almost every way. Because, by all definitions of the universe (though she finds herself wondering whose), they don’t make any sense and they don’t belong together. Girls like her never date guys like him. Guys like him never get girls like her.

It’s stupid to believe this crap and she knows it, but it resonates within her every time they meet (crashing into each other, worlds colliding). The fairytales never said it was supposed to be like this, but it is: the way her throat tightens up around him, the way she catches herself deflecting her nervousness with a joke or a roll of the eyes. She doesn’t understand how he’s able to makes her feel so smart and so stupid all at once.

It’s easier to avoid it altogether. It’s easier to date the beefed-up buffoon, to have screaming, mindless, meaningless sex because it’s fun and it’s what she’s always done and no hearts can get broken if they were never invested to begin with.

When things become meaningful, she gets stuck. She either screws it up or gets screwed over. Penny abhors meaning. She runs from it. Life is one big party and she’s the one pouring drinks.

So she doesn’t think about what it would be like to date him. The suspicious glances and judgmental whispers. (Surely she isn’t dating him. What would a girl like that be doing with a guy like him?)

And she doesn’t wonder what it would be like to sleep with him. How clumsy and awkward he would be. Star Wars paraphernalia looming over them in the shadows.

And she doesn’t imagine what it would be like to love him. And to have to, for once, deal with the reality that someone actually loved her back. That he didn’t -- like everyone else -- think of her as just a good lay.

Because he doesn’t make her feel hot, or sexy, or desirable. He makes her feel beautiful. He never thought of her as another dumb blonde and she’s surprised that she no longer thinks of him as her hopelessly nerdy neighbor. It’s scary how vulnerable she suddenly feels. How exposed.

So she smiles when he flirts with Leslie, or with Sheldon’s sister. She smiles when he flirts (or attempts to, anyway) with her. She smiles when she kisses him and his lips are chapped and he’s too stunned to kiss back.

Dates with other guys are easier, of course. Flirtatious smiles are easier. Jokes and eyerolls are easier. Spontaneous, unexplained kisses are easier. Anything is easier than the truth.

She puts her arm around him and holds her breath. Don’t do it don’t do it don’t do it, she tells herself. Don’t kiss him. But then she does, and she already knows it will happen again. Because she doesn’t wonder what it would be like to fall for him. Because she already has.

She just hopes he doesn’t ask questions.

The Beginning after the End - House M.D., PG-13

Notes: Spoilers for “No More Mr. Nice Guy.” Title is from a song by Stars.

Cameron knows she should feel guilty, but it’s empowering somehow. Using him. Showing him that he’s disposable too. She tells Chase she’s off to see another annoying friend; he tells Wilson he’s screwing a whore. And neither of them is lying. Not really.

It isn’t what she wanted, or maybe it is. He wouldn’t be doing this if he thought she still cared, and the funny part is that she no longer does. It isn’t how she once imagined. There are no flowers or candles or soft music, no whispered I love yous. House never needed to be saved.

It isn’t beautiful and it isn’t meaningful and maybe it isn’t supposed to be anyway. It just is. She meets him in dark sweaty bars and half an hour later they’re tangled between unwashed sheets and rough embraces and mouths that taste of beer and Vicodin. Sometimes her hand accidentally brushes against his scar and her touch is softer than she wants it to be, but he doesn’t notice anymore. His eyes darken and this time it’s not because he’s being his usual sadistic self. It’s because she’s won.

Cameron isn’t surprised when she learns that he’s sick and so is she. She’s suspected for a while. This is the kind of sickness that has no known cause, no prescription, no cure. She doesn’t want help anyway. I’m fine, she says. This is the best I’ve ever felt, she says, and she laughs.

They don’t talk about it. They don’t talk much at all. He comes as she goes and she slips away so quietly sometimes that he’s not sure if she was ever there.

Whatever She Needs: Epilogue (12/12) - Degrassi, PG-13

The invitation surprised him. At first he felt more than a little unworthy, but finally he supposed that eight years were long enough to heal anything. Still, he felt weird about it. He couldn’t bring himself to decide if he should go until the very last minute, at which point he jumped into his car and drove the three hundred miles to Toronto and didn’t think about what he would do or say when he got there.

He arrived late and sat quietly in the back. The procession had already started and soon Emma entered his line of vision, radiant in her white dress and practically gliding on air as she floated down the aisle, making it nearly impossible to notice the groom at her side. An outdoor wedding with a feminist twist—Snake smiled at her public defiance of tradition.

The reception was awkward, as he expected, but Spike did acknowledge him even if she failed to hide her obvious shock at his presence. Snake noted that she had a date, but no ring. Then again, he had neither. He decided to refocus his attention; his eyes scanned across the crowd at a sea of mostly unfamiliar faces—Emma’s friends from college, coworkers, and just a handful of Degrassi alums that failed to include the one he was looking for.

The sun was setting as the party died down, and he walked leisurely along the road to where his car was parked—wondering, and not wondering. His breath caught when he saw her.

“Found you.” She had been leaning against a car that wasn’t his and walked towards him now with a bright smile and shining eyes, lovelier than ever. They stood facing each other in the middle of the empty road as pillars newly resilient to whatever forces might try to destroy them this time.

“How did you—”

“Manny mentioned it to me. And I thought… well. Here I am.”

Snake stared at her, dumbfounded. “After all these years…”

“Years never mattered to me,” she said.

Snake nodded. “You’re right.”

She studied him more intently, eyes searching. “You look exactly the same,” she concluded.

“Less hair.” Snake smiled. “More wrinkles.” He took a step closer to her and the sun was just dipping into the ground, painting the sky in a wild, fiery haze. “You look beautiful,” he added, and this time when she looked away shyly, the silence didn’t terrify him.

Finally Darcy looked up again. “So where were you going?”

It was a simple question, but he hesitated. Then he said, “I have no idea.”

She smiled and her eyes shone brighter than before. “Let’s go.”

His heart stirred a little as she reached for his hand and led him towards what he had been waiting his entire life to live.

Whatever She Needs: Touch (11/12) - Degrassi, NC-17

Warning for sexual content. Thanks to aphrodite_mine for beta reading.


He decided to go slowly—so she could change her mind if need be. He started at her neck and gently kissed her skin, absorbed in her perfume. Darcy’s nails were already digging into his shoulders and he stopped. “You’re nervous,” he said.

“Of course I am. So are you.” She brought her mouth to his and flicked her tongue across his teeth, reaching for the bottom of his shirt and pulling it towards her, her fingertips dancing across the skin of his back.

“I’ll be gentle,” he whispered.

“I know.”

He undid the first few buttons of her blouse and realized that she wasn’t wearing a bra this time. Tiny pink nipples stared back at him, the same color of Darcy’s cheeks as she watched him and whispered, “It’s okay.” He closed his eyes and pressed soft kisses to the skin, his lips creeping closer to an areola before finally capturing her breast in his mouth, the other under his palm. She was breathing hard now, and her chest was rising and falling as he kissed and caressed. He turned his attention to her other breast before traveling up to her lips again, barely hearing when she whimpered his name.

She turned her face away from him and he nibbled her earlobe, shivering as the tips of her fingers traced mysterious shapes on his back. “I can feel you against me,” she murmured.

“What?” Snake said, startled, his voice higher than usual and his face flushed.

“Can I?” she asked.

He nodded, and she reached for the fly of his jeans and pulled. Darcy placed both hands on the waistband and he wriggled out, kicking them to the floor, and waiting. He thought she was going to touch him then, but instead she laughed. “Briefs?” she said. “Aren’t they kind of… constricting?” He blushed deeper and couldn’t think of an adequate explanation, especially since he was pretty sure he had been trying to constrain himself for months. “Your turn,” she whispered, guiding his hand to her belt buckle. In one smooth motion, he undid it and soon had her jeans at her ankles, and then on the floor, their clothes in a quickly growing pile.

She was wearing light green panties and he tried not to stare at the clear spot where they were darker, glistening, waiting for him. Hesitantly, he moved his hand up her leg, gently stroking her thigh. Without warning, she reached down and placed her hand on his. “Please,” she said. “No one has ever touched me there.” She tugged at his fingers with her own and pressed them to the fabric of her panties, the heat and dampness radiating through both sets of fingers. She moaned as his fingers brushed the wettest spot, grazing against her through the fabric.

Slowly, delicately, even now making an effort to give her ample time to stop everything if she wanted, he pulled her panties down and saw, finally, the soft dark curls covering her most guarded region. He slipped her underwear down her legs completely and she shuddered, eyes closed, releasing jagged breaths.

Snake moved his hand slowly up her thigh, hearing her whimper “oh my god” when he brought his fingers closer, and the irony was too much and he froze. He sat back and drank in the sight of her completely naked body: eyes shut, lips slightly parted, hands clutching fistfuls of his sheets. She was perfect, beautiful, and he wondered if this was the cruelest punishment of all as he whispered, “I can’t do this.”

“What?” Darcy nearly shouted, all at once sitting up. Her entire face, like the rest of her, was flushed. Daringly, she reached out and touched the bulge under his briefs, slipping her fingers between the flap in the fabric and he groaned involuntarily, feeling himself hardening still. “But I’m ready,” she murmured, staring deep into his eyes with newfound determination, like a flower blooming in the dead of winter.

Snake gently pushed her hand away. “I’m not.”

Darcy looked away, and then abruptly pulled the sides of her shirt together across her chest, fumbling with the buttons. “Now I feel even stupider than I felt before,” she confessed, and he could see a couple tears caught in her eyelashes. He brushed his thumb gently against her eyelids, freeing them.

“It’s my fault,” he said. As she reached for her underwear, he internally berated himself, averting his gaze more out of embarrassment than politeness as she redressed.

There was a silence, and then she said, “I wanted you to be my first.” Snake looked at her again. She was fully dressed and somehow more naked than before.

“The man you marry will be your first,” he said slowly. “Or maybe it will happen sooner. But it can’t happen like this, a quick lay on my bed right before I jet out of town. It just can’t.” She didn’t say anything so he reached for his own jeans and stepped into them, waiting.

“Why not?” she asked finally.

“Because… you’d hate me forever. And I’d hate myself even more.”

She was quiet and Snake wondered if she hated him already. Then she leaned in and planted a soft kiss on his lips, pressing her palm to his cheek, briefly, before whispering, “Okay.” And then she was at the door.

Snake walked towards her, trancelike, and in his mind the image of her standing there staring at him with those too-trusting eyes and trembling smile was already burned in his memory forever. It seemed to have happened long ago.

“So this is it,” she said finally, and her words seemed to travel from his ears to the walls and back again. “I’m going to miss you,” she said, her voice shaking and the tears already falling down her cheeks. Snake enveloped her in his arms, and she leaned into his chest, steadying herself and settling in.

“We’ll see each other again,” he promised, even though he wasn’t sure if he could keep it. She said nothing and he pressed a kiss to the top of her hair, knowing it inadequate.

“I love you, Darcy,” he said as she pulled away, and she smiled and looked down and said nothing, only placing her hand on the doorknob and twisting, opening the door and disappearing behind it, wordlessly, like a ghost. Snake waited a few minutes before peaking behind it, half-hoping she’d still be in the hallway, but she was nowhere to be found, and in many ways, neither was he.

Whatever She Needs: Apologies (10/12) - Degrassi, PG-13

The apartment was larger when he awoke, and emptier, somehow. All the sounds from outside, the commotion and chatter and screeching of tires slipped through the space above the windowsills and reverberated against the walls and bookshelves and dirty dishes in the sink. All of it stumbled rudely and blindly forward to his ears and into his head and rattled around until it was at once silenced by an unavoidable realization.

He got out of bed and got ready for work.

Dan Hill was singing on the radio when Snake pulled into the parking lot and noticed that the leaves on the trees were lush and green. Maybe everything had meaning.

Classes dragged by, as they usually did at this time of year. It was nearly June. Conversations laced with fantasies of summer and graduation overrode his tedious instructions regarding flash animation and PowerPoint presentations. Free time for “internet research” was extended accordingly. Snake found it as difficult to focus as they did.

Darcy pointedly took extra time packing up her things at the end of his last class, and Snake’s eyes followed her every movement. She waited until everyone else had left the room and then walked towards him. He braced himself.

A tiny smile formed on her lips for a moment and then disappeared. “I’m sorry about—”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said.

“Yes, I do. I was… stupid. Really stupid.”

“You weren’t stupid, Darcy. You were being…”

“Naïve?”

He was going to say a teenager, but held back. “I was stupid.”

“Why? For letting this happen?”

There was a long silence. “Yes,” he said finally. She shook her head and stared at the floor. “Everything happened so fast. I think I need to be alone for a while. And I think you do, too.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I wouldn’t even know how to put it into words,” he lied.

“Snake,” she whispered, placing her hand over his, “please don’t end this just because I screwed up.”

He sighed and pulled his hand away, looking around nervously. “A few months, a year from now, you’ll think you lost your mind. Relationships like this don’t last. Not even in movies and books.”

“So? We can be the exception.”

“How?”

“Because… you saved me,” she said sincerely. “Because we make each other better.”

“It was an escape from reality, and…”

“And you got out. So now you don’t need me.”

“No. I didn’t say that.”

“I’m sorry that you’re scared, and I’m sorry that you’re stubborn, and I’m sorry for how I acted last night,” Darcy said, taking a deep breath. “But I’m not sorry for any of this, and I’m sick of having to say it over and over.”

He stood up and began packing his things, turning from her. “You will be.”

“Why do you keep saying that? How do you know?”

Snake stopped what he was doing and faced her again, finally admitting in a low voice, “Because I’m sorry for this, for all of it, okay?”

She shook her head, biting her lip. “You’re afraid, and you’re paranoid, and—”

“Darcy, I need space.”

“But I don’t. And I don’t want space. I want to be as close to you as possible.”

He couldn’t look at her. “I’m sorry. I think… I think you should go.”

“Fine.” And she was gone. The door closed and he was alone again, surrounded by colorful walls and computer monitors that had witnessed the entire pitiful conversation. He stood still and tried to feel nothing.

The next day, during the first of many meetings with Ms. Hatzilakos, he found out that Darcy would be taking a leave of absence for the rest of the semester. She would be able to make up her work over the summer and still graduate with the rest of her class the following spring.

“Her parents finally found out the root of her wild behavior lately,” Daphne said, leaning forward and lowering her voice. “She was raped. Can you believe that? It’s terrible. I really feel for the girl.”

Snake shook his head in disgust. “This isn’t some piece of tawdry gossip. And whatever happened to confidentiality?”

Her eyes widened. “Honestly, Archie, I expected a little more sensitivity from you. The rest of us were shocked when we found out.”

“Of course it’s awful. I just don’t think it’s any of my business.”

She straightened her shoulders in an exaggerated gesture of self-importance before explaining, “I’ve informed all of Darcy’s teachers so they know to be especially empathic of her situation when she returns in the fall.” She paused, waiting for Snake to react, but he didn’t. “All right, so what did you want to discuss?”

He gripped the ends of the armchairs and held his breath before responding.

Three weeks later, he was the recipient of a greater-than-usual amount of gifts and cards and eloquent farewell speeches. All of the students whom he’d watched grow and transform from prepubescent kids into almost-adults stood before him and said goodbye. They were all moving on to bigger and better—doing what he never could.

Emma approached him after the graduation ceremony and surprised him with a hug. “Jack misses you,” she said, then smiled before adding, “and so do I.”

“Same,” Snake replied, and after a few moments he reluctantly relinquished her embrace. He hesitated before asking, “How’s your mom?”

“She’s been… surprisingly okay,” Emma admitted. “You should talk to her.”

“I don’t know about that,” Snake said.

“Well, you should talk to me,” she tried. “More often. Call, email…”

“I will,” he promised, and when he smiled he realized it was his first genuine one in weeks.

An hour later, he was back in his apartment and surrounded by sealed boxes. He had just begun packing another when he heard a knock at the door. Snake opened it and Darcy stood before him—a breathing living vision from a dream that he forgot to have.

“Hi,” she said, smiling sheepishly and stepping inside.

“Hi,” Snake echoed, closing the door.

“I—” she began, but Snake wrapped her in his arms and halted her words with his lips and his tongue, kicking aside boxes and carrying her to his bed. “I love you,” she whispered between kisses. “If it makes any difference.”

“I love you too,” he said, and for a moment they seemed indestructible. Then they broke.

“What’s going on?” she asked, eyeing the boxes. “Are you leaving?” She met his gaze again.

Slowly, he nodded. “Tomorrow morning.”

“But—why?”

“Darcy, my whole life I’ve been playing it safe. I never once stepped outside my comfort zone—until you came along. But Degrassi and this town are holding me back. I need to explore for a while. I need to find my own path.”

“So—so take me with you,” she said, a little too desperately.

“You know I can’t. You need to stay, finish school, graduate… and then move on.”

“I want to be with you.” She reached for his hands.

“I know.” He kissed her forehead. “I know.”

“Will I never see you again?”

“If this is meant to happen, then we will.”

“But you don’t believe in fate,” she said. He looked away and they were silent for a while. “Can you do one thing for me, before you go?” Snake looked at her again, and she closed her eyes. “I want to know what it’s like,” she said.

“Darcy—”

“With you.”

“And your ring? And everything you believe?”

“I think God will forgive me,” she said sincerely.

“This,” he said, motioning to her and then him, “is the biggest sin of all.”

“I want to be a sinner,” she said.

“No, you don’t.”

“Nothing makes sense anymore. Nothing has made sense for months. But this, as screwed up as it is, makes sense. We make sense. I know I should be scared out of my mind, but when I’m with you everything feels right. It shouldn’t, but it does.” She inhaled sharply and held his gaze. “I want this.”

Snake was still holding his breath when he responded, “It’s not going to… erase the past. It might make things worse.”

“I’m willing to risk it,” she said, and she pulled him towards her.

Sometimes - So Weird, PG

Sometimes she wonders if she’ll ever get over him. Those are the times that she hates him. She blames him for leaving. It’s irrational, and she knows it, but she can’t help it. Sometimes she thinks he planned it.

She strums her guitar and they’re all minor chords. Her voice is hoarse and her lyrics barely make sense. Irene always smiles when this happens, and it’s cruel and ironic because her music shouldn’t be beautiful in times like this. She isn’t trying to create beauty. She’s trying to render that impossible unreality, her life unlived.

He mocks her sometimes. She wakes up in the middle of the night and his grinning face is burned under her eyelids and he’s stuck between the vehicles and she’s certain he’s grinning because he knows she’s stuck there too. She’s been there since that day. The paramedics forgot to remove her.

Sometimes she looks at Carey and wonders, and hates herself for wondering but it’s there. The fingers are the same as they glide across the strings and his eyes are full of life and wonder and his laugh is long and lets her remember, briefly, who she was before it happened. When he smiles at her or squeezes her shoulder or they’re sitting together, writing songs, her thoughts slip away and she’s twenty years younger and they’re about to embark on a journey that they will never fully comprehend.

Sometimes she laughs quietly to herself because it is so ironic, after all, that Rick believed in spirits and angels and extra-terrestrials and she can’t even bring herself to believe in god. She wonders, then, why she’s so afraid to allow herself to live.

Most times she wishes he’d leave for good.

Imagine - Degrassi, R

Notes: Tag to 713, “Bust a Move (Part 1).” Contains spoilers. Written for aphrodite_mine.


Choice or no choice, the aftermath was the same. She felt lifeless. Dirty. Wrong.

Peter was clumsy as he thrust in and out of her. It wasn’t loving, because he didn’t love her and she definitely didn’t love him. It wasn’t beautiful, because it was awkward and forced. And as calculated and premeditated as it was, it wasn’t what she had imagined. Probably because she hadn’t imagined it with him.

She tried to focus, to act the way she knew she was supposed to act. Small moans escaped her in veiled cries for help and she hoped he’d mistake them for the sounds of pleasure. She wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him as he awkwardly worked his way inside of her, snaking her fingers up to his scalp and wishing he didn’t have a full head of hair, or that his mouth didn’t feel so sloppy and inexperienced, or that his skin wasn’t so soft and smooth against hers. The bed was hard and small and uncomfortable and she tried to imagine that it was something else—maybe his desk or the cold tile of the zen garden floor—but it didn’t work.

“Darcy,” he gasped when he finally came, and to her ears his voice seemed funny and high-pitched and off, a fantasy gone completely wrong. She wanted to cry because of how stupid it was, how stupid she was for thinking she could trick her mind and transcend reality. Transcend what was even realistic.

“You okay?” she heard him ask when it was over.

“I’m fine,” she said, automatically. Automatic smile, automatic kiss, automatic laughter and automatic gaze. All of it had to be planned out and rehearsed in her mind over and over because if it wasn’t, she might do something crazy and end up hurting the only person who meant anything worth a damn to her, the one who would have made everything better, the one with whom she wished she were right now, but he had failed her, just like she failed him.

Now horns and whistles were blowing and everyone surrounded them and she had no idea what was going on and she felt ashamed and confused and lost and almost wondered if she had been raped again. She imagined going to him, telling him again, going back and doing it all over and not screwing up this time.

But finally she was fed up with imagining and wishing and hoping and wondering, so she left again when no one was looking and walked outside and sat on the front steps and pulled out her cell phone and dialed his number before she could stop herself. Her heart was racing.

“Hello?” His voice sounded deeper than she imagined, and quieter, and a little sad.

“Hi,” she said breathlessly. “It’s me.” The other end fell silent, and she immediately wondered if he even knew who “me” was. Then she realized he might have hung up. “Hello?” she said, desperately.

“Why are you calling?” He definitely wasn’t happy, but he didn’t sound angry, either. Confused, mostly. Darcy held her breath. “It’s almost midnight,” he added, as if that changed anything.

“I just wanted to see how you were,” she said.

“I’m fine. But I have to go.”

“I really need to talk to you,” she whispered, because he had been whispering. And now she heard him sigh.

“You know we can’t do that.”

Darcy blinked back tears. “I know.” There was a long silence, and she waited for him to say something or hang up on her, but he didn’t do either. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine him on the other end, and this time she could see everything, and his eyes were closed too and he was breathless, waiting. She spoke again. “It’s just that you’re—”

“I know,” he said, startling her. She wasn’t even fully sure of what she was about to say. “I have to go,” he repeated. “Bye.”

He set the phone down and his heart was racing and he wished it would stop, because racing hearts meant something and this couldn’t. It was just a coincidence. You’re thinking of someone you haven’t seen in a while and then you run into them minutes later. It happened to people all the time.

Snake turned over on his side and draped his arm around his sleeping wife, bare skin on bare skin. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought that their nightly routine had worn her out. But she was just tired. His heart raced faster as remembered rising and falling above her, how he had looked down at her expressionless face and then beyond it—imagining someone else completely—as if he might see a dark fleck of skin below her right eyebrow, that tiny spark of hope hovering above bright and youthful eyes.

Whatever She Needs: Crash (9/?) - Degrassi, PG-13

But the inevitable crash did come—harder and faster than either of them expected. Not even monologues and soliloquies of devotion could fend off its eventual arrival. When it finally came, not even the soft mattress on which Snake lay could lessen the blow.

Within five days of their apartment search, he found a new apartment. It was modest: a one-bedroom downtown with a full kitchen and bath, a comfortable living room and small dining area. His bedroom offered a view of the city skyline, and it already felt more like home than Christine’s house ever had. But as Snake was carefully arranging a few framed photographs—the Zits; himself, Jack, and Emma; fragments of his unexamined life—it occurred to him that something was missing.

School was different too, subtly distorted and unsettled. He and Darcy perfected the art of discretion during the day—it turned out that Darcy had learned a few lessons in that area from her ex-boyfriend. Despite their efforts, Snake was relentlessly terrified that they’d be found out, that someone would read into the tiniest of glances—stumbled words or jagged breaths. He was so focused on appearing normal that it wore him out. He’d collapse on his new queen-sized mattress late at night and exhale a day’s worth of held-in air.

Some nights, Darcy would lie besides him. It was their ritual for nearly a month now. Her parents believed that her social life had improved dramatically, or that she was studying constantly, or whatever they needed to believe to convince themselves that their daughter was healing. These imaginary friends were responsible, too: Snake made a point to have her home before midnight.

It was these moments that Snake appreciated the most—when they seemed almost unbreakable, hidden away from the world and cozy within the freshly painted walls of a home not yet a home. They’d lie in bed together and it wasn’t about anything sexual, it was about safety, it was about comfort and honest communication. She nestled in close to him and pressed her small hand against the fabric of his shirt while he absentmindedly stroked her fingers and her arm, and the shadows of scars on her wrist, pressing soft kisses to the top of her head.

“Do you miss them?” she’d ask, because it wasn’t about her anymore. It was about him too, and it was about them.

“Yeah,” he would whisper, not missing a beat. “I do.”

“What do you think will happen?” she’d ask.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you want to happen?” she’d say, and hold her breath from all that it might possibly imply.

He’d be silent, thinking. “Ideally… I’d like to see Jack on weekends. But I know that Spike is going to fight for full custody, and I’m going to let her… because I left.” Darcy stirred uneasily, and Snake reflexively drew her in closer, correcting himself—“Because I had to leave. Because there was somewhere else I was meant to be.”

Darcy would smile. “And what about Emma?”

“Emma…” He’d trail off, wondering if he knew the answer. “She’ll forgive, in time. I hope.”

That was how it was. The conversation would digress into an impassioned kiss or two, but they’d find themselves in it again eventually, words lucid and flowing, wanting to understand the other completely, never growing tired or bored.

“It’s all my fault,” she said one night. “I seduced you.”

Snake couldn’t help laughing. “What!”

“I did!” She was grinning too, her eyes bright and knowing, guiltily enjoying the secret they shared. “I brought you to that retreat house and climbed into bed with you—the retreat house. Last I checked, that’s the one place you’re really not supposed to sin.”

Snake smiled and said nothing, because if anything was a sin, it was this. He wasn’t religious like Darcy was—the last time he had prayed was just moments before he found out that his cancer was in remission. Since then, he never felt any reason to. He wondered if maybe he should start.

“Do you think what we’re doing is a sin?” Darcy asked suddenly.

Snake froze, trying to think of a noncommittal answer that would be as convincing as the obvious yes. “Darcy, you know I’m not rel—” he began, but was interrupted by her lips on his, forceful and demanding, her tongue inside his mouth searching for the answers that she knew he couldn’t provide.

He felt her hands tugging at the hem of his shirt and he lifted himself, breaking the kiss for just a moment as she pulled it over his head, her hands cool and delicate against his bare chest. His body was responding in ways for which he was still unprepared, and now he was praying, hoping to God that she couldn’t feel him through his jeans and hers, pressing rudely against her, but he realized that of course she did.

Almost in response, she began trailing kisses down the side of his neck, his collarbone and his shoulders, and suddenly she sat upright. Within seconds, her own shirt lay discarded on the floor.

“What if I stay the night?” she whispered between labored breaths. Snake’s eyes widened, absorbing the image of her tiny frame, of smooth tanned skin and small breasts in a light blue bra. She looked so fragile. So young. His initial sense of ecstasy suddenly shifted to one of shame.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said, pulling himself up.

She smiled, not getting it. “I know you want to,” she said, smirking and glancing down meaningfully. Snake said nothing, his embarrassment building. “And so do I.”

“Darcy…” Snake shook his head, sighing. “You can’t stay.”

Again she misunderstood, laughing. “I can! It’s Friday. My parents think I’m at Manny’s. It’s not unheard of for me to sleep over,” she said, logically.

Avoiding her gaze, he reached down to pick her shirt up off the floor and handed it to her. Her smile disappeared instantly. “I can’t let you stay,” he said softly.

“I want to do this,” she repeated, sounding desperate. “Snake, please.”

He brushed a loose strand of hair out of her fearful eyes and offered a small smile. “No, you don’t. Not now. Not yet.”

“I’m not a virgin,” she said defensively, and Snake nearly cringed. “We won’t be doing anything I haven’t already done.”

“You know that what happened to you doesn’t count.”

“‘What happened to me’?” she echoed mockingly, angrily. “Rape. I was raped.”

“Darcy, if we sleep together, and someone like your parents or Ms. Hatzilakos finds out about us, the court is going to see this as rape too.”

It was one of those things, like anything else—words that are regretted the moment they leave the mouth, and they can never be taken back. Snake knew immediately that it was too harsh, that he had gone too far, that she might never forgive him—and even that he might be better off she never did. As horrible as his statement was, it was true. Her near-bare body just inches away was scaring the crap out of him. Because she was so young, and his student, and a rape victim—a rape victim who had yet to tell a single adult about her dilemma except the one with whom she was constantly fooling around.

Tears formed in her eyes and she shook her head violently. Snake reached out to put his hand on her shoulder and she shrunk away from him as he imagined her shrinking still, evaporating right before his eyes. “I can’t believe you just said that to me.” Her voice was low and devoid of feeling.

Snake couldn’t even think of an adequate response. He sat motionless, stunned by his own directness, his words still weighing heavy on them both. “I’m just… not… comfortable with this,” he said finally.

Darcy stared blankly at some vibrant nothing on the far end of the room. “Yeah. I got that. You made it pretty clear.”

“With sex,” Snake clarified. “I didn’t mean… it’s not that I’m not comfortable with you.”

Her gaze settled back to him. “Are you sure about that?”

He hesitated, and she knew, and she rightfully got up, pulled her shirt swiftly over her head, and walked across his bedroom and down the hall. He shuddered as he heard the apartment door slammed shut, sending angry waves reverberating back to the bed as he recoiled, tossed and shaken, the mattress proving useless armor against the sudden, violent crash.