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.