Freckles ... part four
by Thalia
Rating: PG-13
She typically wasn't one for parties, but it was a Friday, for once she
had no English homework, and even Raye was going to this one. Lita
smiled wryly to herself as she followed Raye out of their dorm building
and down the street. It seemed that the preppy-looking blond boy who
worked the front desk downstairs finally wore her roommate's
determination down and managed, possibly by blackmail or hypnosis, to
secure her roommate's promise to grace him with the pleasure of her
company that night. Poor Jake-- or was it James?-- well, whoever it was.
He probably had no idea that Raye was a belligerent drunk.
And so she found herself surrounded by sweaty, dancing bodies in the
living room of Sigma Chi, watching her roommate dancing with the blond
kid of the uncertain name, whose face was effused with an expression of
perfect awe at Raye's attire of leather skirt and va-va-voom red tank
top. And not for the first time in her life, she felt terribly lonely.
"Theresa would absolutely *spaz* if she knew what I was doing," she
muttered to herself as she picked up a glass of the punch and a jello-
shot, downing one, then the other in quick succession. But she didn't
care about Theresa, and the realization struck her right then and there
that there wasn't a single person in the world that she could really
"disappoint".
"Get a grip, Oakley," she muttered to herself. "You're at a party. Stop
moping, have another drink, and get your ass on the dance floor before
people start thinking there's something wrong with you."
Nevertheless, it took all of her determination to do just that. But the
room started to blur comfortably, and she grabbed the hand of the
nearest guy as "Baby's Got Back" by Sir Mix-A-Lot blared on.
Two hours later she wasn't sure what music was playing any more-- some
R&B chick, at any rate-- and the pleasant blurriness of the room was
starting to become a rather nauseating spinning. Whichever guy she was
dancing with right now was a bit too close and had his hands on her ass,
and she wasn't coordinated enough to dodge him.
"I don't want to go anywhere with you," she snapped loudly, but it came
out slurred, more like "Idunwannagoaneariyou", and he didn't seem to
understand. But before she could shove him away, a pair of strong,
masculine hands had pulled her away from the guy, and she looked up
blearily into Nick Steller's face. Strange... she'd never seen him
looking so stern before.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" Nick Steller was bellowing
at the other guy over the blare of the music. "Can't you tell she
doesn't want to do anything with you? She's DRUNK, not a whore!"
Or angry. He looked ready to get into a brawl. The other guy gave Nick
an odd look, though. "What the fuck, dude? Just havin' some fun here...
's not like she's your girlfriend or something."
"Your fun's over, and you can keep your hands *away* from Lita," Nick
growled, steering her away from the press of the crowd by her shoulders.
Turning around before the other guy could answer, he faced her. "Here,
Lita... let's get you some fresh air."
~*~
The floor seemed to shift under her feet with every step she took, and
she found herself leaning heavily against him. "Why did you do that?"
she asked bemusedly.
"Because he was being an asshole," he scowled. "Taking advantage of the
situation like that." He tactfully didn't make any more remarks about
how much she'd been drinking as he led her to the porch swing, which was
miraculously empty. Sitting her down, he surveyed her stormy face. "Want
to talk about things?"
"No," she snapped, and for a few moments, they were silent. And then she
took a deep breath. Inhale, exhale. "How do you think it feels to be
completely alone?" she asked suddenly.
"Feels like shit," he answered simply. She raised her face, tragic in
the moonlight, and he felt almost like crying. She wasn't a little girl
any more, and certainly didn't look it, wearing that skimpy little green
top and a khaki skirt that showed off those long legs, but her eyes were
unguarded now, a bit glassy with alcohol, and those long eyelashes were
beaded with tears. With the eight freckles he still counted on her nose
and that lost look, it was almost as though she was a child again-- a
child who'd just lost her parents. He wrapped an arm around her
shoulders and pulled her closer, and she didn't pull away.
"I should be glad I got adopted by a good family," she slurred, balling
her hands into fists. "Colonial bungalow, white picket fence, church
every Sunday. But it's not the same. I can't love them. I'm not what
Theresa wants for a daughter and I don't care. I'm NOT her daughter. And
I don't know what my mom would have wanted... but I'd do *anything*
right now to have her see me and yell at me for underage drinking." She
shook in his arms and he realized that she had started crying-- the
first time he'd ever seen her crying since they were just kids.
And he hadn't teased her this time, and all he could do was hold her and
brush his fingers over her tumbled, glossy hair, which was definitely
not in pigtails. He couldn't tell her that everything would be all
right, because this was strange territory-- he didn't know how to handle
it, and for a few moments, he simply let her let it out. Finally, she
looked up, the makeup that she'd put on running a little down her
cheeks. "You didn't have to stay," she whispered.
"I know," he answered simply. He didn't give any reasons. The swing
rocked gently, and suddenly, her face changed. He barely had the time to
hold her hair away from her face before she threw up onto the concrete
in front of her.
"We need to get you out of here," he muttered, helping her up. She was
completely drained, and he half-led, half-carried her back towards the
house, searching for her roommate. But Raye was nowhere to be seen, and
neither was James-- the only other person he knew here who had access to
Beverley Hall. He frowned-- the party was getting progressively rowdier,
and from the looks of it, she needed to go home and rest. Certainly, he
couldn't leave her here for the wolves, not in this state.
"Screw it," he muttered, ushering her back out. His place was just a
block away, and if he recalled correctly, Kevin was away at Mina's,
ostensibly to help his girlfriend with homework but really just to get
laid. Regardless, no one would protest or talk about him bringing Lita
Oakley over so she could sleep off the intoxication, or ask any stupid
questions.
Ten minutes later, they were in his apartment building. He managed to
hold her steady with one hand while unlocking the door with the other,
and then he led her in, kicking random books and shoes out of the way.
She slumped against him, teetering on her high heeled sandals, and he
caught her before she could fall and break something.
"I think you need to go to bed," he murmured as she leaned her head
against his shoulder, her hair tickling his nose. She made no response,
and he stooped slightly, wrapping one arm under her knees and picking
her up. The thought struck him that this might be the first and last
time Lita Oakley let him this close, but instead of elation, all he felt
was a sense of desolation that life had broken her and hardened her so.
She was soft in his arms, her head leaning against his shoulder and her
hair smelling like almonds and honey, and it saddened him that at all
other times, she was brittle and sharp as glass.
He set her down on his bed and turned down the covers. Pouring her a
glass of water, he watched her drink it down before taking off her shoes
and setting them on the floor by the bed. "Go to sleep, all right?" he
said softly. "I'll be outside if you need anything."
She made no response, and he saw, by the weak light of his reading lamp,
that she was already asleep. Pulling the covers up to her chin, he
refilled the glass and left it on the nightstand with a couple of
aspirins. Grabbing a shirt and a blanket out of his closet, he left the
room, shutting the door quietly behind him.
It was the least he could do after everything, right? Any decent guy
would've done the same. There was nothing wrong with wanting to see her
smile again, was there?
Nick shrugged and made his way towards the shower. It was nearly one in
the morning, and he was too tired to try to psychoanalyze his own
behaviour. He took a quick shower and made his way to the couch, lying
down and pulling the blanket over himself. He closed his eyes and fell
asleep to wavering images of two faces of the same girl-- at eight and
at eighteen, big green eyes and a few freckles sprinkled over her nose.
Tonight, for a few moments, they were the same face.
He did get his wish to see her like she was back then again, and it
wasn't what he wanted after all.
-end part four
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