Title: The Boy Saw A Comet
Author: heythereanna (Anna)
Pairings: Conrad Hawkins/Brooke Davis
Rating: MATURE; Language, Adult Content
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing, even though I wish I could take Mark Schwahn's position and remake seasons four through nine of One Tree Hill.
Author's Note: Hey all! Thank you so much for your awesome reviews and follows, I'm really having fun writing this story. I hope this chapter finds you all safe and healthy during this troubled times, enjoy!
Playlist: Palace, Cam (cover of the Sam Smith original). Mixed Drinks About Feelings, Eric Church. Once, Maren Morris.

- - - - x - - - -

She hasn't aged a day.

It's the only thing that goes through Conrad's mind as he stands there, frozen in shock. His eyes are glued to her as she sinks into Jude's embrace. Her eyes are closed, her face buried in his chest, her arms wrapping around his waist. Conrad feels his chest tighten as Jude presses a kiss to the side of her head, his hands already clenching the side of the bed so hard it might give way beneath his grasp. That's not where she needs it, he thinks to himself, kiss her forehead you'll make her feel safe again. His jaw fuses shut as the words die on his tongue and the flames that scorches them to ashes burn his sealed shut lips as he tries not to scream, because Jude's doing the whole perfect boyfriend that walked straight out a romantic comedy, white lab coat and all. But Conrad takes solace in the fact that he will never know Brooke Davis the way that he does. Never.

"Why Conrad, you look like you've seen a ghost. Care to share with the class?"

Peyton finally pipes up from the bed, her hands folded in her lap. She's as cool as a cucumber while she observes the three of them, and when he looks at her in confusion, it hits him. She knows. She knows exactly who he is and what he had once been to the woman standing just outside the door. Of course she does. He'd heard Brooke talk about her at length - but at that time, none of it was good. Something about a high school boyfriend who she'd caught sleeping around, which led her to her spending the next two years making sure that she could get the hell out of her hometown and away from them.

He's not sure if he should thank her or cuss her out for getting Brooke to run away to New York. Thank her for bringing his first real love into his life; cuss her out for bringing him the worst heartbreak he's ever felt to this day. Maybe he should do both.

"So, you're the famous Peyton." Conrad remarks with a smirk, shaking his head. From the stories Brooke had told him, she'd been a man stealing whore, a destroyer of worlds and a breaker of hearts - not someone that she would want to fly around the country for medical treatment. "Pretty different from the stories I was told, but that was also eight years ago."

She snorts, rolling her eyes. "Oh lord, freshman year of college? I can only imagine." Peyton grimaces, the memories not too fond. "I was in California with her first love by then - I'm sure you've heard that story. The one where I stole her boyfriend and then dated him for the next six years. Which by the way, happened two years before we even graduated high school and she slept with my ex-boyfriend while he and I were dating, so I'm not completely awful. Just selfish, insecure, neurotic and real goddamn stupid when it comes to men."

Conrad can't help the laugh that rises, folding his arms across his chest. Small towns always led to the best love triangles, or at least that's what he'd been told by...well, by Brooke. "Yeah, something' like that. Maybe a little bit more colorful language, but that's the gist of it."

Her gaze shifts, that omniscient look back in her eyes. Peyton is all seeing, all knowing, and apparently hell bent on making him squirm. "And you two were up in New York." She muses, tucking a stray curl behind her ear as she gauges his reaction. When he doesn't, she presses on. "I heard the stories when I'd come home about some third year pre-med student that she'd fallen head over heels for when she was at Parsons, you two...you were quite the story back in Tree Hill. Something about a bet over a game of pool?"

He shifts uncomfortably, awkwardly even, as his mind begins to play a slideshow of his relationship with Brooke. He can hear her voice in his head like he had just been there a moment before, that wild look in her eyes when he'd come upon her at a shit hole in the wall in Queens.

"Are you two gonna ever finish up? We're trying to get a game before we die of old age, if that's alright with you two."

He looks up from his pool cue, his muscular frame poised over the table. He's about five beers in, so for a second he thinks he's dreaming her up. His eyes hit her skin tight faded jeans first, slowly crawling up the generous curves of her body that are hidden beneath her tied up white t-shirt, past the turquoise and gold necklace that hangs over the fabric, up along the creamy white skin of her jawline until he's staring into her eyes. Honey, that's what they remind him of, the honey that he puts in his green tea every morning before he goes to class, and he's in completely awe of her. Her dark brown waves have been pulled back into a ponytail, the soft tendrils that frame her face not blocking the hazel gaze filled with either intrigue or irritation - he's too disarmed from the dazzlingly cocky smile on her glossed lips. He would have told any other girl to fuck off, that he'd find her later to put her in her place. But she's not some bar fly, not some med school groupie, not even close.

She's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen in his life, bar none, and there's no way that he's going to fuck up a chance to get behind her with a pool cue.

He's wearing a heavy smirk as he rises from his shot, his swagger showing as he leans against the table. "Tell you what, Pretty Girl." He says with a laugh, holding his arms out to his sides as he welcomes her challenge with confidence. "You beat me, the table all yours."

Her eyes are wildfire as she leans down, her palms resting on the table. The brunette kinks an eyebrow in what looks to be amusement, laughing ever so gently. The sound is raspy as she smirks, and it sends an unforgettable chill up his spine. "And if I lose?" She bats her long dark eyelashes so innocently, as if she's actually entertaining that it might happen. Her words have just a twinge of a Southern accent and it's hotter than hell. A Tennessee boy meets a Southern belle in a bar - it sounds like the beginning of a love story, but lord knows he doesn't do love.

He grins from ear to ear, leaning down just enough to get to her level. His ego surges through him as his palms splay out, his eyes ravaging her frame as he imagines his hands sliding along that creamy porcelain skin - and he'd be lying if he said he didn't feel the heat shoot through him from just the thought of her in his bed. His gaze finally makes its way back up to her sensual lips, his tongue skating along his bottom lip as he wonders what she tastes like. "I get to take you home."

The offer makes her laugh, the husky giggle making his faded jeans tighten mercilessly. She's got him ready and waiting, and he hasn't even touched her yet. Fuck she's trouble, and he knows it from the second she starts to walk around the table to him.

He turns to her when she gets as close as possible, his free hand instinctively reaching out to her hip. She tilts her head as he slides a finger into her belt loop out of what somehow feels like habit. Her hand slides over his and around the stick, her nails scraping his skin just enough to make him growl wordlessly in satisfaction. She leans against him generously, her Patron scented breath warming his jawline as her chest presses to his. He can feel every inch of her through the thin t-shirt she's wearing and he nearly lifts her onto the table and strips her down right then and there.

She takes the pool stick from his hand and leaving him hanging in the wind, the same throaty laugh that makes him groan internally. She grins mischievously as she sashays to the other side of the table, his eyes following the movement of her hips hungrily. Oh, she's definitely going to be trouble for him.

"Throw in my bar bill and you're on, Broody."

He nods, trying to push his memories for his mind. She'd won the first game, he'd won the second, and they were too busy making out in a back booth of the bar to finish the third. The rest is history, their beautifully unfinished history that he needs to stay that way - but Peyton's sole goal seems to dredge it up from the depths of their past. And for what, her own amusement? "Maybe I should be asking you to share, since you're the one pulling the strings." Conrad deadpans as he checks her IV bag, busying himself.

The blonde smirks, shrugging slightly. "Who, me? No, not the feeble cancer patient with a tumor the size of a grapefruit bouncing around her uterus. I couldn't possibly be in charge of this little rodeo that I've gotten roped into." She mocks in a tone that he can only describe as manipulative - but maybe that's just because he's furious. "I couldn't have possibly tracked you down. Haven't you heard? I don't have the time to waste. I'm dying, after all."

"B-" Conrad starts, but her name dies on his tongue as he looks at her again. Her eyes are closed, those liquid gold orbs of light that he had once swore up and down could fuck him up more than any drink or drug or cure that could be prescribed. His gaze turns to his patient once more, heavy with insistence. "She wouldn't get ten feet of this hospital if she had known that I worked here, let alone that I would be the resident on your case. Not to mention, you could've gone anywhere. Los Angeles, Dallas, Seattle, hell even Switzerland. And you decide come to Chastain, even after the hell storm we've just gone through?"

Peyton raises an eyebrow, tilting her head just enough to feign ignorance. "Doctor Bell is a family friend of Brooke's father. They golf together whenever Ted touches down in Atlanta." She says matter of fact, but her eyes tell him different. "He was the one who approached us about Chastain after Ted happened to mention to him that his daughter's best friend had been diagnosed with the mother of all ovarian tumors, with that hack of an oncologist in tow - and from what I heard from Brooke's little temper tantrum, she was just selling me a pipe dream about keeping everything that makes me a woman. And Jude, in case you're wondering how that happened, met her at some hoity-toity fundraiser for Cedars Sinai nine months ago; they started dating three months later. And I'm sure with your incredible medical talents, you can move past your ego and see in my chart that my diagnosis..."

"Came three weeks ago." He sighs out with frustration. "But that still doesn't explain why you're here."

Her gaze remains fixated on his, a small but confident smile gracing her lips. "Randolph mentioned some brilliant resident that had been a protege of Lane's before he'd changed to internal medicine, some hot shot two tour Marine with more talent than decorum who'd come to them straight out of the top of Emory's medical school, well..." Peyton confesses, shrugging once more. "It didn't take much to put two and two together."

Brooke had been right eight years ago. Peyton Sawyer is a meddling pain in the ass. But she's also his patient, so screaming at her isn't exactly an option. Conrad's eyes narrow as he calmly resumes his examination, trying not to draw too much attention from the figures in the hallway. "I'm dating someone, Peyton. I'm happy. I'm happy with her, and she's clearly happy with him...so why would you do this? Regardless of my situation...don't you want her to be happy with a good guy? Because Jude is. He's a good man"

"There's no way in hell that you're this dumb, but if it is you should not be a doctor." She sighs out with a laugh. Peyton moves her hands as he goes back to feeling through her abdomen, the tumor hard beneath his hands. She winces, a grimace of agony appearing on her lips "Alright, that hurts." Peyton gasps out as she shudders into the bed.

He pulls his hands away from her body, understanding the outrage in the hall. He knows the scans aren't showing her current margins, his brow furrowing ever so slightly at the severity of his realization. Conrad stays beside her, looking down at her for some sort of explanation. "Why, Peyton. Why bring her here, when we're both happy with other people? Why do this?"

"What can I say, prolonged death has brought out my bitchy side." Peyton says with a laugh, but there's something different this time. Tears are forming in her eyes as she bites down on her lower lip, wringing her hands. She's vulnerable, and for the first time...he can see how afraid she is. She finally inhales, wiping furiously at her tears before she looks up at him with glassy brown eyes. "You know what she says about love, right?"

He doesn't move a muscle, looking down at her in disbelief. He can hear her say it before he speaks, his lips turning into a semblance of a smile. "You can't choose who you love?" Conrad offers, his voice almost nostalgic.

Peyton shakes her head gingerly, relaxing into the bed. She smiles, soft and serene, as she takes his hand in hers and gives it a squeeze. "Close, but not quite." She murmurs, and he can tell that her energy is beginning to give way. Her voice is breathy barely above a whisper, and her words fall from her lips like a gentle rain.

"People that are meant to be together always find their way in the end."

And right then, when he's completely lost for words, the door opens.

- - - - x - - - -

"We can go in now, baby."

Brooke hovers there for a moment, standing just a few feet from the doorway. She's been quiet, too quiet, and she knows that Jude is picking up on it. Silence is not her strong suit and to linger in it is a dead giveaway. She's staring at a blank wall as she tries to gather her thoughts, tries to sort them into the simple boxes that her life has become. Peyton, work, and Jude. That had been her life before this moment. Cut and dry, plain and simple, nowhere for thoughts of long lost love and heartache to go. And she likes it that way. Actually, she loves it that way. Despite the chaos that her life carries, it's become calm, safe, so perfectly predictable. She doesn't want to blow it up. She doesn't want a man that she had nearly lost herself for to be the thing that destroys her and Jude. She knows she should tell him, that she should spill her guts as her gaze shifts up to his bright sterling blue eyes.

And yet, she doesn't.

"I need...I need a few minutes with her." Brooke says softly, resting her hands on her boyfriend's toned biceps. She's lying through her teeth because Peyton isn't the one she needs to be alone with, but she knows she's just trying to spare him from her past. "I just...it needs to be just us for a second. No decisions, no scans, no medical jargon. Just..."

Jude nods, an understand smile appearing on his lips. "I know. Just the two of ou. It's okay, really. I'll go get Peyton's tea." He murmurs.

He leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, and she savors it more than he could ever know. This is her serenity prayer, her last moment before she faces the harbinger of her own special heartache. Jude is the harbor to the storm she's about to sail into and for that moment, she clings to him.

"You know that I..." He trails off as he bows his head, resting her forehead against hers. He's about to say those three little words again, and she knows she can't let him.

Her fingers reach up, pressing ever so gently to his lips to quiet him. "I do, Jude. I know." Brooke whispers, nodding as her brow creases. It feels like a goodbye, this little safe haven, but not to him. To life as she knows it. She leans in slowly, her lips pressing to his in a healing kiss. Her hands cup his cheeks, drawing him in as close as she can, and before he can say another word she turns and moves into the room.

It's a death march as she shuts the door behind her, inhaling deeply with a silent prayer for strength. Her steps are slow, cautious at best, but she puts on a brave face for Peyton - despite the fact that she'll know immediately that something's wrong, because that's what being friends for twenty years does. Peyton is a piece of her. But there are some things that not even she knows.

Peyton meets her gaze warily, her forlorn features pulling into a smile. "I thought I was the one who's dying. You look like shit, B. Davis." She says with her signature smirk. Her surge of energy from the flight has worn off and the exhaustion has kicked in at full force, and from the pain in the blonde's eyes, she knows he's already examined the tumor that's grown further north.

Brooke watches as he visibly tenses, every sinewy inch of his body seeming to freeze in place. She smiles weakly, leaning against the door frame. "Yeah, well we can't all be smoke shows like you. Apparently that's just a cancer thing." She quips back.

Her eyes skate back to him, clearly still busying himself with Peyton's examination. He doesn't turn, doesn't even get close to glancing in her direction. His strong jaw is ground tight as he keeps moving along as if she's not there, finally beginning to speak - but of course, not anywhere near directed at her. "I should take you down to the emergency room to give some of my interns a less in pain management, Peyton." He says with a laugh of his own, leaning back and checking on her vitals. "How've you been keeping it at bay in New York?"

Peyton grins from ear to ear, shrugging. "I prefer to go a little bit more of an...herbal route with my pain relief. But it's not exactly easy to transfer my stash over state lines, according to the pilot. Buzzkill." She scrunches her nose at Brooke and sticks out her tongue for good measure, and even the brunette is laughing now. The sigh that follows is enough to let her know that she truly is in pain. She's just putting on a brave face.

But as Peyton looks between the two of them, Brooke knows it's meant to disarm her for whatever's about to come out of her mouth. "Now, since I'm all set...Brooke, are you actually going to introduce yourself to my doctor?"

Her hazel eyes narrow just enough to let Peyton know that she's touched a soft spot, a painful nerve ending hidden beneath her skin that she's praying won't flare up again. She may be peroxide blonde, but she's anything but dumb. "I think you and I both know that we don't need any introductions, P. Sawyer. Since you've orchestrated this complete shit show, which I will most certainly be reaming you out for later in life." Brooke snaps.

"Don't you know you aren't supposed to be bitchy to cancer patients? It's awful karma."

"I think it's pretty awful karma to pull a stunt like this when I'm not even allowed to get mad at you."

"Yeah, the cancer card works pretty great for situations like this."

"Fuck you, Peyton."

"That's enough."

Brooke's silenced by his firm assessment, breathless as he finally turns around to look at her. She gulps back every emotion that runs through her when her eyes meet his. Conrad Hawkins stands before her in all his glory, and it looks like he hasn't aged a day - even if he does look like he might tear her head off at any moment. It only lasts a few seconds, their eyes locking on one another, and he steals every breath she'll ever have just with one stern acknowledgement of her presence. Jesus fuck, she's screwed.

He sighs in frustration, turning back to Peyton with a smirk and a shake of the head. "It's nice to officially meet you, Peyton. Should've happened a long time ago." He looks at her again, his cognac stare stern at best. "Maybe next time, give me a heads up before you drop a bomb on me, just to give me a little bit of chance." He finishes, taking her hand in his and squeezing it ever so gently.

Peyton's enthralled by him, it's clear by the awestruck smile that graces her lips. She breaks her ogling to look back over at Brooke, who feels like she may come unhinged at any moment. But her best friend doesn't give a damn with her defiant grin and her quick volleys. "You know, I can see why you call him Broody. He's cuter than Jude and he's damn near James Bond level charming. You certainly downgraded."

"Oh for fuck's sake Peyton, you have got to to be shitting m-"

She's getting dragged out of the hospital room by Conrad before she can continue hurling her insults, the strength of his hands all the more frustrating as he keeps one firmly grasping her arm and the other painfully wrapped around her hip. Conrad's livid, the vein in his neck bulging a little more than she remembers as he practically bum rushes her down the hallway, and she's steaming the entire way down. Her heads on a swivel for Jude as he throws open a nearby office and practically throws her inside, the door slamming behind them forcefully.

"Are you out of your goddamn mind?!" She snarls as she yanks her hand out of his grasp, rubbing at the now reddened skin. "Get your hands off of me, Conrad!"

She's expecting him to round on her like some sort of animal, to chastise her for speaking to Peyton the way that she did. She's waiting for him to blame her for all of this as she crosses her arms across her chest, guarding herself. She's anticipating fire and brimstone and the Conrad that she knows, the one with a hair trigger temper who likes to start fights just because someone had looked at him - or her - the wrong way. But he doesn't say a word. Conrad just stands there, his eyes latched on her. The silence is deafening as he keeps himself a solid five feet from her. The way he's looking at her is anything but anger. What she's seeing is a sight to behold, one so rare that she can hardly believe her eyes.

Conrad Hawkins, vulnerable.

"Of all the gin joins in all the towns, in all the world..." He sighs, shaking his head. He looks up at her again, the pained expression in his face nearly breaking her heart right then and there. "And she walks into mine."

She rolls her eyes, keeping her arms firmly crossed as she glares at him. It's her movie. Well to be honest, it's their movie. On their first actual date, the one that came after they'd nearly fucked in the back of a dingy bar in Queens when she'd kicked his ass in pool, he'd taken her to an old retro theater in the Village to see Casablanca. She'd found it endearing, since he'd had no idea that her first ideas of love were from the black and white movies that her housekeeper would turn on after she'd thought that Brooke had fallen asleep - and even more so after she'd found out that he'd tracked down her roommates to interrogate them about a date that would impress her.

"Did you like the movie?"

The November air whips around them as they walk through Manhattan. Her hands are shoved in her jacket pockets as they walk together, the frigid temperature bringing a chill to her body. But even with the bitter cold weather, even with the snow that's starting to fall, the way that he's looking at her brings a warmth to her chest. Conrad looks earnest, endearing, sweet even as he looks over at her with a small smile.

Brooke nods as they stop in the street, looking up at him with a grin of her own. "How could anybody not? It's so timeless." She says softly, shrugging ever so slightly. "It's the end of the world as they know it, and all he wants to do is just be with her. But somehow...he knows he can't be selfish with her. He has to let her go for the greater good, and he's just..."

"Selfless." Conrad finishes, looking down at her. There's something in his gaze, something she can't quite put her finger on, as he reaches out and brushes away a snowflake from her dark brown waves. It as if he's the first person that's ever looked at her, his eyes glimmering with wonder, and it takes her breath away. "My mom used to love movies like that, the ones that were all about the pain of love. Gone With The Wind, West Side Story, Camille. She'd watch them constantly." He says quietly, and without even realizing it her hand is threading through his.

"Every girl wants that. Somebody to love them so much that they're willing to sacrifice their happiness to make sure they're safe." Her voice is somber, honest, so unlike the woman that she's portraying herself to be. She snaps back into her normal self without even realizing it, shaking off the thoughts of the past. "So how do you go from growing up on Clark Gable and Natalie wood...to picking up girls in shitty bars with bets you'll never win because your pool game is absolutely hopeless?" She kinks an eyebrow as she speaks, her interest peaked.

He laughs, his voice deep and soft, and his fingertips tighten around hers ever so slightly. "That would be the 'my dad's a raging asshole' card. How about you?"

"Oh, I'm a proud card carrying member of that club, too." Brooke says with a bitter laugh of her own, and her gaze drops to the pavement. "My mom, too. She was more concerned with her social schedule than actually being a mother, so I get a double excuse when it comes to being a whore who lets strangers feel her up in bars."

His fingertips slip beneath her chin, tilting her face up to look at his. She's breathless from the heat in his eyes, the intentions that are so clearly written across his features. He looks angry, disappointed even, but his thumb strokes the skin beneath it ever so gently. "Don't ever call yourself a whore again." Conrad's hand drops hers, sliding up her arm and to her cheek. He holds her there, forcing her to look into his gaze head on. His hands slide to cradle the base of her skull and her lips part expectantly as they entangle into her hair. "You...are anything but that, Pretty Girl."

"Making out with me in a bar in Queens does not qualify you to make a judgement on who I am, even if it's in my favor." Brooke quietly snaps, her voice barely above a whisper. She's completely disarmed, struggling to get her walls up fast enough to keep him out. "You don't know me."

But he's too fast, his lips colliding with hers so powerfully that it shreds all thoughts from her mind. Her hands are up and tugging him further into the kiss before she can stop herself. It's hungry and jagged and borderline painful as her hands grasp his collar, and her lips are bruised when he finally comes up for air. He's smirking as he shakes his head, looking down at her in a way that no one's ever looked at her before. He looks like a man lost in the desert that's found an oasis, like she's saving him, and it scares the shit out of her.

"I think I do know you, Brooke. And I think it scares you as much as it scares me." Conrad murmurs, his hands still holding her close. "In a city of eight million people, you happen to walk into my favorite place and knock me down a peg. Parsons is all the way in Manhattan, and you wind up an hour subway ride away in Queens. That doesn't happen, ever, and somehow...here we are. That has to count for something. It's like what Rick says..." His brown eyes search hers, and she doesn't know what for. But he seems to find it when his lips widen into a grin, his forehead resting against hers. "Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine..."

From that fateful kiss and on, he had been her Rick and she had been his Ilsa, so much so that when he would murmur quotes from the movie whenever he'd pissed her off. He'd look at her with that charming half moon grin he always pulled out of his bag of tricks when he'd mess up, kiss her cheek and murmur the quote before telling her about the first time he'd laid eyes on her, down to the color of the necklace she'd been wearing. She always had would wind up caving, unable to resist him, but when it had all fallen apart she'd found it all the more ironic since their love story had ended in disaster too.

But she's not Ilsa and he's not Rick, because they're not a they anymore. Their ending hadn't been some selfless act for queen and country and the fate of the world as they had known. It had been Conrad, lashing out. Conrad, lying. Conrad, showing her that he would never be the man that she had known he could be. It hadn't been him sending her away because he'd known they both had purposes they had to fulfill. It had been choosing to betray in her in the most painful way possible, because it had been something that couldn't ever be undone, and her walking away as a result.

After all, the US military didn't just let men go because their fiance hadn't been informed that they enlisted behind their back. She'd checked.

She shakes her head, her eyes shooting daggers at him "Fuck you, Conrad. I am not that girl anymore, and you are certainly not that man." Brooke snaps spitefully, doing her absolute best not to meet his gaze. She turns away from him, unable to linger in his sight. "There is no way she didn't know. None."

She can't cave this time, she warns herself. She cannot let him in, not now and not ever. Conrad Hawkins is as bad for her life as he's always been, for her soul, for her future. And Jude...Jude is good. He's kind and sweet and honest and all of the things that she's ever wanted, and right now all she wants to do is forget that the man standing before her exists. Because maybe, just maybe, she'd somehow forget why she needs to forget him in the first place - because he has a pull on her that she still doesn't understand.

He sighs from the other side of the room, soft and slow, and she can hear him take a few steps forward. He doesn't touch her, but she knows he's close enough to reach out to her if he wants. It doesn't matter how long it's been, how many years have passed. His body still calls to her like the goddamn Pied Piper and despite her brain screaming at her that she knows better, her heart is a different story. Nearly a decade has passed and still, she craves him like her next fix. Brooke's eyes involuntarily slip shut as she breathes the rare air around her. It's been nine years. Nine goddamn years, and her skin still sparks with the need for his hands to be on her.

"I get showing up here for her care, I do. Chastain's still the best in the South." His voice is quiet behind her, barely above a murmur. "But dating my former squad mate, that's...you're calling that just a coincidence?"

She nods as tears prick her eyes, trying to breathe normally. "I met him...I met him in New York, some charity function I went to. I didn't know that he even knew you before today." She chokes out, shaking her head.

"Brooke..."

Jesus, even the way he says her name still makes her weak in the knees. She slowly turns to face him, finding him a mere few inches away. She knows that look on his face, the one where he's just itching to touch her. But he restrains himself, and she feels her fists clench as his gaze hardens because deep down she knows what comes next.

"You leave me two days before our wedding, and then almost a decade later you're flying across the country with a guy I served with? Don't lie to me, Brooke. You're better than that."

There he is, Brooke thinks to herself as her lips curl up into a sneer. There's the man that she'd chose to leave, the one who'd socked his father in the jaw at their rehearsal dinner for revealing some less than flattering information about his son to her. There's the man that had rounded on her like some wild animal when she'd tried to pull him off, the one who she had realized she couldn't ever truly trust. The real Conrad rears his ugly, jealous head and she's grateful that he's done it so soon.

"No, Conrad. That is me moving on with a man who I had no idea was remotely attached to you. Because if I'd have known that Jude had served with you in that godforsaken hell hole, I'd have run in the other direction." Brooke viciously shoots back, her eyes narrowed dangerously. Her hands drop to her side in clenched fists. "You cannot be that self centered that you think that I chose to fall for someone based on their connection to you. You're not that stupid."

He laughs. He honest to god laughs at her, and she knows that she's wounded him. His eyes are dark, almost chocolate brown, and she can practically predict his next move. "So you leave me because I enlist, and then the next guy that you attempt to settle down with is a two tour vet?" Conrad lets out another dark chuckle, shaking his head. "Pretty shitty move on your part, don't you think? Dump one soldier just to go fuck another one?"

Her hand lashes out on pure impulse, slapping him square across his perfectly chiseled jaw with a thunderous crack. Brooke watches him stagger back, repulsed by his words. How dare her? How dare he trivialize the ending of their relationship for sport? How could he use that as a shot right now? The tears that had formed in her eyes burn like poison as they dry, her voice venomous as he looks at her with regret.

"Don't you fucking dare. You don't get to stand there and judge me for my decision that I made nine years ago before I even knew that men like Jude existed." Her words are acid violently spewing from her mouth with every ounce of hate and anger that she's endured.

Brooke doesn't stop as Conrad rises, as he tries to interrupt her. "Brooke..."

"You have no right to stand here and make me out to be some whore, Conrad. None. I make no apologies for how I chose to repair what you broke. None. And for the record? I left you because you enlisted two weeks before our wedding behind my back, not because you decided to serve your country. And that, Conrad, is on you. And you don't get to call me a whore!"

She doesn't care that Conrad looks like she just cut him down to size, that he finally appears like the child that he's behaving as. She doesn't care because she wants him to hurt as badly as she had the second she saw that nurse wearing what she now clearly knows had been her ring. She wants Conrad Hawkins to burn as badly as she does, even if it means setting herself on fire right along with him.

- - - - x - - - -

She's shaking.

He realizes it just after her lightning quick slap has nearly rocked him off of his feet, while his head hangs there frozen with the imprint of her palm stretched across his cheek as she lays into him. Somewhere in the middle of her spitefully vicious snarls he finally manages to raise his head, to meet her gaze, and he sees her. She's trembling with rage and hurt and vulnerability, and it takes everything in him not to reach out and comfort her because it's all he knows how to do.

He wants to take everything he's just said back, because he knows what a fucking jackass he is for saying it. He knows that he can better than this, because he is better. He's not the man that he had been when he'd loved her, the one who would've set the world on fire just to watch it burn. He's become the good guy that slays dragons and champions the sick, injured and uninsured. He's become Nic's good boyfriend, the one that she's proud to be with, the one whose hand she holds when she walks out of the hospital. He's a man with passion and drive, with purpose and goals, with ethics and morals. Conrad is a man who knows who he is, for better or worse, and he knows who he isn't. He is not the guy who slut shames a girl because he's hurt by her actions. He's not the vindictive and out of control bastard that lost Brooke in the first place. He's not the guy that starts fights everywhere he goes because he wants to watch someone bleed. He's not the guy that says the wrong thing and ends up losing everything. He's grown up, he's matured. He can't be that hot headed medical student that he'd been all those years ago, because he isn't that man anymore.

So how does seeing her with Jude, seeing her with anyone, still enough to drive him bat shit crazy with jealousy? How is it still enough to turn him into that man again?

His medical license, his apartment, his pick up truck, his vinyl record collection; he'll give her whatever she wants as long as she stops looking at him like he's single worst thing that has ever happened to her. His kidney, his liver, his tongue, his spleen; he'll cut out whatever's left of his bloodied soul with a dull scalpel and serve it to her on a platter over a tossed salad if it will soothe her pain. He'll give her whatever the hell he wants if she'll just stop hating him.

But from the virulent sheen in her eyes he knows that it doesn't matter what earthly gifts he can give her, no matter how lavish or masochistic the offering. She doesn't care that Conrad's heart is being ripped out of his body with her biting tone, that every word she yells is like a pound of salt being rubbed into his now empty chest cavity, that tears are starting to form in his eyes. She wants him to hurt, wants him to feel the same rage that's coursing through her - and the worst part is, he doesn't blame her.

Conrad closes his eyes, his brow furrowing in pain. She finally stops yelling, standing before him shivering with an inferno like temper that's threatening to explode. He's not sure of what to say, of what will make this all better, and mostly because he knows he isn't the one to make things better for her anymore. She's not his to be aching for, to be yearning for, and he can't go through this every day. He can't see her like this, beautiful and broken and somehow the most resilient woman he's ever met, and not be that man for her. For better or worse, Brooke is still his weakness. The difference is, this time he knows it.

"I think it would be better if another resident took this case." Conrad murmurs, his eyes slowly opening. "For...both of us."

He realizes as soon as the words leave his mouth, that it must be the last thing she wants to hear. She's stunned, to say the least. Brooke looks like he's just sucker punched her, her mouth hanging open just enough to show her shock. He'd like to say that he's forgotten how stunning she is, how even when she's crying she looks absolutely radiant, but that would be a complete and utter lie, and she still takes his breath away. Her hazel eyes glisten with unshed tears as she tries to compose herself, clearly struggling with keeping her words at a reasonable volume and tone.

"If it were up to me, I'd tell you to go to hell and ask for you to be removed. But Peyton..." Brooke's voice hoarse, just rough enough for her to clear her throat as tears brim in her eyes. She wipes away any traitors that have fallen, and he remembers how much she hates to be vulnerable in front of people. "Peyton deserves the best, she needs the best, which everyone says that you are. I know we have our history.."

"Can you honestly say that you're going to be okay seeing me every day?" Conrad asks softly, taking another step closer to her. He's mere inches from her now, so close that he can smell her perfume. He breathes it in and almost smiles at the familiar scent of jasmine and magnolia, but he stops himself. He shouldn't have to do this, he thinks to himself. He shouldn't have to side step around her like she's scattered a dozen eggshells around her feet as protection from him. He isn't the one who left her, she did that. If it hadn't been for her choice, she'd have become Mrs. Brooke Davis-Hawkins, maybe even the mother of his children by now; Jude wouldn't be near her, at least not like this.

Jude.

Conrad's heart hardens at the thought of the two of them together. Sure, it's sweet gentle embraces and kisses when they're in the hospital, but he knows Brooke. He'd been with her for two years. He knows what's it's like to be in a relationship with her, how in tune she is with her body, how she craves being needed and loved and savored. He knows those insatiable urges, the one that sneak into her bloodstream at three in the morning because she has too much on her mind and needs to find a way to calm her thoughts. He knows what it's like to be the only salvation to her wounds, to be the cure to every strife her body carries. He knows what she's like behind closed doors, how absentmindedly running a hand along the base of neck while cooking dinner could lead to shoving everything and anything off the countertop because her hunger strays from whatever's on the stove to the most carnal urges that linger in her soul. He had been the one that had practically drawn the goddamn map to making her scream with pleasure, not Jude. He knows what spots to press his lips to, where to trace circles with his fingertips, where to grasp and hold on for dear life. He know when to be tender with her, when to be rough, when to worship her until she knows that she's the only thing that keeps him upright and breathing, when to take control her and show her exactly how possessive he can be. He knows when to take her to bed and when to take her wherever the hell he may be, how to make her moan his name in sheer need, how to make her fall apart with nothing but a flick of his tongue.

He knows that, not Jude. Those were once his territories, his claim to Brooke Penelope Davis stretching far and wide across every glorious inch of her voluptuous body - and yet, his former best friend is now the one who goes to bed with her every night and fuck her seven ways from Sunday if he wants. He's the one that gets to have visions of grandeur with her, plan with her, love her, cherish her, maybe even marry her. He gets to have the future that Conrad had once been promised. He'll fall asleep beside her, her leg wrapped around him like an ivy to brick while her head rises and falls with his breathing, and know that when he wakes she'll be right beside him with a sleepy sated smile on her lips. He gets to satisfy her hopes, build up her dreams. He gets to carry her worries, to hold her hand when hardships reach her. He is now the object of Brooke's affection, the center of her universe, the man that Conrad had so desperately wanted to be for the rest of his time in this world.

And it makes him want to murder Jude Silva with his bare hands.

It all runs through his head as he stands there, watching her struggle with the question. Every little thought twists the knife that she'd left in his heart all of those years ago a little deeper and the fresh wounds to his pride score like brands. Conrad feels it change him, feels his control begin to slip away, and his jaw clenches in physical pain. "Because I don't think I can be. I can't watch you...with him and be okay with that. I can't be comfortable with the two of you...together." Conrad finishes. His fists are balled up, his shoulders have tensed and his entire body feels the anger he'd claimed to let go of rush through him.

Brooke winces, shaking her head in disbelief. "Why? Because it's not you?" She scoffs, and his blood practically boils from her tone. "Jesus Christ, Conrad. It's been nine years. Do you have any idea how petty you sound right now?"

Conrad's lashing out before he has a chance to think about what he's saying, before he can check his disdain, and his words are nothing short of vicious. "Don't flatter yourself, Brooke. If you want to go and fuck Jude, go right ahead - but it's inappropriate at best and a breach of ethics at worst. You're his patient's point of contact. It's wrong, and deep down you know it too."

As if like magic, he watches her transform in the blink of an eye. The cool, calm and collected CEO of a billion dollar company claims her body as its own, a woman who so clearly commands the attention of every boardroom she walks into and simply doesn't accept the word "no". It throws him off, leaves him standing there dumbfounded as he watches the woman he used to know inside and out shift into someone he doesn't even recognize.

"Let me make myself clear, Conrad." Brooke says savagely, her voice quiet but powerful all at once. "I do not give a damn if it's uncomfortable to you. So get past our history because that woman in there? She's my family. She is the closest thing I have to a sister and the most important person in my life. So when I say that you need to be on your A game, I am not talking to you as your ex-fiance. I am talking to as the CEO of one of the most profitable fashion empires in the world. I am talking to you as a woman who donates millions of dollars every year to the medical community, who could and very possibly will single-handedly provide the funds for Chastain to get back on its feet after this debacle with Lane Hunter. And if you can't get past who I'm choosing to fuck, then that won't just be your loss. It'll be your hospital's. Your doctors. Your nurses. And that will hang directly on your shoulders."

He pauses, letting her words resonate. Her words are sharp, puncturing every inch of his body as he struggles to stay upright. He finds himself searching her hazel eyes for his Brooke, his Pretty Girl, his world...and she's not there. He nods wordlessly, trying to find a way out of this because seeing her like this, some cold hearted version of the girl he'd once loved, is the most painful thing he's ever endured. "She should have the hysterectomy, Brooke." Conrad replies, meeting her gaze once more. "It's the only way they can find out how deep this thing goes, if they can even get it out in the firs-"

"I will take your opinion, as well as the opinions of Dr. Silva and Dr. Bell under advisement and discuss it with Peyton. Now if you'll excuse me, Doctor Hawkins, I'd like to get back to your patient so she and I can discuss her options." Brooke say tartly as she turns on her heels, walking quickly towards the door. She stalls at the entrance, her hand on the knob, and he's half expecting her to turn back to him and start screaming again.

But she doesn't.

She lingers there for a beat, the only sound in the room their heavy breathing. He longs to walk over to her and embrace her, to stroke her hair the way he knows calms and and tell her that everything is going to be, even if he has to destroy anyone else around them to do it. He wants to be her rock, her safe place, her Broody. But he knows he can't as Nic pops into his mind, and he lets out a beleaguered sigh that practically echoes against the silence.

Finally, just when he's about to speak up and tell her that he'll do it, she turns to him. Her face is somber, wistful even, and the ghost of a smile that crosses her lips is creased with pain. Her lacquered lips part, and her voice is as soft as a whisper. "But somehow...just because you despise me, you are the only one I trust." Brooke murmurs as she looks at him with tearful eyes, and his heart practically stops in his chest as she leaves him with nothing but a Casablanca quote and an empty office for him to break down in.

And that's exactly what he does.

Conrad lets the sob that he's been holding in rip through him as he stumbles forward, locking the door behind the woman who's probably running down the hall to get away from him. His hands are shaking as he leans against the door and he doesn't know from what. The regret, the anguish, the guilt; it's all swarming around him like the perfect storm and his body isn't his own. He's not the good doctor, the good Marine, the good boyfriend, the good anything. He's that twenty three year old kid who's just lost the love of his life, the one who'd made a choice that had cost him the woman he loved and set him on the course that had led him to this moment - the one that had big dreams that didn't include the Winthrop name or money.

He presses his back against the door, dropping to the floor so quickly he thinks he might go through it. He wants to scream, wants to shatter every piece of furniture in this office. But as broken sobs tear through his lungs he can't find the strength. All he can find is the sound of her voice and the horrified look on her face, letting it slice through him over and over again until he finally thinks he's had enough - and then he keeps doing it, because he never will.

Because Brooke's right. It's on him, and it always will be.

- - - - x - - - -

It's as quiet as the pews during Sunday mass when she finally makes it back to Peyton's room, the evening sun just beginning to fade into the night. The blonde is laying in bed, her eyes focused on the horizon as one of her favorite songs flows softly from the speakers of the nearby record player. She looks so poised, so still, so very un-Peyton Sawyer. Brooke lingers in the doorway as she watches her best friend smile softly at the sunset, and it's one of those long lost moments where it all seems so simple. The path is so clearly laid out before them. Get Peyton better, go back to New York, continue to take over the world. It's not philosophical or poignant, not overexplanatory. It's blunt, to the point, and everything that Peyton Elizabeth Sawyer is.

"You have caused quite the commotion, P. Sawyer." Brooke remarks from the doorway, leaning against its frame.

Peyton's head doesn't turn at the sound. In fact, she doesn't move a muscle. Instead, she simply holds up one single finger and closes her eyes, her hazy smile widening. "Shh, this is my favorite part." She chastises, her head bobbing gently. "Why does it always rain on me, is it because I lied when I was seventeen..." She sings softly, that resilient look of complete comfort lingering on her features.

"Why does it always rain on me, even when the sun is shining, I can't avoid the lightning." Brooke finishes, sighing out her words in her jagged voice as she enters the room. She doesn't speak as she walks toward her, sitting down on the edge of the hospital bed. "You used to have that song on repeat when we were younger, I'd have to beg you to turn it off." She reminisces, her lips tugging up into a smirk. "You couldn't ever play anything normal, could you? It always had to be those depressing emo bands."

"And what, Christina Aguilera was so much better? You needed the exposure to a singer without a belly button piercing. Be grateful." Peyton snorts, taking her hand as she finally turns her head to face her. "Are you going to tell me what happened between you and your Broody boy?" She impassively remarks, her gaze overbearing as always.

"I miss that room sometimes." Brooke murmurs gently, her thumb running over the delicate skin of her friend's hand as she tries to sidestep the conversation. "The red walls, that big four poster bed, your dreary sketches hanging from the ceiling. It was always so safe, you know?"

"It was that bad, huh?"

She sighs, her eyes cutting through the air at Peyton. She wants to yell at her, to unleash her anger. But all she finds is quiet disappointment in how Conrad had reacted "What exactly were you expecting?" Brooke grumbles, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. "I pretty much left him at the altar, and it turns out that he served in the same unit as Jude. Bad doesn't even cover how pissed off he is. He basically called me a whore and told me he doesn't want me here."

"And what were you? Peachy keen and leaping into his questions?" She teases with a raised eyebrow, squeezing her hand weakly. "Don't act like I don't know how you are when you get cornered."

"And yet here we are." Brooke sarcastically quips. She cringes at the not so distant memory of Conrad's words. "You really suck for not telling me, you know that? You could've warned me."

"Well if I had done that, we'd be in Seattle. And I hate the rain, it's hell on my hair." Peyton shoots back, but her words don't hold any venom. The hostility is gone, the snappy comebacks faded, and Brooke knows that she's exhausted. But the blonde just takes a deep breath and pushes past it. "Look, I get that we never would have gotten close again if you hadn't have come home after you left him, so I should probably be grateful to the guy. But come on, Brooke. The only man you've been involved with since you left him turns out to basically be him, and of all the guys in the world, you wind up with a guy that he served with in Afghanistan? It has to count for something."

"That has to count for something. It's like what Rick says...of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine."

Her memories dance around her like spirits as she glowers at Peyton, pursing her lips in frustration. "Yes, that I like cute doctors who are strong enough to throw me around like a rag doll. Congratulations. You've nailed down my type." Brooke snaps from her edge of the bed. She wants to never talk about it again, to forget that she's even seen Conrad - but it's better than talking about the reason they're in Atlanta in the first place.

"And what does your first cute brilliant doctor have to say about my monster of a tumor?"

Brooke freezes. Her gaze drops to their now entwined hands, the fear and sadness slipping into her features so much that she can't meet her amber gaze. She can't speak, can't find the right words to say what she needs to, and as always...Peyton finds them for her. There's a sigh from her side of the bed, but no spiteful words of rage. There's just empty air that Peyton slices through when she finally speaks.

"They want to take out everything, don't they?" She murmurs, exhaling slowly. "My uterus, my ovaries...all of it. That's what they're all recommending."

She shifts her focus back on the patient, gulping in panic. Peyton's eyes have become riveted on the ceiling, her head laying back against the pillows. She looks almost resigned to her fate. as if she's been bracing for impact since the moment they'd landed in Atlanta, and it breaks Brooke's heart that she'd known that it would all come down to this. She has to be the strong one this time, Brooke reminds herself. She doesn't have the luxury of breaking down right now. She has to be the rock, the one that will hold it all down so Peyton can focus on fighting her cancer. And so she just matches her counterpart's inhale and nods, squeezing her hand tightly. "Jude and Dr. Bell...they're concerned that the scan isn't showing everything. And if they go in, they're flying blind until..."

"Until they scrape out everything that makes me a woman? Until they cut and slice away any chance I have to actually have a family? To have a future?" Peyton finishes. The fight is back in her eyes, the bitter resentment of the disease that's lodged itself in her body. Her tone is biting, the horror on her face stinging even more. She yanks her hand away, raking her fingertips over her curls as she violently shakes her head in rebellion. "No. I won't do it. If I do that, my life as I know it is over."

"Peyton, you have stage four ovarian cancer. We are a million miles from home and as we argue over this, it's spreading to your other organs. Life as we know it is over." The words are blunt and she hates herself for saying them, but she knows it's what Peyton needs to hear. She can't sugar coat this. She knows it. There is no dancing around what's going on. "But that doesn't mean your life has to be over. You just have to be alive to have a future, and that's what they're trying to do. They're trying to keep you alive so we can take those next steps, so we can worry about those things later on when you're better." Brooke defends, doing her very best to keep her composure. She wants to tell her that everything will be okay, that they can get through this. But after looking at the scans, after hearing Conrad tell her that this has to happen, she doesn't know how. "You know better than anyone that adoption is an incredible option, but you just have to b-"

"I want kids, Brooke! Kids of my own. I want kids with my chicken legs and crazy curls, ones that have Ellie's taste in music and draws until her fingers cramp!" Peyton cries out, her head in her hands as she begins to sob. "We came here because that woman was supposed to give me a shot, and now-"

"And now you have three of the best doctors in the country working on giving you one. But you have to be here to have that shot." Brooke says fiercely, her hands reaching for the blonde's. She moves them out of the way, cupping Peyton's cheeks lovingly. "Hey, look at me. We are not done here. We are not done fighting, because your stupidly skinny ass is not going anywhere unless I say so. So you don't get to give up on me now, do you understand me?"

She's quiet, her eyes squeezed shut when she finally nods weakly. "Okay." Peyton chokes out, tears sliding down her sunken cheeks. "Okay, I'll do it. I'll do the surgery."

Delicately, Brooke slides in beside her, wrapping her arms around her best friend and holding onto her tightly as Peyton buries her face into her chest and sobs. Brooke doesn't speak, she doesn't move a muscle. She doesn't try to placate her feelings. She doesn't try to make everything better. She knows she can't make this magically disappear, that nothing will ever make this better. Over the last month, they've fought tooth and nail to make sure that this wouldn't happen and yet...here they are, sitting in a hospital bed across the country from their home, grieving for a future that Peyton my have had a chance at.

Brooke can't hold back the tears anymore as she presses a soft kiss to the top of Peyton's head, holding her tightly. There's nothing that Brooke can do except be there, right beside her, for whatever she may need. And there isn't enough bourbon in Kentucky to make the pain stop.

She just prays that Conrad is as good as Jude says he is.

- - - - x - - - -

"So, what's she like?"

He's laying in bed next to his very naked girlfriend, tracing the ridges of her spine as he finally closes his eyes. Conrad had done his best to get out as quickly as possible after the debacle of a conversation he'd had with Brooke, all but dragging Nic out of the hospital with him. He hadn't even really been thinking when they'd gotten back after grabbing something to eat. A kiss at the door had turned into clothes being shed, which had lead to falling into the bed and finally to making love to his caring girlfriend. It's the same rhythm that he's followed with her since they got back together, the ease and the comfort bringing him a certain sort of peace. But tonight had been different.

Tonight, Conrad hadn't been there. Not even in the neighborhood of there. Yes, he'd gone through the motions, but that had been it. There hadn't been an incredible moment, a perfect set of seconds where he'd been absolutely centered in her embrace. There hadn't been any kind of refuge, not even close. It had just been muscle memory. It had been like his hands weren't his own, like he'd been watching it from somewhere else in the room. It had been good - there isn't a time where it's ever not good - but...something's got him thrown off.

Fuck that. He knows exactly what has him thrown off, and it's the woman that his girlfriend's asking him about. The beautiful, powerful, headstrong titan of a woman that he's laying there thinking about while he should be paying attention to the girl in his arms. Where he should see the blonde nurse, feel her in his hands, he finds a ghost lingering in her place. He's being haunted by her, by the words that she'd howled and the blows that she'd thrown. She's tormenting him, reappearing at the most inopportune moments. Even now, he swears that he can feel her spectre sitting in the corner, hovering just close enough to cause discomfort.

"Who?' Conrad mumbles, pressing an absentminded kiss to her forehead as he feigns ignorance. He can practically hear her voice in his head, taunting him.

Nice one, Broody. Her apparition snorts from a nearby chair, and he can practically hear her crossing her legs and leaning back to watch the show. Go ahead, lie your way out of this one too. You got all the practice rounds out on me, you might as well show your expertise on her.

Get out of my head, Brooke. You're not innocent either. He thinks to himself as he tries to stay calm. She's a tumor, sopping up his focus and energy, and he'd give anything to take a scalpel to his memories right now.

Nic rolls over, propping herself up onto her elbows. "What do you mean who? You spent your day with Mina's idol. She kept going on and on about the famous Brooke Davis when she saw me after shift, comparing some of her designs to surgery. And now I hear that she's dating Jude of all people, so now I have to know what's she like?"

He opens his eyes, staring at the ceiling as she draws circles on his chest with her fingertips. He gulps down his panic, trying to figure out the words to say. He runs through it in his head, how it might play out if he makes the decision to tell her the truth. But the shadow of Brooke that's scraping at the back of his brain does it for him.

Oh this ought to be good. Here, let me lay it out for you. Brooke's voice practically giggles with glee. She's a vindictive bitch nipping at his mind's heels, a wolf at the door, and he wishes he could rip her out of his thoughts. Brooke Davis? Well here's the thing, sweetie pie. She's my ex-fiance. I almost married her before I went to Afghanistan. And that ring I gave you? It's the engagement ring I gave to her first, so it's really just her sloppy seconds. Kind of like me! So, hospital cafe for breakfast tomorrow?

Jesus, she's making sense now. He's royally fucked.

"She's..." He pauses, choosing his words very carefully. He shrugs, as if he's making some brilliant observation. "She's stubborn, hard headed, bullish even. I even watched her put Bell and Jude in their place. She flew her best friend across the country to get the care she needs, so clearly she cares about the people she loves. I think she'll do everything in her power to make sure that we do right by her." Conrad says softly. It's an omission at best, a terrible lie at worst, but he doesn't want to hurt Nic. So he just keeps going. "Mina's right. She's talented as all hell, but she's humble about it. She doesn't remind you that she's Brooke Davis. She's really simple, I think...but she's also one of the most complicated people I've ever met."

He hears Brooke sigh dreamily in the back of his mind and his jaw clenches as she lets out a bitter laugh. Oh, my hero. What do you want, a cookie? It's still a lie, Conrad.

"And the patient's a record executive, right?"

Conrad nods, ignoring his thoughts as a small smirk appearing on his lips. "Her name's Peyton. She owns Red Bedroom Records. I guess her special request was that she made them put a record player in her room. I liked her the second I saw that she had Gary Clark Jr. and The Kinks in the stack of records they schlepped into her room."

"God, they sound incredible." Nic practically gushes as she bats her eyelashes at him, and he internally relaxes because she's either that oblivious or she's bought his sidesteps. "Think you could get me on the case? I'd love to meet them both. Maybe we could even get them to do something for the children's wing...they must have some incredible connections."

Fuck. Of course she wants on the case, he's just told her that he's working with the dream team of patients. Brooke's a major fashion designer and Peyton owns one of the last truly indie record labels in the nation. He should've told her that Brooke's a raging bitch on wheels, that she's demanding and needy and...fuck, why did they have to come here?

"Bell's pretty tight on this one. Besides, I think you'd butt heads with Brooke. She's been pretty opinionated about Peyton's care." Conrad lies through his teeth, which are gritted as tight as they can possibly be. He's an asshole. He's a monumental asshole and he knows he's going to pay for it later, but he can't tell her. Brooke hasn't told Jude, and he can't just blow up her world. Not again. "She can be a real pain in the ass."

"Hmm..." Nic sighs against his chest, pressing a soft kiss to the skin where she rests her head. "Sounds like you've got your hands full with her." She murmurs with a quiet laugh, drifting off to some well earned sleep.

Hands full with me? Oh, she's just making it way too easy. We both know that I'm more than a handful in every sense of the word. Brooke's teasing tone makes him want to slam his head against a wall just to make it stop. Why don't you just admit it? Nobody will ever do it for you like I do, and you'll never love anyone like you love me.

- - - - x - - - -

She's racing through the halls, trying to find Jude. She needs to escape, to disappear in thin air. She needs to breathe again, to fill her lungs with something other than the agonizing screams that currently reside there. And so she runs, her eyes still clouded with tears, and finds him at the nurse's station. She feels her heart break all over again when she sees him, halting all movement. He's standing with the pretty blonde nurse that she'd seen in the cafeteria, the plainly beautiful gargantuan of a woman who has her ring on her index finger. Brooke's eyes narrow viciously as she spots it but her tears make it useless as she watches them talk. Jude's grinning as the two of them laugh over something they only know, but when his eyes land on her...he's running too.

He sweeps her into his strong arms with a bone crushing embrace. Her eyes slip shut in solace, in peace, in the achingly sweet emotions of his actions. Brooke sobs into his shoulder, wordless and jagged. The whole world fades away as he his lips to the side of her head, soft and gentle words being whispered into her ear. Everything's going to be okay and we'll find a way fill her with hope, with promise, and she feels safe for just a split second. Her eyes open to find the nurse watching them intently - too intently for her liking. Brooke can't even stop herself as her arms wind tighter around Jude, her hand scraping the back of his neck. She's possessive of what's hers, what's always been hers - but it's not even close to being over Jude.

It's over that goddamn ring, because she knows what it means. That beautiful gem, the one that had belonged to the first love of Conrad's life, means that her ex-fiance in love with Blondie - or at least something close to it - and it puts her into a fit of rage that she didn't think she could muster up anymore. Because Jude is hers, and this blonde is looking at him almost...longingly.

Brooke's lips move to Jude's ear, pressing against the sensitive skin. She feels his grip tighten, a low wordless sound rumbling in his chest, and she knows exactly what she's doing when she whispers, "take me somewhere...somewhere you can make me forget everything." Brooke locks eyes with the blonde once more, her gaze ringing as clear as a bell.

Mine.

She's in an on call room, her clothes practically falling to the floor. Jude is a force of nature, his strong form keeping her body pressed against a small desk. They kiss passionately, her moans filling the small spaces that their lips and tongues leave open. Her heart is racing as everything begins to melt away, as Jude kisses his way down to her panties. He gazes up at her as he pulls them down her legs slowly.

"Tell me what you need, Brooke." He murmurs against her knee, his lips slowly moving north.

She whimpers against him, her hand gripping the frame of a nearby bunk bed. His hands swipe away the papers that have been left on the desk before they lift her onto it, leaving her gasping as her leg are spread apart. "You...I need...you." Brooke groans as he kisses the inside of her thigh.

"You have me." He chuckles against her skin and she practically bucks into him from the feeling of his voice rumbling between her legs.

Her nails dig into his free shoulder, gasping for air. "Jesus Christ, Jude..."

Jude's fingers slip between her legs as soon as she says his name and she nearly cries out with pleasure as they find their home within her. Her eyes slip shut as shes leans generously into him, her body pressing back into the wall. She wants more, needs more, her nails digging into his skin as if to egg him on. She bites down hard on her lip as his fingers ardently delve within her, trying to bring her to her orgasm. Her mind is a jumble of medical files, flight information, business meetings, rings on fingers that they don't belong on, and surgical tries to clear her mind as her boyfriend works diligently, his free hand sliding up and underneath her body to bring her even closer. Deep and urgent moans fill her throat. "More..." She whimpers out as her body clenches, almost in pain from being so close and yet so far.

He pulls away from her center and kisses his way to her neck. His pants and boxers drop to the floor with a loud thud and she smiles devilishly. He nips at her skin, growling wordlessly into her as she grinds her body against him. He slips between her legs and before she can take a deep breath he's sheathing himself within her. She bites down on her bottom lip to keep the moan from slipping out, and when she hears him laugh...

Her eyes shoot open because it's not Jude's laugh.

Jude rocks within her, his body claiming her as its own, but Brooke's eyes aren't anywhere near him. They're on the figure that sits on the bed behind them, watching them with some sort of morbid fascination.

Conrad.

She cries out in surprise as she meets his fierce gaze, but she finds that she can't stop matching the rhythm of her partner's movements. She's a slave to her body's needs and cravings, her eyes locked on her ex-fiance's as he remains mute, watching her writhe in pleasure. He looks amused, entertained even, and it fills her with a feeling of power that she's never experienced more. But all of sudden, she's not moving at all.

She's sitting beside Conrad in the cramped twin bunk bed in nothing but his NYU t-shirt and a pair of cheer shorts, with his shirtless form just a few inches beside her in nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants. It's like they've just curled up in his dorm room bed to watch some fucked up movie, except the movie is her sex life with his former best friend. She tilts her head to the side as she watches Jude thrust within her, her gaze almost clinical. The version of Brooke that's currently being fucked by her boyfriend is clenching her jaw in what looks to be frustration, clearly unable to complete the task that at hand - finding her release - and she pities the two of them. All that work and no great escape, no earth shattering moment where pain and ecstasy combine like in a perfect sweaty chemical reaction. Wait, she thinks to herself, is it possible to pity a dream?

"That's how you like it now? Pointless and unfulfilling?"

Conrad's smirking from his side of the bed that they're sitting in, gesturing to the pair of lovers that are bound to break the desk if they keep doing what they're doing. He looks amused, cocky, and she rolls her eyes at him. "Really, this is what you do in your spare time with him? Just hope that he'll get you off?" He says with another laugh, nudging her. "Tell me, how often do you have to finish yourself off when he's done?"

"I come for him all the time." Brooke chastises, watching the vision of her clamp her teeth over her lower lip to stifle her sounds. "See? I'm about to. You know that's my about-to-finish face. I'm biting down on my lip to keep myself from screaming his name. We're in a public place for God's sake, I do still have some class." She says matter of factly, folding her arms across her chest in defiance.

He raises an eyebrow, eyeing her up and down in a way that sends tendrils of heat running up and down her body. "You sure about that, babe?" Conrad murmurs, his head leaning beside her ear. He's so close that she can feel the heat of his breath on her skin. "Or is it my name that you're trying to keep locked up in that gorgeous mouth of yours?"

The vision disappears as soon as the words fall from Conrad's lips, and the scene shifts again. Somehow they're in their old studio apartment on the Lower East Side, still in the same laid back attire. Brooke's standing in their dimly lit bedroom, Conrad standing a few feet away as he leans against the wall while he watches her intently. She holds out her hands and looks down to find her engagement ring, his mother's band, slipped back onto her finger like it's always belonged there, and yet in the nearby vanity mirror she can see that it's still present day her. Same wrinkles, same hair color, same cool gaze. It's her, and yet...it's not.

"Tell me again how it's him that you're screaming for.." He drawls as he approaches her. He's slow, so slow that it's almost painful. He doesn't touch her, not a single fingertip. He just circles her like she's prey ensnared in his trap, but she knows deep down that she's his more than willing prisoner. She feels him move behind her, her skin shuddering with rampant desire. "Tell me again that you don't wish it was me touching you." He whispers into her ear, his hot breath unfurling on the nape of her neck. "That it's him that you want between your legs."

Brooke shivers from the sensation, her hands clenching the fabric of the oversized t-shirt that's hanging on her body. "Conrad, please...don't." She pleads.

She finds bitter satisfaction when Conrad's hands slip along the curves of her hips and pull her against him, the sensation everything that she doesn't want to need. She can feel every inch of him before he spins her around to face him. His brown eyes are dark, hooded with desire as he drinks her in, and she's left speechless by the intensity of his gaze.

"Tell me, Brooke. Say it. Tell me that he knows you like I do." He growls, his hands grasping her curved waist and tugging her against him forcefully. She moans into his touch as their lips finally meet, the delicious strength of his grip driving her insane. He's just as good of a kisser as she remembers, his tongue running along her bottom lip and begging for entrance before he murmurs against them. "Tell me not to take advantage of you right here, right now, and I won't."

She groans as his hands climb north, slipping underneath the t-shirt. Brooke bites down on her bottom lip as he roughly pulls it over her head, tossing it to the side as her hair falls down on her bare shoulders. Her hands settle on his chest and his hands begin to wander further north. She gasps into his skin, bowing her head and sinking her teeth into his shoulder when they cup her breasts, fingertips coaxing her skin like a snake charmer. He growls wordlessly in pain, in addiction, in frustration. He tosses her like she's his own personal plaything and she falls back into the bed with a wildfire brimming inside of her. Their sheets still smell like him, she notices as he grasps the edges of her shorts with his eyes locked on hers, and she breathes in the intoxicating scent as her head falls back against the covers.

"Say it, Brooke." Conrad hovers over her hips, a devilish grin on his lips. He looks like he wants to devour her - and it's not a metaphor for what she knows he wants to give her. "I won't give you what you so clearly need until you do. Not when you're not mine."

She looks down at him, at the hunger in his features, and the words are slipping out like a broken prayer before she can stop them. "Take advantage of me, Conrad...please." Brooke practically sobs out, her body calling to him and him alone. She needs him and here...she can have him without guilt or repercussions.

His hands yank off her shorts brutally, kissing his way up her thighs and nibbling at the skin as he goes. Her body arches from the mattress, her nerves shot to hell as he throws her legs over his shoulders. It's like he knows what she wants before she's even asked, before she knows it herself, and his stubble burns the inside of her thigh so rough that she swears there's a mark left from it. Conrad knows how she needs it, how to drown out every thought and wash away all of her pain. She wants him everywhere, wants it insatiable and volatile and everything that their relationship had ever been. She wants to be fucked senseless, to not be able to walk when he's done with her, to be trembling under him on their king size bed and begging for more.

It's not about love. It's not about forever. It's about jealousy, about lust, about possession. And as Conrad buries his face between her legs, as she practically sobs in sweet relief, he belongs to her. It's her body that bucks into him like a wild animal, her eyes squeezed shut in pure indulgence, her hand fisting his hair because she wants to shamelessly shove his tongue deeper, her nails digging into his shoulders so hard they break skin. And when she finally comes for him, when her climax hits her like a earth shattering cataclysm, it's his name that she's crying out. He claims her as his, brands her with his mouth pressed to her firmly, and she's begging for more.

He crawls up her body with a dark chuckle, his voice rumbling against her soft skin as he grazes his lips up her stomach. "There you are, Pretty Girl...uninhibited, undone, and mine." Conrad murmurs as she comes down from her orgasm, and before her body is even fully calm he's sliding down his sweatpants and cradling her body. His hands gently move the sweat coated strands of hair from her face, kissing her lips delicately as he holds her there, hovering over her entrance. He leans back, gazing down into her eyes. "I'm going to make sure that you remember this time...no one will ever know you like I do. Never." He whispers against her lips, and he doesn't waste another second.

His hand slides up her leg, pulling it tight around his waist and then one swift movement he's everywhere, slamming into her body with ease. She screams out his name, the sound bouncing off the walls like the symphony of her undoing, and he picks up a relentless pace. Brooke doesn't have to think, doesn't have to move, all she has to do is hold on and let him fuck her into submission. It's just the two of them, Conrad's face buried into her neck and his hands pinning her hands above her head with his dominating gasp. Her legs wrap around him as she gets so close again, her body tightening around him as she pulsates with pure bliss.

"Do you want to go back to the hotel, baby?" He grunts into her ear, and she leans back in confusion. What the hell would she need to go to a hotel right now? And why is he calling her baby? Pretty girl, babe, gorgeous, B; those she knows, not baby.

But just as quick as her confusion comes, he lowers his head and his movements steady, his hardened length plunging within her as her body tightens up. His lips press to her neck, her collarbone, every inch of bare skin that he can find as he finds his own peace within her. Conrad's body deftly flips her on top of him, her body picking up the pace as she rides him. He groans out her name as his body bucks up into her, and she watches as his head falls back against the bed in rapture. Her name becomes a entranced prayer on his lips as she writhes her hips against him, her head falling back on her shoulders as she moans in rapture. Brooke's so close, and suddenly...

"Baby...do you want to go back to the hotel?"

She wakes up with a jerk, her eyes shooting open with confusion. Brooke's eyes focus to the dull light of the hospital room to find Jude kneeling beside her, pushing the stray hairs from her face. She's slick with sweat, gasping for air, her body an infernal temperature. She licks her lips as she struggles to regulate her breathing, her hand pressed to her chest. Her eyes skate around the room, finding Peyton snoring away peacefully in her hospital bed.

"I'll just...I'll sleep here. I must've dozed off." Brooke groggily chokes out as she exhales slowly, trying to reign in her body. She's drenched - and it's not just her skin that's soaking wet. She gulps, looking up at him with a feeble smile. "You should go to the hotel. You have that big meeting in the morning with your dream team of doctors." She says softly.

"You must've had a pretty bad nightmare, I haven't seen you like this is a while..." Jude murmurs, cupping her cheek. "You sure you don't want me to stay with you?"

She hesitates for a moment, looking up at her earnest boyfriend. He's doing his best to be supportive, and all she can do is dream about her ex. She's a fucking horrible person, the least she can do is cave to his wishes, scooting over on the spacious couch wordlessly. He slips behind her before rolling her on top of his chest, her body practically weightless to his broad chest and strong stature. Jude presses a soft kiss to the top of her head as she curls up on his chest, tears pricking her eyes. "Go back to sleep, baby. I've got you." He murmurs into her hair as his arms wrap around her petite frame.

Brooke closes her eyes and prays to everything holy, her hand resting over Jude's heart as she squeezes the tears from her eyes; she prays for what she needs, not what she wants.

A peaceful dreamless sleep where not even Conrad Hawkins can find her.