First I'd like to apologize for the ending. It's a little rushed because it's two in the morning and I have class tomorrow, but I really wanted to get this uploaded. In that vein, this story may be deleted and then uploaded again after being tweaked. However, as of this moment, this is the prequel to STC. One could argue that Gavin first realizes his weakness for Katie in this story, although I personnally think he's been doomed since freshman year. It's set the Christmas before STC, and presumably before serious interaction has taken place between the two. I do not own Martha Stewart Home, Britanny Spears, King Arthur, Sir Galahad, the Matrix, Rocky, Satan, the Cabbage-Patch Kids, Mother Theresa, Barbie, Miss Muffet, Sonny, Cher, Worth the Wait, Superman, Lois Lane, or South America. Unfortunately. Also, tell me if the 'not' stuff gets annoying, I know it may be a bit much, but just think of Gavin as being as confused and sleep-deprived as you are at the end of finals, and maybe it will come off as realistic instead of aggravating. Any suggestions about the progression of Gavin and Katie's relationship are appreciated, and any constructive criticism about the voices. I am not a man, and therefore have no frame of reference for man-thoughts (although I do like Gavin's POV more than Katie's. I dunno why). It's hard for me to make him sweet and/or romantic without him being so gushy he's not in character, because I for one love Gavin as is. But I've been ranting a while now, so I may leave you be. Maybe. I thought I had more to say, but I guess that's all. Thanks to all who have alerted or favorited me/my work, and knoe that the reason I'm up at two is becasue pf my intense devotion to my readers. And I need a life. But go ahead and go with the first one if it makes you feel special. Alright, enjoy, guys!

It's the last day of classes before Christmas break, and I'm seriously pissed off. What kind of bastard flunks you in Economics? And during the holiday season? Probably spits on orphans, too. And robs widows. I copied all of those damn graphs directly out of the back of the book, I can't have been that off. Although... there was that one that looked upside down... And I did turn in the essay portion blank...

I slam the door of my room closed with a satisfying bang that's loud enough to cause several freshmen down the hall to dive for cover. That's right, shit heads, scurry away from the big, bad, Junior. It's not the time to screw with me.

I'm about three feet away from my door, on the road to coffee and the caffeine-induced Nirvana that follows, when I hear this really disgusting retching sound. Like the dramatic, 'there goes six months of undigested food' barfing noise you hear in the movies. Shit.

I glance briefly towards the freedom that the stairwell provides. Maybe if I just keep walking... a pitiful moan eases through the crack around the almost-shut door. Why, why couldn't you have been closed all the way? It's not that hard, Gavin, just pull it forward, it never happened. Except now I can definitely hear crying. Shit.

I reach for the knob and grit my teeth (Coffee. I was going to get coffee. I never have time for coffee,) before gingerly pushing it open and leaning into the dark room. "Hello?" My voice is unnaturally loud in the stillness, and I'd think I'd imagined the whole thing, except for that awful smell.

Who's in this room, anyway? I back out and look at the distance from my room for reference. Right next door. Shit. My suspicions are confirmed as a tremulous female voice manages a weak "Who's there?" before heaving again. F--king perfect.

"Nobody," I snarl, trying to work up the nerve to leave. The little angel/demon combo is on my shoulder though, and all I can hear is the little angel saying. "She's sick, and it's Christmas, and do you want to go to hell?" I've got a smart-ass remark ready until the little demon chimes in with "You'll spend eternity with Mr. Doren."

I shudder. Okay, I can't stand this little... (I can't quite bring myself to call her a bitch, what the hell is my problem?), this little whatever-she-is, but I do not want to be drawing out demographic ratios in the afterlife.

Fine. I'll check on her. That's it. No playing nursemaid, no bringing her chicken soup. I'll make sure she's not drunk, pregnant, or dead, and then I'm leaving. Then, I'm going to go get coffee.

I comfort myself with this thought as I tug the door closed behind me and reluctantly step into the more-malodorous-than-normal dorm room (at least, I'm assuming it smells worse than normal, she's too OCD to let it be this bad all the time).

It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the near-darkness, but when I can see with some semblance of clarity, I nearly fall out. Dorm rooms are supposed to be messy, dammit, not look like a Martha Stewart Home clipping. And she's nauseous. What the hell does it look like when she's at the top of her game?!?

I don't have time to ponder this mystery, however, because another gagging sound is emanating from the joint bathroom. I have a fleeting moment of hope. Maybe it's not her. Maybe it's some other perky little Brittany Spears wannabe, and all I'll have to do is walk into their line of sight and they'll start screeching and throwing things at me. It could happen, right?

Please, I pray silently, please let them scream "RAPIST!" and chase me out of the room. Then I can get coffee and be happy.

Continuing to appeal to the higher powers, I cross the floor to the lit doorway of the john. I feel kind of like Arthur or Sir Galahad, exploring the mysterious cave and slaying the dragon, all for the purpose of rescuing the princess. Agh, no. No knights. Freaking idiots. Like any of those chicks they save ever thank them, much less marry them. Dammit, focus, Gavin. Do this quick and coffee rewards you. Besides, what kind of lame-ass knight ever slays the flu? And when are the princesses ever ralphing?

This line of thought has gotten me as far as the door. I set the Rocky theme song a'playing in my head, and push my way into the dragon's lair.

Damn, this is nasty. Her highness didn't quite make it, I see. As I stand in the doorway, silently evaluating the situation and having Matrix flashbacks in my head (why, oh why didn't I pick the blue pill?), the ghoulish figure hunched over the toilet realizes I'm there.

Katie raises her head from where it had been resting on the toilet and regards me despondently through her tangled mass of carrot-colored hair. She is crying, or was, and she looks so damn pitiful that I almost hug her. Except, you know, she's repulsive and I can't stand her. Plus she reeks.

Then she starts talking.

"It's you," she manages to croak out, and her lack of health doesn't prevent the disgust from leaking into her voice. Gee, thanks. I can call her a bitch now (except, nope, I really can't. Not even in my head. DAMMIT!). "Go-" mini-sob "g'way." Wow, she's a mess. Usually when we talk, that sentiment is a lot more descriptive.

I grit my teeth and step back, growling "Fine. I was just making sure you weren't abusing your flying monkeys. Since they're okay, I'll get the hell out of here." I almost convince myself I'm going to leave, I really do. But she starts crying harder and retches again, and I feel just a little lower than those balls of unknown fungal substances that can be found on the bottom of your beach flip flops after they've sat in the closet all year. But just a little. Shit. It was pretty damn evil to take a shot at her in this situation. Even considering it was some pretty weak trash talk. Even considering I'm the spawn of Satan (she thinks).

I take a moment to scream silently and obscenely inside my head, and then I turn and march from the room. Flipping on the lights and rifling as quietly as possible through her obsessively neat cupboards, I happen upon a cup. Good, this should be enough to redeem me. I stride purposefully to the sink and fill it reasonably high with water (don't you hate it when people fill it all the way to the top? It's ridiculous, especially in restaurants. It's never going to make it to your table without spilling, and you still end up paying for that water, plus the planet doesn't get it. Be eco-conscious dammit!).

I stop in the middle of the room and regard my not-quite steady hands. Hm, I'm nervous, for some reason. My brain only freaks out randomly like that when I'm freaking out about something er, not random. I think. I shake my head and scowl. It's that freaking prep. As soon as I give her water and buy back my passage to someplace other than the seventh-circle of hell, I'm going to leave. I swear. Seriously. I'm not staying here. It screws with my mind.

I return to the bathroom only to find that the cabbage-patch kid has lost consciousness. Crap. I set the drink of reasonable height to the side and kneel down next to her crumpled body. "Shit, Katie, wake up." I push her hair back from her face. Whoa. That shade is definitely not a good sign. I've seen brighter cauliflower. Determinedly ignoring the trembling in my hands, and the fear in my voice, I continue berating the silent moron in my arms, "Now, dammit, or I'll go back there and rearrange your books so they're not in alphabetical order." There's no response, and the growing panic in my chest is really starting to piss me off. And I was in a bad mood to begin with. "Katie!"

With a miserable-sounding groan the twit wakes up, staring blearily at me with red-rimmed eyes. "What...what's going on?" her voice rasps, followed shortly by a wave of foul-smelling breath. Damn. Forget the water, where does she keep her mouthwash? My attempt at disguising my intense relief with distaste only works on the surface, and I press my hands together for a moment to stop their shaking. Let's not analyze whatever the hell that means right now. We'll save it for another day, with a lot more alcohol. Anger is much, much easier to handle than... than whatever the hell that was.

I'm drawn out of my reverie by a painful-sounding remonstration from Raggedy Anne:

"Hey...I told you..." She doesn't need to keep talking. It's okay. We can just sit in blissful, non-vomit ventilated silence. Plus, if she speaks, I may have to kill her. I'm about to, anyway, if only for- for being such a pain in the ass. Not at all for scaring the shit out of me. Because I couldn't care less. Obviously, the muscle spasms in my hands were from the caffeine withdrawals I'm going through because I haven't been able to go get coffee. Obviously, I'm suffering the physical stress of waiting hand-and-foot on this stupid waste of time. Obviously.

But, no, it would be too kind of her to just cooperate. Instead she tries to pull away from me and drape herself across the porcelain throne once again. "Told you to leave-"

I almost bitch at her for being so ungrateful, but then her whole body does this unnatural convulsion thing and she regurgitates more stomach acid (there cannot possibly be anything else down there).She seems totally drained by round two and doesn't even bother moving her head as she gropes for some toilet paper.

And I feel like a bastard. Again. How does it always happen this way? It doesn't matter if she starts the friggin' argument, I'm always the bad guy. She could shoot me and I'd feel guilty for making her feel guilty.

Yep. May have to kill her; I think it's the only way for me to live comfortably ( Yeah, right, Gavin, like you could handle that. She faints for three minutes and you act like your world is coming to an end, somehow I don't think-). Shut up.

"Oh goodness..." There's the damn problem herself, and I don't think she can move. With a self-

pitying sigh I grab the cup of water and reach around to help her lift up her head a little. "Alright, Mother Theresa, I'll leave. Just drink this." But the cussed mule just rocks her head from side to side (the 'no' motion of a yarn doll) and insists "M'fine."

Stupid- "No, you aren't fine. If you were fine, I wouldn't be dragging your heavy ass off of the toilet, do you hear me? Now drink the damn water!"

She winces (Oops, there's probably a bit of a headache, there...see what I mean about the damn guilt?! It gets inside my freaking brain! Is that something they teach girls in those sex education classes where they split us up according to gender??? I can see the power point now, 'How to Get Your Way in Ten Easy Steps, it's a damn conspiracy...) and reluctantly sips at the proffered glass. About freaking time.

"Thank you," I make an attempt at keeping the sarcasm low-key, but it doesn't work. If she would just stop being so damn stubborn, this whole thing would be a lot easier. And then maybe I could escape. Because the smell isn't the only reason I feel like the room is too damn small, and that damn retard is too damn close. Dammit. That, Gavin, is a lot of damns. Good job. Trying to keep my voice light (and failing, it comes out more of this high axe-murderer impersonation) I continue, "Now, we're putting you in bed."

"WHAT?" Her shrill squawk did not make me smile. At all. Seriously. It's those muscle spasms, you get it? My lips had a violent. muscle. spasm. It's a condition I've had since I was a child. Like a tick. Only it resembles...smiling. But it isn't. Shut up. What's her problem, anyway? What, does she actually think I'd try to pull something? Because I can't stand her. She's irritating as hell. And ugly. Yeah. Crazy little air head. "Relax, Barbie, you're not my type." Not my type, not my type, not my type... the phrase keeps repeating in my head over and over, like a holy mantra. Crap

She scowls at me with a surprising amount of strength, given the setting, and pushes herself away from the toilet and to an unsteady standing position. I should not be impressed by her tenacity. I should not admire the obstinate set of her shoulders, or the proud line of her jaw (she's formidable even covered in the last three meals she ate, talk about ego). I should not want to applaud when, even with color draining from her face, she flips me off and calmly disdains "Up yours."

So, I tell myself that I'm not. My ego easily rivals hers. 'Not' seems to be an important word, today. Attachment of this sort is not a good idea, self. More than that, it's not even an option, got it? She hates you. And with good reason, you are an ass. Or, following the diurnal tradition, not not an ass.Anyway, this... hell, whatever this is, it's not a good idea.You hearing me, self? Not smart, or beneficial, or even vaguely appealing. Okay, maybe a little- NO. "Woah," I smirk, enjoying her annoyance, and trying to ignore the attractiveness in her persistence (and trying to silence the voices in my head that are constantly beating back and forth). I can't believe I've finally managed to get under her skin. Plus, the more she distracted she is, the easier it'll be to get her situated. And the sooner, the better. I've got to get away from her and her absurdly large eyes. Fricking deer. Not to mention the disturbingly vulnerable look within her dumb eyes, and the indefinable way that lost look tugs somewhere in my chest. I've just got to get out of here. "That's not a very nice thing to say, Cinderella. Careful or you might be cast out of the country club. Can't have daddy's little angel saying those big bad words."

At least she's moving, now, though I think it might be because she wants to injure me. Her stupid big doe eyes are flashing and furious. Serves her right. I don't think I've ever met a girl this- it doesn't matter who you have and haven't met, because this is a construction zone. No movement beyond this point. Do you hear me, inner Gavin? No further. Luckily, the blasted nuisance herself starts talking, again, forcing me to pretend like I don't care- CARE! Pretend like I care, what the hell-"Look, I don't know what your problem is, but I told you to get out of my room, so-"

"People always listen to everything you say?" I sneer, covertly nudging her out the door. There we go. Just don't get so pissed you prevent me from producing offspring... And dammit, there's the 'not' again. I do not think Mad Katie is the hottest and most endearing...not, not, NOT.

Uh oh, went too far, I guess. Miss Muffet has spun on her heel, placed her hands firmly on her hips, and shot me a look that says I'm in trouble. And yes, fine, it is (not) really sweet and really tempting, but she's covered in upchuck, which actually works in my favor. I will not (finally, a positive use for that damn word) make a move on someone who's just thrown up all over the place, and for once the conflicting mass of opinions within my head agrees upon something.

"You are the most infuriating person I've ever had to deal with in my entire life. Do you get off on making people miserable or something? You have got to be the biggest-"

One small shove and she's sitting on the edge of her bed, staring at me like I just sprouted orange antenna. Got you, babe. Whoa, check out the obscure Sonny and Cher reference, and maybe that'll distract from the fact that I've started using cute endearments for her in my head. But...haven't I kind of been doing that the whole time, anyway? Talk about your displacement... Dammit. But back to the disgruntled red head who definitely has a fever. If the heat emanating off of her is any indication, she might actually be seeing orange antenna everywhere. That's a thought. Focus, Gavin, focus.

"I win," I announce smugly as I grab the nearest trash bin and place it at the head of the bed. What time is it, anyway? And where the hell is her roommate? Shouldn't there be someone here to look after her? I feel an unexpected burst of anger at the idea that, had I not stopped, Katie might have been stuck here, alone, for a long time.

Meanwhile, she just stares at me, undoubtably slowly computing what the hell just happened. She doesn't look good, really pale, well, paler than usual... And yes, princess, I owned you. Na na nyah. I take a moment to cheer inwardly (it's not every day I get to win against Katie, although, she is violently ill. Still, I'll take what I can get... and there's that damn guilt, again, I'm going to write a letter to my congressmen, this Worth the Wait plot must be stopped...).

"You...you-" Okay, that's pretty funny, guilty feelings or no. Poor Katie can't handle the fact that I outsmarted her (although, to be fair, I'm a little stunned myself. Okay, a lot stunned, shit, that damn angel is working overtime).

"I tricked you." Yes, the self-satisfaction in my voice is perhaps a little more pronounced than necessary, but come on. The score now stands Gavin: one, Katie: 8,532. I think I deserve a little gloating time.

This is a really uncomfortable silence, so I busy myself with setting aside the glass of water, and getting a cool washcloth and some mouthwash (tucked in a basket on the chest of drawers next to the closet, with a freaking label. No, I'm not kidding). It remains absent of sound for several moments as I flutter- no, tramp bravely- back and forth across the floor. I do not flutter. Nor do I notice the sheer disbelief on Katie's face as she watches me tramp across the floor. Nor am I hurt by said disbelief. Come on, now, give me a little bit of credit. Did she think I was seriously going to leave her here without any help? Although I do vaguely remember swearing I would...anyway.

Katie is still rather, um, disheveled (she looks like shit), so I wordlessly hand her the washrag and she wipes herself off the best she can. What the hell? She has a tiny Christmas tree set up on her night stand, with tiny gifts underneath it and everything. I didn't realize people under the age of eighty did that. This girl is a crap-load of weirdness. She's just bizarre. I'd bet money I don't have that she still goes to the zoo for fun, without a little kid as a cover. I wonder what it's like to be that secure in your own skin. It makes her really freaking obnoxious, yeah, but it's also a little, I don't know... it's nice to know she's honest, whatever the hell she is. And, fine, okay, in the spirit of the season, I will admit it kind of encourages you to return the favor.

She's a little less gross, now, so I hand her the mouthwash, trying not to breathe. There. Now, I have done all that I can think of to do (except clean up after our little trip to el baño, and I'm sorry, that crap is not going to happen) so I really should leave. I really should. Come, feet, let us proceed to the doorway! ...It's not working. Dammit! Even my shitty limbs are turned traitor.

"...um, you can...you know, go now, I'm fine, really."

I turn slowly and scowl at the lapdog now staring dutifully up from where she has tucked herself into bed. Because I would not do that. Not even if she begged me. Not even if she cried. Well, okay, I probably would, if she cried. But just because I don't want to go to hell. Not at all because I appear to have no willpower where this woman is concerned. Not at all because I think maybe she's the most amazing, exasperating person I have ever met. Certainly not because I may not hate her. Not. Little word, big trouble. Time to not be brave. Maybe later I can go to the zoo without my cousin.

"Do I look like I care? I'm just waiting for you to stop being a pain in the ass so I can get the hell out of here. Is that all right with you?"

Okay, that didn't really make sense. But she's still a pain in the ass. So it's not like I'm babbling nonsensically. Exactly. I think. Shit. How come my brain never seems to work around her?

She stares at me like maybe I should get some professional advice on my chemical imbalance, and then she waves me towards the doorway, confusion evident in her tired eyes. "Fine, get the hell out of here."

"About time," I growl, and then I turn and march out the door. I've done my duty. I have effectively done all that could reasonably be expected of someone in my position or more. I should not feel guilty.

But I kind of do. I'm sending out a formal complaint to the women of the world: Guilt is an unfair tactic. It falls under cruel and unusual punishment.

Dammit. Fine. Before the door is even closed, I've turned around and swung it back open, angrily striding to her bedside again.

"When does your worthless roommate get home?" I bark furiously, and watch with consternation as she slowly blinks her eyes open and stares at me in a picture of exhaustion.

"What?"

"Your roommate," I grumble, contrite. "Where is she?"

"Um, upstate, I think. She-" Katie coughs, her whole body shaking with the motion, and then continues, "she went on a day trip, but she'll be back tomorrow morning."

Tomorrow morning. Fan-f--king-tastic.

I have to babysit this brat, for free, I might add, until tomorrow morning. Are you laughing, God? We're going to have to have a serious talk when I get up there...

This is not fair. I am not a woman. I do not do woman things like fuss over sick people. I don't do it, dammit.

I really need to grow a pair.

Fine. Okay. I get it. It's obviously my f–ked up destiny to cater to the one person who truly drives me insane. Alright. If that's how it's going to be.

I sigh and pull a chair up alongside her bad. It's not going to be an easy night.

Not. That is a stupid word. We don't even need it, anyway. We use "don't." Have you ever met one of those losers that refuses to use contractions? Isn't talking with them miserable? I hate those bastards. I hate that word.

See what I mean? Insane. I'm already losing my freaking mind. I settle into the chair and bury my face in my hands, silently cursing whatever stroke of luck it was that got me into this situation. No coffee for Gavin. Sucks for the South American economies, but nooo, I had to go play Superman to Lois Lane. I hate my life.

"What are you doing?" Her voice isn't accusing or anything, just uncertain, and a little curious, I guess. It would, I think for a moment, make things much easier if she were a bitch. As it is...well. Hating her requires more effort than I would have liked.

I sigh and raise my head to look at her. "I'm succumbing to the inevitable. The whole damn universe is against me."

"Oh." She nods, as if that made any sense at all, and then she settles back against her pillow. I wait, watching her as she gets comfortable, and then as she closes her eyes. I do not believe that bullshit about the impact of seeing someone you care about sleeping. I do not care about her, so there is not a problem. Shit.

She looks horrible. Her eyes have these huge dark circles underneath them. She studies too much, damn idiotic over-achiever. It makes me hurt to look at her. But it's not because I give a damn. Because I don't. Yeah, right.

I try to block the unsettling concern out of my mind, and am almost asleep myself when I hear, so soft I almost miss it, "Thanks for staying." You know, it's strange, but I think I feel another muscle spasm coming on, even though there's an uncomfortable ache in my chest. Must be indigestion.

The night that follows is somewhat uneventful. I wake up at about three to hear Katie crying again, and in my half-asleep daze it doesn't occur to me that hugging her and pulling her practically into my lap may not be the best way to avoid the mysterious whatever-the-hell-it-is that is bothering me about this girl who is too much trouble for her own damn good.

Awkward.

She's out not too long after that, though, and it's easy to shift her back onto her pillow. She sleepily says something along the lines of "Hate you, hate you, hate you... 'cept sometimes I forget and have to hate you more." But that doesn't make any sense. Feverish ranting? I can't think of how it would work in any other context... and anyway, I'm too damn tired to care. I'd be willing to bet I look as bad as she does, tomorrow.

As it turns out, she doesn't remember any of that the next morning, so I don't think it matters. Although her roommate Victoria keeps looking at me in this half-bemused, half-crafty way that's really starting to freak me out. Why do women do that? I'll never get it. Bunch of freaks. Well, it takes me a while, but I stop thinking about her and her stupid Christmas tree. By the time classes start up again, I've almost forgotten about the incident altogether. The discomfort and fatigue make it seem a little unreal.

Maybe it didn't happen. Maybe I did make it up. But why would I be dreaming about Katie?