Disclaimer: Desperate Housewives absolutely isn't mine.
Story Summary: Tom and Lynette watch Casablanca. Banter ensues. Takes place after the end of "The God-Why-Don't-You-Love-Me Blues."
A/n: Because I always thought that last scene with them was a little bizarre? Also because the idea of Lynette having a fantasy man named Humphrey popped into my brain, and clearly that leads to Casablanca (I'm insane—have I not mentioned that?). Warning: unicorns dancing on a puffy cloud levels of fluff ahead! Enjoy!
It Ends with Fog (But We Can See Anyway)
A story by Ryeloza
"Who would you pick?"
"Huh?" She's lying with her head in Tom's lap, and he's been playing with her hair for the past half-hour, stroking his fingers through her locks so gently that she's nearly asleep. She yawns and presses her cheek into his thigh. "What're you talking about?"
"The movie. Would you pick Rick or Victor?"
Lynette forces her eyes open and stares a little blearily at the television, where the final scene of Casablanca is playing out. She'd been zoning in and out since the flashbacks to Paris, but she's still surprised that they're at the end already. Disappointed, she realizes she dozed through the scene where they sing "La Marseillaise," which is her favorite part of the movie. "Well," she says, "Ilsa doesn't really pick, does she?"
Tom's fingers still in her hair, pausing as though he's never really considered this. "No," he finally agrees, "but if you had to choose…?"
The movie ends—Rick and Louis walking off into the fog together. She rolls onto her back, stretching out like a cat as she does, and tosses one of her arms over her head. Tom stares down at her expectantly, so she shrugs. "Honestly? I always identified more with Humphrey Bogart's character."
"Oh really?"
"Well, yeah." It seems pretty obvious, when she says it, but Tom wears this funny expression that's torn between intrigue and amusement. "You know," she adds, "the whole self-sacrificing martyr thing."
Tom rolls his eyes. "Of course. If anyone would bypass true love for the sake of fighting fascism, it would be you."
Lynette slaps his chest. "You know what I mean."
"I know how you are."
"Same difference."
For a minute, they're quiet. Lynette shuts her eyes again and smiles as Tom runs his index finger over her forehead and down the bridge of her nose. And maybe it's because she's half-asleep or maybe it's because deep down there is something romantic about Casablanca even if Ilsa is kind of a wimp, but suddenly Lynette finds herself confessing. "Actually, the whole Paris romance was kind of a fantasy of mine when I was a teenager."
"Oh really?" The way Tom says this—in his oh do go on voice—the one that sounds like he's kind of teasing her, but really he's completely fascinated—makes her smile like an idiot.
"Yeah. I was fourteen or fifteen the first time I saw it, and it just became this crazy dream any time things got bad at home or I was bored or upset. Someday, I was going to run away to Paris and have some crazy, passionate love affair."
"Hmm," says Tom, and he's kind of laughing at her, but not in a mean way. "So I guess I'm not the only one who compromised in this marriage."
"Don't even start."
"What?" he asks innocently, like he's not dredging up the somewhat bizarre conversation they had a couple of hours ago. She knows that he's trying to get her back for even bringing that up earlier; he's proving a point, whatever it might be. "You got all upset to find out that you're not the exact fantasy I had as a horny sixteen-year-old, and now I find out that all these years, you'd rather have been living some wild, sex-crazed life with a Frenchman."
"You're twisting the whole conversation."
"Nope. I think I'm remembering it correctly."
"What you actually said was that I'd be perfect if my breasts magically grew a couple of cup sizes. It had nothing to do with whatever mental image you jerked off to as a teenager."
Tom chuckles at that—probably because it's true—and pulls one of her hands up to kiss her palm. "Just admit it…you'd be happier if I was French. It's my one flaw, isn't it?"
"You caught me," she deadpans. "When we first met, I thought, 'Wow, funny, charming and cute—but if only he was French…'"
"I knew it!" He gives an exaggerated, beleaguered sigh. "I guess we both settled, huh?"
"Obviously. It's tragic when you think about it."
"Oh yeah," says Tom. "We've basically wasted the past twenty years or so just kind of tolerating each other."
He rubs his hand over her stomach, and she pretends for a moment that he can feel the fluttery movement of their babies inside of her. Really, it'll be a few weeks yet before they actually start kicking, but the thought still makes her smile.
"Well," he sighs jokingly, "would eet 'elp eef I got a beret and talked like zees from now on?"
Lynette bursts out laughing, mostly at the absurdity of it all. She's sitting in her living room with this guy who is probably nothing like the person she used to think she'd end up with, because in a fantasy she never dreamed of a goofball who would talk in an atrocious French accent just to make her laugh. It's the kind of thing that's just too crazy to imagine; the kind of thing that makes her think reality is better.
Tom clasps her hand to his chest with an imploring expression on his face that's mostly not serious at all, and yet she can tell by the look in his eyes that he's thinking the same thing she is. Quite possibly she's the only woman on the planet who would laugh at this, and maybe that makes her better than anything he ever dreamed either.
"Zere ees 'ope for us, no?"
Smiling, she reaches up and cups his cheek with her hand. "Oui, mon amour," she says, and she slowly pulls him down for a kiss.