Firstly, this is a post-finale fic, so all spoilers/episodes apply. This isn't exactly your typical post-finale fic, and I've never seen anyone do something like this, but this came to me, and it kind of happened, so, I dunno, I guess I'm putting it out there. I've just tried to connect the logical dots in what would happen next. The story itself is set a couple of months after the finale. Also, I did do one thing... given that I wasn't certain the twins had been named, I took the liberty of renaming them. Because Siobhan's suggestions were awful, and I wanted to save those children from being called Porsche and Reagan.
Secondly, no, you are not misreading that. It is Siobhan, not Bridget, as the second main character. I am not trying to play a Jedi mind trick on you. Bridget is still very much a part of this fic in her own way, though. I just feel like Andrew hasn't really been given the opportunity to sort through his feelings for Siobhan because they've had so little interaction, and I felt like Andrew very much needed to have it out with her.
Anyway, I've been batting this around for a while, starting somewhere in class or on a bus stop, but it kind of all coalesced tonight when I was, incidentally, supposed to be doing something else and instead somehow wound up staying all night and seeing this story to its natural end. It kind of morphed along the way into something I entirely didn't expect towards the end, but I hope you still think they're both in character. I hope you enjoy it, and hopefully my upcoming break will give me plenty of time to post more fics like these that are in various stages of completion. I appreciate all reviews, so if you have the time, it would really mean a lot to me if you'd drop in a few comments. Thanks!
The day the real Siobhan comes home, Andrew recognizes her immediately. He hasn't seen Bridget in weeks, and he's too stubborn to admit he misses her. She hasn't bothered him, hasn't asked him for anything, only called to tell him they needed to talk and that Siobhan was alive. They'd met in some neutral café, and she told him everything she'd uncovered or heard from Henry. And he'd been so, so blindingly angry for days but unwilling, for the moment, to do much of anything with the information. He needed time to formulate a plan, especially when he didn't even know where Siobhan was. And, in his own perverse way, he'd wanted to wait until Siobhan came to him to grovel or manipulate or whatever it was she was doing. Bridget had, after all, made it sound as if Siobhan was broke and with nowhere else to turn, so it was more or less inevitable, her coming crawling back to him.
He can tell the difference almost immediately in how she walks, just breezing in like she owns the place, head held high, eyes gleaming with pride and determination. She's maybe fifteen pounds heavier than Bridget, and she's wearing her hair up in a tight ballerina bun that makes her face look pinched, with dark circles under her eyes. Bridget would've called, would've asked if it was okay. She would never have walked in looking so confident.
He's thought about this moment almost ceaselessly since Bridget told him, wondered how it might feel, but it surprises him. It really and truly surprises him how little he feels, setting eyes on his wife, the real, legal one, for the first time in months. He feels nothing, not even anger, just a desire to put all of his cards down on the table. He licks his lip as he sees her, watching her to see what she'll do or say. He's curious to see just how far she's going to take this. He knows he's going to feel an immense sense of satisfaction after hearing her say her peace, and he finally tells her that he wants a divorce. But, for the moment, Andrew merely smiles. His wife isn't the only schemer, after all; sometimes Siobhan forgets that. "Hello, Siobhan," he says coolly but pleasantly enough so she won't suspect a thing. His lips turn up a little bit more at the corners; he's really going to enjoy this.
Siobhan tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture so much so like that of her sister that it makes Andrew's heart ache. He misses Bridget, misses the way the light hits her hair in the morning and makes it shine like gold, misses her warmth in their bed, misses so many little things about her that he can't even name. And, as much as he hates it, about half of him wishes that she were still here, pretending to be Siobhan. He looks at her, looks at his wife... and wishes she was her sister.
Siobhan smiles faintly, but it's pretty clear that she doesn't want to be there. Siobhan might think she's a good liar, but Andrew has always been able to see through her. "Hi, Andrew," she says in a warm, flirty little voice that reminds him of that first moment when he'd met Bridget, when she'd kissed him and he felt like a fish out of water, gaping at her in disbelief. Siobhan straightens, smoothing her clothes and trying to belie the fact that she feels like she's shaking in her boots. It was even worse because she was going to ask Andrew for something, as much as it galls her to do it. She doesn't want to have to do this, but she and the girls have no other options. So here she is.
After all the months, after genuinely falling in love with her sister, a simple "hi" seems so inadequate. The weight of things they have to say to each other is almost crashing down on him all at once, almost drowning him. She... thought she hated Andrew, thought that for a long time, but her real feelings are a lot more complex. She can't and doesn't think about it, though, doesn't want to admit, even for an instant, that she's made a mistake and... misjudged him.
Andrew looks at her, takes her in, assessing her carefully. Then, in a flash, the idea comes to him, and he leans forward and kisses her before he can think the better of it. He kisses her, just to test it. Just to see what she'll do. He figures he owes her a chance at least, to see if there's anything worth saving here. To see if he isn't needlessly romanticizing anything. The results are unsatisfying for both parties. On Andrew's part, it's like kissing a corpse: unresponsive and unwilling, dead. Her lips don't even move. He pulls away laughing, chuckling in spite of himself because he really does feel nothing.
It's a desperate, almost hysterical kind of laughter because this isn't how he expected it to feel. And that's when he knows that it's really over between them. He doesn't even care that his wife is in front of him, and he doesn't even want to think about what that means. He shakes his head, biting the corner of his lip and just staring at her for a moment. "My God, you really don't feel anything for me anymore, do you?" he says disbelievingly, in a voice that shows just how much it hurts. The pain is long-delayed but no less real. His marriage is really and truly over, and how can something he cared so little about hurt so much? Why is he so disappointed that it didn't work when he's known this for weeks, months, years even? Why does it hurt so much to finally give up on her?
Siobhan isn't prepared for the kiss, for the sudden onslaught of his lips on hers. It's been a long time since anyone's kissed her. Even longer since it wasn't all a lie... little does she know. She's even less prepared for what she feels when Andrew kisses her, a rush of emotions she thought she'd buried, feelings she'd forgot she ever had for him. A sudden, fierce pull of attraction, so familiar and yet so alien to her. She blinks at him, realizing her mistake, still trying to catch her breath. "No, that's not true!" she exclaims, exaggerating it a bit and reaching out for him. Andrew steps back and out of her way, looking at her. For a good moment, he is unable to suppress the betrayed expression on his face, but then it disappears, and he's the man she doesn't know all over again. She takes a step towards him and tries to explain, "Andrew, I-"
Andrew turns away from her. "You're a lousy actress, Siobhan," he says bluntly, mentally comparing her to Bridget and hating himself for it. He still wonders how much of that relationship was a lie, how much of her was real and how much is just his memory. The frown is firmly etched into his face as he shakes his head again, feeling... not quite numb, but something like it. "Guess you really did mean it when you said you didn't love me anymore..." he remarks dimly, turning to glance at her and see how she'll react. Yes, he knows that was her. Bridget did a lot of really screwed-up things, as she and Juliet had put it, but she was never needlessly cruel. So he knew that moment, one of the worst moments in his entire life, had to be courtesy of the one and only Siobhan Martin. Siobhan, after all, knew better how to wield a blade and cut right where it hurt.
He'd hate her, he really would and does, but he can't quite muster up the energy anymore. He's hated her for so long and loved her longer, and, in the end, what good has it done him, if any? He can't look at her when he says it, can't be quite as open with her as he could with Bridget, but he wants to make Siobhan feel something. Sometimes, on these lonely nights when he's in bed, lying in the dark and trying not to wish for a warm body next to his in bed, he asks himself if he ever made Siobhan feel anything. He wonders if she ever really loved him or if that was all a lie too, to get at his money. He wonders if he ever made her even the littlest bit happy and how things got to be so awful between them that she'd faked her death because she actually believed him when he said he'd kill her. That they could be married for so long, and she still had no idea who he was at heart.
He swallows hard, thinking of the right thing to say, but it's time he's honest with his wife too. Time for him to stop hiding his feelings, to stop protecting himself from her, to stop letting her think that nothing she says affects him. He sighs deeply, shaking his head, unable to look at her. Everything about him just feels... shattered and raw, the pain still as sharp as it was the day he found out. "I thought... I hoped I was wrong, that somehow if I tried hard enough, that I would finally be good enough for you." He laughs, afterwards, a bitter, mirthless laugh that echoes in the room and resonates in the hollowness of his chest. That was a futile effort. "But I've just been deluding myself, haven't I?" he asks rhetorically, looking heavenward, as if an appeal to God would somehow make his life make sense anymore.
He turns to look at Siobhan, but she merely stands there like a statue, looking vaguely uncomfortable and unable to look at him for a sustained period of time, looking like she would still rather be anywhere else in the world than here with him. Even now, even when she needs him because she has noplace else left to go, nowhere else to turn, she still can't make it work. She still doesn't care enough to even make an effort. He might've been swayed if she'd met him halfway, if she'd showed him any sign that what they had had ever meant anything to her... But now, he's not even sure he cares anymore that his wife doesn't love him. He throws his hands up in the air. "What's the point anymore if your heart's not in it?" His eyes burn into hers, the words come off his lips charred and broken. He doesn't sound like himself; he's not even sure he knows who he is anymore. "I can't make you love me."
Siobhan closes her eyes but doesn't deny it. She's always looking for a way out. He's just resigned now. He knows what he has to do. He's just disappointed that she's making it so easy about him. He used to be so crazy about her that he didn't think he could ever leave her, no matter how bad it got. God, he'd been addicted to her, utterly infatuated with everything about her. But it was time to admit that they'd both changed, for better or worse. "It's over, Siobhan. I know you've wanted out for a while, and I never could refuse you anything... so here it is, the end of our marriage. I'll have the papers drawn up and sent to you in the morning," he pronounces wearily, making an ineffectual little gesture before going to pour himself some well-needed Scotch. He doesn't have to feel guilty about drinking now that Bridget's gone.
He comes back and sits down in his armchair, swirling the whiskey in his glass, decidedly not looking at Siobhan. That's a blatant lie, actually. He has multiple copies of the forms, signed and sitting in his safes, both here and at the office. He's had them since a few days after Bridget told him the truth when he'd called an attorney friend and asked. He would've sent them to Siobhan long ago, but he, like Bridget and Henry, didn't know where she was. He debated using them to divorce Bridget, but he couldn't bring himself to do so, to divorce her as her sister. He wants to hold on to what little he has left of her. "A pity... I so wanted it to work out." This time, he thinks, adds in his head. He says it in such a bland, blasé way that Siobhan's probably suspicious, but he no longer cares as he tips back his glass and downs half of it.
Siobhan's brow furrows in confusion, remembering past conversations. She'd always gotten the impression that Andrew wasn't about to give her up without a fight... but, then again, she'd also thought he wanted her dead, and she'd been wrong about that too... Fueled by something she doesn't even understand, she comes forward, invading his space, placing her hands on his chair, an almost panic in her eyes. She's thinking of the girls, the girls who are starting to look so much like him that it kills her a little inside. Their eyes are getting darker, and she wonders whether or not they'll have his eyes, if they'll have dark hair, if they'll take after him. She's doing this for them. "Don't say that, Andrew. Don't give up on us. Give us a chance!" she insists with all the enthusiasm she can muster. But Siobhan still has too much dignity and too much sangfroid to beg, to make her efforts really come off as authentic.
He scoffs and stands up abruptly, brushing her off like an insignificant gnat, unable to take any more of her pathetic efforts. She's never going to set this right, and he can never go back to their life before. He doesn't want to, not now that he's seen how it could be... how it should be. He misses Bridget then with a fierceness that surprises him, and he takes a quick swig of the Scotch so he can try and convince himself that that's what's causing the burning sensation in his chest. Not the pain of a lack of Bridget in his life. "What, you mean like you did when you started sleeping with Henry?" he retorts sharply, making a face at her.
Her eyes widen almost comically, and she goes after him, grabbing his arm. He can see the panic written all across her face, but he isn't about to waste any angry words on her. He's so beyond the affair right now. He and Siobhan have much bigger issues and problems than that. All the same, though, he does feel a bit guilty for yelling at Bridget. She hadn't deserved that. "Andrew, I can explain-" Siobhan begins rapidly, almost falling into her arms in her eagerness to explain her way out of it.
Honestly, Andrew almost lets her finish because he wants to hear what she's going to say to justify it or how she's going to deny it (he thinks there'd be a kind of poetic irony in hearing her deny her one true love), but he can't stomach any more lies. He wrenches his shoulder out of her grip with a violence that almost sends her sprawling, before snorting, disgusted with her. He needs to put more distance between them because he's terrified of falling back into her web. "I bet you can, Siobhan. However, unfortunately for you, I'm in no mood to hear any more of your lies."
She flinches, and Andrew pauses, thinking of something, silent for a good moment. It's so rare that he has the upper hand on her, that he is cool where she is panicked. So what he says next had better be good. "But there is one thing I want to hear from you, and don't lie, Shiv, and try to tell me I mean more to you than nothing at all..." he says in a steely voice. Siobhan raises her brows, giving him an expectant look, hands on her hips, and there's the Siobhan he knows, not this pathetic woman with her half-assed efforts at convincing him she cares and still wants to be married to him. "Why him?" Siobhan blinks, thrown off-balance by his question. She'd expected an accusation, then, probably one she deserved. But there will be time for that later. Now he just wants to know why. Why the hell was Henry Butler worth all of this scheming, this elaborate planning, this... turning her back on everything? "Why Henry Butler, of all people?" he spits.
He sees the look on her face at just the sound of his name, equal parts dreamy and heartbroken at the same time, and God, has she ever looked at him that way? That's when he knows that he's lost her for good, maybe. But for whatever reason, he still needs to have this out with her. He continues, resolute, "You love him. Still. It's written all over your face." It hurts a little to admit that, that his wife still loves some other man, even though he's dumped her and broken her heart, but that doesn't make it any less true. He takes a step towards Siobhan, who just looks away, silently confirming it. He has to know why. "So, why him and not me?" He doesn't ask: what's wrong with me? Even though he's dying to. That would be weak, and he can't show Siobhan any weakness now. But that's what he's thinking. His jaw tightens. "You owe me an answer, Siobhan," he reminds her, full of bitterness because she owes him so much more than that.
All the same, he finds that he can't really hate her, not all the way, because despite her flaws and lack of commitment to their marriage... she did give him one thing. Bridget. Even though it hurts just to think of her name and how it isn't Siobhan and she isn't really his... Siobhan's lies and deceptions gave him the happiest seven months of his life. Even though he got shot, lied to, was almost exposed, was held at gunpoint by his ex-wife, conned by his ex-wife and daughter, lost a friend, thought he lost a child, thought his daughter had gotten raped, and found out his wife had cheated on him with Henry Butler, of all people. It was still the best seven months of his life, and now it's all over. And, just as much, he hates her or Bridget for taking that away from him.
She shrugs, giving up the front, looking somehow shaky and tremulous, so much like the fragile, delicate woman he fell in love with. He sees the cracks in her facade, her carefully kept-up appearance, sees her fraying at the edges. Loving her is like loving a live wire, passionate and insane and electrifying but so painful, the pleasures so fleeting. But he sees her as she is now, like a diamond, all sharp edges, hard and cool, and with a million different reflective facets that only show you what you want to see. For a long time, he saw what he wanted to see, ignoring her flaws because she sparkled so brightly, so intensely, up close. But he sees now that what he thought was so great and special about her is all a carefully-constructed lie, and her sparkle is just false, cheap glitter, while her sister's radiance, more true and all the more beautiful for it, lights up his entire home and, if he's being honest, his entire life. She cuts skin like shards of glass, leaving behind jagged, gouging wounds. He's not sure he'll ever be whole again thanks to the two of them; they've torn him to pieces like hungry, jealous lionesses.
She sniffs a little, and he knows why because Bridget told him exactly how and why Henry dumped her, which is the only reason why she came crawling back to him. "I can't explain it. I don't even understand it," she says, and something in it feels like the truth, but he can't trust a single word out of her mouth now. He wonders if she ever struggled with it or if she'd just gone to Henry with her feelings, feelings Henry would've only been too glad to reciprocate.
You see, Andrew wasn't exactly surprised to hear about the affair. He'd noticed the way Henry Butler had watched his wife, had noticed the way the other man had stared just a bit too long for it to be right, had noticed traces off unnecessary possessiveness. And he wasn't blind to Henry's hostility towards him, but he'd never thought that his wife would give into Henry's little crush. Somehow he'd always thought that, regardless of how Siobhan felt about him, she wouldn't just throw their life together away for a few rolls in the hay with the penniless, pathetic would-be writer. Not with everything that he could give her and Henry couldn't! Maybe he'd been arrogant and overly confident of his own skills, but he'd always thought that Siobhan cared more about money than anything else, so to hear she'd turn her back on him and his millions to live with Henry... it was like a slap in the face, and it made him question everything he ever thought he knew about her. But then again, her favorite movie was The Notebook, and, God, that should've been a sign... because even the stupid girl in that movie chose the penniless guy over the rich, perfect one. Love over money.
Siobhan shrugs, all pretenses gone, wearing her best indifferent face. It isn't often that she has to justify her behavior, but Andrew isn't about to let her off the hook. So she gives him the honesty he's always craved. "I was lonely and bored. Henry... paid attention to me. He made me feel special. Said I was his muse." Andrew scoffs at the word, but there's a pain hidden underneath it, a ridiculousness that his wife's affections could be bought with stupid, simple gestures after all the money he spent on her, trying to keep her, trying to hold her attention. So hard for him, but she was easy for Henry Butler. All he's done, and a few simple blandishments would've sufficed? It's all he can do to stop himself from laughing in desperation.
Siobhan continues, getting a bit angry, a bit more defensive. Andrew raises his brows, disbelieving. Now that she's finally telling him the truth, he's not sure how much more he can hear. "He told me that I sparkled... and I liked the way he saw me. I liked that he thought I was capable of being more than just a..." She paused deliberately, meeting his gaze directly and unflinchingly for the first time in months, her stare indicting, condemning him without a jury or a trial as always. His own wife thinks she knows everything, and she has never once given him the benefit of doubt. "-convenient accessory," Siobhan concluded. As if she's decided that was all she was to him, arm candy, a pretty trophy wife. Good to look at, good manners, good in social situations, but not a real partner.
Andrew's jaw tightens in rage, but he doesn't deny it. Siobhan made herself that trophy wife by not letting him in, by never freely giving all of herself to him. Her secrets and lies, the way she concealed who she really was to land him, that killed their marriage before Henry or Bridget or even their mutual threats and mistrust ever set in. If he'd wanted a trophy wife, he would've married someone younger, someone vapid and thoughtless and easy and pleasant, all of these things that Siobhan wasn't. He'd married her because he wanted something more, because he wanted someone with depth, and Siobhan's mystery, whatever baggage she'd carried, had intrigued him and appealed to him in a way that made him become addicted to her. So he ended up marrying her in the end because he didn't think he could live without her.
Still Siobhan continues, utterly unapologetic (and of course he'd been attracted to this hard, dangerous, vicious side of hers too) but in a softer voice. He thinks that it's probably the first time she's ever been honest with him in the course of their entire marriage. "We were just drawn to each other. Haven't you ever felt that way?" she entreats, holding up her hands. Andrew looks away and swallows hard, trying desperately not to think of that other woman who isn't his wife and never will be. "I could no more stop it than I could stop being married to you," she says, as if she's just some helpless victim in this, as if her lack of control isn't her fault at all, that it was something bigger than that.
Andrew turns back to face her, utterly disbelieving. Does she expect him to take her back? She ought to know by this time that Mr. and Mrs. Martin haven't been living in the same house for several months. He stares Siobhan down levelly, a wicked, fearsome smile spreading across her face. Once upon a time he thought Siobhan had married him because she'd seen the same side in him that he'd seen in her. It's only now that he realizes that, perhaps, they were far too alike to ever work as a couple, both of them holding their feelings back, letting silent resentments build up, both of them so cold and hard on the outside, but soft and ruled by their emotions on the inside. Both of them destined to hurt each other.
"Funny you should mention that, Siobhan," he begins coolly, knowing he will enjoy what follows immensely. How he longs to watch all of Siobhan's plans collapse around her, to see the house of cards she's built destroyed once and for all. "You see, it's very easy to stop being married once the vows don't mean anything to you anymore. You stopped being married to me the moment you screwed another man." His voice is ice cold, his smile cruel and a bit gleeful as he watches her face fall, sees the dreamy thoughts of Henry replaced by a cold pragmatism and the beginning traces of panic. He pauses for a moment, to watch her sweat, and holds out his arms in a faux-benevolence. "You see, Siobhan, I'm finally giving you what you want..."
It reminds him terribly of that last talk with Bridget in the apartment, how his face had softened and then fell as he told her to get out. Only this time he actually enjoys it, leading her on. He takes a step towards Siobhan, enjoying and hating how uncomfortable she seems in his presence, how unaccustomed she is to him now, as if they were never one. He leans in still, until he's in her face, wearing an expression of pure hatred, and then he says it, "-to be rid of me." He tips his head to her, sweeping his hand to the side in a mock obliging gesture. "You're welcome," he declares through clenched teeth.
But, still, he doesn't feel better or more free after saying it. He just feels sort of... empty and unresolved, like he's still in limbo with her. Siobhan's eyes widen a little, but, all in all, she's still too calm. Because she knows she has an ace in the hole, and she does... in fact, she has two. The bile starts to churn in his stomach, that he could marry two women who would use their children against him, but he knows she would. The knowledge that he could have not one, but two wives, who'd never wanted his children... it made him sick, sick to think of his own blindness and lack of judgment. "God, I should've married Bridget," he mumbles, realizing it and saying it out loud for the first time.
Because no one's ever going to love him like that again, not so wholeheartedly and unashamedly and nakedly. He's never going to have that with anyone else. He's never going to have something so perfect again.
He should've just forgotten all the lies and focused on how he felt and said that screw it, none of that had been important because the feelings were there. And he knows living in ignorance is no way to live, and he would've hated it, but he wants her. She's the only wife he's ever had who cared about him more than herself, and he should've just married her anyway. Her past doesn't matter much, not when she stuck around after finding out about the Ponzi scheme and everything with Juliet, and, hell, she still loved him even when she thought he was going to kill her! He should've let her say Siobhan's name and officially take her place, and he's wasted so much time without her. He only remembers himself when he looks back up at Siobhan, momentarily thinking he's hallucinating and Bridget is still with him, and sees the shock etched into her face, the wide eyes and gaping mouth. And the cat's out of the bag.
She looks like a fish out of water, and he so enjoys having the upper hand here, for a change. Andrew allows himself an ironic smile. "Bridget told me everything, you know." He allows himself a chuckle. "And I do mean everything, Siobhan." His smile widens a fraction. Siobhan swallows hard, tensing, and Andrew likes the way she squirms. It's almost like she cares, almost like she actually realizes how much she has to lose. He finishes off the last of his Scotch and finds himself wishing for more, but he's not going to go back to the bar and turn his back on her, lest she steal something or take the opportunity to flee before he's done with her.
Siobhan recovers admirably, as Andrew had always suspected she would. She's very resilient, more so than him, and he'd always underestimated that. Probably because he never knew how she'd utterly rebuilt her life and pulled herself together after the disaster with Sean. She has a quick tongue, a ready mouth full of words to say. She comes on the defensive, arms crossed over her chest. He can't help but notice that her breasts are bigger, fuller than before, probably because she's still breast-feeding. "I wasn't the only one who lied, Andrew." Her tone is pointed, and he looks away, knowing she's right. She takes a step closer, realizing she's gaining ground, giving him a knowing look. "And I wasn't the only one who cheated," she continues wickedly, her eyes a dusky emerald. Andrew flinches at the word, flinches at the truth of the accusation, that she has the nerve to call him out on it. He hates how trapped she makes him feel.
He charges forward, eyes blazing, half insane with fury. He's shouting and making violent hand gestures without thought. Only Siobhan has been able to drive him so blind with anger that all of his carefully-constructed phrases and positions become instantly meaningless before her. "You set me up for that! I never knowingly slept with her! I thought she was you the whole time!" The breath comes out of him in a hiss. He's so close to her face, and, God, he wants nothing more than to wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze until her face turns blue and she's left sputtering, begging. But he can't do that, so he swallows hard and turns away, taking a step back, an expression of disgust on his face. He enunciates this time, every syllable and letter crisp and clear. "I never cheated on you. And if I wanted to, to do that to spite you, I would've been with her after I found out the truth. But I wasn't."
He lets his words hang in the air, and he doesn't say that he didn't do it because he was so angry with Bridget that he couldn't even look at his bed of lies. He doesn't say he didn't do it because he'd thought she was dead because Bridget had seemed so sure, and he couldn't do that to his dead wife, couldn't be that heartless and start over again with her lying sister. But his marriage had been dead before Siobhan ever faked her death, and he knows that now. He shakes his head in disgust, making it clear how pathetic he finds her sudden burst of jealousy. "Even though you did it to me first, I can't do that to you. I can't sleep with a woman I love who loves me for who I am because I'm still haunted by the specter of you!" he snarls, face contorting into a grimace. And, even now, he's still not sure he could be with Bridget, not with Siobhan hanging over them like this, hanging the both of them out there.
Andrew takes a deep breath, trying to clear his head, feeling the pressure building up in his head, the lump hardening in his throat. It reminds him of how he'd gone to his bedroom after she'd left and taken her things to the Sheridans'. He'd sat down on the bed, and then lay down, on her side, and just the scent of her shampoo, a different one than Siobhan's old one, since she'd switched some time ago, on her pillow had brought tears to his eyes. And next thing he knew, he was hugging her pillow, clutching it like a lifeline, burying his face in it, surrounding himself with the smell of her, all the while crying like a baby. He didn't know which twin he was crying for, which loss he felt more deeply, if he was crying for his dead wife and child or if he was crying for losing the Siobhan he'd never really had to begin with, but he'd sobbed like he hadn't since his father died for a few hours. He'd just managed to pull himself together when Juliet came back, and he'd had to be strong for her while she cried and he explained the things Bridget hadn't, told her what she'd said.
He shook his head, staring at her and trying to find some kind of explanation for how he felt about her. "Because, despite all signs to the contrary, and all of my better sense telling me you are poison... I still need to know if we have a chance," he finds himself saying, his voice raw with pain, and he's repeating her half-assed plea, but he needs to know if she thinks there's anything here, needs to hear it from her lips. He needs to know if Siobhan could ever love him again, if she ever had, anyway, if she could learn to. If he could learn to forgive her.
Siobhan sighs and sits down on the purple velvet couch he knows for a fact that she's always hated. Unlike Bridget, who'd pulled him down on it more than a few times while watching a movie when she'd decided he was more interesting than whatever it was they were watching. He sighs, glancing at the couch forlornly before tearing his eyes away. He shuts his eyes briefly, not wanting to keep wishing that his wife was Bridget. "Does it even matter, Andrew? You love her now," Siobhan says accusingly, crossing her legs and reading her mind in a way she'd rarely ever done when they were married.
He hates that she'd read his mind. He hates the cop-out and misdirect, hates that those are Siobhan's typical tools to control him. He hates himself for wishing she was the good twin, the nicer one, the one who actually gave a damn. And, most of all, he hates himself for trying with her, even though she doesn't deserve it. "This is a mess of your making, Siobhan," he replies, scowling, crossing his arms over his chest as if to protect his heart. But it's too late for that. Between her and her sister, they've shattered him and his heart, they've broken him down. Still, he stands there and stares at expressionless Siobhan until it burns his eyes, wishing he hadn't been so blind. "I love a lie. A lie that the two of you created, an amalgam of both who doesn't really exist."
Saying that out loud alone makes him want to break down, but he doesn't. He needs all of his strength to deal with Siobhan. He needs whatever energy he can muster just to get through the day nowadays. He's a little more lethargic getting out of bed every morning, now that his life has crystallized to being Arbogast's front man and taking care of Juliet. She's all he has left, really. He doesn't have Bridget, doesn't have the company, not really, and most of his friends are more sympathetic to the new and improved Siobhan than him. He shakes his head, disbelieving. "My heart might be telling me to run after Bridget, but... you're still my wife." He forces the words out, even though they come differently, unwillingly. He owes it one last shot. Siobhan blinks, not knowing how to take this, unsure of what she's stumbled upon, if her luck is really this good.
Andrew sighs again, wanting nothing more than to sit down, but he isn't going to give Siobhan an opening to attempt a seduction she'd no doubt botch. It might just work because he misses Bridget so badly he'd close his eyes and mind and pretend Siobhan was Bridget, but now that he knows, he can't un-know it. He shakes the thoughts away, unable to believe he'd even entertained that thought for a moment. "I chose you, not her, six years ago... and unlike you, our wedding vows actually meant something to me!" he continues with a rising intensity, staring down at Siobhan. Siobhan flinches at his words, his tone, and his scrutiny, and Andrew starts pacing, furious with the both of them. "She fell into my lap, and she's great, and she's perfect, and she loves Juliet and all the things about me that you never did... but I can't stop thinking about you!" he spews, his words getting caught up in each other, hands flying through the air.
Siobhan's still gaping at him, utterly speechless. That was too much, too overwhelming. He knows that, but the fact that she has utterly nothing to say says more than she ever could. He exhales wearily, looking at her with eyes full of repugnance, and he sinks into the armchair with its silly pattern, taking his head in his hands, trying to shut her out, finding he can't, and wishing he could. Olivia isn't the only one who's wished she could blink and make Siobhan disappear... and how many times has he rued his decision to marry the enigmatic ice queen, even as he convinced himself it was worth it because he loved her? "Even though I know there's no love lost here... and you're just going to try to manipulate me and lie to me again..." he murmured almost to himself, glancing up at her so suddenly that Siobhan startles. "Is there any chance we can salvage this, Shiv? Or are we too far gone?" he asks in a voice that shakes a little like a thunderstorm, the storm that's brewing inside of him.
She shrugs, apathetic to the end. "Honestly, Andrew... I don't know," she says. He knows that she's being honest, that those are the truest words she's ever spoken to him in their marriage. And maybe she is just as lost as he is, maybe she just hides it better, but somehow this failure to respond, to give him any hope either way, is just disheartening. He wonders if anything he could ever do would ever effect her, if he could ever make her care. How had he not seen through this thin veneer before? Had he just seen what he wanted to see with her too? Had he willingly been so ignorant, so out of touch with reality?
Andrew resists the urge to call her out on never being honest, on not knowing the first thing about it. That would be too easy. He's given her a million chances, and all she's done is disappoint him. He's given her too much, been too reasonable, too lenient. He needs to let her go, to be rid of her once and for all. But then he remembers how he felt that awful day and a half when he thought she'd died, that she'd really rather kill herself than be with him for even one minute. How he'd died inside a little, realizing she hadn't said goodbye, realizing that she had no last words for him, that she would rather have died with all of that inside of her. Then the guilt, the guilt at never noticing her pain, at leaving her alone so long, at never paying enough attention or doing enough, and the guilt that made him throw up... that he'd never noticed she was gone, that he'd never seen the differences between the sisters, that he'd slept with her sister less than two months after his wife had died and had never suspected a thing!
He'd wanted to die too, now that he had nothing. Juliet was the only thing that had kept him going until that phone call and meeting with Bridget had given him a new purpose. Revenge. But now that Siobhan was finally here, he couldn't muster up the energy or the malice. He just wanted her out of his life and out of his heart, and would that it were all so easy! Would that he could just erase those seven years!
It is with this in mind that Andrew sighs raggedly and looks up at her, still hanging his head. "Did you ever really love me?" he asks in a raspy, breaking voice, his fingers trembling finely, so finely that she won't notice. He just needs to know now, and he can't decide which answer will be worse, which answer will hurt more. He doesn't even entertain the possibility that she still loves him, if indeed she ever had. He knows now... she was a little possessive, a little jealous. She just didn't want to see him happy with Bridget. Andrew doesn't think it's because she hates him; it's because she hates her sister that much. But it comforts him a little that they're at least all miserable, even Siobhan.
The late nights up with the twins, the long hours at work—it all shows. Siobhan sighs, her body sagging a little as she leans into the couch, reclining a bit as if she actually appreciates its softness. She tries not to think about the good days, because then she wonders if she made a mistake, and she doesn't have time for that now. "Yes, I did, a long time ago," she says finally, in a quiet voice, barely glancing at him. Her eyes are a bit lighter, and he sees something like regret in them, maybe pity.
It seems like a lifetime ago to her now, back when she and Andrew were happy. She'd loved him in her own way, but not with wild abandon or crazy sparks like she loves Henry. She'd loved Andrew in a quieter way; it was a love born of gratitude. She loved all that he'd done for her, all that he'd given her. He'd rescued her, had taken her away from her memories and her regrets, and he'd helped her move on after Sean's death by leaving her past behind and not pressing her with questions. He'd helped her heal. Not that she'd ever tell Andrew any of this. He wouldn't understand. He'd thought their love was more of the passionate kind because they'd both stirred up such intense emotions in each other, emotions intense enough for him to finally leave Catherine, to choose her, Siobhan, over his family and his daughter.
But it wasn't the same on her end. She'd kept her head and her wits about her... and she knows she never would've concocted a plot anything like what she'd done to stay with Henry for him, not even when things were good between them. Then again, she's not sure Andrew would've taken a bullet for her, either. That's why it felt like she'd been shot when she found out he'd taken a bullet for her undeserving sister. She doesn't think he ever loved her that much, despite all his protestations. She wishes, in a way, that this was really as easy for her as he thinks it is, but it's not.
He's her husband still, and that had once meant something... She's not wholly unaffected, not wholly detached, as much as she wishes it. And even if it's not the same, even if it never will be, there are still the girls to bind them together. And if she loves nothing else about him, she loves that he gave her the girls, and she appreciates him for that because she knows, deep down, that he'll be a better father than Henry or Tyler ever would've been. They'll be smart and beautiful and hopefully they'll turn out better than their parents. Her daughters will want for nothing once she tells him, and she knows he'll want rights and visitation and probably joint custody, but she's willing to give a little for her girls, the lights of her life, who've made her feel whole again in a way she hasn't since she lost Sean. She'd do anything for her daughters, even go back to Andrew.
She smiles a little, a bit sadly, trying to remember what she'd loved about Andrew. It's hard when she's forgotten to see the good in him for so long. It seems like she's been waiting for her life with him to all come crashing down since it all began. She knows their time is long past. He's right. It's over, but... she can't let go, not really. She can't just concede him to her sister. It's not as if she actually feels nothing for him... she would just rather not care to figure it out and risk getting hurt again when she knows it's over. "It would be easier if I didn't, if I never had. But I did, once," she confesses, meeting his eyes for the second time before glancing away quickly as if she's just admitted some unacceptable vulnerability. He supposes she has, having just admitted having feelings for him once. He doesn't bother asking if she still does.
His shoulders sink a little as he stares back at her, feeling like he's seen her for the first time. He doesn't know if she's lying to him or not, still doesn't know what's real. All he knows is that that doesn't feel like closure. "I never stopped loving you." It hangs there, heavy in the air. A thought follows it, but he leaves it unvoiced. Just like I never stopped believing that you could change, that you and I could be better. That you were it for me, Siobhan. He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales slowly. "The girls... where are they?" he asks quietly, latching on to this last thought, looking up at her. "Are they even mine?" he demands, wondering if Henry and Tyler were the only other men she'd been sleeping with.
Bridget had been sure, so sure, that they were his, the twins. She said she'd been by the hospital to see them, once again pretending to be Siobhan, told him they were in intensive care, but that they were fine, just premature. She'd asked him awkwardly if he wanted to go with her to see them, but he couldn't. It had been too much at the time with all that information crashing down on him at once. He'd gone from thinking he'd lost a child to potentially gaining two, a father of one to a potential father of three in a single afternoon. So he'd said no, even though he ached to see them because Bridget had said they were beautiful and perfect. She'd said they looked like him, and he'd thought that was wishful thinking. He had gone there, to the hospital, since Bridget had told him where they were, about a week later, but they weren't there, and he was too proud to ask a nurse if she remembered a set of twins born to a Rebecca Sheldrake.
He didn't have the energy in him to care for two infants or to go looking for Siobhan, so he'd waited for her to come to him, as he knew she would. And now he could ask. Siobhan tenses at his tone, but her expression doesn't change much. She just looks resigned. "Yes, Andrew, they're yours." She pauses a moment, licking her dry lips. "You can have the test done, if you want to confirm it. But they're yours." Siobhan sounds pretty certain, but he's no fool, so he'll have the test done even though he's pretty sure of what it's going to say. Her voice is a monotone, and he hates that this is how he's come to know that he's a father again.
Both times, her sister told him first. He doesn't want to be the father of Siobhan's children, even though he'd longed for it for years. He wants them to be Bridget's, wants to have children with her now, like they'd both wanted when he thought she was Siobhan. They'd been trying, too, just before she'd told him. They'd just started, really, so it was a bit of a double-whammy. He could use another drink right about now. Andrew swallowed hard, trying to breathe, trying to keep down the barrage of questions he longs to ask her about them, how he's not going to miss any more of his daughters' lives. "What are their names?" he asks after a small infinity in a creaky voice, feeling suddenly so much older than his years.
Siobhan smiles, pleased, like a cat, at the thought of her daughters. Like any new mother, she's happy to talk about them, probably can't shut up about them. He knows she wants money to support them, but it hurts to know that that's probably the only reason she's coming to him. After all, he'd been a pretty terrible father to Juliet. Even now, he was only half of a man, and though he tried to be there for her all he could, it was hard when his heart was only half in it. He's not sure he can do this again, not sure he can be there for them like he deserves, not sure how to do this when he can't trust their mother, when she's kept them from him for their entire lives and her entire pregnancy.
He's not sure if things would be different, but he likes to think they would be. He would've come to love them anyway, even if he and Siobhan hadn't reconciled, even if he'd thought they weren't his children. He burns with the desire to see them for the first time, to hold them, to smile at them, to see them take their first steps and hear them speak their first words, and he doesn't want to share them with Siobhan. He knows she'll be a good mother, that she'll do anything for them. He knows because Bridget told him all about how she was with Sean with tears in her eyes, all about that Siobhan he never got to know, the contented motherly Siobhan.
"Cordelia and Ophelia," Siobhan announces quietly but proudly, giving him a real smile, one that reaches her eyes. He hasn't seen that smile on this face, her face, in years. She'd changed her mind after Henry had weighed in on the names and changed it again after he'd dumped her and she'd gone to the hospital, all determination, and signed the birth certificate with Andrew's last name and the new names. The signature's still Henry's, and it mocks her. Deep down, though, she'd known for months that the twins' weren't his, and that's why she'd thought Shakespeare rather than Salinger. Regan and Portia could both be misspelled and misinterpreted, the names a bit too trendy, not unique enough. She didn't want them to think she'd named her daughters after a car or a president, so her daughters became Shakespearean princesses, enduring and eternal.
Ophelia, the elder twin, is like Siobhan. She sees it in her face, in her eyes, in the insistence of her cries. There's something darker about her, a sharpness to her, a maturity and simplicity. She favors Ophelia because she understands her. Cordelia is sweeter, gentler, but she doesn't cling to her breast as her greedy sister does. She holds her chubby arms out, waiting for someone, before wailing, and every time she sees that, it's like a stone's sinking into her stomach because she knows Cordelia's searching for the father she hasn't been able to give her. Cordelia reminds her of Sean and Bridget and, sometimes, even Andrew, when she stares up at her with pleading eyes she can't help but give into. Despite their differences in personalities and tempers, the two twins cling to each other like vines, always hugging, each one crawling towards her sister, refusing to be parted from her. It pains Siobhan to watch them, because she forgets herself for a moment and wishes bitterly for Bridget until she wipes away the hot tears and reminds herself that she's better off without the sister who's taken everything from her.
Andrew runs the names over in his head. He'd like to see their birth certificates, but he thinks the elegant princess names suit his daughters, his own little princesses. Juliet, Ophelia, and Cordelia, he thinks, marveling at the Shakespearean symmetry of it all, three daughters born of tragedies. He hopes they aren't doomed to madness and early deaths like the characters. He clears his throat, edging forward in his chair. "Do... do you have any pictures?" he asks hesitantly, holding his hands out just a little, hoping, longing to see their little faces. He can feel himself softening, and he hates it, hates that she's found his gooey, chocolatey center, like he's some sort of Tootsie Pop.
Siobhan nods, still smiling beatifically, remaining strangely serene as she takes out her pocketbook and pulls out a few snapshots of the twins side by side. If she tried, she could have him in the palm of her hand right now, but other than the twins taken care of and not having to worry about where her next meal comes from, she doesn't know what she wants. She doesn't really know what she wants from him, if she wants anything from this man she's grossly misjudged. Their fingers brush briefly as she passes the photos to him, and they both look up at the same moment because there's no mistaking that they both felt something pass between them. But the moment is gone just as quickly as it comes as Andrew stares at the photos.
They're so tiny, only a few months old, but Bridget was right. They're beautiful, and they're perfect, and Siobhan is taking good care of them. The girls stare up at him with bluish-green eyes and golden hair, ever the picture of their mother as a young girl, not that he knows. There's nothing of him in them, but he knows, just looking at them, that they're his. He can't say how, but he knows. And he knows that he, like Siobhan, would do anything for them... and suddenly they have something in common again, and it jolts him up from memorizing their faces and thinking of how quickly they're growing, how quickly these days will be gone.
He swallows hard, trying to master himself, trying to pretend that he's not tearing up at this mere picture of his daughters. And he looks up at Siobhan and he's grateful in spite of himself because he loves them already, and he does still love Siobhan and the parts of her and Bridget he sees in them. "Can I... keep these?" he asks in a shaky, unsteady voice, imagining himself showing Juliet the new part of their family, hoping she'll come to love her half-sisters as instantaneously as he has, hoping Siobhan will let the both of them be a part of their lives.
Andrew will fight for the girls, and he will pour everything he has into doing it, regardless of what happens with Siobhan, whether he divorces her or not, whether he tries to give things with Bridget a shot. His daughters have to come first. Surprising even him, Siobhan nods, her smile widening just a fraction. "Uh huh." She seems almost kind, and Andrew can hardly believe the change in her, the serenity that has come over her. "I have plenty," she says with almost a pitying expression. Andrew envies that she can see the twins whenever she wants, envies that she knows where they are and who is watching their children. And it pains him to know that she would never let Bridget anywhere near them if he decided to get back with her, even though they both know how good she would be with them.
His grip tightens a little on the pictures, and he thinks of the ultrasounds he'd missed, of the entire pregnancy he missed because of her trickery. He's not going to miss any more of their lives. He manages somehow to tear his eyes away from their faces, catching hers and catching her off-guard. "Can I see them?" he asks with a suddenness and eagerness that surprises even himself. Siobhan is a little surprised by the urgency of his request, but she knew Andrew would want this, that he'd want to be involved in their lives, and she doesn't hate him enough to deny it. She nods, conceding a little, glancing away and trying to think of a proper time for him to visit them, trying to imagine how all of this is going to work.
Andrew finds himself smiling, really smiling, for the first time in months. He's mostly smiling to himself, and it feels a little funny, exercising muscles he hasn't used in so long, but he actually feels a trace of happiness, a trace of hope, for the first time since he told Bridget to leave. He has something to look forward to: getting to know his new daughters. Whatever he's feeling for their mother and aunt can wait. He looks back up at Siobhan and breathes, "Thank you." It isn't that her sins have been washed away or that he's forgiven her for everything; it's just all been overshadowed by this gift she's given him, by her being willing to share their daughters, at least for the moment. Siobhan smiles back enigmatically; he's not sure he'll ever know what she's thinking.
And, in that smile, he still can't help but look for the echoes of her sister... who he still sees without seeing and instinctively looks for without looking, in every crowd, in every love song, in every television program, in every work of art, in every story, eluding him but always there, trying to tell him something but never coming close enough. It's a bittersweet smile on both their parts, as they sit there in silence, admiring their daughters and wishing for those who are not in the room but might as well be for how they linger in their thoughts. And then the silence breaks as Siobhan opens her mouth and starts to tell him about them, the girls, and Andrew feels a new chapter in his life starting right now, in this very moment. He's hanging on her every word, even though babies aren't that interesting, but they are because they're his.
Their eyes meet briefly, and it hits them both at the same time that they're parents, that they're in this together from now on, for better or worse in a way they weren't while their marriage was still good, ripe fruit rather than the withered, rotten husk it is now... and somehow everything must change because they can't stop being the girls' parents. They need each other. This is bigger than them and their issues now. It's a life commitment, and regardless of how either of them feel about each other, they both love their daughters.
Siobhan looks at Andrew, and she starts to remember the things that she'd liked about him, quite against her will. And she remembers that one of those things she'd initially liked about him was how he was around kids, how she knew he'd be... if not a good father, at least one with his heart in the right place. And it's difficult for her to feel anything other than hatred and antipathy for him, or disgust after knowing what happened with Bridget, but she finds herself opening up a bit more than she expected, feeling shadows of things she thought she'd long-ago stopped feeling for Andrew, things like respect. And she sees him holding the girls, sees him picking up Cordelia and holding her and finally filling that father-shaped hole in her daughter's heart, and she softens a little, softens for the first time in his presence in years. She does care.
Andrew doesn't want to think they have a chance, doesn't want to acknowledge it as such. He isn't even sure he wants to give her one. He's still furious. He doesn't want to take her back, can't when he knows he still has feelings for Bridget, feelings stronger than anything he has felt for Siobhan in years, and, bizarrely, even touching Siobhan, his wife, feels like cheating on her sister. He knows she certainly doesn't deserve it. But even he can't help but acknowledge that what they have now is a foundation, roots to build something on, if only for the girls' sake. Whether they let it become more than that, in the way it can all too easily (Andrew knows, after all, this is how it felt with Catherine until he realized she didn't really love Juliet much at all and he realized they were both pawns in her games and victims of her selfishness), is up to them.
For now, they will be parents to their daughters, the best parents they can be, both together and separately. The rest will come with time.