You Never Gave Me a Reason
Disclaimer: I don't own Revenge or its characters.
1) Breakfast in Bed and Bad Publicity
Something was terribly wrong.
When Victoria fell into bed the night before, things seemed to be truly turning up. Kara had just left town forever the day before, and with her went a layer of anxiety Victoria hadn't recognized in herself. She and Conrad had actually lived through the near-death experience that Kara had put them through, and now that she was out of their lives forever, their chances of death were that much slimmer. With the loose ends mostly tied up, it was easier to fall asleep lately.
The next morning, woken by the fresh Saturday sunlight that poured through the windows, the peace from the night before resurfaced and she sighed contentedly. She breathed in the crisp air, stretching and turning over in the silk sheets that slinked around her skin and wrapped her in warmth, true relaxation filling her lungs - this escaped and left her breathless when her wandering eyes found something horrifying.
On the bedside table, a silver tray was filled to its edges with a large plate and two smaller, upon which sat a stack of French toast and mixed berries; aside which lay eggs over-easy and a ring of sausages; opposite which was placed a raisin bagel and, strangely, a peach. Victoria, being a great lover of stone fruit, knew that peaches were no longer in season at this time of year; yet when she later bit into the fruit, it was ripe and juicy, as if it had been harvested fresh out of spring. No maid could have managed that.
Cautiously, she sat up straight and took the tray in her hands, examining its contents. She was almost afraid to touch it, wondering in paranoia if this was some attempt on her life. Who, besides an enemy, would have brought her breakfast in bed? Her children were neither living with her nor on extraordinary terms with her; the cook rarely ventured from the kitchen, and certainly not on weekends; and every man with which she'd ever had an affair was either dead or keeping his distance, meaning she was likely in for no unexpected visitors. The only person left to consideration was her husband, and this being his gesture was even less likely than it being one of her children's ideas. Both options seemed impossible, and neither would occur without an agenda lurking behind. She wasn't going to eat this until she knew why it was here.
But just as she was about to get out of bed and send it back into the kitchen, Victoria spotted left on the table a folded white paper. Raising a curious eyebrow, she reached out and picked up the note, unfolding it to find neatly handwritten: Breakfast Fit for a Queen.
Victoria swallowed. Conrad.
Sighing, she pushed the tray lower on her lap and pressed her hand to her forehead, trying to regain the relaxation she had entertained moments ago. Conrad had been so stressful to her lately; since their run-in with Amanda's mother, he seemed bent on confusing her with all these... these kind gestures. Firstly apologizing - though God knew for which of his sins he was sorry - and holding her hand in their thought-to-be last moments, then being strangely gentle with her ever since, kissing her forehead or her cheek and engaging in small contact when she least expected such. This was the only thing to disturb her peace as of late, filling her mind with the troubling question of just what his agenda was. He was never at all caring nowadays, or even interested in her...
Yet he continued to pursue her through these small graces, from a pat on the shoulder to the breakfast before her. She had expected this game to reach its end after her brush-off last night, when he'd come home early with fear in his eyes.
"Victoria?"
Conrad rushed through the house, room to room, shouting her name all the while. He soon found her in the study, standing in front of the desk. "What happened?"
She swallowed, looking into his eyes. His terrified, worried stare instantly stole from her the lie she had fabricated to answer his question. He blinked at her, expecting an answer, but she had none.
Confused, he stepped into the room, examining her lost expression. "You called me," he reminded her, reaching out for her hand. "You said you needed me. What is it?"
He was correct. She had called, and that was all she had said. "Conrad, can you come home? I - I need help." And he was right on time, which would have been beneficial if she had actually needed him. Without time to come up with a reason for calling, she stood there, stupidly silent, and shook her head.
"No," she argued lamely. "No, I didn't do that."
He raised his eyebrows and further extended his hand. "Are you all right, Victoria?"
Attempting to come back to her senses, she pushed his hand away calmly and stepped around him. "I'm perfectly fine, Conrad," she lied, a smile on her face. "You shouldn't worry so much."
The memory still served to make her blush in embarrassment. She was such a child. Why had she even called him? She didn't need anything - least of all, him - nor did she particularly enjoy his presence, so what had possessed her to make up a story that would bring him home? Victoria had decided that it was Post-Traumatic Stress, but then, she had been through many traumas before. Why was this small incident so troubling?
Perhaps it was because she had been staring in the crazed eyes of a victim of her lies. Perhaps because she had been so close to losing her life that she had actually begun her final prayers. Perhaps because Conrad had been there beside her with the intent of taking all the blame and setting her free. Perhaps, God forbid, she had been frightened because she nearly lost him.
This random behavior should have been enough to scare him away. He usually left her to face her own demons, but now...
She ran her finger over the letters. Breakfast Fit for a Queen.
"Queen Victoria," he'd called her in the earliest days of their marriage. "My lovely queen." How long ago that seemed to be. Quite distant and unattainable were those days, when Conrad loved her.
Hunger was a consequence of reminiscence, and she attempted to appease such with the meal she'd been given. It didn't satisfy the longing she felt inside, but it did distract her from the terror that came with the thought of someone actually caring about her.
Thank God, Conrad doesn't love me, she thought as the steam of coffee hit her face. It would only be another problem to handle in this house.
That evening, Victoria had come home with a grimace painted on her face, thanks to her impossible daughter. Her visit with Charlotte Grayson had resulted in a headache and the name "Declan" echoing relentlessly in her daughter's injured voice. "Declan and I are going to dinner that day." "I don't think Declan would feel welcome there." "What do you have against Declan?" Victoria felt her temples pulsating. She loved Charlotte, but for God's sake, it would be nice to have a conversation without hearing the name of her daughter's boyfriend more often than the common article adjective.
The instant she stepped into the house, Victoria breathed a sigh of slight relief as she felt her body transition from utter frustration to a slightly-less trying environment. She threw the door shut and jerked one of her high heels off, feeling every knot in her sore shoulders become defined while she bent over. Balancing herself on the wall, she pulled off the other shoe and tossed it aside. Then, barefoot and stomach growling, she headed for the kitchen. She hadn't expected to be summoned.
"Victoria?"
She stepped over to the kitchen counter in search of something to eat - she had barely stopped arguing with her daughter that day, so she was hardly able to indulge in a meal before leaving the table with a fake smile plastered on her face - and glanced over her shoulder. "Yes?" she called in reply as she picked an apple from the fruit bowl. After a thorough examination, she rinsed it off in the sink and turned to the living room.
"You're on the news."
Raising an eyebrow, Victoria cautiously exited the kitchen and found his voice in the living room. Conrad sat on the couch, staring up at the television. The newscaster was practically screaming at the camera with another of the countless "scandals"; this particular one involving her feigned kidnapping. Victoria rolled her eyes. "We can't possibly still be on this."
"The press is infatuated with you," he reminded her, leaning so that she had room to sit down. Watching him, she carefully sat down at the other end of the couch and bit into the apple. "They expected much more... trauma."
She snorted. "I've been playing up in front of the camera for weeks already. I'm ready to return to the world of the living."
Conrad chuckled, resting his arm on the back of the couch and nearly around her shoulders. "Well, they weren't quite so prepared for you to rise from the dead overnight."
"They wanted me to be dead," Victoria muttered, tentatively leaning back and allowing her back to touch his arm. "The world, the Initiative, and even my own son - so happy to say 'goodbye.' Of course, my miraculous return has royally pissed them off."
Her husband didn't reply, but glanced at her sideways. She raised her eyebrows at him. "What?"
He didn't seem eager to respond, at first, but he did speak up, though without any eye contact. "Don't be so sure you weren't missed. When we heard your plane crashed, we-"
Victoria looked up quickly, and he corrected himself. "Daniel and Charlotte were crushed, thinking they'd lost their mother." Glancing up at her, he added, "No one was pleased at the death of Victoria Grayson. None of us, at least."
She was somewhat relieved to hear this from someone other than herself. Ever since her return, seeing Daniel shrug her off and Conrad hardly entertain more than a few instances of sarcasm-impersonating-concern, she had begun to question just how much love her family held for her. Knowing that she loved them so much - Conrad notwithstanding - it hurt her to some degree to think that they did not return the sentiment. She almost wished she had stayed "dead."
"What happened last night?" Conrad's voice penetrated her low thoughts. Victoria leaned back and looked at him again - she stiffened at the feeling of his arm against her back, but she neither jumped from her seat nor settled into his reach. Instead, she turned back to the television absentmindedly.
"What happened this morning?"
She referred to the mysterious breakfast, of course. Reaching checkmate, he didn't ask any more questions; retracted his arm and stood, muttering something about needing a drink as he exited the room. A small part of her didn't want him to go... but this was a very small part. It wasn't nearly significant enough of a feeling to stand and call him back into the room.
Still, it was there, and that bothered her. So she didn't think about it.
As a note: This story is set (and was written) sometime between mid-season 2 and mid-season 3, so at this point, the Graysons are still married, Patrick is about to come into the picture, and other newer characters have yet to emerge.
Thanks for reading, by the way :) I hope you'll follow/leave a review to let me know what you think.