Disclaimer: Desperate Housewives is not mine, nor do I make any sort of claim to it.
Story Summary: She couldn't sleep that night. Post-ep for "I'll Swallow Poison on Sunday."
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A story by Ryeloza
She couldn't sleep that night.
It wasn't like she and Tom hadn't had unresolved fights before; if anything, most of their major arguments went by with a hundred things unsaid, harsh words and unhappiness lingering in their minds. Lynette knew that this was mostly her fault. Most of the time she was the one who wanted to bury the conflict and pretend it hadn't happened. But on those occasions too, Tom had always crawled into bed with her and held her especially close, like he wanted to remind her that no matter what wasn't being said, they were still okay.
Just like tonight.
The problem was, this time it wasn't working. This time his touch wasn't soothing away the fears and anger and tension. This time the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back and the sensation of his breath against her neck wasn't remotely comforting.
They weren't okay.
And she couldn't sleep. The thoughts kept swirling in her mind: all of the things she should have said, did, approached differently. That afternoon played over and over again in her mind on an endless loop, torturing her. I should have hung up the phone, she thought pointlessly. I should have really pissed him off. I should have let him yell at me until it finally pushed me over the edge and I just...
She could picture it in her mind. How the conversation would have gone if she had just unplugged the phone from the wall and forced him to...
Well, forced him to scream at her some more.
Forced him to give her the chance to scream back.
What the hell are you doing? he would have snapped, standing up and trying to steal the phone cord back from her.
We're not done here! You can't just decide to end the conversation!
I'm at work!
Yeah, I know. You're always at work now. And by the time you come home, I'm too tired to find the energy to fight with you. So we're going to do this now!
Do what?
Talk about this! How can you say I've never supported you? After twenty-one years together-
You only support me when I'm down! When you can pick up the pieces!
How can you say that? How can you say that to me after we worked for seven years at that pizzeria together? After I spent seven years at home with our kids while you were out working? It's bullshit, Tom! And not only is it bullshit, but it's completely illogical! Are you telling me you don't want me to be there for you when things go bad? That's what marriage is all about!
I'm saying you get off on it. The only time you're happy is when things are bad!
Oh really? Because right now I'm miserable, and things are pretty damn bad!
And that's where it stopped in her mind. That one sentence, echoing in her head, over and over again like some horrendous epiphany.
Why were things so bad right now?
Did she really resent his success so much?
Was this all her fault?
Just thinking it made her hate herself a little. Not because it was (maybe) a little bit true, but because it seemed so unfair to have to solely blame herself. It took two people to make a marriage.
It took two people to break a marriage.
The idea rattled her so severely that she was suddenly blinking back tears, rolling onto her back and staring up at the darkened ceiling. Tom shifted with her, his arm still loosely draped around her waist. He gave a soft, sleepy sigh, and as her breath hitched and she released a swollen, choked sob, he actually awoke. It was subtle, the way his touch stiffened for a moment-just enough to let her know that he was awake-but for a minute, he stayed so still and silent that she really thought that for the first time in their married lives, he was going to ignore her crying. It was too much. She let out a shaky, hysterical breath, and the next thing she knew, he was hovering over her, looking down at her with concern.
Looking down at her like Tom.
Her Tom.
Not whatever powerful, work-obsessed, couldn't-care-less-about-her-opinion stranger had taken over her husband's body.
God, she missed him.
"Hey," he said, his voice rusty with sleep. One of his hands settled clumsily on her cheek and brushed away the tears. "What's wrong?"
The words burned inside of her. They were buried so deeply she could feel them twisting in her gut, tormenting her incessantly, and still she couldn't find the strength to force them out.
I'm not happy.
I'm worried about us.
I don't recognize you any more.
"Is this about this afternoon? Sweetie, I'm not mad at you."
She hated him for that.
And then the words fell out like rain; not the right words; not the most important words; just...something.
She had to say something.
"I...I...I'm not...just...happy when...you're miserable."
She hated herself for that.
"I know." He kissed her, just this light brush of his lips against hers, but she looped an arm around his neck and forced him to kiss her more deeply. He moaned as her tongue swept past his lips, one of his hands tightening around her arm. It felt like if she could just kiss him long enough, somehow every worry and thought and fear in her soul would transfer to him and he'd finally understand. He'd finally realize how scared she was. He'd finally help her fix this.
He pulled back from her, and as she gazed up at him, some part of her actually thought he'd be looking into her soul now. Instead there was lust warring with confusion and misplaced concern and none of it was what she needed.
She shut her eyes, and tried not to whimper when he pushed a strand of hair away from her forehead.
"Honey, it's really okay."
She nodded, concentrating solely on taking long, slow, deep breaths and pushing the disappointment and panic back down inside of her; back where it belonged.
He couldn't see it anyway, even when it was right in front of his eyes.