So, I'm fast building up a collection of these one-shots. I don't know what's wrong with me. Anyway, I'll be the first to admit that this story took me forever, and I had no idea where it was going at many points when I was writing it, so I'm rather glad to be done with it and I apologize if anything about it is a bit... odd, as Andrew would say. This takes place sometime between the beginning scene of The Poor Kids Do It Every Day and the scene where Andrew is criticizing Juliet's ridiculous short-shorts, and it's an imagined conversation they could've had because I started writing this before I actually saw the episode and was disappointed at the lack of Bridget/Andrew. In other words, this is how Bridget should've told Andrew about the whole twinsies thing, as opposed to how she's actually going to tell him, which will probably be far lamer and more botched than this (not that I'm biased or anything).
Also, I do not own Ringer, though I think that should go without saying because clearly if I did, scenes like this would actually happen on the show, and I wouldn't need to write them out. I hope you enjoy the story, and hopefully it's helped tide you over until the next new episode, and I'd really love it if you'd review and say a little something about it. Thanks!
She takes a breath in the hallway for a moment before following Andrew into their bedroom. He's in their closet and taking off his jacket when she walks in. She doesn't know how he hears her, maybe her robe swishes around her heels, or maybe Andrew is scarily attuned to his wife's presence in ways she's never before noticed. He turns to face her as he reaches for a hanger to put his jacket on and awkwardly clears his throat. He's going to say something about before, at the club.
"About earlier, with Juliet... I can't..." He stops here, uncertain, fumbling with his words, shaking his head. He looks angry on her behalf. She knows he's not proud of the cheating, sees it in the way his face changes every time Juliet said that awful word. She remembers the way his entire body tensed, either with anger or as if preparing for flight, when she said that they never should've slept together while Andrew was still married. "You didn't have to do that," he manages a few moments later, looking sullen.
She shakes her head, disagreeing with him. She's brave enough to do that now. She can't be mad at Juliet, not when she's stood in her shoes. She's not her sister, and she didn't hurt Juliet, but she needs to clean up her sister's mess and sew up the scars her sister's actions have left on Juliet. She can't leave Andrew and Juliet the way they are now, can't let her sister shape the course of Juliet's life forever. But, at the same time, she's smart enough to know that Siobhan's not the only reason Juliet's using, no matter what she says. With a mom who doesn't give a damn and a father who's barely around, the homewrecking stepmother who broke up her parents' marriage is only the icing on the cake. "Yes, I did," she affirms with a quiet determination in her voice.
Andrew nearly trips while kicking off his shoes and opens his mouth to argue with her, but Bridget stares him down and cuts him off before he can get a word out. "I didn't just marry you, Andrew." It sounds horribly blunt to her ears when she says it like that, and Andrew gives her a look that's equal parts worry and confusion. Then Andrew's hands go to his belt, and, just like that, she completely loses her train of thought. She swallows hard as his deft fingers undo the buckle and pull the strap free from his belt loops. He turns away briefly to put the belt away, and Bridget tries to take a deep breath.
"I married into your family, your life before me," she attempts to explain, quickly, when Andrew's not facing her. She's been in the presence of him undressing nearly every night she's spent here, but Andrew rarely turns to face her when he starts to take off his clothes. Maybe it's because he's noticed the way she stares now, like she's never seen him before. Bridget wants to say that she married all of him and accepted all of him, not just the parts of him that were pleasant and convenient for her... the baggage, the history, the mess, the dark... Marriage isn't just the good in someone. It's loving the bad and the ugly too.
Even if she knew how to say all that, the words would still stick in her throat because he's not her husband, and she can't really say why Siobhan married him. She wants to think her sister loved him once, that his money and the opportunities he could give her had nothing to do with it. She wants to think that her sister could've loved Andrew once upon a time. But Siobhan has always been more practical and realistic than she is, so she can't say for sure.
Andrew turns abruptly to look at her, eyebrows raised. His face set in that very familiar expression, not quite stern, more guarded, cautious. "Juliet's a part of you... so how can I not l-care about her too?" she murmurs, taking a step towards him and reaching out a little. She doesn't touch him, even though she wants to. Instead, she merely watches as Andrew's whole face softens. His eyes darken and glimmer with some emotion he can't properly name, calling out to her, drawing her into him. That's another thing that endears Juliet to Bridget. Juliet has Andrew's eyes, and seeing them soften in the exact same way as her father's just warms her up inside and makes her feel like she's a part of something. She wonders if Andrew's noticed that. He swallows and looks at her beseechingly, throat thick.
A raw emotion bursts through her voice. "Especially when I see what it's doing to you, seeing her like this!" Bridget continues, crossing her arms over her chest, trying not to think about what she just said or how she, for a second, for barely a millisecond, almost said another word there. A word that's entirely too big and too heavy for this. Andrew's fingers pop the button on his pants distractedly, and her eyes drop traitorously to where his hands rest against his pants. She tries and fails to tear her eyes away from the bit of blue, striped cotton peeking through the gap; somehow she manages to get her eyes to only follow him out of the corners in her peripheral vision. She adds a moment later, in an undertone entirely too husky for her own liking, "No parent should have to see his child like that, especially a father as great as you." She offers him a somewhat weak smile, but she's able to look him in the eyes for a few moments to let him know she means it.
She finds herself thinking of her own father for the first time in years, and she doesn't like it. Andrew isn't really like him at all; in a way, he's everything their father wasn't. The only thing the two men have in common, aside from the Kelly girls, is a temper, only Andrew, unlike her father, doesn't punch things when he's angry. He prefers hard words and mockery and distance to her boxer father's close-quarter fighting and drunken shouting. Truthfully, Bridget knows that Andrew isn't exactly the best father. He's a little hands-off and a bit distracted and entirely too trusting, but at least he cares. At least he tries. At least he doesn't think his daughter is a lost cause already at sixteen. He means it when he says Juliet is his little girl; it isn't just some disgusting petname.
Bridget forces her smile to widen, casting the unwanted thoughts of her father far from her mind. "And I meant it, you know," she assures him, almost reaching for his arm but stopping guiltily once she remembers where his hand rests. Andrew takes a step forward, determinedly looking her in the face as he unzips his pants. Her breath hitches, but she refuses to look down and keeps that thin smile on her lips. "I don't care what she does to my clothes or photos." Andrew cocks a brow skeptically and steps out of his pants, reaching for the flannel pajama bottoms he sleeps in. She tries not to look down, to not see him raising his knees, to not glance at his boxers or the way the fabric moves with him, to not imagine what lies beneath the pale blue striped cotton.
She swallows hard and averts her eyes. "Those can be replaced..." Her voice trails off, distracted, as Andrew steps into the black-and-blue checkered pants. She can feel his eyes on her and makes herself look at his face. She can feel the smile strain on her face, and she can't help but reach out and briefly press his hand. "Juliet can't," she stresses, releasing his hand like she's been burned, "and if she goes down that road..." She has his full, rapt attention, and it's a little unnerving, the dark force of that stare. "It's really hard to find your way back, Andrew," she tells him, still haunted by her own ghosts. Her voice wavers a little where Siobhan's voice would've remained steady.
She tries to distract herself by thinking about how low the pants rest on his hips, but it doesn't work. Andrew frowns, stepping into her personal space. She holds up her arms reflexively, and he takes her by the arms, concern etched into his features. "Is this about your cousin?" he asks, watching her for some kind of sign.
Bridget feels a pang of guilt at the lie she'd hastily made up, surprised he remembered that scrap she'd fed him. She'd cast it off, not expecting him to question it but not having enough time to spin an elaborate backstory that doesn't exist. She sighs. "Yes." She looks away from him, uncomfortable for a different reason than earlier, tired of lying to him. She pauses for a moment, licking her lips, and finds the words. "But I was in a rush, so I didn't get to tell you everything I wanted to..." She casts him a quick glance and stifles another sigh, staring up at the ceiling. His face tells her nothing.
She rakes her hands through her hair, thinking of Gemma on the verge of telling him, sure her hands are shaking, thinking of being in the bathroom with all those tiny painkillers of her sister's, so small they looked like mints, how they tumbled down the sink, and how she had to flush them down the drain with water so she wouldn't pick any of them up. Feeling a bit woozy and overwhelmed with it all, Bridget sits down unsteadily, so much so that she nearly falls off the bench. The only reason she doesn't fall over is that Andrew reaches out and holds her arm, holding her firm to the ground, concern flickering in his eyes. He glances at her flat stomach, and, feeling sick, Bridget opens her mouth and says the first thing she can think of so she won't have to hear him ask about the baby. "For starters, she wasn't my cousin."
Her own eyes widen; she hadn't intended to say that, but now she has. Andrew, growing increasingly more concerned, sits down next to her, so close their arms brush from time to time. She wants him to touch her so badly, needs him to, even. But he doesn't dare. "What are you trying to say, Siobhan?" he questions carefully, gaging her reaction. It is only then that he reaches for her hand, and she pulls her hand away, grimacing a little. Suddenly, his touch is the last thing she wants. Andrew's face falls, but she's too busy staring at the way the light falls on the black silk of her robe to see.
What is she trying to say?
Bridget shoots the ceiling a pleading look, begging and bargaining with the higher power who hasn't listened to her prayers for over a decade. She knows that this moment is a turning point in her life, can feel it in her veins and her skin and her eyelids. She doesn't know why or what she should do, but she knows that, in an instant, no matter what she decides, everything is going to change forever, and she'll never be able to take this moment back. "That girl was..." She hesitates for a moment, about to say "me," before she remembers that Siobhan supposedly didn't have an addiction problem... only why did she carry medicine with her and have those pills in the back of her bathroom cabinet? Nonetheless, she swallows very, very hard and tight and then forces it out, "-my sister."
Andrew's bloodshot eyes widen with surprise. "You have a sister?" She doesn't answer, gazing into one of the many mirrors in her sister's icy blue dressing room. She looks into the mirror and feels cold. Had. She had a sister. Bridget blinks back the beginnings of tears, trying to put Siobhan out of her mind. She can feel anger and disbelief and tension radiating off of Andrew. He's silent for a long moment, jaw probably clenched hard enough to make a diamond. His side brushes against hers by mistake. "Why didn't you ever tell me before?" he asks quietly. She can't decide what's worse: the surprise or the hurt and betrayal in his voice.
She shrugs helplessly, trying to keep the tears back. She fails to keep her shoulders from trembling, transfixed for a moment by the sight of her and Andrew sitting next to each other. They're both pale and stiff like marble statues. "I was... ashamed. She... constantly embarrassed me, and..." She looks at him for the first time then, biting her lip. The gnawing on her bottom lip, the twinge of pain, is enough to remind her she's alive, and she's Bridget. "I didn't want you to get the wrong idea about me," she admits with a sad, broken smile, even though she attempts a laugh.
She smiles hesitantly, uncomfortably, trying to keep herself from crying, even though tears blur her vision. Bridget's trying her best to keep her breathing steady, but she gets choked up anyway. She swallows over the lump in her throat that makes it hard to breathe or say a word. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me," she whispers breathlessly, subtly rubbing her wet eyes with the backs of fingers and hoping he doesn't notice. Andrew's eyes widen further still and gleam, dark and wet and intent in the dimness. He's moved, touched beyond speech in that silent, inarticulate way of his, and so very still. Siobhan would've never said that, even if it was true.
Bridget doesn't think when she says it, but she knows, on some level, that it's true. She can't remember the last time when anyone's been this nice to her, not even Malcolm. It's worse still because she knows that she's done nothing to deserve this, this grace and forgiveness, these gifts of a generous spirit. What was her sister thinking? What had she done to turn Andrew against her? She is certain of few things in this new life, but she knows, knows in her bones, that Andrew is a good man. She pauses a moment, playing with her fingers and staring at her lap, dark and glossy. She glances at him once more and continues, barely audible, "And I didn't want to jeopardize that by telling you about her."
She can't really blame her sister for wanting to keep him to herself, for wanting to keep Bridget out of her perfect life. No doubt she'd have messed it all up.
And, so help her, if he'd ever known... if Andrew had ever looked at her like he looks at the woman he thinks she is... she'd have been a goner for sure, and it would've been real messy, and she really would've ruined things for her sister.
Andrew stuns her by taking her hand again, turning so that he can look her fully in the eyes. There is something foreign and gentle about his expression, something she sees in his eyes that allows her to relax. It reminds her a bit of the fond expression on his face when he tucked her hair behind her ear at her birthday dinner. She closes her eyes for a moment, enjoying the feeling of his hand, warm and strong and smooth, in hers. For a moment she pretends it's just the two of them, that her whole life is just this feeling, his hand in hers. Then, feeling guilty, she opens her eyes slowly, bringing the world back into sharp focus. "Why would knowing about your sister change the way I feel about you, Siobhan?" Andrew inquires with a frown and the beginnings of suspicion.
Bridget presses her fingers underneath her eyes, dabbing at any stray wet spots, and lets out a shaky breath. Her grip tightens around Andrew's hand, almost painfully so. "There's a lot about my past that I haven't told you, Andrew. Things I don't want to tell you... and it's easier for me to just... not talk about them," she explains in a measured voice that conceals her discomfort, staring at the floor. The past is like a scab that Bridget accidentally disrupts, and sooner or later, it's going to have to be ripped off and made irrelevant. Try as she might, she can't seem to stop reopening the sore. Someday she's going to leave a scar.
Either way, though, it's not her business to tell him all the things Siobhan didn't. Her sister had her reasons for not revealing her baggage to him, and she's not going to violate her sister's privacy by telling Andrew things she didn't want him to know. Clearly Siobhan didn't trust Andrew, didn't want him to look at her differently, whatever her reasons were for not telling him.
Siobhan's life hadn't always been an easy one, and a lot of that had been Bridget's fault. She shoots Andrew a glance, nervous to see how he'll take that. She thinks it's the most honest thing she's said to him since she showed up here. He is silent and looks vaguely angry, but she can't be sure. Andrew always seems to look some shade of angry. He also seems a bit... hurt... judging by the tight line of his lips and the creases in his forehead, just like she'd thought he would be. A flicker of guilt and grief commingle. "I just... I didn't want you to think I was like her," Bridget blurts, wringing her hands. And as she says it, she knows this is the main reason Siobhan never told Andrew. She can hide behind embarrassment and shame and irrelevance and all that all she wants, but those are just excuses. And that hurts. It hits her as she says it like an axe to the heart, cleaving it in two. She feels the pain so acutely and so sharply that she wants to cry out. She bites down on her lip instead and holds onto this tiny pain.
Andrew tilts his head, giving her a bewildered look. He moves closer to her, close enough so that the length of his thigh is now pressing against hers. She can feel the hot, firm strength of it, the promise waiting to be loosed, through the flannel that separates them. Her shift rides up high on her thighs, so that just the flannel brushes her bare skin and gives her goosebumps. She gazes at him, mouth slightly slack, imagines for a moment the feeling of his bare skin on hers, feeling the warmth of his flesh with nothing between them. He really has no idea what he's doing to her, how she's losing her mind over him.
"And why would I think that, Shiv?" Andrew asks calmly, taking care to enunciate each letter so that nothing can be mistaken. There's a terseness in the way he says it that belies the narrowness of the path she's treading with him, but she can tell he's really making an effort not to make assumptions about her without hearing her explanations.
Her sister's nickname is what makes her really lose it. She lets out a sob, and Andrew's other arm is suddenly awkwardly around her shoulder. He's still too afraid to bring her closer than that, so the half-embrace is uncomfortable and too distant to be soothing. She appreciates the gesture nonetheless, appreciates how hard he's trying, knows what it costs him.
"Because," she chokes out, "we're identical twins. Genetically the same person." She says it a bit sardonically, like Bridget would. And there, just like that, she's told him, and, so far, the world hasn't imploded. Of course she's still terrified he'll piece things together and figure it out, but isn't it worse keeping this from him? She glances up at Andrew's eyes, which are dark, shining with sympathy and a wide-eyed confusion. That's a rare look on his face. Andrew likes knowing everything and always being in control.
She could go on and on about how everyone always assumes identical twins are completely alike, the same in personality and looks... and sometimes they're right, but they never realize how much of every twin's life is spent trying to prove that essential difference. "She ruined her life and mine, and I didn't want to..." She stalls here, only able to talk like her sister for so long. Bridget takes a deep breath and looks at Andrew, forcing the words out, "-to let her keep ruining every good thing in my life." It's all the penance she can offer her sister now.
Andrew is utterly silent, literally struck dumb by this for a long time, a little too long, really. It's the unspoken, nearly foreign implication that he's a good thing in her life that does him in. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, husky almost. She almost doesn't hear what he says, and, even then, she thinks her ears are playing tricks on her, that she's imagining him saying only what she wants to hear. "What's her name?"
She frowns at him in confusion, wiping at the tiny, barely nascent tears with her knuckles. He couldn't have asked what she thought he said. But he didn't say anything nasty either because the look on his face, that isn't really anger, it's something else entirely. "What did you say?" Bridget asks, unable to believe it, unable to believe he cares enough to ask. She doesn't know what to do with any of this; she's never tread this ground before. Everyone in her life, even in her lowest points, had always known about her twin sister, even if she was just bragging about wealthy, happy Siobhan off in New York City, living on Park Avenue with more money than she'd ever see in her miserable life.
Andrew is entirely too calm and quiet, and it kind of freaks her out a little. He doesn't even give her one of those belittling looks, and he doesn't say anything sarcastic. "I asked you what your twin sister's name is," Andrew repeats, giving her an expectant look.
She swallows and then, with a watery smile, tells him. She's glad to tell him this much about herself, her real self, as horrible as that is. "It's Bridget. Bridget Kelly."
He's completely still for a moment, and she can see his lips mouth her name. Something inside of her twists or jumps, makes a full revolution. Then Andrew nods encouragingly, as if she's Juliet and he's reading her a bedtime story. He pulls her in a bit closer, like he's not afraid to touch her, and Bridget lets herself snuggle into his side as much as she dares. She doesn't see his smile; it's over her head. "That's a very nice name," Andrew volunteers. She smiles to herself and wonders if he agrees that it's a better name than Siobhan. For a moment he says nothing, just keeps holding her loosely, and then she hears him lick his lips. He hesitates for a long moment. "Would you like to tell me some more about her?" he suggests, pulling away from her enough to get a decent look at her.
As much as Bridget wants to tell him, wants desperately to tell him, she doesn't want to. She doesn't think that Andrew would ever want to meet someone like Bridget, no matter what she tells him about herself, so she shakes her head no furiously. "I told you there was a reason I never told you about her. She... We had a falling out six years ago, a while before I moved out here to be with you." She says it like Siobhan would, like it happened to someone else. She'd always envied her sister's ability to just... turn her feelings off at will. Andrew's expression changes at this mention, and she can't help but wonder how her sister wound up here, with him. She doesn't know how to read the look on Andrew's face, doesn't know if it's shame or hope or the happy memories she sees reflected there.
Bridget smiles a little bit, remembering that last time with her sister, but it's bittersweet. She touches the birthday necklace where it's hidden under her clothes, remembering how her sister had thrown it on the floor like it was useless and beneath her, just like Bridget herself. She curls into herself a bit, staring at the ground. "We hadn't spoken since then... and I never thought she would change," she explains numbly. These words sting; Siobhan had said something exactly like that in the horrible fight that had changed everything between them and broken a lifelong bond. Bridget, just shut up! I don't care how sorry you are! You're never going to change, Bridget, and I refuse to help you anymore! I can't take it! Her sister's pained, hurtful words echo in her mind along with the other slew of nasty things she'd said to try and push her away. At the time, she'd blamed her sister for sending her spiraling into self-loathing and shame, had thought Siobhan had as much pushed her into this by not trying hard enough to rescue her when she'd been strong enough for the both of them. "I never thought I'd have a reason to mention her to you."
She's starting to realize now that maybe her sister wasn't as strong and incorruptible, like one of those saints, as she always thought she was. Siobhan wouldn't dirty her hands like she did; Siobhan wouldn't touch certain things... and, most of the time, Siobhan cared even less about doing the right thing, no matter how hard it was, than she did.
Andrew, hearing something in her tone, turns towards her. He rubs her shoulder absently, tilting her chin up to face him. "Do you have a reason to mention her to me?" he asks quietly, patiently waiting for an answer. His voice is softer than usual, like he's talking to a small child. Sometimes she forgets that Andrew has a well-hidden soft-streak a mile wide, that he cares so much but can't show it, can't risk not being decisive and determined and always having a direction.
She was debating telling him the truth when he says this in that too soft-too sweet voice she isn't used to. She didn't intend to tell him about it at first, but the more she thinks about it, the more ideas she gets. And she does, on some level, want Andrew to at least know this much about her. Besides, she thinks, it gives her leverage on Machado when and if (but honestly, she knows it's only a matter of time) he decides to talk to Andrew. And, after all, if she can't trust her sister's husband with this, who can she trust? Recent events have lead her to believe that Andrew is the only person here she can trust, that he's the only one who won't let her down. So she sighs and changes her mind and forces herself to look at him, screwing up all of her courage. "I think I do, actually."
Bridget takes a deep breath. Andrew's giving her that expectant look again, but he doesn't say a word as he waits for her to feel comfortable enough to tell him. Bridget's fingers press down hard on the necklace through the cloth, so hard that she's sure she'll have an imprint of the heart and the stone in her skin afterward. "She... wrote me a letter. She apologized and said she was sober now, and that she'd like to see or talk to me again sometime," Bridget begins with a faint smile. She's carefully watching him, trying to gauge his reaction.
She relaxes her fingers and, chewing on the corner of her lip, Bridget pulls out the necklace, fingering it anxiously. She's taken to wearing it when she sleeps. Wearing it makes her feel closer to her sister. This cheap childhood necklace is all she really has left of her sister, despite the fact that she's surrounded by her life and personal affects. It feels like all of these trappings belong to someone else, someone neither Bridget nor Siobhan. "And she sent me this necklace." Andrew gives her a questioning look upon eying the necklace. She's sure he knows exactly how cheap it was and that Siobhan would never deign to wear something like it. "We, um, we got this as a birthday present when we were kids, and every year we'd switch off who got to wear the necklace," she explains hastily, hoping that he won't put the pieces together before she can get the rest of this out.
Unfortunately, Andrew still looks befuddled at this. He may never understand, and her heart's still pounding something awful at the prospect of him figuring it all out, but she continues bravely, clutching the necklace like a lifeline. Andrew should know as much as Henry, if not more. It's his right as her husband. "I wrote her a letter back, asking her to visit sometime because..." She gets choked up, has to blink back the big, fat, hot tears, when she realizes she has absolutely no idea why her sister wanted to see her. She grabs Andrew's hand then, holds onto it firmly, another lifeline. "When you lose a twin, it's like a part of you is missing, and you're walking around... incomplete," she says raggedly, sniffling loudly and thinking about the Siobhan-shaped hole in her heart.
The confused look disappears as Andrew's gaze softens and turns understanding. She wonders if he has any siblings and vows to go through the family albums for an answer later. There's only so much she can find out through guesswork and reading emails and googling his name. "And I was just so glad she was alive and on the straight and narrow... I never thought I'd see her alive again," she continues in an attempt to rationalize it. Andrew strokes her hand with the back of his thumb, sweeps it across the back of her hand soothingly, and she smiles at him gratefully. It's hard to think about how close to death she came on so many occasions. How many times she was overcome with the shame and self-loathing herself and tried to O.D. so she could at least die happy, in a high blaze of glory. Bridget would rather flame out than fade away.
"She came to visit me in the Hamptons when you were in London." It comes out before she can stop it, but she might as well go all in before Machado tells him. Andrew raises a brow, floored by this, eyes questioning the wisdom of such a decision, and she bites her lip, nervous. "My sister was, uh... She was in a lot of trouble with the police..." She knew as soon as she said it that she shouldn't have and knows this even more concretely when Andrew's eyes widen further. He grips her more tightly, looking like he's about to say something and lambaste her for her poor judgment. It's only later that she realizes that the look in his eyes may be fear for her and her safety.
She feels a little scared of him and the burning intensity of his stare and barely-repressed anger, so she starts talking so he can't say anything. "She stayed with me for a few days, but... we argued about what she should do, and she left. And now I don't know where she is or if she's okay or if she's even still alive and not on the bottom of the ocean or a r-river somewhere." Bridget swallows, the tears in her eyes real and panicked, hyperventilating a little. She's thinking about Siobhan floating somewhere on the bottom of the Atlantic, wondering where she is, consumed by the fact that they may never find her sister's body. She may never know where she lies, never know where to go to pay her respects and say thanks.
Andrew's clenching his jaw, but he finally pulls a sobbing, somewhat hysterical Bridget to his shoulder stoically. She's given up trying not to cry, realizing how futile it is. She's not Siobhan, and she can't just turn it off like she can.
Of course she's terrified Andrew's going to berate her for her decision, that he's going to say any number of furious things to her, but he doesn't. He holds his tongue, holds back in a way he doesn't normally do when he's this enraged. It's a statement, not a question. "You've been keeping this to yourself for weeks now." His voice is somewhat accusing, and Bridget tenses in his arms, trying to pull away. Andrew lets the startled, tear-stricken woman do this, but he keeps holding her, albeit more loosely. Bridget looks down guiltily. She has nothing to say to him, no more excuses. "I'm sorry that you had to do that, Siobhan. I'm sorry that you felt you had to keep all of this from me." Bridget's head shoots up to look at him, her eyes wide and disbelieving and still wet. Andrew's eyes look suspiciously moist, even as he's holding her at arm's length.
Andrew lets out a heavy, drawn-out breath. "I want to help you, Siobhan, and if I'd known..." He shakes his head, and she sees his jaw muscle jump. He doesn't finish the sentence, but Bridget wonders what he would've said. There's something like regret in his voice, something low but not quite bitter. Would he have helped her get away if Siobhan had only told him? Would he have done that for her sister, if Siobhan had cared enough to ask? The questions are on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn't dare to ask or question him. "We can find your sister, if that's what you want," Andrew offers after a few moments of contemplation.
It sounds a bit like a threat, despite how he phrases it, and that's what makes Bridget shy away from him. She wants that so bad, but she knows Andrew isn't going to turn up anything, not if Macawi and Machado haven't... and she doesn't want to put that seed in his mind. Not when she's taking a big enough risk by telling him. He's not going to find some girl somewhere who looks just like Bridget. That woman's gone forever now. She doesn't exist anymore.
She shakes her head no furiously, so hard she nearly gets whiplash. The last thing she needs is Andrew and his money to go looking for Bridget. Machado may be like a dog with a bone, but Andrew is the type of guy who always—well, almost, anyway—gets what he wants, and he won't stop until he's found her if he thinks that's what Siobhan wants. And he need look no further than his own bed for that lost sister. And what would happen if he found out?
"As much as I want to know that my sister's safe... I don't think anyone can find her. The people she's mixed up with are bad news, and if anyone finds her, she's good as dead... and I'd rather think she's out there somewhere, still alive, than know she's dead." She almost vomits after she says this as that last word gets stuck in her throat. Because she knows her sister's dead, even though she never saw her body, and isn't she such a hypocrite?
She swallows hard, wiping away stray tears as she thinks of the sister she's lost forever and will never get back. Andrew looks a bit worried at this, but Bridget isn't going to explain this to him, isn't going to tell him what she did to get here, what she did to get her life back together. The things she's done to hold onto this life... she isn't proud of everything, but she'd probably do it all again. It's her duty to fight for it, to keep what Siobhan left behind.
Hesitantly, Bridget inches forward and rests her face against his shoulder. Andrew rubs her back again, lightly dragging his fingers around it in circles. She feels the light pressure of his nails through the thin silk of the robe and the slip. "I'm sure your sister's fine." She swallows hard, trying to blink back the tears that pain her eyes. She can tell he's not entirely convinced, but she's too busy thinking about the fact that her sister isn't fine or alive at all. But she, like him, wants to believe that her sister's okay and safe and happy, so she closes her eyes and pretends for a moment, pretends that he's right.
He lets go of her hand, and Bridget's face falls a little bit more, but he can't see it since her face is pressed against his sweater. She closes her eyes and breathes him in, the smell of cashmere, detergent and soap, his cologne, musky and sweet, and traces of cigarettes and the cool night air. He puts his other hand on the underside of her knee, and her heart jumps up into her thick throat. The surprise of his touch is like being shocked by static electricity, a kind of sharp, painful jolt, but she gets used to it. His hand's so smooth and cold against the underside of her knee. "How about we get you to bed, and you can tell me all about Bridget?" Andrew urges warmly in a soft, all too paternal voice.
She pulls away from his chest, but she says nothing. She merely stares up at him, disbelieving, having never before seen this side of him. Sometimes she forgets he isn't as stern as he seems. He gives her an imploring look, a slight smile on his lips. She's starting to memorize all of his facial expressions, and she knows he means it. "You'll feel better, Shiv. I promise," he swears, strengthening his grip around her back.
And she knows he's right, even though it's for all the wrong reasons, so she nods, and Andrew scoops her up and carries her to their bed. She can't remember the last time she shared a bed with someone for more than a night or two, and she definitely can't remember sharing a bed with a man who doesn't ever try anything or expect anything from her, even though he should, by all rights. He sets her down gently and peels back the covers, settling her under them. Then she hears him rustling away and frowns, thinking he's left. Andrew comes back a few moments later, sporting another long-sleeved black shirt. He's still hastily tugging it over his stomach as he slips underneath the covers next to her.
She barely manages to stop herself from reaching out to touch him, to place her hand on her stomach, knowing that her hands would push up the shirt and, oh, she knows exactly what would happen next. And, God, she really wants to think about something—anything—that isn't her sister lying dead at the bottom of the ocean. Men used to help her forget once upon a time, until she started needing the drugs to forget about them and the horrible things they did to her. Andrew adjusts the blankets and makes himself comfortable, then he turns toward her and starts to fluff her pillow, pulling her up a little so that she's in a reclining position. "Tell me about her. Tell me about Bridget," he requests a scarce moment later, in a voice a little above a whisper.
She smiles faintly, edging towards Andrew. He smiles encouragingly, beckoning her closer still, until she settles in the crook of his arm. She's so close to him that she can feel him breathe, though she's not quite pressed against his skin. She looks past him, up at the ceiling, and wonders where to begin. In her NA days, she would've started describing herself as an addict, a junkie... but she was always more than that. She'd been reduced to her addiction in her darkest times, but she was someone's daughter, someone's sister, something else entirely. So who was Bridget Kelly now?
Thinking of what Machado said about her, she starts, "Bridget, um... She's really sarcastic." Andrew smiles, leaning back on his pillow and watching her with something like fondness. She can practically hear his thoughts; A lot like her sister, then. Bridget wracks her brain for other ways to describe herself. It takes a while for any nice words to come to mind. All that comes up is words like coward, can't face her actions, do anything to save her own skin, taking the life of her dead sister, yeah, she really is scum. A voice that sounds suspiciously like her sister's screaming, "God, take responsibility for your life, Bridge!" Let alone those completely inappropriate feelings she's getting for her sister's husband, when her sister's barely been gone for two weeks? It's sick, that's what it is. She's exactly like her sister, always lusting after someone else's husband, always cheating. The way she's been eye-sexing him like no one's going to notice, like that's excusable because he's supposedly her husband?
Only he's not her husband. He's not hers. He's her sister's, and he always will be.
She swallows nervously, trying to focus on the here and now with Andrew. "She can be uh, blunt, sometimes." No kidding, she thinks. "An-and she was always so... lonely, like there was this hole in her that no one and nothing could fill," she adds after a moment of thought, swallowing back tears. There's still that hole in her heart, she thinks, begging to be filled. Drugs could never fill it, but they made her feel like there wasn't a hole at all, or, if there was, then she didn't care. Siobhan couldn't fill the hole, even when they had a relationship. Neither could any of the loser boyfriends she's had or her parents or anyone she's ever known. She's broken, and she doesn't know how to fix it. Sometimes she wonders if anything's ever going to fill that hole or if she'll just be walking around for the rest of her life with a piece missing. And that's a terrible way to live, always longing for something but never knowing what it is and what she needs to feel... normal.
Andrew brushes away a tear that's managed to fall down her cheek, and she stills, frozen, not expecting the touch or the tenderness. She gulps hard and tries to cover it up. He looks so sympathetic, looking on her with such softness. "She meant well, I always knew that, but... she screwed up, you know, because of the addictions. She was always so sorry, though." Bridget hopes Siobhan knew that, hopes Siobhan meant it when she said she forgave her. Thing is, Siobhan's always one to hold a grudge, and... what she did was unforgivable. Sorry isn't always enough, and Bridget wouldn't blame Siobhan if she went to her grave never forgiving her. All the same, she can see her sister sneering at her ability to always fall right into a hole. Why do you have such a talent for this, Bridget? For getting yourself into such terrible situations. They just fall right into your lap like you're some kind of mishap magnet. Really, I've heard enough. The path to hell is paved with good intentions, right, Bridge?
She kind of hiccups, and her breath hitches for a long moment, so long that she's afraid she isn't going to breathe again. "But she'd always do her best to make it up to me be-because-" She sputters and can't speak anymore here, caught up in it. She's unable to hold it back any longer, and she lets out a loud sob. She immediately clasps her hand over her mouth, mortified. She clears her throat and begins again, "-she had such a big heart. And if she loved someone, she loved them completely, you know. She'd do anything, give all she had to them." She looks up at Andrew, connecting the words to him and Juliet for the first time. It took Gemma blackmailing her to realize that she really did consider Andrew and Juliet her family, and it terrifies her how she doesn't want to do anything to hurt them, how willing she is to do anything to protect them, even though she knows they're barely an extension of her real family.
But, still, they're all the family she's got. They're all that's left to connect her to her sister, and maybe she has to protect them because of what she failed to do. Andrew's smiling at her, and he pushes back her hair, resting his head on top of hers. "She sounds like a good person," he murmurs with what sounds like a trace of longing. Does he wish Siobhan was more like Bridget? Oh, if he only knew. Bridget smiles, blinking back tears, overcome at his proclamation, and she presses her lips against his cheek for several moments. Andrew blinks, astonished, and Bridget smiles a bit awkwardly, wiping her nose. He's quiet but not awkwardly so, watching, absorbing, taking it in. He hasn't said one judgmental word, and she's silently grateful for this. A part of her doesn't want to know what Andrew thinks of her, the real her. Would he give her a chance? She knows he wouldn't look at her the same, wouldn't touch her timidly like he's afraid she'll hit him.
She laughs mirthlessly, trying not to think about these silly pipe dreams. He can't ever find out who she really is because, the day he does, her life is done. "Bridget was always the life of the party. All the boys liked her more than me." Andrew gives her a mildly skeptical look and starts to open his mouth to argue, but she puts a finger to his lips impulsively, and Andrew freezes. She should be a bit more careful; she doesn't think Siobhan would ever say these things if she was telling Andrew, but it's the truth. "I used to hate her sometimes because it seemed like it all came so easily to her, but now I know that a lot of that was an act, fueled by the drugs and this need to be-" She pauses for a moment, thinking of what word she wants to plug into that sentence... Desired? Wanted? Loved? "Wanted," she settles on eventually.
Her finger comes down off his lip, and she runs her hand down the plane of his chest. She almost misses the way he shivers. Sometimes she forgets that Andrew Martin is a mere mortal like the rest of the world, despite his immaculate appearance and perfected pokerface and general uprightness. She picks at his shirt, tweaks with the cotton that's so much thinner than his sweater. "I always thought she should be smarter than that, you know? And it disappointed me that she wasn't, that she just... thought she was... worthless." Her shoulders shake as she pronounces this last word, tears roll down her cheeks.
She's not crying for Siobhan now. She's selfish, and she's crying for herself and all the things she's lost to get here. Andrew shushes her and wraps his arms around her, rubbing her back, hands timid and uncertain. He pulls her closer, more into him and his side until she's nearly surrounded by his body, his heat, and the strength of his arms. She wants him to tell her she isn't worthless, but she can't ask, and he can't tell.
"I miss her, Andrew."
She can feel him nod. "I know, Shiv," he soothes. His shirt soaks up some of the tears she hasn't managed to blink away. Andrew bends a little and presses a kiss to her crown. Bridget sighs, silently shaking her head. No, you don't, she thinks, you don't have any idea. "Maybe someday I'll get to meet her."
She thinks she would like that very much, and she wants so badly to meet him as herself, her real self, out from wherever she's buried underneath the artificiality and superficiality and secrets of her sister's life. Bridget smiles in spite of herself, sniffling, and shrugs, pulling away from him now that she's mostly managed to put herself back together again.
She manages not to let out a bitter laugh. She knows he's just humoring her, doesn't think he'd really go for the idea of housing a fugitive... he's far too sensible for that. But still, she appreciates the effort, appreciates that he would do this much for Siobhan. Or maybe he feels like he has to because of what she's done for Juliet, maybe this is just his version of reciprocity... but what would happen if she called him on it? If she told him the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help her, God? "Maybe," she replies vaguely.
She tries to quash the hope slowly but surely building in her breast at the suggestion. It makes her feel a little faint, a little lightheaded with the possibility of Andrew accepting her, a stranger to him but a stranger he knows far better than he thinks. She wants to meet him as herself, to get to know him the way she hasn't. "I think she'd really like you," she mumbles a moment later, unable to suppress her stupid, teenager-with-a-crush smile. She really wants him to read between the lines, to figure out what she's really saying, but he won't understand, of course.
Andrew shoots her a curious look. "You sure about that, Siobhan?" he drawls, quirking a smile. "She's your twin, after all." Bridget scowls at him, smacking him lightly on the arm. Yes, he's definitely missed the point. She fights the urge to kiss him or tell him how she really feels to test that theory and make him eat his words. The smile slides off of Andrew's face in favor of a more relaxed, sleepy expression. "Now, it's been a long night for all of us, dear. It's time for you and the baby to get some rest," he says, yawning. His face is a bit stern as he says it, but she knows he only says it out of concern for her well-being.
That and the well-being of a child that probably wasn't his and certainly isn't alive anymore, a child she will never have. The thing is, though, about twins, the baby would, genetically-speaking, test as her son or daughter. If her sister had lived to have it... so, in a way, wasn't it her baby too?
Every time someone mentions that baby, it feels like a stone's settled in her stomach. One stone on top of the other, making her feel heavy and weighted down... and more trapped in the lie. She nods, forcing a smile.
She puts her little hands on either side of his face and presses a kiss to his lips, one that lingers, and she slowly pulls away from him, opening her eyes. It's sweet, she thinks. Andrew's eyes are a little wide and darker than usual, his lips still reddened from the all-too-brief pressure of her lips on his. He's not as surprised as he was the first time she kissed him; he manages to kiss back a little before she pulls away. She thinks telling him about Bridget, about her real self, is one of the best decisions she's made here in her brief masquerade as Siobhan. "Thanks for understanding, 'Drew. I should've told you earlier," she whispers, allowing the tiniest of smiles to cross her face, "I was wrong to worry. I'm sorry." It seems that she's always apologizing nowadays for her sister's mistakes, but she supposes it's due.
She can't help herself; she strokes the side of his face. Andrew leans into her touch; she still doesn't know him well enough to decipher that look in his eyes, but maybe she knows him better than Siobhan ever did. She literally has Andrew in the palms of her hands, feels his stubble under her fingers. It's so easy to do this and stare at him and forget about everything that happened, everything that could've almost happened today. She knows how precious this moment alone with him is precisely because of how close it came to never happening. And that terrifies her because she can't get used to this, can't let herself like him any more than she already does, because then she'll never want to leave and face the truth. And she can't live like this forever, as someone else, she knows she can't. It's not fair to him or Siobhan's memory or any of the other people who care about the both of them, just like it's not fair to herself, Bridget.
But she can't leave him either, like a ghost in the night. She sees him waking in the night to an empty bed, feeling around for her and knowing she's gone, and she sees even more clearly the absolutely crushed look on his face... and she can't do that to him.
But she can't stay either.
"You haven't called me that in ages, love," Andrew murmurs sleepily, still a bit surprised and almost starry-eyed. She can't remember what she called him; she's too busy trying to snap out of staring at him like a girl, dreamy-eyed and getting lost in the warmth of his eyes, like milk chocolate and hot black tea and amber and the achingly familiar, reassuring, sweet burn of bourbon down her throat. He sort of clears his throat, reaching across her body to turn off the lamp on her side of the bed. He's half on top of her, leaner and longer than she imagined as he stretches his fingers outward to twist the knob. She can feel the tensile strength of his muscles as his body presses against her, and she remembers in a rush every furtive glance she's cast at him in their nightly getting-ready-for-bed-ritual.
A lot of the time he's not there when she's undressing. Those rare times when he is, she's never once caught him staring at her. Even when she'd first arrived and felt horribly self-conscious changing in front of him, petrified Siobhan had some scar or tattoo that she didn't, and he'd see it and call her on it immediately. Strangely, she doesn't even feel his gaze on her, burning into her skin. It's an instinct honed from years of stripping, and she's rarely wrong. He really is unlike any man she's ever met.
Either way, her breath comes a little shorter with his chest pressed against hers and his side turned into hers, and, more importantly, half of the weight of a man on top of her, for the first time in months. Her throat's pretty much dry when the light goes out with a click and twist of Andrew's wrist, leaving them alone in the dark and quiet room. Andrew's slow to move away from her, so slow that she allows herself to think, for a moment, that something might finally happen. But she's soon left disappointed when Andrew pulls away, pressing a distracted, nearly sloppy kiss to her temple (that is so wholly unexpected that she stops breathing and doesn't even realize what he's done), and leaving her cold. Just like that, it's all over before it even began. "Goodnight."
She curls up on her side, silently sighing and wondering how the hell she's going to sleep when she's still so wired. She's finally able to relax for a minute after running around the past day and a half terrified that Gemma was going to spill her secret, all day on the verge of breaking, the image of those little white pills cycling through her head on endless repeat, all day aching for escape, but she can't give into her exhaustion. Her heart can't seem to slow down. It's so loud she feels like Andrew must hear it; it pounds like a hammer in her chest and won't leave her alone.
But then Andrew turns into her. Her whole body tenses up when she feels his breath hit the back of her neck. He's not even that close to her, but reminding herself of that fact doesn't still her erratic heartbeats. Then, as if he knows she needs it, something strong and solid to hold onto right now, he drapes his arm comfortably around her waist. For a moment, she kind of can't breathe, caught up in the fleeting sensation of his hand sliding across the thin, barely-there silk of her slip, the heat of his hand gliding across the flat plain between her hips and resting there comfortably, as if he did this sort of thing all the time. It shouldn't feel even half as natural as it does, but it feels like something they've been doing all their lives. And, sure, maybe he did that with Siobhan, but she doesn't really think so.
Slowly, once she regains her wits, Bridget gingerly rests her hand on top of his, light as a butterfly. Andrew doesn't even stir. It sounds like he's deep in sleep, given the heavy, relaxed breaths that occasionally float across the back of her neck and make her shudder just a little every single time. She'd tell him everything then, in that one moment, if he weren't asleep. But he is asleep, as a skittish glance over her shoulder tells her, and he won't understand a thing. "Thank you," she breathes instead, eyes on the ceiling. She can barely hear her own voice over the sounds of her heartbeat and Andrew breathing behind her. She's not sure if she's addressing God or Andrew, but, either way, she's grateful. Bridget pulls him infinitely closer, wary of moving too close (it feels like fire when she touches him sometimes, like liquid heat, boiling and bubbling and she goes molten inside), and she finally allows herself to relax and sink into the bed.
She dreams of Andrew, smiling. He's doing all the same things he does here, in this world, her sister's realm. Only he's calling her Bridget. Later on, she wonders if that ever will—or can—happen in this universe.
This time, this morning, when she wakes, it isn't with a start. It's a slow, rumbling feeling, a warmth and a bleariness, and she doesn't want to get out of this bed, cocooned as she is in blankets and, surprisingly, Andrew. She sleepily blinks open her eyes to find him staring at her, watching her like he's searching for something. It reminds her of some sentence from Gone with the Wind, of a husband looking at his wife like a cat looks at a mouse, like he sees right through her. She didn't really understand what that looked like and felt like until she met Andrew. His smile widens when he sees her eyes are open, and the searching look is gone like it was never there. Then they're having a moment, and she thinks he might kiss her... right up until he says, "Morning, Shiv."
He starts to ask her something, something like what was she dreaming about, commenting on how glad he is that she isn't having nightmares now, mentioning how peaceful she looked asleep... beautiful words, she's sure, that she isn't listening to at all. She's caught up in the desire to bury her head under her pillow and go back to her dreamland where Andrew knew who she really was, and she didn't have to pretend to be her sister and could just live a normal life. But she smiles dutifully and tells him the truth (for once), "Oh, I was dreaming about you."
Andrew's eyes widen comically. Every time something like this happens, it both saddens and amuses her that every single nice thing she does, no matter how minute or insignificant, amazes him all over again. She keeps doing it because she likes seeing that awed look on his face and directed towards her. It's rare that people are impressed with Bridget, so she savors each and every little moment of not feeling like a waste of skin. She smiles at him lazily, skimming her lips across his cheek like a little girl.
"Nothing that exciting," she jokes, trying to downplay how dangerously real this moment is becoming, given the darkening look in his eyes. "You had all your clothes on," she replies wickedly, amused but doing her best to look disappointed. And, wow, that did not at all lighten the moment like she expected and hoped. Her throat constricts, suddenly dry at the thought, especially once Andrew's eyes drop to her lips and stay there. But, maddeningly, Andrew doesn't move at all. She has no idea why not. Surely he and Siobhan must've at least kissed if he thought the baby was his, so why hasn't he made a single move on her yet? And, worse still, why is she disappointed that he hasn't?
He just stares at her, dark and intent eyes seeming to stare right into the heart of her. She thinks he's the first person in a while who's really seen her, who hasn't looked at her like he knows exactly where she's been and what she's done... and she'd do anything just to hold onto that feeling. It reminds her of the conversation she had with her sister, how Siobhan had said she could start over because Andrew loves her. And, lo and behold, it turns out she's more like her sister than she ever thought, because isn't she depending on the exact same thing, using that love to start over as someone new, someone better? The thought makes her literally sick to her stomach because once again she feels like that addict who used other people to get what she wanted and clung to them like crutches.
Bridget bolts from the bed, and Andrew falls into the space she's just vacated. It would almost be funny if she wasn't about to hurl. She makes it to the bathroom and drops to her knees in front of the toilet. She barely has enough time to hold her hair back with one hand before she's bending over the rim as her stomach contracts violently, throwing up the meager contents of her stomach. She vomits until there's nothing left, nothing but painful dry heaves, and then she flushes the toilet and presses her head to the cool porcelain. She still feels nauseous, but she isn't sure it's because she's still sick about what she's done or because she's so hungry she feels like she'd throw up if she ate. The porcelain on her cheek and body curled around the toilet only serves to remind her of the many hungover mornings she woke up feeling like this, or the sweaty, painful, itchy nights she spent in withdrawal, trying to fight off this addiction.
And, of course, Andrew walks in the bathroom and sees her like this, weak and broken and on her knees. "Siobhan?" he calls worriedly, moving towards her as if in slow-motion. He sounds so far away, and Bridget just wants to lie here on the cold tile and forget about everything for a second and go back to that pleasant dream rather than this wretched reality where she's forced to face the fact that she isn't being fair to him at all. Nonetheless, she raises her head up enough to meet his gaze, cringes when she sees the panic in his eyes. He has no idea who he's looking at, has no idea he's seeing the real Bridget.
She crawls up the side of the toilet before he can reach her, holds her head over it reflexively, and dry heaves. There's nothing left to throw up, just the pangs in her stomach and the disgust that churns in her belly like poison. Then Andrew's behind her, on the floor, holding back her hair even though nothing's coming up, and he's rubbing her back and murmuring soothing things. A glance at him tells her the poor man is terrified, and she feels so utterly and completely horrible about everything, about the deceit in nearly every word and gesture, that she wants to curl up and die.
Bridget tries to pull away, but Andrew doesn't let her. She's finally stopped throwing up, but the feelings of nausea and, worse than that, emptiness, remain. "Are you okay, Siobhan?" Andrew asks, pulling her up, holding her firmly in his arms, trying to look at her face. She shakes her head no, unable to lie. He'll just think she has morning sickness anyway. She clutches her stomach, and Andrew gives her a pained look, like it hurts him to see her like this. That just makes the pain in her stomach, the black hole, ulcer, whatever it is, get worse. He helps her to her feet, puts the toilet seat down and seats her on it carefully. Andrew turns to the sink, fumbling with a glass and twisting the tap to fill it. He still has one hand on her shoulder, keeping her upright.
She feels wobbly and lopsided and lightheaded, and a moment ago, she could've sworn she saw two Andrews. She barely refrained from making a comment about him having a twin too. She blinks dizzily, and Andrew puts the glass of water in her hand and, wrapping his arms around her waist, helps her up to stand in front of the sink. "Here," he says softly, "rinse your mouth." She'd nod, but the world's spinning badly enough without her contributing to it. Bridget does what she says, tipping back the glass and drinking, gargling the water and spitting it out in the sink, trying to get the coppery, acrid taste of sick out of her mouth.
Andrew takes the glass from her, refills it, and hands it back, motioning for her to do the same thing. And she listens to him and does what he says because she needs it, needs him holding her up. Then Andrew reaches for her toothpaste, opening the tube and squeezing out a healthy dollop of the paste onto her brush. He wets it and hands it to her, never once removing the hand from her back that's been rubbing circles since he got her to her feet. Bridget takes the brush as he sweeps back her hair, twisting the wavy golden strands in his fingers. Her heart lurches, but she puts the brush in her mouth and tries to wash the bitter taste away.
But the bitter taste stays in her mouth because every sweet little thing Andrew does for Siobhan, for her, makes her feel even more guilty. No matter how good it feels to have his hands in her hair, playing with the strands like she's suspected he's wanted to do for quite some time (her sister usually plaits her hair before going to bed, as she's done since she was a child because of something their grandmother used to say to them). Once Siobhan had learned how to French braid, she used to make Bridget French braid her hair every night; it had become their little ritual, and now Bridget's fingers itched to braid her sister's hair. She can feel the tears collecting in her eyes, so she brushes harder, hard enough to draw blood, but her mouth still feels dirty, even as she tastes the iron in her mouth.
It tasted like that too, when she shot that man. She wonders if the taste, the guilt, ever really goes away. She's taken two people's lives.
She spits in the sink, rinses her toothbrush and washes the pink-tinged foam down the drain. Andrew's reaching past her again, pulling out bright green mouthwash. He pours a little bit of Listerine into the glass and sets it on the counter for her, not saying a word. She can smell the alcohol wafting up from it, and her mouth waters in anticipation. She's dying for a drink right now, and the strong alcohol in the Listerine is calling out to her, even though she knows she isn't supposed to drink it. She used to take a swig every morning just to get on her feet, and it's hard to resist that urge.
Andrew frowns, picks up the glass, and puts it in her hand. For a moment she just stares at it, but his eyes urge her to drink it, so she tips back the glass. Her initial instinct is to swallow because there's alcohol in her mouth, and it tastes good, and she knows it'll burn going down just like her favorite whiskey. For a moment, she merely holds the liquid in her mouth, looking at herself in the mirror with puffed-out cheeks and all. It starts to burn, but she doesn't swallow. She can't. She shouldn't. Andrew nudges her, frown deepening, and Bridget finally bends over and spits it out, wiping the back of her mouth with a shaking hand.
Andrew lets go of her hair and puts his hand on her shoulder, and she nearly jumps, tensing under his touch. "I know your stomach hurts, but you should really eat something, Shiv." He eyes her critically, the same way he did when she'd first arrived, takes in the thinness of her arms, the sharpness of her features, and the flatness of her stomach. "I'm worried about you. You're skin and bones," he mumbles, running his hands over her bony shoulders. She barely manages to prevent him from reaching down to feel her waist and forces a sickly smile. "How about I make you some tea and crackers? See if you can keep it down?" he suggests, leading her away from the sink.
She nods and lets him lead her, wobbling against him. Food would be good. Andrew smiles faintly, sitting her down at the dinner table. It's only then that she notices he isn't wearing a suit. He's still wearing the clothes he slept in. As if he senses her question, Andrew comes in with a plate of saltines and sets it in front of her. He sits down next to her. "It's still early. I can be a little late to the office today," he says with a sympathetic smile, patting her hand before rising to his feet and walking over to the china cabinet. He returns with two gold-tipped teacups and saucers with thin handles that look too fragile and beautiful for her to even touch. Then he heads for the kitchen, returning with a bowl of sugar cubes, two spoons, a strainer, and a little pitcher of milk.
He sits back down, no doubt waiting for the water to come to a boil, and stares at her a bit too long. He reaches out for her hand, and it's all she can do not to flinch. "Shiv, please, eat something," he says almost pleadingly, pushing the plate towards her. The softness in his eyes just about kills her, so she picks up a cracker and slowly puts it in her mouth. It tastes like sawdust, but she forces herself to chew and swallow it and smile afterwards like she thinks the cracker's delicious and not stale and bland. Andrew looks relieved that she's eaten, and he reaches for her hand again. "I'm so sorry," he says meaningfully, stroking her hand.
She stares at him blankly, wondering why he's apologizing, but then it hits her. She recognizes the guilty expression on his face, the way he keeps casting glances at her midsection. Bridget starts laughing hysterically, and Andrew starts to look at her like he thinks she's completely mental. It's just so funny to her, the fact that he's more or less apologizing for getting her pregnant when she's not pregnant, and his dead, actually pregnant wife was more probably knocked up by her best friend's husband. It's one of those moments when she chokes on the terrible irony that is her life. She's laughing and almost choking, and Andrew looks like he's about to intervene, when she hears the kettle whistling in the other room.
Her husband frowns but moves quickly to get it, probably worried that the sound of the kettle will wake his daughter. Bridget uses the moment to collect her composure, sucking in a breath and wiping away tears of laughter. She stifles a snort, thinking again about Andrew apologizing for getting her pregnant. Andrew comes back in holding a kettle and a tin of tea. He sets the kettle down, drops two sugar cubes in her teacup, and places the strainer over her cup. He quirks a brow at her. "What was so funny?" She shakes her head and tries to give him a coy smile, but it only serves to make her stomach roll. Still frowning, Andrew scoops a few spoonfuls of tea out of the tin and into the strainer. Then he pours the boiling water over the tea.
Bridget silently watches the water turn dark amber and cloudy, reminding her of his eyes earlier this morning. A pang of nausea—or is it hunger?—hits her. Andrew sets a single sugar cube and a nondescript tea bag in his own cup before pouring himself tea. She removes the strainer after a few moments and stares uncertainly at her tea, absently stirring its contents, until she feels Andrew's eyes on her face. He's watching her, of course, urging her to drink it. His expression softens a little. "I know you don't like tea, Shiv, but it's ginger tea, and it'll make you feel better," Andrew insists, looking a bit disheartened.
She hadn't known her sister didn't like tea. The Siobhan she'd known had always been the first to throw a tea party, but, then again, Siobhan had pretended to like a lot of fancy things she'd never really cared for, like opera and golf. It was one of those many elegant things that went hand in hand with Siobhan's dream of being a Princess. Looking at her sister's life, it seemed as if her dreams had come true. She lived in a perfect ivory tower on the best street in New York, had enough money so she would never, ever be poor again, a stable full of white horses somewhere, a jewelry collection that rivaled Tiffany's, a mansion in the Hamptons and probably one in London or Paris too, and she'd married her own Prince Charming, handsome, charming, successful, and British. Siobhan seemed to have a fairytale life, everything she'd ever wanted, perfect down to all the little details.
And, yet, she killed herself.
Bridget still doesn't drink the tea, though. Andrew's lips turn down at the corners as he adds milk to his own tea. "A book I read said it's supposed to help with morning sickness," he adds nervously a moment later. She's surprised he didn't make a sarcastic comment about it not being poison. Her eyes widen; Andrew's been reading books about pregnancy? She's hit by a fresh wave of nausea, alarmed at the swelling feeling in her chest, alarmed that he cares so much. Andrew stirs his own tea, glancing down, and he sighs. "My mum always made it for me when I felt ill," he volunteers after a while, a timid smile on his lips before he brings his own cup of tea to his lips.
It's the first personal thing Andrew's ever confided in her, the first thing that isn't about him and Siobhan, not that he's told her anything there she couldn't have already figured out. She gets the feeling he's never told Siobhan that, so she brings the cup to her mouth and drinks, burning her tongue a little. She knows she'd feel worse not drinking it. He didn't lie about it being ginger or about it being good for her stomach. She likes the taste of ginger anyway, likes that this tea is the product of his labor. "Thanks," she murmurs with a barely forced smile. Andrew returns her smile and keeps watching her.
Bridget feels a bit uncomfortable with him watching her drink her tea, feels like he should be reading the newspaper or getting ready for work or eating. She sips a bit more of the tea, biting into a cracker to reassure him. She studies him in return, wrapping both of her hands around the warm cup. She looks at him and realizes she barely knows him. She knows what sort of man she is, she thinks, but she doesn't know any of the important things.
She knows he doesn't like the ballet, and she knows that he cheated on his first wife with her sister, and that he's ashamed about it, that he thought he was better than that. She doesn't know if he was cheating on Siobhan, though, if he was, she couldn't blame him. She knows he sleeps on the left side of the bed (just as she, like her sister, sleeps on the right). She knows that he wears a lot of black and prefers jewel-toned ties with elaborate loop and whorl patterns. And she knows how he takes his tea, which she can only assume is either English Breakfast or Earl Grey. She knows that he gets angry easily and often, and that her sister was unhappy in their marriage and thinking about divorcing him (although she doesn't know why). But what else does she know?
Andrew sips his own tea and sets it down with a loud clink. Miraculously none of the tea splashes over the sides. Given the way he's looking at her and the way he clears his throat, he's nervous. "I'm glad you told me about Bridget, Siobhan," he says in a hushed voice, giving her a shy smile. Him saying both of their names in such quick succession confuses her and makes her head spin a little. Bridget-Siobhan, that's who she is now. She sees the questioning look in his eyes and knows he's holding back; he won't ask that question.
"Me too," she mutters mostly to herself. She really is glad he knows she exists, that he knows a little bit about the real her... It makes her feel just the tiniest bit better about this lie of a life, not that it stops her from feeling awful about lying to him. She shrugs, forcing a smile. "I'm tired of all the secrets... and I wanted to be honest with you because I shouldn't feel like I have to keep things from you," Bridget explains wearily. She takes another sip of tea, trying to convey to him somehow that she trusts him. She watches the smile spread slowly across his face; it's genuine. "You deserved to know the truth... And you were never really going to know who I am until you knew about Bridget." For what it's worth, she actually believes that. She's eying him with a kind of hopefulness, but he doesn't realize the deeper significance of her words. He merely nods, looking at her like he's never seen her before, no doubt trying to figure out who his wife is now.
He's eying her hands around the teacup, looking at them like he wants to reach out and touch her or perhaps say something. "You're right, you know," he says, tilting his head and giving her a brand new look not unlike when they'd been gazing in the dark at the evening skyline in his office. Bridget forces another sip of the tea down and then slowly sets the cup down, sensing that what he's about to say is important. A fond smile is tugging at Andrew's lips. "It's like what you said last night. She's a part of you, and I married your family and your life before me when I married you. So, I suppose, in a way, I'm married to Bridget too," he muses, fingers brushing her hand affectionately before they stoop to pick up his teacup once more.
Bridget's eyes are wider than their tea saucers, and her heart is throbbing against her ribcage so hard it's like a bird trying to break free of its fleshy cage. Her heart's skipping beats left and right as his words play over and over in her head like a tape on loop. You have no idea, Andrew, she thinks to herself dazedly. She can't help but wonder what he'd do if he found out he'd been living with the other sister, masquerading as her husband for the past two and a half weeks. She tries to tell herself her heart's gone crazy because she's afraid he's going to find out her secret, but her heart's screaming that it's because he just said her name.
Andrew sees the change come over her and chuckles. "Not like that, love," he quips, cocking his head at her. She blinks at him as he chuckles to himself, taking a final sip of her tea and draining the cup. Had he just made a joke, much less one with a thinly-veiled sexual connotation? He sets the teacup down gently and rises to his feet, eyes on her. "Anyway, dear, I'm going to wake Juliet," he announces, bending down to press his lips to her forehead. She blinks disbelievingly, but Andrew's already halfway through the doorway. It takes a while, but she eventually remembers that today is Juliet's first day of public school.
She's got her fingers crossed for the girl, but she has a sneaking suspicion it isn't going to go well for Juliet, especially if she's anything like Bridget was in the later years of her adolescence (and adulthood, actually). "Today's a big day for her, and I'm probably going to need your help..." He stops and turns around, hand on the doorframe. "If you're up for it, of course," Andrew adds a moment later, looking her over. Bridget nods and takes a big bite of one of the bland, dry crackers he's set out for her. She doesn't think she's going to throw up, but she doesn't exactly want to eat either. He smiles then, that familiar dimple coming out of hiding, lingering for just a moment. Then he turns back around and goes away to wake his daughter.
Bridget stares at the unappetizing plate of crackers for a moment before putting the tea to her lips and downing it as she once downed tequila and whiskey and vodka and bourbon (and, really, anything she could get her hands on that would get her plastered). It doesn't burn quite the same way, but it's a lot more soothing than the alcohol would've been, even if it doesn't give her the luxury of forgetting. She has the nastiest feeling that things are headed downhill fast, so she could've used the extra fortification.
She's also trying really hard not to think about Andrew, which should be easy with all the things she has on her mind—Gemma's whereabouts, Juliet's problems, Henry, Malcolm's inability to answer her phone calls, the vicious addictions in her veins that increasingly cry for relief, Agent Machado's stalking, people who want her dead, her dead, lost sister, how long she can keep up this charade—yet Andrew saying he's married to Bridget too is all that's on her mind, even if he didn't mean it that way. And all she can think about now is what it would be like to really be his wife and not some imposter...
She knows what's going on but doesn't want to admit it to herself yet, let alone think of all the terrifying possibilities. She's falling a little deeper in the hole every day, and it's getting harder and harder to keep her distance and avoid getting too close so that someday she'll be able to pull her way out of it. If she even wants to, a voice in her head chimes smugly.
Yes, the charade of being Siobhan is beginning to wear thin.
Bridget knows that it can't and shouldn't last forever, but how much longer can it last, any of this?