A/N to Lily: I'm not sure yet where the story is going. It just strikes me that they're so alike, and this fic was the result of a plot bunny that was rattling around in my brain. I would definitely read a Bree/Mike if you wrote one!

A/N: This is one of those fics wherein the entire time you're writing it, you're thinking, why am I writing this? it's bizarre, it's ... strange ... but it doesn't die, it just grows. And so you do the logical thing: you type it out, and you share it. g That being said, reviews are adored and cherished, and thanks for reading!

Perfect

By: Syntyche

Chapter Two: Means to an End

As the duo strolled lazily past the Van de Kamp's, the front door swung open and a flustered looking Bree rushed out, her slim hands fumbling clumsily with the keys as she tried to lock the door behind her. Mike had barely spoken to her since that dinner party months ago before her husband had died – it wasn't that he didn't like the redhead, she seemed pleasant enough, but they hadn't really had any reason to chat since then. It didn't bother him, though – he had been putting serious thought into leaving Wisteria Lane soon, and the less ties, the better.

"Hey, Bree," he said politely, and she seemed startled as she glanced down the perfectly-manicured lawn at him. The Van de Kamps' front yard amazed him; it was without question the most beautiful lawn on the street, and he knew that Bree did everything herself, rather than hire a gardener.

"Oh! Hello, Mike," Bree greeted him warmly, her eyes narrowing as she regarded him thoughtfully. "Mike," she said slowly, "I can see that you're busy and I hate to be a bother, but my bathroom sink is clogged. Would you mind being a dear and taking a look at it?"

Mike sighed at the lateness of the hour and sent a silent apology to Bongo. Sorry, boy, a plumber's work is never done. He smiled warmly at the distraught woman. "Sure, Bree, not a problem. Let me take Bongo home and get my tools and I'll be right back, okay?"

"Of course," Bree replied graciously. "I'll leave the door open and you can just let yourself in."

"Okay," Mike agreed. "C'mon, Bongo – we'll finish in just a bit, I promise," he placated the dog, scratching behind the Shepherd's ears reassuringly. He turned Bongo aside to take him home, and, despite himself, glanced over his shoulder just for a moment at the brightly lit home of Susan Mayer.

What was I thinking? I could have run to the store just as easily instead of troubling that poor man so late at night.

Bree glanced at the clock. 8:34p.m. She was sure that it was past Mike Delfino's usual quitting time, but then her late husband Rex had never seemed to mind after-hours calls – though she wondered now if he'd been "working" at all. Perhaps he'd simply found another way to satisfy his debased lust when that slut Maisy Gibbons was unavailable. The thought made her skin crawl, and she found herself itching for a shower.

Or maybe she just needed a pick-me-up.

Smiling in anticipation, Bree reached for the bottle …

Someone knocked gently on the front door, and then Mike poked his head in. She was about to ask him to remove his grimy workboots, but he took one look at her shining floors and, with a wry grin, knelt to unlace his boots.

Bree smiled.

"Thank you for coming so late. I do appreciate it," she added.

"No problem at all," he assured her, with a 'show me the way' gesture. Bree led him toward the bathroom, and motioned at the sink in disgust. Mike couldn't help but notice the way everything gleamed, and the chrome accents were absolutely spotless. It was … disconcerting, actually. It felt like people lived here without actually living here.

Bree watched quietly as Mike worked carefully. She told herself that she stayed to make sure he worked neatly and didn't damage anything, but in reality she was simply lonely and was just enjoying the presence of another human being. It occurred to her that her battle with drinking, and her despair over Rex, would have been so much easier to handle if she'd had a friend around, but who could she have leant on?

Lynette had started working again, and was never home. Any spare moment the poor woman had, she would want with Tom.

Gabby and Carlos had been at each other's throats lately, and Gabby was constantly indulging in her – second – favorite pastime: Retail Therapy, as the ex-model called it.

And Susan had been having … problems. With Karl, with Dr. Ron, …and with the man in front of her. Bree wondered how Mike felt about the situation with Susan, but she knew it wouldn't be polite to ask. She wouldn't want him digging through her dirty laundry, after all. It wouldn't be proper.

Still, as she reflected on each of her friends and the struggles they faced, she couldn't help but think how much easier their respective burdens would be if they shared them. It seemed to her that of late they had all drifted into their own worlds, each consumed by their own problems and perhaps too reluctant to share them. She knew that she was. How could she tell anyone that she'd abandoned her son? That, despite her best efforts, he'd turned his back on her. That he hated her, and what he'd done to her because of that hate. She could still feel Peter's warm arms around her, hear his reassuring voice in her ear.

Bree closed her eyes, drowning in the sorrow of the memories. How much could one person take before they broke completely?

She needed a drink.

"Hey … you okay?"

Her grey eyes opened to meet Mike's concerned gaze. "Bree?" he continued, eyebrow lifted as he regarded her curiously.

Bree forced a smile, schooling her features into her Perfect Housewife look – one she'd perfected, and was actually quite proud of. "Yes? Yes," her smile widened pleasantly, "I'm fine. Just lost in thought for a moment."

Mike smiled in return, but the query remained in his eyes. "Well, be careful with that. It doesn't lead to anything good, trust me. I'm finished up here," he continued, "and you're all set. Anything else I can do?"

Bree stared at him for a long moment. A polite refusal had been on her lips, but she hesitated.

She didn't want to be alone anymore, at least not tonight.

She couldn't be alone.

"Mike," she said slowly, using his name carefully – it sounded so foreign on her lips. "Would you have a drink with me?"