Disclaimer: It's still not mine.

A/n: Thank you so much to those of you who reviewed! And thank you to everyone who read, as well, though it's always twice as nice to hear what you think.

A little angst-ridden today (sometimes that feels like my default Bree/Orson setting, but given their timeline, it was nearly impossible to find a Valentine's Day that wouldn't have been fraught with drama. Maybe their first, but considering my other plans for this story, that didn't work out). Anyway, I hope you all enjoy!

-Ryeloza

A Week of Valentines

A story by Ryeloza

Chapter Four: Sunday

Sunday, February 14, 2010

For Orson to say he stormed into the room might have been an exaggeration—in his whole life, he'd never really been so emotionally rash as to have stormed in or out of a room—but at the very least it was a brisk, ire-raised entrance. Still, the most Bree managed to do was to glance up from the flowers she was arranging and give him that faux-innocent smile she sported so well. "Hello," she said, acting as though he had gleefully danced into the room. "I was just about to make some tea. Would you like some?"

"I just got a call confirming our reservation at Antonelli's tomorrow night."

With her back to him now, Orson couldn't decipher whether Bree picked up on the annoyance in his voice. Her penchant for denial was much harder to glean as genuine or not when he couldn't see her face. "Wonderful."

"Bree, I don't want to go."

"Well of course we're going. It's Valentine's Day."

"I told you I didn't want to celebrate this year."

"I realize that, dear. That's why I had to scramble to make the reservation when I found out you hadn't. Do you know how much finesse it took? We can't possibly cancel now."

Orson ogled her back ineffectually; she simply continued to ready the tea—as if it took so long to put a kettle on. "Bree?"

"Hmm?"

"I don't want to go."

Finally, she turned, and Orson was pleased to see that any semblance of pretended normality was gone. In fact, her brow was creased and her shoulders tightened like she was readying herself for a fight. Orson felt the queerest urge to push her until she yelled at him (not that Bree yelled any more than he stormed about the house). Quietly, she said, "Orson, this is our last holiday together in the foreseeable future. I don't understand why you wouldn't want to enjoy it."

"So," he said, a mock cheerfulness masking his anger, "we're finally acknowledging the elephant in the room."

"Please, Orson," she begged haughtily. "Don't make this worse than it already is."

"I'm going to prison, Bree. There's no way to make that worse!"

Bree flinched, turning back to the stove to hide the momentary flash of some feeling (sorrow?; anger?; regret?) in her eyes. For a moment, Orson wished that she'd just let him see her again as a truly feeling, caring woman—the person who had been absent even since he'd agreed to this incredibly difficult task. It was impossible not to blame her for everything if only because she was the one acting like he was going off to a spa rather than jail. He thought that if she just showed one moment of regret then he could forget everything else and come out of this a whole man again.

She wasn't going to do that, though. Really, he probably didn't even deserve it.

"You should take Andrew," he intoned haltingly. "I wouldn't want to sour your reputation at Antonelli's."

"Orson—"

"I'm not going, Bree. There's nothing else to say."

The kettle began to shriek as Orson turned and left the room. If Bree was crying (the Bree he knew would have cried), then her sobs were entirely masked by that sound. But Orson didn't particularly care to find out; he was tired of trying to coax her out of hiding.

The following morning, Orson was up and out of bed before Bree even stirred. After their confrontation in the kitchen, they'd avoided one another the rest of the day as only two people who had mastered the art of evasion could. It wasn't hostile, simply purposeful, and Orson felt no need to stop now. While Bree dreamt until the garishly late hour of eight-thirty, Orson was going to creep out of the house for early services and then spend the rest of the day at the park with Benjamin. Time felt so precious now, anyway; he could only feel the slightest remorse for not granting Bree the same courtesy.

Orson turned on the shower, wincing at how loud it sounded in the still quiet of the dawning day. Vaguely it occurred to him that he should have used the other bathroom, but he stubbornly stepped under the spray without taking the idea as any more than a fleeting thought. The water pressure was still too low. He wished that he was the type of man who could fix that; he wished he was the type of man who could fix anything. His whole life was such a mess.

Friday, he'd had to say goodbye to the office. He'd sold the practice to an old friend of his—Lowell Grant—and the only small blessing was that his employees had been able to keep their jobs. Elaine, his receptionist, had cried, though. She'd baked a cake for the party—a misshapen creation that had surely come from Betty Crocker or someone similar. Bree would have detested it, but Orson made himself to eat every last bite of the two pieces Elaine forced on him. Afterwards, she'd taken him quietly aside and announced she was leaving as well; early retirement, she'd called it. She and her husband were going to travel.

"I just couldn't stand to be here without you, Dr. Hodge," she'd said through a watery smile. "I've been with you from the start. Seems right to end with you."

Later, once he was alone with the sad remnants of a party he hadn't wanted, Orson had cried. Somehow, his sixty-year-old receptionist had showed more emotion about his impending incarceration than his wife ever had. It shouldn't have been fitting, yet in some way, Orson wasn't at all surprised. It felt like the story of his life.

Even now, Orson couldn't help but wonder how his and Bree's goodbye would be. Was there any possible way that he could leave without anything but love lingering between them? He strongly doubted it.

As he stood in the shower lost in thought, Orson shut his eyes and offered up some silent prayer that he knew wouldn't come in church this morning. Please let us get through this. Please. Faith borne in desperation; just one in his life, Orson wanted to feel that faith come from hope instead.

The shower door opened, and Orson didn't have to open his eyes to know that he'd been caught. Bree didn't say anything, however, and as she stepped into the shower with him, Orson didn't protest. From behind, she wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly to her and laying her head against his back. It took every ounce of his strength not to dissolve into tears.

"Happy Valentine's Day," Bree said gently. She kissed him directly between his shoulder blades and Orson shivered. The urge to give in to her was overwhelming; bitterness, though, won.

"Please, don't." The words came out so defeated; in that moment, Orson hated himself. "Don't pretend that everything is okay."

"Isn't that what we're good at? Pretending everything is okay even if it's not?"

"Maybe I don't want to pretend today."

Bree continued to plant kisses against his back and shoulders. His body seemed hyper-aware of hers: the way her breasts pressed into his back; the feel of her hands on his chest; the spark of electricity every time her lips touched him. Yet she wasn't pushing him; just loving him. In all of this, she'd never stopped loving him.

He had to stop faulting Bree for being the woman she'd always been.

"I'm scared," he admitted, voice barely audible over the shower. "Bree, I'm so scared. I'm scared of going. I'm scared of leaving you and Benjamin. I'm scared…"

"Yes?"

"I'm scared I'm going to lose you."

Bree sighed into him. "You're never going to lose me."

Orson wanted to believe that. He was desperate to believe that. But years of separation faced them, and he wasn't sure that any couple could survive that. Maybe for something noble, like going off to war, but this wasn't akin to that in any way. This was atonement, though he was no longer clear on which of them was asking for forgiveness.

"Orson?"

He came back to her absently. "Yes?"

"I just want one more day for us to be a couple. One more wonderful day for us to hold on to whenever things seem unbearable. I know I shouldn't ask for this, but can't you give me this one last moment? Please?"

Slowly, Orson turned in her arms and looked down into her eyes. For the first time in months, she was there—baldly facing him with a thousand emotions on her lovely face. In that moment, Orson would have given her the world if she asked.

"Please?" She mouthed the word silently. Orson felt his heart shatter into a million pieces.

Wordlessly, he leaned down and kissed her, a lifetime of passion built into one kiss.

One way or another, they were going to last through this one day.