Disclaimer: Nothing has changed in 24 hours. It's still not mine.

A/n: Number nine is for Sarah, who asked for Tom and Lynette in the aftermath of the truth about Tom and Renee coming out (which I wrote about in chapter one). In a way, this is a companion piece to that chapter, as it continues with the assumptions I made about the affair. I can only hope that it turns out this way on the show.

Thank you for reading and especially to those of you who reviewed. Your feedback plays a huge role in motivating my writing. And please continue to request! I have enough to get me through Saturday, so if anyone else has one, I would be more than thrilled to add it to my list. December is a long month.

-Ryeloza

A Collection

By Ryeloza

Nine: The Places Love Hides

Tom has felt perpetually nauseated for the past week, marred by an unending bout of nerves; a fear that his life is never going to be the same again. He's beginning to wonder when this interminable sickness will end, releasing him from the cruel tenterhooks of nervousness. Anxiety is a paralysis of sorts, he's realized. It holds you captive, afraid to make even the slightest move for fear that your worst nightmares are going to come true.

Perhaps it's not fair that he's waiting for the world to end. Lynette has forgiven him with a magnanimity that is even more far-reaching than he thought possible. Their entire relationship, she's been clear with where her line is, and until a week ago, he never thought she would back down from her conviction. But she'd looked at him and saw his sin and his desperation and his regret and his love, and she was able to absolve him. He doesn't know why, particularly as this is not his first misstep in their marriage.

Norah and Kayla and Atlantic City feels like a distant nightmare now, but dealing with this second betrayal brings it all back to both of them like the ache of an old wound. Tom had vowed then never to keep anything from her again, and he'd been faithful to his word—to an extent. He'd never meant for that promise to be retroactive, but now that the truth has reared its vicious head, he wonders what might have been if he had just confessed then.

Of course, it's all moot. He didn't tell her. Not twenty-one years ago when it happened and not eleven years ago after Atlantic City and not in any of the thousands and thousands of hours they've been together. Maybe that is the worst part, though—that she didn't hear it from him.

He's pretty sure that he shouldn't have been able to have made two such colossal mistakes, and have Lynette stand by him. There isn't a doubt in his mind that he's the luckiest man on earth, and if there is any way to show Lynette that he knows that, he will do it without hesitation every day for the rest of his life. But his word doesn't mean much now; maybe it never will again.

It's the look in her eyes that frightens him the most. There's something dimmer there when she looks at him now—a deep hurt that lingers inside of her. He isn't sure if he's looking at the pain of the woman he betrayed decades ago, or the anguish of the woman who just found out that her husband spent years lying to her. Maybe it's both. And maybe when she looks at him it's the same way—she can see the terrible regret of two different parts of him, past and present. He wants her to know that the only thing he's ever been truly afraid of in his entire life is losing her. That's why he does these stupid, stupid things. That's why he can't stop worrying.

"She says she's in love with you," Lynette had told him. It was after the explanations and apologies and heartbreak; an afterthought. Tom remembers that he never cared less about a person's feelings toward him than he did of Renee's at that moment. "After twenty years…You've only seen each other maybe half a dozen times."

Tom still doesn't know what to make of this announcement. He and Renee spent one ridiculous night together—a night he couldn't regret more if he tried—and Lynette is right: after that their meetings were sparse, spread so far apart and never unchaperoned. Even since she moved into the neighborhood, he's spent most of his time avoiding her. How she possibly thinks she's in love with him is beyond his grasp of understanding. She's called him twice since the truth came out; both times he's hung up on her. If she thinks that there is possibly a choice involved here…

It's Lynette. It has always, always been Lynette.

His wife emerges from the bathroom without looking at him, though his eyes go straight to her, tracking her progress across the room until she climbs into bed next to him and sighs. His heart feels like it's in his throat; he can't quell his worry, and consequently, it spills out of him. He has never been able to restrain himself. "Are you ever going to be able to stop hating me?"

Lynette rolls onto her side, away from him, and then is so still that he thinks it's all the answer he'll ever need. He wants to touch her so badly it hurts. Then, quietly, he hears, "I don't hate you."

"You can," he says. "I mean, you should. Or it's okay if you do. But I need to know—"

"Tom." She cuts him off gently. He's surprised by the fact that she doesn't sound annoyed, but just tired and a little sad. "I don't. I hate myself."

"What?"

"I hate myself." She repeats these words like they're inarguable, but the idea that anyone hates her—especially a self-loathing—makes him feel like he has to do anything he can to protect her. "I hate myself because I feel like a fool. And because I'm afraid. And because ever since I found out, all I'm waiting for is for you to realize that you don't have to stay."

He reaches for her instinctively, pressing himself against her back and draping his arm over her waist possessively. She hardens for a moment, and then relaxes against him. "I feel exactly the same way," he confesses. "I don't deserve you, and I feel like I'm just waiting for you to figure that out."

Lynette brushes tears from her eyes. She looks completely lost. "I realized a long time ago that I only want you."

"So did I. But you didn't have to completely fuck up just to figure that out."

"No, but I almost did. I could have done the same thing as you."

"But you didn't."

She shakes her head. "I'm not sure it makes me any better, though."

It dawns on Tom that this could be why she was able to forgive him. It was the same reason he was able to forgive her everything that happened with Rick ages ago. Because he loved her for coming back; for ultimately choosing him; for loving him. And like a startling epiphany, he realizes that she must feel the same way about him now that he felt about her then. He has no idea why that should possibly surprise him, though, after everything they've been through. After twenty years together, how is it that he's constantly rediscovering the magnitude of their love?

Maybe, he thinks cautiously, it's these moments that make their marriage so strong. Maybe if they didn't screw up, if they didn't get these hard reminders of how much they loved one another, they wouldn't be able to appreciate what they had.

"You know, I think we're both really stupid."

Despite everything, Lynette chortles. "Probably," she agrees.

"We love each other."

"More than anything."

Tom smiles, and kisses the soft skin behind her ear. "So maybe we should stop worrying about everything else, and just focus on that."

Lynette rolls onto her back; her hand drifts up to his cheek and for a second she strokes his chin with her thumb. There's a look in her eyes that he hasn't seen in too long, and his heart skips a beat. "I love you."

"I love you too."

He kisses her, then. For the first time in a week, the tension leaves his body, and he knows they're going to be okay.