A/N: I decided to break off the end of this chap before the epilogue; it just seemed better off on its own. So there's this chap, and then the epilogue. Thank you so much for reading, reviews are so appreciated. :-) Hopefully this chapter doesn't disappoint!

susanmikefan: I appreciate you reading despite your obvious susan/mike slant. (grin) I was stressing out towards mid-season 3 because of the whole Ian thing, but I asked Jamie about it and he said not to worry. I'm musing over a couple of susan/mike fics, they should be up shortly after the completion of this one. And maybe another mike/bree. And I have a Tom/Lynette that's almost complete. hehe, sorry for getting long-winded. :-)

Perfect

By: Syntyche

Chapter Thirteen: Second Chances

"If my life is for rent,

and I don't learn to buy,

then I deserve nothing more than what I get,

'cause nothing I have is truly mine… "

Dido, "life for rent"

(A Bree song if I ever heard one. )

Bree Van de Kamp sat quietly at her kitchen table, idly streaking her fingernails up and down the tall neck of the glass bottle before her. Her thoughts were a million miles away, but she kept up the slow, methodical rhythm despite the fact that she was leaving smudges – she could wipe them off later, and it was proving to be an utterly mindless distraction. Her chin rested in the palm of her other hand, her grey eyes staring blankly off into the distance as she lazily pursued options for peaceful release from her remorse. Only one thing was immediately springing to mind.

And so, she thought dryly, I'm right back here where I began. Alone and feeling like a bloody alcoholic.

Bree was no stranger to guilt, and it was eating at her.

I wouldn't leave you on any other night, either.

The quiet words echoed in her head. Despite the fact it had seemed like she'd had no choice when confronted by Susan, Bree still felt like she'd betrayed Mike by allowing Susan to manipulate his memories. It was too late to do anything about it now, of course, so Bree simply let the regret pick away at her until she was starting to feel like the bottle was her only recourse for a moment's peace.

There was just one thing stopping her: well, actually it was more like two people stopping her.

The first was her friend Lynette, who had gone so far one sunny day as to take all of Bree's empty wine bottles from her garbage and line them up on her front doorstep.

The second was a man who had forgotten all about her.

Bree tucked a strand of long red hair behind her ear and smoothed down the ratty grey t-shirt she wore.

It still clashed appallingly with her khakis, so she'd chosen a pair of pale blue denim jeans this morning. Wearing the t-shirt she'd borrowed from Mike only made her feel worse, and she suspected that was why she was doing it. Nothing like the constant reminder of loss to cement the depression in.

Bree reached for a wineglass.

"You okay, honey?"

Lynette, predictably, had heard from Gaby who had heard from Susan that she and Mike were back together. Bree appreciated Lynette's thoughtful kindness; it was a lot to ask from a woman who was currently embroiled in bitter negotiations with her husband's former, pre-Lynette one-night stand for visiting rights with her husband's illegitimate daughter.

"Of course. Are you?" Bree smiled into the phone, trying to convey a lightness of voice that her heart wasn't feeling. She knew she wasn't fooling Lynette, but it helped Bree feel just a bit more that things were normal.

Lynette laughed, the high-pitched chortle that always shone through when she was tense. "Of course." She sighed. "I feel like hell, too, Bree. Since you've 'given up' drinking, what do you think about going out for a drink tonight?"

Bree broke into a real smile. It amazed her how well her friend knew her. "So, what you're saying," she paraphrased wryly, "is that you know I'm looking at a full bottle right now and you'd like to control the circumstances of my drinking it?"

"Exactly," Lynette confirmed cheerily. "And I certainly wouldn't mind sharing it with you. Does that make me a hypocrite to take you out for a drink?"

"No, it sounds like a plan," Bree countered with a quiet grin. "Shall I pick you up at eight-thirty?"

"That'd be fine. And, Bree?"

"Yes?"

Lynette's voice was genuinely amused, but carried an undercurrent of her inner firmness that made Bree blush guiltily. "It's nine a.m. Put the bottle away and go scrub toilets or something."

Bree looked at the full bottle remorsefully; she'd been so close to indulging when the phone rang. "Yes, dear," she sighed. "I'll see you tonight."

The redhead rose from the table and gently replaced the cordless phone in its cradle with a small, cynical smile. Trust Lynette to be practical regardless of the situation. It was one of the many reasons, as Mary Alice had said to her and Susan shortly after meeting a newly-pregnant Lynette, that the blonde was far better a friend than an enemy.

Bree glanced at the clock. 9:07a.m. Only eleven hours until she could pick up Lynette. Well, ten hours and forty-five minutes, if she wanted to be early, as usual.

Her stomach rumbled and she sighed. She should probably get a healthy breakfast in before she started scrubbing toilets. And the downstairs bathroom would need to be attended to; she was certain that Danielle had been brushing her hair over the sink again, and Mike wasn't around to look at it this time.

Bree lightly fingered the hem of the t-shirt she wore.

Not this time.

You promised, she thought bitterly. You promised that you wouldn't leave me. Not this time. Not any night!

Just like Rex, who had sworn to her that he would love no other. She knew that it hadn't been Mike's fault, but he'd promised.

The hell with it! She wasn't waiting for Lynette! Bree snatched up the wine bottle angrily and stalked to the refrigerator for a chilled glass. The sound of her elegant door chimes deterred her attention momentarily, but Bree promised the bottle it was not forgotten. Not like her.

Irritated, Bree grasped the handle and swung the door open.

Mike Delfino stood on her doorstep, shifting awkwardly on a pair of crutches. He looked more pissed off than anything by the cast encasing his lower left leg and impeding his usually fluid movements, but his face brightened into a smile when he saw her.

"Bree. I'm glad you're home. Can I come in?"

"Of course," Bree said, somewhat dazedly, waving him in. It was harder than she expected to face him; it had been a few weeks since she had been to the hospital with Susan. Faint bruising still marred the area around his wary eyes, and there was a tense set to his expression that hadn't been there before. He carried himself stiffly and it was no wonder.

"Ah … please sit down," she added, leading him into the kitchen. "I was just about to make breakfast," she said brightly. "Can I get you something?"

"No, but thanks," he said shortly, directing his attention into hobbling after her. Bree's fingers itched to help him somehow, but she sensed that would only aggravate him further; clearly he was not used to needing help. It was one of the many similarities they shared.

She pulled a chair out for him and gestured for him to sit. "I didn't expect to see you," Bree said honestly, trembling inside. Why was he here?

Mike sat down awkwardly, and she suspected it was only because his injuries were paining him from the irritation that tightened the muscles of his jaw.

"Sit, please?" he requested and she complied. "Can I ask you something?" he continued, and Bree felt the nervousness tightening her stomach intensify.

"Of course," she said again, facing him with a smile plastered on her face, smoothing down her jeans as she sat.

Surprising her, he reached over and brushed his fingers against her chin, his blue eyes latching onto hers seriously. Her skin tingled as it remembered the feel of his rough skin, and she wanted nothing more than to lose herself in the moment; it was a touch of peace unlooked for, the only thing besides alcohol lately that had calmed her ravaged spirit.

"Bree," he asked quietly, "Why did you give up on me?"

Bree stared at him for a full minute before she spoke, shock slowly seeping in. "You … you remember? You remember us?"

"Yeah, I do," he said softly, still grazing her cheek lightly with his thumb. "I didn't at first; not really, everything was so hazy for a few weeks after the accident. And when I remembered, you were already gone."

Bree rose abruptly, suddenly feeling the need to move, as if that could get her away from the uncertain feelings that were crashing over her. "I had no idea. The doctor wasn't sure … I'm about to make breakfast," she interrupted herself, latching onto something familiar: a task that she could perform, and perform outstandingly. "Please tell me if I can get something for you? Poached eggs? Toast with homemade jam?"

"Nothing, thank you. Bree – "

Agitated, Bree rummaged through the cupboard, more for show than anything because everything was already perfectly arranged. "Well, I think I'd at least like some toast," she said, desperately bright. "Are you sure I can't get you anything?"

She pulled a loaf of bread from the cupboard and fiddled with the bag. She felt like she needed to answer him or be considered rude, so she added lamely, "I … I'm sorry. I felt so awful for Susan," she confessed. "She's been through so much – "

"Much more than you, of course," Mike agreed sardonically. "Please come sit," he requested gently. "I know you're upset, but please just sit with me 'cause I can't really follow you around right now."

"I couldn't bear to not help her," Bree said honestly, sliding a couple pieces of toast into the toaster. "I, ah, can't sit right now; I'm afraid the toaster is on its last leg and I have to watch it like a hawk or it might overcook."

"I see," Mike nodded, dryly amused. "Bree, I appreciate your willingness to help a friend, but … did you stop to think how I might feel?"

Bree focused hard on the toaster, directing all of her attention to staring at the tiny dial. "I did. But they said that … that you wouldn't remember anything that had happened in the past few months. I didn't think you would remember us."

"You were awfully willing to bank on that, I guess." His hurt tone reproached her gently, and she sighed nervously, replacing the bread in the cupboard.

"I remembered how happy Susan was when you two were together, and how much she talked about wanting to share her future with you. I wanted her to be happy," she confessed.

"What about you? Don't you deserve something you want? Don't you deserve to be happy?"

"Me?" Bree smiled her Perfect Housewife smile. "Of course I'm happy."

"I don't believe you." Mike rose awkwardly to his feet and shuffled over to where she stood anxiously, looking everywhere but at him. He reached out and took her hand carefully with his free one.

"But … Susan … ?" Bree protested weakly.

"I already talked with Susan," Mike interjected. "She's gonna be okay." He tilted her chin so that her grey eyes were locked onto his. "You are the one that want," he whispered. "The question is, would you be happy with me?"

A thousand thoughts flashed through her mind, but one stood out above the others. He said he wanted her. He had chosen her

"It's possible," she said primly, outwardly calm though her heart was racing, "but I'd like to do a little research first."

His eyebrow twitched upward, but was restricted by the stitches. He grimaced and let it slide back into place. "I see. Is there something I can do to help?"

"Would you mind," she asked shyly, "if I kissed you?"

Mike smiled. "Not at all."

Bree smiled back and slid into his waiting arms, being extremely careful not to jostle his ribs, her lips parting expectantly, excitedly, at his nearness. She reveled in the remembrance of the kisses they'd shared, but this time, when his mouth met hers, it was different somehow. Before it had tasted of the excitement of newfound closeness, of unexpected intimacy.

Today, Bree tasted the sweet promise of a glistening future with a man who had unexpectedly come into her life and gently soothed the ache from her heart. She tasted his desire for her. And just a hint of salt water.

Bree opened her eyes when she realized that silent tears were tracking down her pale cheeks. She sniffed just a bit and sank back into his careful embrace. And though she was enjoying kissing him very, very much, he suddenly pulled away and she realized why – the toaster was smoking and the acrid stench of charred toast was quickly creeping into the air.

Mike reached around her and popped the toast up quickly, and Bree was astounded to see that the multigrain bread was scorched all the way through.

As she stared at the smoldering remains of breakfast, her late husband's voice echoed in her head:

Where's the woman I fell in love with, who used to burn the toast and drink milk out of the carton?

Added to the shock of the morning, it was all too much for her. Bree started crying harder. And laughing.

"What's wrong?" Mike's arm tightened around her waist, and she tucked her head into his shoulder gratefully, still hiccupping with laughter.

"You can't want me," she sniffed. "I'm so unlovable! My husband hated me, my kids hate me!"

"Shh, it's okay," he stroked her long red hair gently, holding her close against him. Bree listened to the rumble of his voice in his chest, trying to lose herself in the sound.

"You know," Mike said softly, "I remember the first time I met you, at the dinner party you had to remember Mary Alice Young. You seemed so cold, so harsh and unforgiving. At the time I just shrugged it off, but now I think you use that to distance yourself from everything. I think that underneath it all, you feel strongly about a lot of things and I don't know why you would try to hide that, why you would try to hide who you are. Why you feel you have to perfect all of the time."

Bree exhaled slowly, a lone tear dripping off the edge of her nose. "I … don't want people to be disappointed in me," she whispered, touched by his words and his clarity. "I don't want to let them down."

"Disappointed in what?" He continued carding his fingers through her hair, and Bree thought that she would wear her hair down all of the time if he would simply keep doing that.

"In me! In anything!" she sighed in frustration. "I make so many mistakes and I just can't stand the thought of anyone thinking that I can't do it, that I'm not strong or good enough to handle everything." It hurt to admit it, it sounded too much like something Rex would have accused her of. Still, if they were tallying faults, her compulsion to take on everything was nowhere near his adultery.

"But Bree, you don't have to," Mike reminded her softly. "You've been through a lot, Bree, more than I could handle – more than anyone should have to handle. But you're not alone." He smiled at her, and a tiny bit of warmth blossomed in her aching heart, like the first rays of the morning sun on the horizon. She buried her face in his shoulder, feeling for the first time in so long that she could make her way back from the desolation she'd been buried in since before Rex had died.

"I'm here. I'm right here." His rough hand rubbed small circles on her back, the calluses catching on her t-shirt.

"I'm glad," she sniffed, tucked under his chin carefully. "Thank you for coming back to me. I felt so awful about giving you up."

"It's okay," he soothed, and she wondered how he'd ended up comforting her when she felt like she still owed him an explanation. "So," he asked carefully, "did you decide? Will you give me a chance?"

Bree looked up at him, her smile sweetly radiant. "I think I can do that."