Disclaimer: It really still isn't mine.

A/n: This is an AU fic about Bree and Karl being married (in a world where Orson died instead of Karl). This is for Smile-It's-Easy and ILoveMyTeddyBear, who both requested this scenario. A little different than the norm, but I hope it still works.

Enjoy!

March Madness

By Ryeloza

Twenty-Five: Life Moves On and On

"I always thought it would be me."

She doesn't look at him, and that bothers Karl more than anything. She just continues to set the table as if nothing is happening. Finally, after a pause that is a little too long for him to truly believe she doesn't know what he's means, she says, "What are you talking about?"

"You know," he continues as though she hasn't spoken, "because of that whole rule about never eating dinner in front of the television. Sometimes a guy just wants to sit on the couch with a large pizza and a beer and watch some TV."

She sighs. "Karl, we're having a dinner party in less than an hour. Can we just agree that that's never going to happen and move on?"

"That's my point! I have given up on that ever happening, and I have moved on."

"Good."

"Being denied one basic pleasure that every other man in America is allowed to partake in hasn't driven me over the edge."

"Karl—"

"But you're the one cheating on me."

She moves in slow motion—maybe he sees it that way; everything seems blurry like it's underwater. But eventually, her head rises and she looks at him with this face that's completely telling in its unreadable-ness. "I'm not—"

"Don't," he says, because in his mind he can hear himself saying the same thing and it's too much to think that he put Susan through this once. He smiles sadly. "The bad thing about marrying a former cheater is that it's much easier for him to pick up the signs. Plus, and I hate to tell you this, babe, but you're really bad at it."

Bree's lips purse like he insulted her, which is so funny he wants to cry, and she sets down the last plate. "So tell me, with whom am I supposedly cheating on you?"

"I don't care."

"You don't care?"

"No. I don't. What does that matter? I'm mostly concerned with the fact that you're fucking someone else."

He delights in the way her eyes widen, scandalized. "Don't use that language in my dining room," she hisses.

"Would it be more appropriate in the kitchen? The living room? Fuck, Bree, will you look up and realize what's going on around you? I'm accusing you of having an affair!"

"I hear you."

"And?"

"And I refuse to do this."

She walks past him, turning to avoid brushing his shoulder as she heads into the kitchen. For a second, he stares incredulously at the wall before he whips around and follows her out of the room. When he speaks again, somehow his voice is calmer. "You refuse to do what exactly?"

"Talk about this now. We're going to have four couples here in forty-five minutes, and you expect me to discuss this? Do you want the lamb to be ruined?"

"Do I want…Do you hear yourself?"

"Do you hear yourself?"

Karl stares at her agog, but Bree ignores him, and he finds that rage bubbling underneath the surface again. Angrily, he grabs her elbow and spins her around to face him. She holds her arm at an angle, face contorted as though his touch is burning her. "I know that you're probably hoping a plane is going to drop on me so you can avoid this the way you did with Orson, but it's not going to happen. You have to talk to me."

Bree blinks. He'd like to think she's trying not to cry, but he's pretty sure that she lost the capability years ago. Very suddenly, he's reminded of the way he used to think of her years and years ago, before everything went to hell with Susan, before Rex died, when he was convinced she was nothing but a stuck up prude. It hurts so much worse, though, because now he knows that that's not what she is at all, and it makes it more painful to know what he's actually losing.

"I can't believe you just said that to me."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not cheating on you."

He doesn't really believe her—maybe he can't—but there's something else, something more that she isn't saying. "But?"

"But…" She sighs, but straightens up, standing tall against this burden. "I'm not happy."

Slowly, he releases her, takes a step back, staring at her as though really seeing her for the first time. "Are you happy?" she asks sadly.

Karl thinks again about not being able to eat pizza in front of the TV. He thinks of how even after five years of marriage, this house still looks like Bree's house, not their house. He thinks of how she needles him into going to church on Sunday even though he's not religious, and of how she never belly laughs in that way he secretly finds sexy.

"No," he says. His heart feels like it's about to explode. "No. Because you're not happy. How can I be happy if you're not?"

Bree nods thoughtfully, as though weighing this thought that really makes no difference whatsoever. "You're a better man than people give you credit for. I hope you know that."

Karl shrugs because he really just wants to ask her who cares? That doesn't change anything. Instead he asks her the one question that really matters. "Where do we go from here?"

She stares at him—this long, meaningless, unreadable, interminable stare—and then says, "To dinner."

Quietly, she picks up the wine glasses and walks past him to the dining room, leaving Karl alone in the kitchen. He can't move. He can't think. Somehow, all he manages to do is whisper, "Okay."

After all, he still has to eat.