NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
This is a companion piece to 'It Might Not Be A Pretty Picture'. As a companion piece, it probably won't make a lot of sense to anybody who hasn't read Pretty Picture. However, for anybody who really doesn't want to read Pretty Picture (it's novel-sized) there's a brief outline of the background of the story right before it starts.
(Spoiler alert: if you do want to read the novel, don't scroll down, back out now and read it. Everything will make a lot more sense, trust me, although there's really not much in the background that isn't covered by the end of Chapter 2.)
(Rating alert: R means Restricted, or as Robin put it, 'Risque' ;)
EXPLANATION FOR PEOPLE WHO HAVE READ PRETTY PICTURE:
Pretty Picture was written entirely from the point of view of the Law and Order cops and lawyers (mostly Briscoe and McCoy) like the show itself. Since Curtis was the suspect and defendant, nothing that happened in his life outside of their presence was shown in the story. So of course the part of the story right before Lennie showed up at Rey's house one surprising Saturday morning was not shown. Here it is.
BACKGROUND:
It's 2003 and things have not been going well for Rey Curtis and his family since he left the 27th precinct. His wife Deborah's MS has progressed very rapidly and she is almost completely disabled. They have a fourth daughter, Tania, who is also disabled and brain damaged. Their financial situation is dire. Their problems have taken a heavy toll on the family: one of their daughters, Serena, has become almost unmanageable, Rey and Deborah's marriage is disintegrating, Rey has become depressed and has occasionally turned to alcohol, drugs, and one-night stands as a means of escape.
At the time of this story, Rey is on trial for the murder of his mother and Deborah has moved to a nursing home, believing that he is unable to manage the strain of taking care of her as well as their daughters.
ooo000ooo
Finally, all the girls were in bed. It was just him and Deborah now. He brought her a cup of tea and her medication.
"How are you doing?"
"Pretty good," she started her nightly ritual of pills.
He sat down next to her, glad that she was here but uncomfortable in her presence. She was so distant, and he didn't even know what to say to her any more when they were alone together. He felt a wave of sorrow at how far apart they had grown. When had this gulf opened up between them? When had his own wife become a stranger?
"How's the nursing home?" he settled for something innocuous.
"It's OK. It's mostly old people. There's one young woman who's a quadriplegic. She was on the street before she had an accident... she doesn't have any family. I feel bad for her."
"You have a family. You don't have to be there. You could come home," he told her, knowing she wouldn't like it but unable to resist saying it.
"Rey, don't. This is for the best. Please, let's not talk about it. The decision is made," she reminded him gently.
"Your decision. I didn't decide anything," he said, not able to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
"Please don't. You promised you wouldn't pressure me if I agreed to visit."
"Fair enough," he nodded tiredly.
"Can we talk about something else?" she asked. There was silence for a moment as he cast about for some other topic of conversation.
"The girls are doing pretty good."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Even Serena. She's... mellowed a bit," he smiled slightly.
"That's hard to believe."
"We actually had a pretty good moment there a couple days ago. She asked a question without screaming or swearing or anything." Deborah laughed and Rey smiled at her, cocking his head to the side. She looked at him questioningly. "Sorry, I just - I'm not used to hearing you laugh any more."
"Yeah." There was an uncomfortable pause. "How are you feeling?"
He glanced at her, shrugged a little uncomfortably. Still not at ease talking about his own mental or emotional state, but grudgingly getting used to it. "Pretty good. I was a little nervous about bringing Tania back from the foster home, but that's going OK so far. Olivia and Isabel are helping out a lot," he paused. "I'm being a lot more patient with Serena. I'm even doing OK at work - haven't handed anything in late in a long time."
Deborah smiled, then sighed.
"What?"
"I told you. This is for the best."
"You think I'm doing better 'cause you're not home?" he frowned at her. She let her silence speak for her. His face darkened. "I'm doing better in spite of you being away, Deborah, not because of it," he said vehemently.
"Rey, you promised," she reminded him wearily.
"That's not fair. You can bring it up but I can't say anything?"
"OK, I won't bring it up then."
He shook his head, not letting go. "I'm doing better because I'm on medication and because I'm getting help. Not because you left."
Deborah looked down, unable to respond. It was still strange for her to think about her husband being on medication, admitting to being depressed. Neither one of them had ever had much use for emotional frailties; depression was something that self-indulgent people claimed as an excuse for not simply pulling up their boots and getting on with their lives. Deborah had been shocked when Rey had admitted to her, embarrassed, that he was taking anti-depressants on the advice of the court psychiatrist and McCoy. She had stared at him, then looked away, not knowing how to deal with it.
The man she had married had no patience for people who said they were depressed. The man she had married believed in self-reliance and prayer, not medication. And now, because of her, he had lost the ability to pull himself together. Because of her, he dealt with devastating guilt every day, hating himself for his inability to cope with the life that her illness had brought them without doing things that went against everything he believed in.
"What kind of help?" she finally asked.
"Remember Millie Estevez from church? She's been coming by twice a week to help out for a couple hours. Says she remembers how much you helped when her kids were little, before her husband joined AA," Deborah nodded, remembering Millie. Glad Millie was doing so well now that she could help others. Feeling a pang of embarrassment that a person she had once helped was now bailing her own family out of their troubles. "And I uh, I joined a group called Mainstay, for caregivers of MS patients." Deborah looked at him, surprised at the thought of her independent husband joining a support group. "Lennie kinda blackmailed me into it," he admitted sheepishly. "But it's been good. Good being with people going through the same stuff I am."
"Like what?"
"You're not gonna like this..." he warned her. She nodded to him to continue. "One guy there, Jason, his wife did the same thing you're doing. Left him so that he could live his own life without having to take care of her."
"Good for her."
"Good for him, he got her back. He didn't want a divorce any more than I do."
She pressed her lips together and looked away. He blew out his breath in frustration. He couldn't seem to let this go, and she didn't even want to talk about it.
"Deborah, if you don't love me any more that's one thing-"
She interrupted him impatiently. "You don't know what it's like for me, knowing that your life is as hard as it is because of me. Knowing that you have to do things for me that I should be able to do for myself, even when I can tell you're so exhausted you can barely stay awake. You don't know." He held her gaze, and she knew what he was thinking, what he always responded - that he wanted to be there, wanted to take care of her, no matter how tired he was.
She looked away from him for a moment, hesitant to continue. They had never talked about his infidelities, even after he knew that she knew. Still, it had to come up sometime. "You don't know how it feels knowing that you're out there doing things with other women that you used to do with me. And I can't even blame you for it because I don't want to, I can't, and it's not fair to ask you not to. I can't live like this."
His face darkened with shame, but he held her eyes. "I don't want them. I want you," he told her softly.
"Well, then we're kind of stuck, aren't we? Because I - I just can't. And it's not fair to stay married to you and make you feel guilty about cheating on me."
"I don't have to-"
"Cheat on me? Rey, yes you do," she told him bluntly. He sighed. "You don't have MS. You're healthy, you're a man, you need... you need what I can't give you."
"Not necessarily. For one thing libido's a little lower on anti-depressants," he admitted, a little embarrassed. "For another thing..." he took a deep breath. "You know why I... why I go to other women?" he said, not knowing how to reach her, not knowing how to express what he needed her to know. "I don't just need a warm body, I need somebody who'll let me touch them. I need somebody who wants me to touch them." He could feel himself blushing. He and Deborah had always been physical people, more at ease with unspoken communication than verbal. And now that that avenue was closed, he didn't quite know how to talk about any of this.
"I can't give you that. I don't feel that any more."
"I know you don't feel desire any more. But..."
"I can't, Rey. You promised you would never ask me again, not after..."
"I'm not. I'm not asking anything of you. But... just because you don't feel desire doesn't mean you don't need human touch. And just because we don't... just because we don't have sex doesn't mean we can't touch each other. Doesn't mean we can't be intimate."
She looked at him, puzzled, not understanding what he was saying.
"Bear with me, OK?" He gathered his thoughts. "Look, at the group they talked about it. My first session there, as a matter of fact. That was kind of a shock, all these strangers talking about their sex lives in intimate detail," he smiled slightly at the memory. "A lotta people with MS don't feel like having sex again, and they don't... but, but there's things they can do to still have a love life. They just take it down a notch, and... you know, all the stuff most people think of as the prelude to sex, they do that as the main event."
"And you would be happy with that?" she asked skeptically.
"Are you kidding? At this point I'd be happy if you just let me hold your hand without pulling away." His words stumbled to a stop. He knew he wasn't making any sense to her, knew he wasn't expressing himself in a way she could understand. He looked down. "Deborah. I love you. I want you back. The only thing that really matters is whether you still love me, whether you want to come back." He took a deep breath. "Do you?"
She steeled herself. She knew it was the right thing to do, to let him go and let him make his own life with the children, maybe even get remarried to a woman who would be able to be a good wife and mother for him and the girls. And he wouldn't let her go if he thought there was still hope.
"No." He flinched as if she had struck him. She felt her heart breaking but held steady. "I'm sorry. I've changed, you've changed. We're not the same people we used to be."
He rubbed his forehead, not knowing whether to believe her or not, but hurting from her words anyway. "Then I guess we don't have anything to talk about." He stood up.
"I guess not."
"Do you want me to put you to bed?"
"Yes please."
She gazed at his face as he helped her change into her nightclothes impersonally and transferred her onto the bed. He was hurt, angry with her, but holding his tongue.
"Rey. Please. Don't be angry with me. Can't you see this is better for everybody?" she pleaded with him, unable to stand his stony silence.
"No, I can't. Don't ask me to," he bit off his words as he folded up her wheelchair for the night.
"Rey... I can't even see what you want with me, you could have any other woman, a woman who could be a real wife and mother-"
"I love you, don't you get that? I don't want a divorce! I don't want another woman, I want you! And if you can't even bring yourself to touch me, that's fine, I'm not happy with it but I can live with it, just don't walk out on me!"
"I can't 'walk out' on you, in case you haven't noticed! I can't walk at all!" she flared at him. "Rey, you don't want me. You want the person I used to be. You don't see how I am now, you don't want to see."
"Don't give me that shit! I see you! Who the hell do you think lifts you in and out of your wheelchair, feeds you, bathes you, gives you your shots? I see you! And I don't want a divorce. If you want it, fine, but don't kid yourself that you're doing it for me!"
"Rey, I can't - I can't live like this. I feel like I'd be better off dead, seeing how my MS has hurt all of you. Sometimes I wish I could kill myself," she blurted out. He drew in his breath sharply. "I want to leave you and the children so that you can find somebody else, and sometimes I think that's the only way you'll let me go and be able to move on."
He stared at her, speechless. "If you wanna kill me too and leave our kids orphans, by all means, go ahead," he finally said. He shook his head helplessly, not knowing how to tell her that he had thought of suicide too. Not knowing if he would ever be able to tell her. "If you leave me it'll break my heart but I'll live through it. But if you take your own life... I swear to God that'll break me. I couldn't survive that. I wouldn't want to."
She covered her face with her hands, despairing. "You don't mean that. This isn't what you signed up for. I'm not the person I was when we married. The person I was could go dancing with you, make love to you, take care of your children... that's not who I am any more. Now I'm just a pathetic invalid. That's not what you signed up for."
Suddenly his anger flared. "What the hell do you think marriage is, anyway? What is it to you? I know what it means to me. It means I signed up for this too! I didn't just marry you thinking I'd stay with you as long as it was fun and ditch the moment it got tough!" He stepped away from the bed, crossing his arms and struggling to get control of his emotions until he could speak without wanting to shake her.
When he was able to, he returned to her side and sat down next to her on the bed. He waited until she met his eyes, and spoke from his heart. "I said in good times and bad, and in sickness and in health and till death do us part. I meant it, with my fucking heart and soul I meant it!! What the hell do I have to do to prove it to you?!"
Deborah looked away from the anguish and love in his eyes. A sob escaped from her throat and she drew in on herself.
"Do you still love me?" he asked her softly. She hid her face, crying. "Do you?" She finally looked at him and realized she couldn't lie to him. She nodded speechlessly. "Then give us a chance."
"I'm scared."
"I know. Me too," he admitted.
She reached for him and he enfolded her in his arms.
She was so lonely. She had told herself that she didn't want him touching her, that she was disgusted with her own body and didn't want him to become disgusted too. Bad enough that he had to bathe her, take her to the washroom, bad enough that he had to clean her when she lost control of her bodily functions. She couldn't bear for him to touch her as a lover after touching her as a patient. So she had avoided his touch unless it was necessary.
But she was lonely. She had told herself it was better not to tempt him - and he was the one who had volunteered to sleep on the couch, he was the one who had promised never to approach her again after that last, disastrous time, almost two years ago. She still remembered that night as if it was yesterday, when she tried to feel something for him other than fear, when she lied to him and said she wanted him, when she tried to tell herself that she would be OK, when all she felt was agonizing pain. And his face, when she couldn't pretend that she wasn't hurt, how he had looked, as if he had raped her. She remembered how his eyes had filled with self-loathing and contrition. And how he tried to comfort her, hold her, and she couldn't relax, couldn't feel anything other than fear and a wish for him to leave her alone with her disgusting body, the body that had betrayed them both.
She was lonely. She had missed his touch even as she feared it and avoided it. She had missed going to sleep in his arms, feeling safe and loved, or holding him and knowing that he could let himself be cradled like a child, his head on her shoulder, and drift off peacefully in her arms. She had missed feeling his excitement, his passion, missed the feeling of power and joy that he brought her when she felt his arousal and knew that she could make him lose himself. She missed the closeness, and although she didn't feel desire any more she missed his touch.
She was so lonely, and so was he. And she did still love him. Still loved this man who had been little more than a passionate, confident boy when she married him. She even loved the man he had become, older, sadder, worn down by life and disappointment in himself but still so basically honest and decent. He felt shame that he couldn't live up to his ideals, but he still had the same ideals. Still tried to honour his marriage and his children and the Church. Still loved their children more than life itself, still did his best to take care of them, even through exhaustion and pain and failure and self-doubt. And he said he still wanted to be with her. He believed he still loved her.
She knew she should leave him, for his sake and for the sake of their children, but she didn't want to. Didn't want to stay at the nursing home, away from him, away from their girls, with nobody to look at her the way he did, nobody to make her feel the way he did.
He said he loved her, wanted her. He said a simple touch would be enough. He said he wanted her back, he didn't care that she was sick.
Feeling like she was stepping off a cliff, she pulled away from his embrace and looked at him. He gazed back at her, his heart in his eyes, searching her face. She nodded slowly and he closed his eyes, overwhelmed. She tilted her face up to his and kissed him. The kiss was gentle but both felt like they were drowning in each other. It had been so long...
She brought her hand up to his face and caressed him. Her hand shook and she drew back, embarrassed. She hated her lack of control over her own limbs. He steadied her hand with his.
"I... I can't," she said, a little panicked.
"Because you've got the shakes or because you don't want to?"
"I... I want to. I want to touch you, but I can't..." she trailed off, hating her body so much, hating the fact that she couldn't tell it what to do any more.
"How about you tell me what you want to do. I'll help you do it." She looked at him, puzzled. "It's something I picked up at Mainstay. Apparently it can be pretty sexy," he teased.
"We never did that before."
"You didn't have MS before," he said gently. "Do you want to try?"
She hesitated, then nodded. They kissed again, and he felt desire surging through him. She pulled away, nervous. He breathed deeply to calm himself down and held her gently.
She lay back on the bed and drew him down and they kissed. She started to feel something, not arousal, but warmth. It had been so long since she had been held, and she had missed it so much. She felt like a cold knot that had been inside her for years was loosening, letting go. She held him tighter and he breathed shudderingly.
She touched his face, and he steadied her with his hand. He kissed her again and they caressed each other, his hand playing with her hair, stroking her face, her hands moving over his shoulders and back. He touched her breast and she tensed. He drew his hand away. "Too soon?" She nodded.
He moved them so that they were on their sides, kissing passionately. He drew closer, until their bodies were touching lightly. She felt his hardness and shivered, suddenly nervous again.
"It's OK," he reassured her. "I don't need more from you. This is OK for me." His body was hungry for more, but he forced himself to put that aside and just enjoy the moment and the fact that this was his wife, that he didn't need to numb himself with alcohol or drugs just to keep the guilt away. He suddenly felt overwhelmed and drew back, throat tightening and tears threatening.
"What's wrong?"
"It's just... no, I can't explain," he said, his voice low, looking down at their clasped hands. He cleared his throat.
"Tell me."
"I... I've wanted you for so long. It's... it's been so long since-"
"Since what?"
"Since I've been able to do this without feeling guilty," he confessed, not sure how she would take this. "I can't..." he laughed a bit, self-deprecatingly. "That's a bit of a faux pas, isn't it? Talking about your affairs with your wife?"
"I don't mind," she told him. She looked away from him. "I thought you would feel better with other women, normal women."
"I... I did, a bit, just because, because it was a relief to be able to... to touch somebody," he admitted. "But mostly I felt like dirt for cheating on you. And... and I couldn't get through it without... without drinking or, or doing drugs. Otherwise I just felt too awful. And I missed you so much," his voice caught. "I didn't want to be with another woman, I wanted to be with you and I kept being reminded of you and..." he stopped, voice shaking.
"I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault. I made my own decisions."
"If I had tried harder... if I just left you to find somebody else..."
"No. Don't," he stopped her words with a kiss. She hesitated, then kissed him back. "Don't ever say that, please," he whispered into her mouth.
They kissed for a long time, until he was breathless and panting. She drew him closer, melding their bodies together through their clothes. Not scared any more, not dreading that he would ask more of her than she could give... excited. Not physically excited, but revelling in the fact that he was aroused because of her. Enjoying the feel of him, of his hands caressing her urgently, of his mouth on hers, of the gasps escaping from his throat without his even being aware of it, of his body trembling with desire for her. Hesitantly, she reached under his shirt and brushed her hand up his back. His stomach fluttered and he looked at her, asking for permission with his eyes before reaching into her nightgown and gently touching her. She smiled her acceptance. His heart skipped a beat, seeing that she was enjoying this too, that she welcomed his touch, that her eyes were dreamy, bright, delighting in what they were doing together.
"Take off your shirt. I want to feel you," she murmured. He slid his shirt off, closing his eyes, almost dizzy with joy as she held him close and touched him. She ran her hands over him, enjoying the feel of him. She remembered when he was all sleek muscle, taut, solid. He was so whipcord-thin now, ribs showing, same muscles but almost no body fat. She reached down and tugged at his jeans and he took them off. She touched him through his boxers and he moaned.
"Deborah, I'm close," he gasped. She nodded and stroked him, a bit awkwardly, and he covered her hand with his to steady her. He felt himself getting closer and closer, tossing his head back and gasping and feeling unbearable pressure and pleasure, and she smiled and encouraged him with her movements.
This was something she had missed, seeing him so vulnerable, so open, so desperate for release and knowing that she could bring him there, that he could let go in her presence and allow her to see him with all defences down. His dark eyes, holding hers until the last possible moment, his skin flushed and beaded with sweat, his body tightened in anticipation. He was torn between an almost maddening need to climax and the desire to make this last as long as possible. He had wanted her for so long... finally he couldn't hold back any longer, and his eyes closed as a wave broke over him and he came with a groan that was swallowed up in her mouth as she drew him closer and kissed him.
They clung to each other tightly as he shuddered his release, chest heaving and trying to catch his breath. As his arms loosened around her and his eyes opened, she felt a surge of tenderness. It had been too long. She felt a brief pang of guilt that they weren't doing anything like what they had done before, but he seemed happy.
"Oh God," he whispered, then his voice caught and his brow creased.
"What?" Oh my god, she thought, as she realized that his dark eyes were suddenly shimmering with unshed tears. "What's wrong?"
He bit his lip, throat aching. "Nothing. Nothing's wrong," he whispered. "It's just... it's been so long..." a tear slipped down the side of his face as he gazed at her, chest still heaving, holding her hand in his. Feeling like he wanted to shout his joy to the world, or cry with happiness. "I love you so much..."
"I know," she said, close to tears herself. She smiled at him tremulously and very carefully wiped the tear away. "I love you..."
"Was that... was that OK for you?"
She looked at him in amazement, then realized that he meant it. "Yes. Yes, of course it was. It was wonderful."
"But you didn't-"
"I don't think I can any more. It doesn't matter. But... was this OK for you? Is this enough?"
It was his turn to stare at her in disbelief. "Do you have any idea how long I've wanted this?"
"Is it enough for you?" she repeated.
"More than enough," he held her tightly, burying his face in her hair and breathing deeply, still shaking. They stayed clasped together for a long time, hearts beating together, enjoying the closeness that both had missed so much.
After a while, he looked down between them and cleared his throat. "I'll be right back." He got up and cleaned himself off in the washroom, tossing his shirt and shorts into the laundry basket and getting out a new pair of boxers. He returned to the bed and sat down beside her.
"Should I stay here tonight or go back to the couch?" he asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral. She held out her arms and he sank down onto the bed beside her.
First time in two years, he thought as he lay down. For the first time in two years he could feel the pleasant afterglow of sex without the devastating guilt of having reached that state with another woman or the anguished loneliness of having arrived there by himself. So what if he hadn't done much more than a teenager on a first date. So what if it wasn't sex by the normal definition of the word. It was enough, more than enough. It was more than he ever thought he'd have again.
Deborah nestled close to him, sensing that he was close to sleep. She felt peace and joy. And he seemed so happy, and he hadn't been happy in so long.
"So is this what they talked about at the group?" she asked, teasing.
He chuckled. "They went into a hell of a lot more detail, actually."
"Yeah?"
"Jason called it, The Song of the MS Husband, aka Triple F, Double M."
"What's that?"
"Flirting, Frenching, Foreplay and Mutual Masturbation." She laughed. "They also had a talk about KY and a pamphlet about different kinds of vibrators."
"You're kidding."
"No I'm not. Apparently a lot of women with MS no longer have any libido, so they use a vibrator to sorta... jump-start it." Deborah was silent, suddenly shy. "Deborah, we don't have to do any more than this if you don't want to. I promise. If you ever want to, I'm all for it, and I think it would be really good for you, but this is enough for me. I promise you." He looked into her eyes. "And... I, I want you to move back in. I understand if you still need to think about it. But I want you back." She nodded to him.
Her thoughts wandered as she drifted closer to sleep. It was hard to believe that she had been so afraid to touch him that she pushed him away for two years. She turned away from thoughts of the last time they actually had sex. That was in the past. If he said he was OK with this, she could try to believe him. At least for tonight. Tomorrow was soon enough for her to doubt him and have second thoughts. Tonight, she would let herself feel his closeness, his warmth and steadiness, remember his voice as he came, remember the tear slipping down his face when he told her he loved her.
As she snuggled into his shoulder, he felt a deep sense of serenity he hadn't felt in two years. It had been two years since he had been able to fall asleep with another human being. Two years that he had been going to sleep by himself on the couch, cut off from her. Two years that he'd been waking up by himself, hating the morning because she wasn't there. And tomorrow he'd wake up with her. He sent a prayer of thanks to God for letting him have this night. He didn't let himself think of what would happen if she decided this wasn't good enough for her and still left, or what would happen if he were convicted. At least he'd had tonight and he'd have tomorrow morning. No regrets.
He briefly wondered what their daughters would think in the morning when they woke up and found him in here instead of on the couch. He hoped he would wake up before they did, but didn't care enough to set the alarm. Tania would probably wake him up before the rest of the family. With that thought, he sank into a deep, peaceful sleep.