Disclaimer: This still isn't mine. I am slowly coming to terms with that.

Chapter Summary: Two conversations we didn't see in episode two. Missing scenes from "You Must Meet My Wife."

Coda: Season Seven

A story by Ryeloza

Two: My Wife

"As much as I like option two, I think tonight I want to talk."

Lynette nodded, her smile fading slightly as she agreed. He understood; he knew that he wasn't giving her the easy out this time by letting her actions speak for her, but she'd offered and he was going to take advantage of the opportunity. "You got it," she added softly. Despite Lynette's best efforts, he could feel her resistance prickling the air between them now, and in attempt to lessen the tension, he reached out and slowly pulled her robe closed again.

"Let's just save those for later," he joked lamely, not getting more than a hint of a smile in return. Lynette took both of his hands in hers, held them in her lap, and took a deep breath. She was steeling herself against anything that might be said; he could sense it and he almost wanted to shake her until she let go of all of her defenses. Even after twenty years of marriage, she still hated to talk about her feelings, to acknowledge anything that might show she was vulnerable, and he was beginning to question it. She had to know by now that he, of all people, wouldn't judge her or love her any less. Yet here she was, as terrified as she'd always been. Gently, he ran his thumb over her knuckles and said, "Thank you for reading the pamphlet."

"I had to. I didn't want you to think I don't care."

"I know you care. That's not the problem."

"You think I don't listen."

Tom sighed. Getting Renee involved in this was a mistake of epic proportions, but he'd needed someone to talk to. He had to make Lynette understand that. "I think," he said cautiously, "that when you don't want to deal with something, you completely shut down. And that's really hard for me. I need to be able to talk to you."

"You can always talk to me."

Slowly, Tom shook his head, fighting against his urge to pretend that what she said was true. Usually all he did was work to keep her from being hurt; saying something that would cause her pain was against his natural impulses. "No, I can't. Sweetie, I love you, but communication is not your strong suit."

Lynette pulled her hands from his and crossed them over her chest, but Tom settled one on her knee, unwilling to sever their physical connection. "I just offered to talk about whatever you want," she said defensively.

For a second, Tom thought about pointing out that she'd clearly wanted, maybe even expected, him to choose sex, but that wasn't the point. He had to pick and choose his battles here. "One of the reasons that I've been so depressed is because I feel like I can't talk to you. I feel like there's this expectation for me to be so strong for you, to never break down, but sometimes I need to."

"You don't have to be strong all the time. I don't expect that."

"Yeah, you do. You constantly tell me to suck it up or to man up…It makes me feel…" Tom trailed off and shrugged, frustrated by his inability to find the words. "You are the strongest person I know, but you're also my wife. And a husband has to be stronger than his wife."

Lynette's eyes watered dangerously, but she didn't cry. He wished she would. "That's not how it has to be."

"Yes it is." Tom lifted his hand, bringing it up to rest against the back of Lynette's neck and letting his thumb graze over the soft skin there. He wanted her to let go; to break. If she did, he could. "If I'm not strong for you then who will be?"

"Maybe you can let me be strong for you," she said, reaching out to run a hand over his chest. "It can go both ways."

"Yeah. It can go both ways."

Lynette paused, biting her lip for a second and looking at him with a slight twinge of hurt. He knew that he'd backed her into a corner, that he was asking something of her that she didn't really want to give, but he didn't care. She had to open up to him. If she didn't tell him how she felt, then he couldn't open up either. Maybe it was backward or stupid or proud, but it was also a fact. "Please," he added quietly, running his hand over her cheek, begging her with his eyes.

"I just had a baby whose wedding I might not be around for," she said, echoing her words from earlier with a pointed look. "I just had a baby that is going to be completely dependent on me while my other daughter is going through those horrible teenage years. I just had a baby who I don't know if I'll have the energy to keep up with. And right now, I feel like I'm doing it completely alone."

"You're not alone."

"But it feels like it. You just keep complaining, Tom. Like everything I ask you to do is a huge burden. I can't do this on my own."

"And I'm scared I can't do this at all," he said, the words pouring from him easily now that she'd let him in. "Every time I look at our daughter…God, all I see, all I think about is how she nearly died before she even lived. And I couldn't do anything about that. I couldn't protect her. I didn't even know it was happening. I feel completely useless. But you don't ever want to talk about that…You act like it never even happened. So I feel like I have to act like it never happened."

Lynette bowed her head for a second and when she looked up, one single tear was slowly making its way down her cheek. As she reached up to wipe it away, Tom stopped her, grasping her hand between his and holding it tightly. She nodded. "I haven't felt that powerless in a really long time. You know…" She trailed off, but Tom didn't make her finish the sentiment. He did know; he knew how much she couldn't stand not to be in control. He knew that it brought back a hundred thousand unhappy childhood moments where she'd been helpless and scared. She sighed. "I'm still mad at myself for getting into that situation."

"I'm mad at myself for not getting you out of that situation."

Silence blanketed them for a moment, thick and suffocating, before Lynette broke it with a tiny, broken sob. They shared a guilt that neither of them would ever be rid of, and there was nothing either of them could do or say to change that. Still, just knowing that they shared it helped. With a glance at their sleeping daughter, Lynette said, "She's okay. I'm okay. But we need you to be okay too." She looked back at him, her eyes serious and probing. "Are you going to be okay?"

He didn't know what to say; he didn't even know the answer to her question. All he could do was reach out and wrap his arms around her, pulling her into his lap and hugging her tightly. Burying his nose in her hair, smelling the sweet, familiar scent of her, he said the only thing he could: "I need you."

Lynette nodded against his chest. "I know," she murmured comfortingly. "I'm here. Even when it seems like I'm not."

Tom shut his eyes and repeated the words in his head like a mantra. He may have wished for more; for some guarantee that she would suddenly change and be open and communicative and vulnerable, but that wasn't his wife.

There was only so much she could give.

Carlos wanted to detach himself from the situation. He felt like if he gave himself enough distance he could get out the words. He could pretend as though this wasn't killing him a little more each day; as though he hadn't spent the past month dreading this moment—this inevitable moment when his whole world was going to fall apart. "A few weeks ago," he said, floating up and away from himself, "Jack Pinkham told me that a nurse who was working at the hospital confessed that she switched our baby with Juanita when she was born."

"What are you talking about?"

"Juanita isn't ours. We have another child out there, somewhere, and we're raising someone else's little girl."

The moment was so much worse than Carlos ever thought it could be. Something inside of Gaby broke in a way he'd never seen before and she made some low, inhuman noise: what grief would sound like if it could speak. She didn't deny it; didn't question it; some part of her just wilted and died right before him. Furiously she reached out and began to hit him, trying desperately to displace her anger, but Carlos just pulled her toward him, holding on to her as tightly as he could. "It's going to be okay," he lied. He didn't know what else to say.

Gaby continued to cry, her sobs washing over him like an ocean tide. She was grieving in a way he hadn't been able to—open and wild and honest—and he didn't know what to make of it. When the world was ending, you couldn't lie back and take it; you had to fight back; you had to be strong. He'd known that Gaby would break, that was why he hadn't wanted to tell her, but he realized now that he also hadn't wanted to lose his partner. He wanted that person who would be strong enough to fight to the death with him, and he wasn't so certain that he hadn't just killed that part of his wife forever.

"She's my baby," Gaby wailed. She didn't sound like herself and it frightened him more than anything else. "She's my baby!"

"Yes," he agreed, because he felt the same way. Juanita was his, and no one was going to tell him otherwise. "She's ours. She's ours."

"She's my baby." She was repeating the words now like a chant; as if saying them enough times would make what Carlos had told her untrue. He wished that was the case. The only hope that he had to cling to was the knowledge that their babies were miracles. Tiny, perfect miracles that had happened by the grace of God. There was no way that He would take either of them away now. Carlos had seen it proven last year when Lynette had saved Celia, and again this week after Juanita's accident. Those girls were theirs to protect and love and cherish and no one could take that away.

"We aren't going to give her up," said Carlos, unknowingly begging Gaby to come back to him. There had to be some magic words that would save her. "I don't care what we have to do. She is ours."

"They took Lily," moaned Gaby. "They took her away and we couldn't do anything. Don't lie to me."

Carlos swallowed hard. "That was different," he said, trying to convince himself as much as her. He had no idea what could happen; what the law would say. All he knew was that he would go to hell and back to keep Juanita, but he couldn't do it without Gaby. "Please, Gaby, believe me. She is ours."

"My baby…Carlos, she's my baby…"

"Yes." Not knowing what else to do, Carlos backed away, looking down at Gaby and wiping away her tears with clumsy fingers. She stared at him woodenly, a listlessness in her eyes that he didn't know what to make of. He'd caused that. He'd killed some part of her that he feared could never be restored. "Gaby, I need you," he pleaded. "I need you to be with me on this. I need you to be strong for me. I need my wife."

"Why is this happening?"

"I don't know. But that doesn't mean we just have to sit by and watch it happen."

Slowly, Gaby nodded, and Carlos felt relief sweep through his body so shockingly that his legs nearly buckled beneath him. He hadn't realized just how afraid he'd been. "What are we going to do?"

"We're going to take this one day at a time. We're going to fight like hell no matter what happens."

"I can't lose her."

"Neither can I."

Tears welled up in Gaby's eyes again, spilling over and running down her cheeks. "Carlos…" she whispered, leaning forward and hugging him again. For the first time in her life, Gabrielle Solis was helpless, and Carlos had no idea what to do about it. The truth was, he was just as impotent, and he was doing a poor job of pretending otherwise.

"She's our baby," he said again; comfortless words in a situation that knew no mercy. "Remember that."

"Our baby. Carlos, I just…" Gaby trailed off, hiccupping and sobbing into his shirt again.

"We are going to get through this. We're a family. Nothing can change that."

But as Carlos looked down at his wife, he was already certain that they'd changed irreparably.