Disclaimer: It's not mine in any way, shape or form.

Chapter Summary: Three missing scenes from "Excited and Scared." These all take place toward the end of the episode, still on Halloween night.

Coda

A story by Ryeloza

Six: Scared

One

Carlos watches as Tom's mother steps unsteadily down the porch stairs and takes his arm. He'd been poised to interfere the moment he heard the shouting begin despite never seeing Lynette in a situation she couldn't handle. Still, he's surprised when Lynette sinks down onto one of their deck chairs, gingerly cupping her cheek with one hand instead of heading home with her husband and mother-in-law. Without thinking (because if he did pause for a moment, he might realize that Lynette lingered solely to have a minute alone), he steps outside and crosses the porch to stand in front of her, resting against the railing and crossing his arms. Immediately, she drops her hand; in the dim light he can barely see the red mark across her cheek. She's staring at him frankly—defiantly almost—and he's suddenly struck by how much he's missed her. It's been almost a year since they worked together; a year since that ridiculous fight began. And he's always liked Lynette, even when she drives him crazy.

"You okay?" he asks.

She nods. "I've had worse." And then, before Carlos can even begin to inquire, she adds, "I'm just worried about Tom. He was so in denial and now this…" She trails off with a slight shrug. "He's been having a really hard time since the baby was born."

"Yeah, I know." A brief look of surprise flashes in her eyes and then softens into a knowing smile. They're all friends. He and Tom have been out for a drink more than once after work, and it doesn't take much for Tom to start spilling his heart. The baby's birth, nearly losing her and Lynette after already losing their other baby: those things had done a number on his head. More so than Lynette probably realized. "He'll be okay."

"And you? Are you okay?"

"Ah," he says, chuckling even though it's the last thing in the world he wants to do. He can count on one hand the number of times in his life that he's been genuinely scared. Seeing his mother, desperate and crying because she'd gambled away the last of their savings and she didn't know how she was going to buy groceries that week. When he was first married, the constant, gnawing worry that Gaby was going to leave him (something he's not sure he could survive twice). Those first few months he was blind, no longer recognizing the world around him and so terrified that Gaby was going to wake up one day and realize he was useless. And now. "Yeah. It's been…" He shrugs, at a loss for words.

"But it's going okay, right? I mean, Gaby says that Grace is fantastic. And the other family is great."

"Sure. I mean, yeah, it all seems to be going fine."

"But?"

"But…" Carlos sighs and scratches the back of his head for a second. The truth is that there is a storm brewing in his home that Carlos can feel acutely—like a crick in the knee before a bad thunderstorm. Gaby is at the center of it. He knows that she can't help it. He knows that she doesn't realize that with every passing day she just further riles the wind around them—the apex of a fearful tornado. But the winds are gathering and growing stronger and pretty soon he won't be able to stop it. It's a terror that he can't make Gaby understand, and there hasn't been anyone else to talk to about this. And he wonders how much of a violation it would be to tell Lynette now.

"Carlos?"

Screw it, he thinks. If Gaby can talk to her friends, so can he. "This is going to sound awful, but I just don't feel the connection to Grace that Gaby does." He breathes a sigh of relief as the words come out; it feels like all the tension inside of him has finally subsided. "I know that she's my daughter, and she's a sweet little girl, but I just don't love her like I love Juanita."

"You've raised Juanita her whole life. I think that's understandable."

"I would do anything for Juanita," he says seriously, the words spilling from him now that's he's found a sympathetic ear. "Anything. And up until a month ago I thought Gaby would too."

"Oh, sweetie. Gaby loves Juanita."

"I know. I know she does. But she loves Grace too, and lately I can't tell where her priorities lie." Carlos swallows hard, fighting an unexpected lump in his throat. He wants Lynette to understand this perfectly, but she won't. She can sympathize and empathize, but she'll never know what this actually feels like. The only person who does is Gaby, and somehow Gaby has become the one person who he can't say any of this to. "I'm afraid that if it comes down to a choice…" He can't verbalize the thought, but it hangs in the air, cold and callous and impossible. Lynette stands, coming over and rubbing his arm for a second. The human contact is surprisingly comforting.

"Gaby loves Juanita. Nothing is going to change that."

Carlos nods. There's no other response to give.

But he's still scared.

Two

Susan arrives home that night with MJ asleep in her arms and her makeup smeared from crying, and Mike feels ashamed that his first instinct is to be annoyed. He pushes past the feeling (though he can feel that it lingers, running in his bloodstream like a poison) to ask what's wrong, but for once Susan doesn't want to talk. She hands off MJ and disappears into the bathroom; a minute later, the shower starts.

It's an unconscionable relief that he doesn't have to deal with Susan's drama tonight. Mike knows that it really isn't fair—his pride and orneriness are what put them in this situation to begin with—but Susan always seems to be able to dig her heels in and make a far bigger mess of things. Usually he enjoys this. He likes riding in like a white knight and rescuing the heroine; he likes saving the day. No other woman has ever made him feel as useful and proud as Susan does. But this latest escapade…

He doesn't know how to explain how he feels. Like she's dirty (even though she's not), and he's dirty by association. Like their little lives have been thrown upside-down. Like he is less of a man. And he can't say any of this to Susan because she already feels bad enough. But he knows what he wants to say:

I'm mad at you.

I haven't been able to look at you the same way since you told me.

I hate that you did this to us.

He absolutely can't say any of this to her, and the things he does say might not be much better, but they're not devastating. They won't destroy her. They won't destroy them.

MJ doesn't wake in the slightest as Mike changes him into pajamas and tucks him under the covers. This will be their last holiday together this year, but Mike tries his hardest not to think of it that way. Hopefully Thanksgiving and Christmas will pass in a blur this year; days marked only by their ordinariness as he toils away in Alaska. He doesn't want to think about his family; he doesn't want to acknowledge what he'll miss.

For awhile after putting MJ to bed, Mike simply lolls around in bed, waiting anxiously for Susan. He wants to touch her tonight; he wants to ease that pain in her eyes and the ache in his heart and remember that he loves her. He loves her in spite of this. He loves her in spite of the whole crazy, mixed up world they live in where nothing ever goes right. After twenty minutes of tossing and turning, he has enough, and he creeps down the hall into the bathroom.

"Susan?"

She doesn't respond. He can hear her crying in the shower. Wearily, he sits down on the toilet seat and rubs his hand over his forehead. "Life is going to go on," he wants to say. Instead: "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

He thinks about reminding her that she can go back to illustrating now—he knows she's missed it. He thinks about saying that this will only be for three months. He considers prompting her again to tell him what's wrong. Then he actually says, "There are more important things than a house and money."

The shower curtain snaps back and Susan thrusts her head out, glaring at him. "If that was true then you wouldn't have to go to Alaska. You could stay here. And we'd be happy. But you are going, and I don't know about you, but I haven't been happy in months!"

Mike shakes his head. He hasn't been happy because, yes, the money situation is stressful, but mostly because Susan has been miserable. He never realized how important these material possessions were to her; he never thought that status meant so much. But Susan's disappointment with their current state hangs over the house like a storm cloud, darkening their life.

He can't say this either.

"Come to bed soon." He stands as she whimpers and disappears again. "I love you," he adds, almost as an afterthought.

And he doesn't say the worst thing: I have to leave because I'm scared if I don't get away from you for a little while, I'll never forgive you.

Three

The baby is fed and burped and happy, but Tom keeps her cradled in the crook of his arm watching her big blue eyes wander the room in curious exploration. She's so alert, learning and growing every day; a stark contrast to how his mother is fading from the world. Tom realizes that there's every chance in the world that his baby will never really know her grandmother, and it's a horrible realization that breaks his heart over and over each time he thinks it.

He wonders if Paige's eyes will stay this shining, brilliant blue like her mother's or fade into his muddy hazel color. All of their kids started with this same bright blue, but only Penny's eyes didn't slowly darken. The boys all share his eyes: dark and shifting from a deep brown to a subtle green. And he got them from his mother. His mother, who looked at him tonight with the scarcest recognition for a second before her gaze softened and changed and she was herself again.

How many days remain before he'll never see that look again?

The ache of knowing his mother is sick is different than anything he's ever felt. When his children are sick, he feels desperate to take their pain from them and carry it himself, and it hurts to know he can't. When Lynette had cancer, when he faced her mortality head on, there was nothing but a blind terror and utter helplessness. Now, for the first time, he knows what it feels like to recognize his mother isn't well: a deep throb of loss; grief before she's even gone. It's the most morbid kind of pain, and he wants to fight it. He wants to deny it, but he will never be able to forget the sight of his mother slapping Lynette across the face. The image will be a constant reminder. That slap followed by that empty, hollow look…

The bedroom door opens, but Tom doesn't look up from Paige's face. It's been nearly an hour since he got home, but he doesn't blame Lynette for lingering. For one split second tonight, he saw that frightened child she kept locked deep inside of her and he understood. He understood her childhood in a whole new light; understood that awful trauma triggered by the worst infraction of trust. And that hurt too—that moment of terror in her eyes that slowly gave way to pity—it burned him from the inside out.

Lynette walks to the bed, running a hand over the back of his head down to his neck and then bending to kiss his temple. For a second, he glances at her, still in costume, and how could it be that just a few hours ago they were laughing about the fun he'd have taking that dress off of her? She kisses him again, and he reaches out a hand to tug at her elbow. She obliges him willingly, sitting down on the bed and smiling sadly.

"You okay?" He reaches out a hand to touch the spot where his mother hit her. He expects it to scald his hand, but of course it doesn't. After a second, she puts her hand over his, pressing it into her cheek and leaning into his touch.

"Good as new," she says, but there isn't any humor to be found. "Are you okay?"

He looks back to Paige. Her eyes find his, staring up at him with that total, adoring recognition that only a child can have for her parent. Suddenly, he starts to cry.

Lynette says something he doesn't hear, takes the baby from him without any protest, and then she's there—warm and alive and tender and loving; her arms wrapped around him, pulling him into her. "I'm scared," he admits. The words fall out of him without thought or caution. They just are. "I'm really scared."

"I know." She holds him close; kisses the back of his neck. "God, I know."