Disclaimer: This so isn't mine. And a warning: the M rating means more in this chapter.
Maelstrom
By Ryeloza
Part VI
i.
"You're going to feel bad about that in the morning," he says to Lynette as Renee shuts the door. And he's not even so sure it's true, but he can feel the heaviness of reality setting in; the reality that he's now alone with his wife for the first time in weeks. And he doesn't have a fucking clue what to say to her. "If you can even remember."
"She will. I told her…" She shakes her head, turns to face him with eyes that narrow almost imperceptibly. It's obvious that Renee is quickly fading from the forefront of her mind; she's struggling to remember whatever she came here for in the first place. Probably to yell at him. About something. Though he can't imagine anything she needs to say to him that would take this amount of liquid courage, especially for someone who has courage in spades. He wonders if maybe he's the one who should be drunk for this.
Well, drunker.
"Come on," he growls, crossing the room and taking a forceful hold of her upper arm. She immediately tries to wrench away from him, but he's done playing games. Less than gently, he drags her over to the couch and pushes her down, ignoring her scowl. "You're going to sober up and then you're going home."
"You're not the boss of me."
"Wanna bet?"
He's not sure if it's a provocation or the truth. That this is his home (sort of) and she just barged in and chased off his (albeit unwanted) guest and she's way too far gone to have any sort of control over this situation, so yeah, that kind of automatically gives him the right to a little authority.
But God, he thinks he mostly said it to piss her the hell off. Which it does.
She stands up and shoves him, hard. Hard enough that he probably would have fallen if he hadn't had time to brace himself; as it is, he's so impaired that he still stumbles slightly. He recovers just as she gears up for a second attempt, grasping her wrists and holding her back. In her bare feet she's so much smaller than him—so deceptively delicate. But her eyes are blazing, dark and dangerous and just somewhat glassy, and only a fool would be stupid enough to underestimate her.
"Let go."
"So you can shove me across the room? I don't think so."
She frowns. It makes that little crease appear between her eyes, and for a second he's overwhelmed by the familiarity of her. That crease and the scent of her shampoo and the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips and God, he misses her.
"What was she doing here?"
He's so lost in the physicality of her that he barely hears the question. "What?"
"What was Renee doing here?"
"Don't." It comes out sharp—maybe sharper than he means it too—but this isn't about that, and he's not going to let her make this canyon dividing them even deeper with meaningless happenstance. "Don't make this about her."
"You're the one—"
But he doesn't let her finish. Pulls her to him instead so she's practically standing on his feet and then he leans in and kisses her, hard and furiously, still holding her wrists in a grip so tight it's probably going to mar her perfect skin. Tells himself that it's because he just needed her to shut up for once in her life, not because her cheeks are flushed and her eyes bright and her lips irresistible and it's been so fucking long…
It's been so long.
ii.
Lately in his darkest moments, he lies in bed and tries not to think about never agains and last times. Because his whole life is starting to feel pinpointed on those instances when everything was still okay and he never once thought to memorize the details of her just in case. Just in case was years ago when she was so, so sick and every minute felt like the period at the end of a sentence; a finality he feared almost as much as he feared her seeing it in his eyes.
How was he supposed to know that one random Tuesday in late May that he shouldn't have just been making love to his wife, but learning every second of that night by heart? Because now when he thinks back he can't remember the exact shade of pink her body flushed with pleasure or the look in her eyes afterward, and not even the memory of her touch is truly imbedded in his mind. And maybe none of that should matter, but it does. Deep down he's terrified that this remembrance is all he has left.
iii.
This kiss is a stranger. Pissed off and desperate and heartbroken and hopeless and everything else they've never been—at least not with each other. He's still holding her wrists, an anchor grounding a ship, but she tightens her fingers into his shirt, pulling him closer like they're sharing this fear that the other will run away. Each tries to hold the other captive, and he wonders if they're struggling too hard to realize that there's already a cage encapsulating them both.
"Fuck," she hisses, the word moving against his lips like he said it himself, and just feeling her like that, unhinged, undoes him so much that his hands are nearly shaking. He kisses her again, capturing her top lip between his and doing everything in his power to suppress a moan as her tongue darts sloppily into his mouth and he's so, so, so tense.
"Tom—Stop—" He chases her lips before she can pull them a fraction away. This—he needs this. He needs her. And it's only muffled against his lips that he finally hears the plea in her voice: "You're hurting me."
Her words are the catalyst that stops him cold, drawing forward the nightmare that lurks beneath the surface of his mind, even if it doesn't haunt him as frequently as it once did. He releases her with such a sudden viciousness that she stumbles backward and falls onto the couch. She stares at him, bewildered, rubbing her right wrist with her left hand, and however horrified he feels, it doesn't come close to overpowering his desperation for her. Without any real notion of what he's actually doing, he falls onto the couch beside her, hand twisting into her hair, pulling her toward him and kissing her again. It's harsher, the way their teeth click together for a moment before he forces his tongue into her mouth, and he's taken aback by the surprising, wanton moan she emits. He's so hard, he's straining against his pants.
This should be a dream.
One hand runs up her leg, surprised as it encounters the frayed edges of a pair of cutoff shorts so tiny that they'd been covered by the baggy shirt—shorts he hasn't seen her wear since before the kids were born—ones that still have splatters of paint from when they first moved into the house and were redecorating. It's such a pleasant memory, so far removed from where they are now, that he's almost angry as he runs his finger along the inseam, pressing against her so hard that she starts rubbing against his hand to increase the friction. Wickedly, he turns his hand, thrusting his palm into her as she writhes against him, and he watches as she throws her head back, breathing heavily, body shaking in a way that makes him feel so fucking powerful.
He leans toward her, cups the back of her neck with his hand, presses his lips close to her ear. "I'm the only one who can make you feel this good," he whispers, and there's this cruel edge to his voice that he doesn't recognize. "Admit it."
She squeezes her eyes shut, lets out this sound like she's almost crying. She feels like fire against him.
"Admit it."
She nods, gasps, "Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!" and she's shaking against him, tightening as she comes and then limply dropping against his body. For a moment he almost gets lost in the scent of her hair and the feeling of her damp forehead against his neck and it's nearly enough to wipe out all of the ire and frustration.
Nearly. Nothing keeps it completely at bay.
Roughly, he pushes her away from him onto her back, ignoring the way her eyes widen in surprise because this is not him. His hands fumble with the button on her shorts; he pulls them off, nearly tearing her panties in his eagerness. She's so slick against his fingers that he almost loses it right then like a teenager without any control. But maybe that's because he never had it anyway.
She means too much.
He doesn't even manage to take his pants completely off before he's inside of her. And it's been too long—she's so tight and she gasps in discomfort for a moment and swears—but he can't (won't) give her even a moment. He's fucking her long and deep and hard and it feels so damn good and is still somehow the worst sex they've ever had because the whole time he finds himself on the verge of bursting into tears.
He doesn't last long. After he comes, he collapses on top of her, uncomfortably hot because he's still wearing most of his clothes and she's like heat surrounding him, but neither of them move.
She's crying, though, and what hurts the worst is that he can't shed a tear even though he feels a sob so tight in his chest that he can't breathe.
"I've missed you," he whispers into her skin.
And he wants to believe this is real when she cries, "I've missed you too."
iv.
He wakes up shivering in the middle of the night, still on the couch, still dressed, but she's gone. For a moment he really believes it was all a dream, another horrible vivid dream that is going to haunt him probably for the rest of his life. Then he sits up, head throbbing, eyes slowly adjusting to the dark, and he sees her.
She's curled up in an arm chair, watching him, biting at her thumbnail: a beautiful mess.
They shouldn't have done this.
He shouldn't have done this.
"This was a mistake," she says. Her voice is hoarse. He wonders if she's been crying all night. "We shouldn't have done that."
"Why?" Not that he doesn't know. Because whatever is going on between them isn't going to be fixed with sex, and that he knows she's not about to ask him to come home, and he's not going to beg her to take him back, and somehow everything seems worse now.
"Because…" She lets out a shaky breath. He averts his eyes, finger running circles over the rim of a glass, this feeling of dread building inside of him. "Because I came here tonight to tell you that I think I want a divorce, and now…"
The glass hits the fireplace so hard that it shatters into a thousand pieces. She jumps, and he just sits there, somewhat astounded because he didn't even realize what he was doing. He doesn't move. He's afraid now. Afraid of how he keeps reacting without thinking, and that's not him.
"You want a divorce?"
She shrugs helplessly. "I don't know what I want. But I don't want this. I feel…trapped."
They are in a cage. He sees that now.
But he thinks he's too cruel to let her go free.
A/n: Thank you a hundred times over to everyone who reviewed. This is so different than what I usually write that the feedback really helps. This chapter, particularly, I feel like I'm toeing a line with these characters, so I hope that it's still in character (and that it works).
Many, many thanks to you all. You guys are amazing.
-Ryeloza