Fic
Title - Schrödinger’s Realm
Rating - nothing too bad - PG13ish
AN - Set post “You Could Drive a Person Crazy” (and just by typing that I am going to have that song running through my head all day but at least it has cool lines - who wouldn’t love “knock, knock I’m working on my charms, knock, knock the zombie’s in my arms”) in the world of Marc Cherry and post “Keratitis Sicca” in my little world. I should point out that while this takes place before the scene where Lynette talks to the dead rat, it by no means minimises my love for that moment and I should also mention that, thanks to being on nights, I am sleep deprived and possess no proof reading skills.
Schrödinger’s Realm
The tiles are gleaming and the mirror is spotless but it is not the markers of perfection that she is drawn to, it is the ring of scum around the faucet. The small blemish may not be on a par with the state of her home, a place where right at this second, colonies of bacteria are multiplying and mutating on the food that is congealing on every single plate she owns, but it is the part that she relates to. She feels like an impostor, donning her costume on a daily basis, the face in the smudge-free mirror is not the woman that she used to be but it’s not the mask that she has worn for the last seven years either, she doesn’t know who it is. She is lost, juggling the role that she used to adore and the one that she learnt to endure and feeling that she is not doing either of them well. She doesn’t want to be mad at Tom, doesn’t want to belittle him, she knows how difficult it is to run a household whilst attempting to corral a hoard of children but he doesn’t make it easy for her. She doesn’t expect the house to be flawless or for her dinner to be ready the moment that she steps through the door, she was never that kind of housewife and to be honest she would be equally as mad with him if she felt that he was better at it than she was, but it would be nice to feel that he was at least trying. He apologises to her in a way that suggests that she has no right to complain and that it makes him angry that she has done the work for him but she doesn’t know what else to do, she may be lax but even she can’t live in that amount of squalor. She hopes the rat will force him to realise that things can not continue like this, that his ‘system’ has failed, because she is not ready to accept the fact that there is a whole new front from which her marriage is under attack.
Her calves are aching and her feet are begging her to take her shoes off but she knows that if she removes them she won’t be able to put them back on and she can’t return to work barefoot, it is bad enough that she is going to be late, she is not sure how she will explain that, she can’t really tell her boss that instead of working she was standing in a bathroom, waiting for a woman who is probably not going to show. Seeing Bree here had felt like fate, she wasn’t lying when she told Bree that she had been meaning to call, she has picked up the phone so many times but she doesn’t know what to say. It’s not that she is worried about consoling the grieving widow, she would be prepared to approach that with her usual level of directness, it’s because of the envelope that is resting in her pocket. She fingers the envelope absently, it is a habit that she has developed and she now does it so often that the edges are torn and the stamp is lifting. When she first saw it on her bench, sandwiched between two plates and with a large dollop of peanut butter nestled on it’s edge, she smiled and shook her head in amusement because Bree is the only person that she knows who would actually mail something to someone who lives across the street but when she lifted it and knew instantly that it was far too heavy to be the obligatory Thank You card that Bree would send to everyone in the wake of the funeral, her vision blurred and her lungs didn’t seem to work. She traced the shape that she knew but would not admit was a key and swore that she would never open this particular Pandora’s Box.
If she doesn’t acknowledge its existence, it can’t hurt her and nothing has to change. With the offending object resting firmly in the envelope, the kiss of greeting she exchanged with Bree can still be more than that, it can be a suppressed moment of intimacy between illicit lovers. It was a little harder to counter the fact that Bree flinched when she touched her but she moved her hand towards her pocket and watched as Bree’s eyes flashed with unmistakable need and want in response to being told that she looked amazing - the expression on Bree’s face was the genuine and warm and the connection between them undeniable. She could strangle Phyllis for ruining the moment with her blatant attention seeking behaviour, even if it did afford her the opportunity of seeing Bree slap the woman. When she was able to turn her attention back to Bree, the moment was lost and before she could attempt to regain it, Bree told her that, “It was really sweet of you to stop by,” and she was forced to make her exit while she was still in control of herself and before the tears that were burning behind her eyes had a chance to escape. Bree’s words reeked of congeniality and she finds this unsettling, for her Armageddon will not come with a hail of fire and brimstone but with forced civility, she lives in constant fear of getting what she has come to think of as the muffin basket of death - Bree Van De Kamp’s ultimate sign of distance and cordiality.
In the end her patience pays off, the door opens and Bree enters, “I didn’t think you were coming.”
Bree gives her a sharp look, “I wasn’t going to, you weren’t exactly being subtle with the head tossing and the pointing.”
“It’s not like I am known for my subtlety and if you were so offended by my behaviour you could have just left.”
“I always wash my hands after I eat.”
“Yeah, I was kinda banking on that,” she approaches Bree and places her hands on her waist.
Bree looks panic stricken, “This is not the place for us to talk, Phyllis is just outside.”
“We could take it into the cubicle, I seem to recall that we have some experience with having heart felt conversations, amongst other things, in similar places,” her voice shouldn’t be so husky and she shouldn’t be saying these things but she feels like she hasn’t seen Bree in forever and she can’t help herself.
Bree somehow manages to become paler than her black outfit already makes her look, “We can’t do that and I can’t be around you right now.”
“Because of Phyllis?”
“Because of how you make me feel, it’s too confusing.”
She steps back to give Bree her space, “We can just talk, I am still your friend, at least I hope I am.”
Bree’s hands twitch as though they want to reach out for her, “Of course you are.”
“You must have things you need to talk about it, like for example just how crazy Phyllis is driving you.”
“I’m sorry you had to see that, as painful as she is, I shouldn’t have slapped her.”
“No, she totally deserved it and I don’t want you to get offended but I need to tell you that I found that incredibly sexy.”
The need and desire are back in Bree’s eyes but only for a second, “I don’t want you to tell me things like that.”
“Am I at least allowed to be proud of you?”
“It’s not something to be proud of,” she smiles despite her words, “but it did kind of feel good.”
“I’m sure it did.”
“Do people think I am cold?”
She won’t allow Bree to completely change the tact of the conversation, “Bree hitting your annoying shrew of a mother-in-law is the complete opposite of cold.”
“No, I mean, in general do people think I am cold?”
“Some do.”
Bree’s face falls, “Do you?”
“Hardly.”
“I need you to be serious.”
“I guess you can seem restrained and stoic but not to the people who care about you, we know that even though you don’t always wear it on sleeve that it doesn’t mean that you don’t have a heart. You have a good heart, you’re a good person Bree.”
“I don’t think public displays of affection are necessary but Phyllis says that people think I am cold and that I suppress my emotions,” her voice wavers a little.
“Sweetie,” she takes the chance and moves back to Bree, “you kinda do but that doesn’t mean that we think any less of you.”
“She says that people think that I am not mourning for Rex.”
“Of course you are, you’ve got the black outfits and the severe hair and everything.”
Bree doesn’t find her statement amusing and steps away from her, “This isn’t funny, Lynette.”
“What’s she is saying to you is ridiculous.”
“It’s not, I am not mourning him the way I should because there is so much in my head, so many regrets and so much guilt and a lot of that it about you,” she tries to blink away the tears in her eyes but they fall anyway.
“I’m sorry that I was forward before, I know that you need your space and I am willing to give you that.”
“It’s not enough, I don’t just need space, I need this to be over, I need you to know that from now on we are never going to be anything more than friends,” Bree leaves without giving her a chance to reply and without washing her hands or cleaning her face. Left alone in the bathroom, she lets her own tears fall and places her hand in her pocket. She traces the key but it no longer seems to offer the succour that it once did and she realises that she was wrong, maybe Armageddon isn’t heralded with baskets of baked goods, maybe it’s been sealed in the envelope all along.
Rating - nothing too bad - PG13ish
AN - Set post “You Could Drive a Person Crazy” (and just by typing that I am going to have that song running through my head all day but at least it has cool lines - who wouldn’t love “knock, knock I’m working on my charms, knock, knock the zombie’s in my arms”) in the world of Marc Cherry and post “Keratitis Sicca” in my little world. I should point out that while this takes place before the scene where Lynette talks to the dead rat, it by no means minimises my love for that moment and I should also mention that, thanks to being on nights, I am sleep deprived and possess no proof reading skills.
Schrödinger’s Realm
The tiles are gleaming and the mirror is spotless but it is not the markers of perfection that she is drawn to, it is the ring of scum around the faucet. The small blemish may not be on a par with the state of her home, a place where right at this second, colonies of bacteria are multiplying and mutating on the food that is congealing on every single plate she owns, but it is the part that she relates to. She feels like an impostor, donning her costume on a daily basis, the face in the smudge-free mirror is not the woman that she used to be but it’s not the mask that she has worn for the last seven years either, she doesn’t know who it is. She is lost, juggling the role that she used to adore and the one that she learnt to endure and feeling that she is not doing either of them well. She doesn’t want to be mad at Tom, doesn’t want to belittle him, she knows how difficult it is to run a household whilst attempting to corral a hoard of children but he doesn’t make it easy for her. She doesn’t expect the house to be flawless or for her dinner to be ready the moment that she steps through the door, she was never that kind of housewife and to be honest she would be equally as mad with him if she felt that he was better at it than she was, but it would be nice to feel that he was at least trying. He apologises to her in a way that suggests that she has no right to complain and that it makes him angry that she has done the work for him but she doesn’t know what else to do, she may be lax but even she can’t live in that amount of squalor. She hopes the rat will force him to realise that things can not continue like this, that his ‘system’ has failed, because she is not ready to accept the fact that there is a whole new front from which her marriage is under attack.
Her calves are aching and her feet are begging her to take her shoes off but she knows that if she removes them she won’t be able to put them back on and she can’t return to work barefoot, it is bad enough that she is going to be late, she is not sure how she will explain that, she can’t really tell her boss that instead of working she was standing in a bathroom, waiting for a woman who is probably not going to show. Seeing Bree here had felt like fate, she wasn’t lying when she told Bree that she had been meaning to call, she has picked up the phone so many times but she doesn’t know what to say. It’s not that she is worried about consoling the grieving widow, she would be prepared to approach that with her usual level of directness, it’s because of the envelope that is resting in her pocket. She fingers the envelope absently, it is a habit that she has developed and she now does it so often that the edges are torn and the stamp is lifting. When she first saw it on her bench, sandwiched between two plates and with a large dollop of peanut butter nestled on it’s edge, she smiled and shook her head in amusement because Bree is the only person that she knows who would actually mail something to someone who lives across the street but when she lifted it and knew instantly that it was far too heavy to be the obligatory Thank You card that Bree would send to everyone in the wake of the funeral, her vision blurred and her lungs didn’t seem to work. She traced the shape that she knew but would not admit was a key and swore that she would never open this particular Pandora’s Box.
If she doesn’t acknowledge its existence, it can’t hurt her and nothing has to change. With the offending object resting firmly in the envelope, the kiss of greeting she exchanged with Bree can still be more than that, it can be a suppressed moment of intimacy between illicit lovers. It was a little harder to counter the fact that Bree flinched when she touched her but she moved her hand towards her pocket and watched as Bree’s eyes flashed with unmistakable need and want in response to being told that she looked amazing - the expression on Bree’s face was the genuine and warm and the connection between them undeniable. She could strangle Phyllis for ruining the moment with her blatant attention seeking behaviour, even if it did afford her the opportunity of seeing Bree slap the woman. When she was able to turn her attention back to Bree, the moment was lost and before she could attempt to regain it, Bree told her that, “It was really sweet of you to stop by,” and she was forced to make her exit while she was still in control of herself and before the tears that were burning behind her eyes had a chance to escape. Bree’s words reeked of congeniality and she finds this unsettling, for her Armageddon will not come with a hail of fire and brimstone but with forced civility, she lives in constant fear of getting what she has come to think of as the muffin basket of death - Bree Van De Kamp’s ultimate sign of distance and cordiality.
In the end her patience pays off, the door opens and Bree enters, “I didn’t think you were coming.”
Bree gives her a sharp look, “I wasn’t going to, you weren’t exactly being subtle with the head tossing and the pointing.”
“It’s not like I am known for my subtlety and if you were so offended by my behaviour you could have just left.”
“I always wash my hands after I eat.”
“Yeah, I was kinda banking on that,” she approaches Bree and places her hands on her waist.
Bree looks panic stricken, “This is not the place for us to talk, Phyllis is just outside.”
“We could take it into the cubicle, I seem to recall that we have some experience with having heart felt conversations, amongst other things, in similar places,” her voice shouldn’t be so husky and she shouldn’t be saying these things but she feels like she hasn’t seen Bree in forever and she can’t help herself.
Bree somehow manages to become paler than her black outfit already makes her look, “We can’t do that and I can’t be around you right now.”
“Because of Phyllis?”
“Because of how you make me feel, it’s too confusing.”
She steps back to give Bree her space, “We can just talk, I am still your friend, at least I hope I am.”
Bree’s hands twitch as though they want to reach out for her, “Of course you are.”
“You must have things you need to talk about it, like for example just how crazy Phyllis is driving you.”
“I’m sorry you had to see that, as painful as she is, I shouldn’t have slapped her.”
“No, she totally deserved it and I don’t want you to get offended but I need to tell you that I found that incredibly sexy.”
The need and desire are back in Bree’s eyes but only for a second, “I don’t want you to tell me things like that.”
“Am I at least allowed to be proud of you?”
“It’s not something to be proud of,” she smiles despite her words, “but it did kind of feel good.”
“I’m sure it did.”
“Do people think I am cold?”
She won’t allow Bree to completely change the tact of the conversation, “Bree hitting your annoying shrew of a mother-in-law is the complete opposite of cold.”
“No, I mean, in general do people think I am cold?”
“Some do.”
Bree’s face falls, “Do you?”
“Hardly.”
“I need you to be serious.”
“I guess you can seem restrained and stoic but not to the people who care about you, we know that even though you don’t always wear it on sleeve that it doesn’t mean that you don’t have a heart. You have a good heart, you’re a good person Bree.”
“I don’t think public displays of affection are necessary but Phyllis says that people think I am cold and that I suppress my emotions,” her voice wavers a little.
“Sweetie,” she takes the chance and moves back to Bree, “you kinda do but that doesn’t mean that we think any less of you.”
“She says that people think that I am not mourning for Rex.”
“Of course you are, you’ve got the black outfits and the severe hair and everything.”
Bree doesn’t find her statement amusing and steps away from her, “This isn’t funny, Lynette.”
“What’s she is saying to you is ridiculous.”
“It’s not, I am not mourning him the way I should because there is so much in my head, so many regrets and so much guilt and a lot of that it about you,” she tries to blink away the tears in her eyes but they fall anyway.
“I’m sorry that I was forward before, I know that you need your space and I am willing to give you that.”
“It’s not enough, I don’t just need space, I need this to be over, I need you to know that from now on we are never going to be anything more than friends,” Bree leaves without giving her a chance to reply and without washing her hands or cleaning her face. Left alone in the bathroom, she lets her own tears fall and places her hand in her pocket. She traces the key but it no longer seems to offer the succour that it once did and she realises that she was wrong, maybe Armageddon isn’t heralded with baskets of baked goods, maybe it’s been sealed in the envelope all along.