fic: damned if "i do" (damned if i don't) (victoria/conrad)
Title: damned if "i do" (damned if i don't)
Pairing: Victoria/Conrad
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~800
Author’s Notes: Something I started before 2x06 aired, so it doesn’t entirely fit their dynamic in the episode. Title from Florence + The Machine’s Shake it Out.
Summary: "I despise you," she says, undoing her necklace.
His gaze doesn't leave hers in the vanity mirror. "My dear," he says, leaning down to kiss her neck, "the feeling's mutual."
It's only through years of practice - through what feels like a lifetime of schooling her expression, her reactions - that she doesn't flinch when Conrad appears in the doorway behind her; instead, she reaches out to place another earring back in the jewellery box in front of her.
"I told you," she says, mildly, watching him in the mirror, across a room lit by a single lamp, "You're not welcome in here."
"But darling," he says, and it's more than slightly mocking, "we're about to be married. Again." He tosses a folded-up piece of paper onto the desk in front of her, resting a hand on the back of her chair.
"What is that?" she asks, not touching it.
"Our vows," he says, dryly. "There's a line about fidelity I thought you might need to rehearse."
"I despise you," she says, undoing her necklace.
His gaze doesn't leave hers in the vanity mirror. "My dear," he says, leaning down to kiss her neck, "the feeling's mutual."
*
He braces himself over her, not breaking her gaze while she undoes his belt.
"Did you love me?" he asks, pushing into her as her nightdress bunches up around her waist, "Or did you just love my money?"
"Are the two mutually exclusive?" she asks, dry, a little sarcastic, legs wrapping higher around his waist, and his gaze softens with amusement, briefly, so briefly.
(It's pointless and cruel, because Vicky Harper loved him, loved him so much. Vicky Harper would have happily lived in a shoebox apartment in Tribeca, pride be damned. Vicky Harper loved him more than anything, and he knows that).
"How long were you faithful to me?" he wonders, as her hands slip underneath his shirt, "Between David Clarke," the same way he always says David's name, but she won't react to it, anymore, won't give him the satisfaction, and she knows that disappoints him, "and Frank-"
"I never slept with Frank."
"You would have," he says, indifferently, and she digs her fingernails into his back in reproach, hips rocking against his, despite herself.
"You're hardly one to talk about fidelity," she breathes into his ear, and when she bites down on his earlobe, he shudders and presses into her, hips slowing.
"Is that it?" she asks, arching an eyebrow. She gives him a dismissive once-over. "I've had better." There are so few ways she can get under his skin, these days, that she clings to the ones she has left.
He tilts his head to the side as he works a hand down between them, his thumb circling, small and tight, against her. She holds his gaze for as long as she can before she closes her eyes and arches her back for a long moment, and he climbs off her before she's caught her breath.
She smooths down her nightdress, satiny and cool on her bare legs.
"You were my first," she says, simply, propping herself up on her elbow, hand in her hair.
His laugh is hard, old. "Victoria," he says, re-buckling his belt. "We both know that's not true."
She narrows her eyes slightly at him, before saying, quietly, "First love, Conrad." (And like that, she takes the wind out of his sails. Because Vicky Harper didn't think she was even capable of love until she met Conrad Grayson). “And look at us now.”
“Whose fault is that?” he asks, and she gapes.
“The gall of you-“
“Save the theatrics, dearest,” he says, almost bored.
Her lips twitch. "Charming."
Like he hasn’t heard her, he glances out the window behind her. “This time tomorrow, we’ll be married.”
“Again,” she mocks, lightly, because it’s easier to joke, easier not to dwell on the fact that tomorrow, she’ll tie their fates together again - and maybe not in a legal sense, but immunity from prosecution won’t protect her from the court of her children’s opinions. Tomorrow, she’ll give tacit approval to everything they’ve done (everything they will do, because this isn’t over, might never be over). Tomorrow, she’ll bury their secrets between them like bodies, deep and safe, because it’s easier to go down together and she’s always thought, of the two of them, Conrad to be the coward, but there’s nothing brave about what she’ll do tomorrow.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” Conrad says, bending down to kiss her forehead (and, somehow, somehow it’s cold and empty and mocking, like everything else that passes between them). Then, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes (so dark and considering), “Sleep well, Victoria.”
Disclaimer: Revenge belongs to Mike Kelly, ABC et al. No copyright infringement is intended.
Pairing: Victoria/Conrad
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~800
Author’s Notes: Something I started before 2x06 aired, so it doesn’t entirely fit their dynamic in the episode. Title from Florence + The Machine’s Shake it Out.
Summary: "I despise you," she says, undoing her necklace.
His gaze doesn't leave hers in the vanity mirror. "My dear," he says, leaning down to kiss her neck, "the feeling's mutual."
It's only through years of practice - through what feels like a lifetime of schooling her expression, her reactions - that she doesn't flinch when Conrad appears in the doorway behind her; instead, she reaches out to place another earring back in the jewellery box in front of her.
"I told you," she says, mildly, watching him in the mirror, across a room lit by a single lamp, "You're not welcome in here."
"But darling," he says, and it's more than slightly mocking, "we're about to be married. Again." He tosses a folded-up piece of paper onto the desk in front of her, resting a hand on the back of her chair.
"What is that?" she asks, not touching it.
"Our vows," he says, dryly. "There's a line about fidelity I thought you might need to rehearse."
"I despise you," she says, undoing her necklace.
His gaze doesn't leave hers in the vanity mirror. "My dear," he says, leaning down to kiss her neck, "the feeling's mutual."
*
He braces himself over her, not breaking her gaze while she undoes his belt.
"Did you love me?" he asks, pushing into her as her nightdress bunches up around her waist, "Or did you just love my money?"
"Are the two mutually exclusive?" she asks, dry, a little sarcastic, legs wrapping higher around his waist, and his gaze softens with amusement, briefly, so briefly.
(It's pointless and cruel, because Vicky Harper loved him, loved him so much. Vicky Harper would have happily lived in a shoebox apartment in Tribeca, pride be damned. Vicky Harper loved him more than anything, and he knows that).
"How long were you faithful to me?" he wonders, as her hands slip underneath his shirt, "Between David Clarke," the same way he always says David's name, but she won't react to it, anymore, won't give him the satisfaction, and she knows that disappoints him, "and Frank-"
"I never slept with Frank."
"You would have," he says, indifferently, and she digs her fingernails into his back in reproach, hips rocking against his, despite herself.
"You're hardly one to talk about fidelity," she breathes into his ear, and when she bites down on his earlobe, he shudders and presses into her, hips slowing.
"Is that it?" she asks, arching an eyebrow. She gives him a dismissive once-over. "I've had better." There are so few ways she can get under his skin, these days, that she clings to the ones she has left.
He tilts his head to the side as he works a hand down between them, his thumb circling, small and tight, against her. She holds his gaze for as long as she can before she closes her eyes and arches her back for a long moment, and he climbs off her before she's caught her breath.
She smooths down her nightdress, satiny and cool on her bare legs.
"You were my first," she says, simply, propping herself up on her elbow, hand in her hair.
His laugh is hard, old. "Victoria," he says, re-buckling his belt. "We both know that's not true."
She narrows her eyes slightly at him, before saying, quietly, "First love, Conrad." (And like that, she takes the wind out of his sails. Because Vicky Harper didn't think she was even capable of love until she met Conrad Grayson). “And look at us now.”
“Whose fault is that?” he asks, and she gapes.
“The gall of you-“
“Save the theatrics, dearest,” he says, almost bored.
Her lips twitch. "Charming."
Like he hasn’t heard her, he glances out the window behind her. “This time tomorrow, we’ll be married.”
“Again,” she mocks, lightly, because it’s easier to joke, easier not to dwell on the fact that tomorrow, she’ll tie their fates together again - and maybe not in a legal sense, but immunity from prosecution won’t protect her from the court of her children’s opinions. Tomorrow, she’ll give tacit approval to everything they’ve done (everything they will do, because this isn’t over, might never be over). Tomorrow, she’ll bury their secrets between them like bodies, deep and safe, because it’s easier to go down together and she’s always thought, of the two of them, Conrad to be the coward, but there’s nothing brave about what she’ll do tomorrow.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” Conrad says, bending down to kiss her forehead (and, somehow, somehow it’s cold and empty and mocking, like everything else that passes between them). Then, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes (so dark and considering), “Sleep well, Victoria.”
Disclaimer: Revenge belongs to Mike Kelly, ABC et al. No copyright infringement is intended.