Work Text:
The last thing Roman expects is a call from Gerri at two am.
His first thought is genuinely that he's dreaming, which would be amazing in the first place since he feels like he hasn't slept in two days. His eyes are gritty and burning and there's her name on his phone, no contact picture because he got paranoid and deleted every single picture off of his phone after the incident.
He then spent an hour trying to figure out how to undelete things you triple deleted, only to manage it and then, in a fit of pique and regret, do it one more time.
The phone stops ringing, then starts again. His hand flails out, curling his fingers around the metal and glass. He answers it with a raw-throated, "What the fuck?"
"Roman." She sounds... weary.
"Yeah, you got 'im. Now I repeat: what the fuck?"
"I need your help," she says.
"Yeah, uh, this is a trap," he says, and hangs up. Then he calls her back, because - of course he does. "What could you possibly need my help with?"
"I'm in the garden," she says. "And I think I broke my ankle."
He stares up at the ceiling. The light from the bathroom is still on and the door is open, throwing shadows all around the room.
"The garden?" He asks. "Like, still here, the garden?"
He's still here. Kendall and Shiv are too, though he thinks they're flying out tomorrow. There's a seat on the plane for him, too. Dad won't be on that one. If he'd really stopped to think about it at all he'd probably have assumed they all fled the country as soon as they stopped rimming each other for a job well done on the deal.
"Yes, the fucking garden," she snaps. "Are you going to help me or not?"
"I don't know," he says, and relishes the words. "Does it serve my interests?"
She hangs up on him this time.
-
He's dressed in pajama pants and a white t-shirt, walking the grounds in slippers provided by the villa. He's getting them filthy but he doesn't care. What can a pair of slippers cost? Fifty bucks? More than a gallon of milk, less than a new phone. More than the value of his self-worth, less than his bank account now before his dad has fucked the dollars dry.
The grounds are a maze of shrubbery and He tries to call her again. She doesn't answer but he realizes he can hear the ringing.
This is not a Gerri he's seen before.
She's on the ground, sitting with her head bowed. She's wearing soft gray linen pants and a cardigan that's unbuttoned, some kind of silky soft camisole underneath that's almost the color of her eyes.
Her head is bowed, hands in her hair. One leg is stretched in front of her. She doesn't look up as he approaches, not until he's standing right in front of her.
"Go away, Roman," she says. "Just go away."
He suddenly feels sober for the first time in forty-eight hours. "Are you fucking - are you crying?"
"Go away," she says again. "I'm sorry I called. You can go back to whatever illicit substance you were snorting in an attempt to drown out the pathetic path your life is taking."
It's strange how the words don't really hurt when her voice sounds so broken. It's so weird that he actually thinks maybe he is tripping. Gerri is made of stone. She's carved from marble. She's smooth glass, cold to the touch. She's not a sniffling wreck of a human like the rest of them. Like Roman more than any.
"Nah," he says. "No snorting here. That's Ken's thing. I'm the one that's shamefully straight and narrow, except for all the sexual perversion. How bad is it?"
"Just a sprain," she says, and looks up. Her eyes are bloodshot and she isn't wearing any makeup. She looks older. She looks beautiful. He fucking hates her. Hates the sight of her. (No he doesn't.)
"Sure it was the ankle and not a hip?" he asks, an easy dig with no venom behind it at all. The ass of her pants probably have grass stains, he thinks.
"Fuck off," she says, and now her voice sounds clearer, stronger. "And if you're not going to fuck off, then help me up."
He's never held her hand before, not that he can remember. There were probably handshakes, polite cheek kisses once upon a time in his teenage years, but none since their whole fucking thing - their mess - started. Now he holds his hands out, both of them.
That's the moment it starts to rain. It's less than a thunderstorm, but more than a light misting. He feels it dripping warm down the back of his neck.
She tests weight on her bad ankle and stumbles. He catches her without thinking about it, an arm around her waist as she braces herself by gripping his arm. She leans into him - forehead on his shoulder - for just long enough to make him feel like he's in the fucking Twilight Zone before she pulls away. "Thank you," she says. "I'm sure I can make it back on my own now."
"Yeah, look, I'm an asshole, but I'm not that asshole," he says. "It's literally raining. But speaking of, why the fuck did you call me and not Laurie?"
Her voice is clipped now. "Laurie's gone."
"What, did your new king flee the castle when he caught sight of your dusty old vag?" Roman asks.
"I fucking hate you," she spits back at him.
"Feeling's mutual," he says back. He makes sure he has a good grip on her and takes a couple of steps, patient while she figures out a stride.
-
It takes her a surprisingly long time to realize that he's leading her in a specific direction, and that direction is not her villa.
"Roman." Her voice sounds confused, tired, conflicted.
"That's my name," he says. "Unless Dad decides to rescind that as well."
"He'd start with the Roy part if he wanted to," Gerri says. "Where are we going?"
"My room," he answers. He can't believe she's still leaning on him. He's still touching her. She's still letting him. A week ago he'd have felt like he'd just won the World Cup, Wimbledon, the Masters, and the Super Bowl all in one day.
Now it feels like he's being offered a consolation prize. He wondered sometimes before if maybe he loved her more than money. Now he knows the answer is not a complete no, but it's also certainly not yes.
"Why?" she asks.
"Because." He doesn't have a better response than that, so he spouts off whatever nonsense chooses to bypass the almost non-existent filter. "You're wounded. I can kidnap you and you won't be able to escape. I'll feast on you until there's nothing left than bones."
"At least I know my virtue is intact," she says. "You'd have to use someone else's dick to even try."
"Nuh uh uh, Geraldine," he says. "You're the one that I actually can get hard for. Remember, I sent all those pictures to show you?"
She doesn't bite. In fact, she sags, almost like defeat. "Yeah," she says. "I remember."
-
He deposits her on his sofa and then makes them both a drink. He knows she likes martinis. He makes her a whiskey on the rocks instead, scooping some of the ice that floats in the watered down bucket.
She takes it and knocks it back like a champ anyway.
"You should elevate that," he says. Her ankle really does look swollen. Even if it isn't a break, it'll be a bitch to walk on. She'll have to hobble around places. She'll hate it. He'll hate it for her, actually. He's still of the opinion that Gerri Kellman is and should always appear to be the baddest of bad bitches in any room she's in. The fact that he's recently on the shit end of that bitch stick hasn't actually changed his mind.
She glares at him but she does it, turning sideways on the sofa and putting a throw pillow under it. "What I should do is go back to my room."
"Yeah, speaking of," he says. "Seriously, where is Laurence?"
"I told you," she says. "He left."
"Yeah but like, why?" he asks. "Figured this would be a nice picturesque little holiday for the two of you. Celebrate the new union. Maybe you'd get lucky and he'd pop the question. Or a boner, if you were really lucky. They've made great strides in the Viagra field, you know? Yeah, you probably do know, who am I kidding."
She either decides to either put him out of his curiosity driven misery, or just shut him up for her own sake. "He flew back to America. We had a disagreement."
"A fight?" Roman snorts.
That deserves another drink, though. He walks over holding the whiskey bottle. She lifts her glass and he gives her a healthy refill.
"Not exactly," she says. "More like he disagreed with how much time I spent occupied by work. Apparently he did think this would be more of a holiday."
"Wow," Roman says, settling on the floor opposite her, his back against the seat of a smooth, plump leather chair. "He really didn't know you, did he?"
"No," she admits, easier than he'd have expected. "It's alright, though."
"Let me guess," Roman says. "He'd already served his purpose?"
She looks at him, and for a moment everything else drops away, not a hint of coldness to her. Just emptiness. Sadness. Maybe, he even thinks, loneliness. "I suppose."
Roman feeds on it. He's always been a fan of signing his own death warrant. "Did you really like him?"
She shrugs. "He was fine."
"Wow," Roman says. "Resounding enthusiasm. What about me? Did you ever like me?"
"Stop," she says, softly. "This situation has already cost me enough."
"What has it cost you?" he asks. "From where I'm sitting, it looks like you got everything you wanted."
"To be the laughing stock of the executive floor because some bratty nepotism baby showed me his penis?" She asks. "To be made abundantly aware that my position of power is for paper only and I'll be shown the door without even the credit of being given my old position back? To have lost what could have possibly been a perfectly sensible partner to spend the rest of my days with? And what for, Roman? A week ago I felt like I knew where I was at and everything was under control. And now-"
She stops herself.
"Now," he says, trying to lead her on. When she stays quiet he decides to play improv. "Now you're getting drunk in an villa in rural Tuscany with the disgraced son of an American oligarch who can't fuck and really wants to know what you taste like."
"Something like that," she agrees. "Speaking of."
She holds up her now twice-emptied glass, indicating she'll aim for thrice.
He tops up his own and passes her the bottle. "Your hair is curling," he says.
"Fuck." She sighs and looks at the ceiling. "More people have seen me naked than have seen me without my hair done."
He actually laughs at that. "I'm honored."
She rests her head against the arm of the sofa and then lets it loll to the side, looking at him. "You should be. You little wretch, you've managed to get me in a number of positions no man ever has, and I still don't know why."
"Because." He puts his glass down on the floor beside him and crawls over to her, resting his chin on crossed arms on the edge if the sofa. "Despite everything, you actually kinda like me."
"I despise you." Her voice is soft. Maybe even warm. He loves the fine lines that live on her skin. He'd like to trace them all with his lips.
He reaches out with one hand and plays with a curl. "You're so fucking hot."
"You're..." She frowns, almost imperceptibly. "You're under my skin and you're ruining everything."
"That's what I do," he says. "That's what we all do. Me and Shiv and Ken. Even Connor. We wander around destroying everything we touch. Fucked up what a childhood without love can do to a kid."
"Yeah," she agrees. She reaches behind her and puts her drink on the side table. Her fingers are cool to the touch when she presses them to his forehead, pushing his hair back.
"Does it hurt?" he suddenly asks.
She gives him a taken aback look. "Does what hurt?"
"My heart, when you crushed it underfoot," he deadpans. "I meant your ankle."
"Yes," she says.
She doesn't clarify which she's responding to.
"Do I need to take you somewhere? Get it x-rayed or whatever? Does Italy have all night clinics?"
"It'll be fine," she says. "If it's still bothering me tomorrow, perhaps."
Her hand is still in his head. He rests his head on the sofa cushion completely, closing his eyes. "I'm still mad at you," he says.
The stroking stills only briefly. "You have no right to be."
"Maybe," he says. "But when has that ever stopped me?"
"Touché."
"What about you?" Roman asks. "Do you hate me?"
"I've never hated you," she says. "Even when I should have."
"Why does hearing that not make me feel better?"
"Because you know it doesn't change anything," she says. "I've been married before. I've had relationships. They take more than attraction to work."
"Wow," he says. "Marriage talk already. Who popped the question?"
She levels him with a look. "You did. Cannibals, remember?"
He snorts. "Oh, yeah. Classic Roman Roy, right there. Proposing marriage before my dick even gets wet. Actually, can you get wet? Because I was reading this magazine on the plane about vaginal dryness post menopause?"
She flicks him on the forehead.
His head jerks back. "Ow, bitch!"
"It's what you deserve," she says, and oh - she's laughing. She's laughing and her eyes are very blue and her face is bare and the strands of hair loose near her face are curling and he suddenly wants to fucking bawl with how much he feels. Love, lust, hurt, betrayed, besotted, heaviness and lightness at the same time.
He surges forward and she's ready for it, somehow. Just like her, always knowing exactly which way he's going to turn even when no one else does, even when he doesn't know himself.
He's on top of her in an instant, straddling her body. The cardigan is still damp from the rain against her skin and he wrestles it off, burying his face in the curve of her neck.
-
Roman ends up halfway beside her, tucked between her body and the back of the sofa.
He can't believe he's this close to her, that she's letting him this close. "What is this?" he asks.
"Delusion," she answers. "Temporary insanity."
"So you're saying I should make the most of it, then?"
"I'm saying no such thing," she answers, but she doesn't say anything when he rests the palm of his hand against the curve of a breast, cupping it. He leaves it there, feeling the sudden struggle of her breath. She draws in too much air, takes too long letting it go.
"What's in here?" he asks, kissing just above the place her heart is slightly racing.
"Pure stone," she says.
"Nah." He dismisses that offhand. "People with hearts of stone don't cry in the middle of a garden maze."
"I wasn't crying," she says. "It was the rain."
He lets her get away with it even though the rain hadn't started until after.
"Then what were you not-crying about?" he asks, fingers flexing against the warmth and softness of her tit.
"Regret over calling you."
She's usually so much better at evasion. Right now her attempts are just pathetic.
"Regret I'll buy," he says. It's easier now that he's not looking her in the eye. "But not over that. Let me guess."
"Please don't."
"Wishing you'd never signed on for Waystar. Wishing you'd let Laurie have his tawdry way with you. Wishing you'd decided Shiv should be your little bitch baby instead of me."
"Shiv." She snorts. "No thank you."
"Redheads not your thing?"
"She wouldn't sound nearly as pretty begging for me," she says, and he's so distracted by that he almost doesn't hear her add, "Get up."
He makes a protesting sound in the back of his throat. "No."
"Are you really holding me captive here, then?" she asks. "Your father will love that."
He climbs off of her, careful not to jostle her ankle even as the mix of anger and humiliation rises to the surface again. "You're right, actually," he says. "It'll make him feel even more justified in kicking us all to the fucking curb."
"You're still literal billionaires," Gerri says, dismissing his concerns completely.
He sits on the edge of the sofa, in the space left beside her, and looks down at her. "Yeah, but not to be fucking trite, that's not everything, you know? We need... goals. To work toward."
"So make your own," she says.
Like it's that fucking simple.
Is it that simple?
"What were yours?" he asks.
She closes her eyes. He really does want to trap her here, just like this, for fucking - forever. Grow old with her. Well, he'll grow old. She'll grow... older.
"When I was young, I wanted to go to college somewhere far away from where my family was. At college, I wanted money and I wanted to find a man, to feel like I wasn't alone. When I was married, I wanted the freedom I felt like I had given up, I wanted a career. When I had a career, I just wanted to be taken seriously. And maybe that's all I've wanted since then."
It's so much more of an answer than he ever expected to get. "Guess I really put the kink in that plan, and I do mean that literally."
She laughs. "Perhaps. Though we both know I could have actually stopped you sooner."
"Maybe," he agrees. "Though I have been told my determination to evade boundaries is downright impressive."
"And who told you that?" she asks.
"Wouldn't you like to know," he says.
"Actually, I wouldn't," she answers.
He reaches out and mirrors her gesture earlier, pushes her hair back from her face, relishing the way her eyes clothes.
"Laurie left," she says, "because he had ideas for my future that I didn't agree with."
"Oh, so he tried to tell you what to do, you told him to fuck himself, and he slunk off with his tail between his legs?" Roman does not bother to hide his delight.
She's less amused. "Not exactly," she says. "He told me that Pierce would be a better fit for me and that he had some connections. He seemed to believe I was looking for a way out of Waystar, and that the merger would be a good jumping off place that no one would question."
"I mean... fuck me up the ass with no lube for saying this, but... isn't he kinda... right, actually?" Roman questions.
Gerri sighs. "Of course he is. And I know Mattson won't even be keeping me around. Have you seen his current General Counsel? It's a woman and she's twenty years younger than I am. She's not white, either. Better optics all around."
"Look at Mattson, going for the PC points," Roman says.
"Laurie seemed to be of the opinion that I am a good person that accidentally wandered my way into a sticky situation," she says, and looks at Roman. "I'm not a good person, Roman. And it's been a very long time since I've felt like I was disappointing someone by acknowledging that."
"You're not a good person," Roman agrees, and reaches for her hand for the second time that night. "But being a good person is fucking... it's boring. Morally gray, that's where the interesting shit lives."
"I believe that you believe that," she says. "And unfortunately, I may, too."
"So what's why you were crying?" he asks, and then lets himself slink to the floor. They can't see each other's faces that way, and maybe that's a good thing, because he's sure whatever's on his face won't be pretty and she's already seen him cracked apart enough for one day. "Because Laurie's fucking... disappointed in you?"
"I would like to say so. But I was-" She pauses over the word, over the human emotions a goddess like her shouldn't deign to feel. "I was... unraveled. I was unraveled today because... today I hurt someone I care very much about. I watched them on the floor in front of me and I knew I could do nothing to make the situation better, but they asked me to anyway, and I was forced to say no and to watch them cry."
Not Laurie, then. Not Laurie at all.
"Fuck," he says, and tips his head back. They stare at the ceiling together. "This is so fucked."
"It is," she agrees.
"Why now?" he asks. "Why are you saying this?"
"Because I'm drunk and tired and feeling sorry for myself and it's three in the morning and you came to rescue me in the rain."
He turns around, kneels beside her. "Gerri."
"Roman." She turns her head. to face him.
"You're..." It's his turn to struggle for words.
"I'm tired," she says, and reaches out to rub her fingers against the stubble of his cheek. It tickles him but he lets her. "I'm tired and I'm not going back to that bedroom where Laurie and I fucked last night."
"Well, you're in luck. I have a very un-fucked-in bed right here," he says.
"What, you're not even going to proposition me?" she asks, laughing softly.
"I need to catch up on forty eight hours of sleep and thirty eight years of processing emotions, so try me again tomorrow," he says, getting to his feet. He holds his hands down toward her and she takes them both.
Once she's up she holds her ankle slightly off the ground and just stands there in front of him, barefoot and bare faced and with what feels like her whole heart on display in front of him, though he's secretly sure she's locked plenty of away that he'll never gain access to.
"I don't know what this is," she warns him. "I don't know what this means."
He shrugs. "I started out this morning thinking you'd never want to speak to me again. I went to sleep tonight thinking I'd never want to speak to you again. Either way, I guess this is progress?"
She kisses him then, softly and almost - if this weren't Gerri, if this weren't a woman he knows could twist him into knots in a second if she felt like her back was to the wall - sweetly. "Take me to bed, Roman."
He pulls back and kisses her forehead, murmuring, "Okay," against her hairline.
-
Gerri falls asleep first.
He hadn't anticipated that, either. But he comes out of the rest room after taking a piss and there she is, under the covers with her head against the pillow and her mouth open slightly, a whistling breath.
Part of him wants to go get his phone and take a picture just in case she wakes up tomorrow and decides temporary amnesia is a great explanation for everything.
But his limbs feel heavy and the bed looks comfortable. He strips down to his underwear and crawls in beside her. He stares at the outline of her in the dark until the sun is almost rising and his eyes won't stay open, letting himself rest just as the new day begins.