Chapter Text
Bree Hodge is not an alcoholic – she got over that years ago. Her drinking is completely, one hundred percent under control.
Bleary eyes and a cotton-wool head on the morning of her and Katherine’s most important event of the year is fine. Silly, really, to drink too much wine without a substantial lining in her stomach. A childish mistake, and wouldn’t a seasoned alcoholic know to avoid that?
The bottles of white wine lined up behind the powders and softeners in the laundry room are fine. They were on sale, after all, her favourite brand, a real steal at that price. They’ll last her for ages! How was she to know that she’d have a hard week? That doesn’t mean anything, she can – and does – replenish the stock easily enough.
The bottles of vodka at the back of the spice rack, all over again? Fine. Merely there to avoid others getting the wrong impression. It’s simply not proper to have vodka, of all things, on display. She likes the taste, that’s all.
She has it under control. She has it all under control, as ever.
***
Katherine – damned Katherine, perfect Katherine, witty, resilient, endlessly strong Katherine – comes right along and shatters that old illusion, so resolutely that Bree feels stupid, foolish, scolded, like a little girl all over again.
And being caught with her worst hangover in years, stripped to her underwear under the sheets, is so mortifying that Bree can hardly stand it.
Katherine is surprisingly gentle about it all, surprisingly understanding. Which is laughable, because Bree doesn’t understand any of it herself. Doesn’t understand how she could be so weak; doesn’t understand how she could’ve missed the signs of her own descent. It’s as though she woke up one morning to find her recovery out of grasp, slipped from her grip while she wasn’t looking.
Katherine doesn’t let her mope, though. Why would she? Katherine’s husband had left her for good, and she’d been back to work the next day, cleaning the countertops in the kitchen with almost alarming intensity. And she’d barely even wavered in the aftermath of that awful, awful day, the one that Bree can’t forget, the day she finally understood her friend…
She doesn’t let Bree dwell, either. Pats her on the knee and orders her into the bathroom to ready herself, clearly finished with emotional openness for one morning, which suits Bree just fine.
Still, when Bree emerges, hair dried and face made up, there’s a freshly pressed outfit neatly laid out on the freshly made bed.
Katherine tucks the corners of the bedspread in exactly the way I do, Bree thinks absently as she buttons her blouse. It’s green – the colour of grass, of spring, of fresh starts. Surely Katherine didn’t pick it deliberately, but Bree lets the connotations wash over her anyway. Small comforts.
***
The luncheon is a roaring success despite everything, naturally, because every event that Wisteria Catering is involved in simply must be successful. There’s no other option with two notorious Type As at the helm, after all – even if one is ever so slightly indisposed presently.
Bree sleepwalks through the whole thing. Katherine is there, though, a steady presence; small, lopsided smiles across the room, hands pressing gently against a shoulder or back as they pass. Katherine’s hands aren’t delicate, but solid – wide capable palms and long fingers, with a touch promising I’m here, I’m not going. It’s not enough, not even close to enough, but it’s a start, and Bree lets her tension begin to unfurl around the edges.
At the end, when they’re finished, and Bree feels herself really flagging, Katherine is there again. Slipping an arm through Bree’s, smiling in that way that makes her nose crinkle.
“Right, then. Let’s go home,” she says, and it sounds so natural on her tongue that Bree doesn’t startle one bit. I’m moving in, Katherine had said earlier. In the haze of the hangover, it had been an indistinct comfort, a declaration of friendship.
The reality of the promise doesn’t scare her – and, hilariously, that’s what does scare her. How the mighty have fallen. How reliant she has become.
If she were any less tired, she might just die from the shame.
***
Katherine brings a suitcase through the back door, entirely without fanfare. Takes it up to the guest bedroom, claps her hands together and suggests they make a start on dinner.
It’s four thirty, but Bree is so tired she just nods numbly. She lets Katherine lead her down to the kitchen, props herself up on one of the bar stools.
“Oh no, you’re not leaving me to do all of this too!”
There’s indignation in Katherine’s tone, and Bree’s head snaps up, only to see a quirked eyebrow and lopsided smile.
So, they make dinner absurdly early in Bree’s kitchen, shoulders and elbows brushing, silent but for the sound of their process. They’ve long since passed the needs for words, here.
Midway through, when Bree’s hands start to shake, Katherine doesn’t say anything. Just reaches over and steadies them at the wrist, her own hands warm and careful.
***
It’s not fair to say that Katherine drags her out of bed in the morning. She doesn’t barge in like she had the day before, doesn’t pull off the comforter, stand there with her hands on her hips.
No – instead she knocks carefully, cracks the door open.
“Bree?”
Bree lets out something embarrassingly close to a groan in response.
She had forgotten about this part. That the first week or so without hangovers was as bad as a three-bottle morning.
“I brought you some coffee,” Katherine says, in lieu of mocking.
Bree almost misses the mocking; the little asides, competitive and icy, but never too harsh. Misses two days ago, when Katherine knew nothing of her turmoil and treated her like an equal.
Instead, there’s Katherine in her bedroom doorway, fully dressed, with a mug in each hand. Katherine, moving inside to set down the mugs, pull open the curtains, perch on the corner of the bed.
Closer, Bree can see that she’s not put her makeup on yet. She looks younger, softer, eyes big and green in the morning sunlight. Her hair is clipped back in a wide barrette.
Bree doesn’t know if she’s ever seen Katherine without makeup.
Katherine clears her throat, startling Bree from her reverie. Then she holds out one of the mugs.
Bree takes a sip. It’s doctored just how she likes it – a little sweet cream, no sugar. Katherine drinks her own black and strong, and it always feels like she’s making a point.
“I think – no, I don’t think, I know – we should nip this in the bud. Get the alcohol out of the house,” Katherine says, voice clear and sure. When Bree looks over, her face is still soft, but there’s a steely determination behind her eyes. A hint of the woman who had stormed in here yesterday, irate and fiery, before the pity took over.
Bree prefers this, she thinks. Katherine’s more familiar when she’s challenging.
Even if the concept being proposed makes dark, sticky guilt and shame swirl in Bree’s stomach.
“There’s – it’s a lot,” Bree says. Her voice comes out croaky and low. “It’s a compulsion. I know you – I just don’t want you to…”
Katherine takes pity on her, then – yet again – her voice gentler than Bree has ever heard it.
“I could never think less of you, not for this,” she says, before straightening her spine visibly, snapping back to no-nonsense. “Right, let’s get started. The longer we leave it, the harder it’ll get.”
“Can I at least shower first?” Bree asks, hating how petulant she sounds.
“Fine,” Katherine says, standing from the bed. “Finish your coffee too.”
Then she smooths down the blanket and snaps the door shut behind her.
***
Bree doesn’t linger in the shower – there’s no point. If she were only accountable to herself, she’d find a way to drag it out, make any excuse to avoid this.
If there’s one thing Katherine’s sure to do, however, it’s hold her accountable.
It wasn’t easy last time – no, it had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done. And that had been alone, her own will forcing her to claw her way out of the hole she’d fallen into.
She’s not alone this time, through the grace of God and Katherine Mayfair. It’s more than she deserves, and she’s soul-crushingly aware of that.
Bree blast-dries her hair, twists it back, and takes one look at her face in the mirror before deciding she might as well leave it as is. Katherine’s already seen her, and God knows she’s not planning on leaving the house anytime soon. Let this self-imposed exile last as long as possible. This realm, she can deal with.
Even with an unexpected interloper.
When she gets downstairs, Katherine is perched in the kitchen, nursing another cup of coffee. Katherine drinks more coffee than any woman Bree’s ever met, and somehow manages to avoid the shakiness that affects most people.
She smiles when she sees Bree, and it reaches up to her eyes.
There’s no more putting it off.
Bree leads her to the first place, the worst place, the most shameful place. Takes a deep, steeling breath before opening the cupboard. Begins to take out the detergent bottles shielding the incriminating ones, then turns around.
Katherine smooths her features, wipes away the shock after barely a flash, but it’s long enough. The mask falls into place then, the one that Bree used to see as haughty and aloof. She knows better now, knows her too well – they know each other too well. They’re too similar. This is a defence mechanism.
When she turns back to the cupboard to bring down the Chardonnay with shaking hands, Bree knows that it’s the paranoia talking when she sees flashes of disgust in her peripheral vision. Katherine is upfront about some things in a way that Bree isn’t – if she were disgusted, she wouldn’t hide it. Still, that doesn’t stop Bree’s skin crawling at the thought.
Disgusting, repulsive, pathetic, weak, weak, weak.
“Bree?”
Bree’s head snaps up, guilt swirling in her chest so wildly that it must show on her face.
Katherine’s mask has softened into something akin to pity. Which is worse, almost, than any perceived disgust.
Bree won’t let herself crack, though. Won’t let herself cry over this again. How fruitless this feels. She hinted to it yesterday, muddled as she was. What is there to recommend sobriety this time around? I’ve nothing left. Even in her state though, she’d seen it – the fall in Katherine’s expression.
Maybe a best friend and a business is enough of something.
“Is this all of it in here?” Katherine says finally.
Bree nods, blindly.
***
It takes an hour to get it all, time dragged out because Bree honestly forgets some of her hiding places. Spice racks, utility cupboards, sock drawers, airing vents, each more improbable than the last.
She’d been alone in the house, which makes it even more embarrassing. There’d been no one to judge, and yet still the urge to hide it all away.
Her hands shake, far too much to unscrew caps and uncork bottles. Not withdrawal, not yet, just something else, something untameable, imprecise – an odd mixture of grief, relief, and terror.
Katherine does that job instead, steadily and calmly. Lights a scented candle as she pours each bottle methodically down the sink while Bree watches.
Steady, calm. They’ve never been associated with Katherine until now. It’s as though she’s dipping into a great well of strength, all for Bree’s sake.
If she feels any more gratitude, she thinks she might just crack open with the force of it and fall to her knees right there on the kitchen tiles.
***
As afternoon comes, slipping away into evening, they settle into stillness in the sitting room. Bree staring into space, Katherine reading with her ankles crossed primly in front of her. Like a debutante, like a character in a Jane Austen novel.
At some point, Bree notices that Katherine has laid her book in her lap, marking the page with two fingers gently crooked. Is looking at Bree, like she’s gearing herself up to say something. It’s the eye contact that seems to spur her into speaking.
“Look, Bree,” she says, voice more tentative than earlier. “I know you’re embarrassed, but you really needn’t be.”
“I’m just sorry,” Bree mumbles. “Sorry you feel you have to do this.”
“Seriously?” Katherine says, and it’s a little shrill and biting for the soft glow of the room. It shatters the peace, anyway.
“What?”
“Are you the most modest person on planet Earth, or is your head so far up your self-pitying ass that you’ve failed to remember just how much you’ve done for me?” Katherine says, shoving her book page-down on the coffee table, debutante-esque no longer.
“Excuse me?”
“Bree,” Katherine breathes, and it’s so fondly exasperated that it soothes the sting of her earlier sharpness. “Do you remember that day, when you drove me back from the hospital, and you just sat with me, for two hours, because I couldn’t go in the house? Or when you poured money into our business that I couldn’t hope to match, yet still made me your partner? Or when Dylan went to college, and I was… on the edge, ringing her fifteen times a day, and you checked on me time and time again, invited me for dinner and scheduled our weeks so I’d have something to do every day?”
“I was just being a good friend.”
“Oh, what, and letting you drown your sorrows and loneliness would’ve been such a beautiful sign of friendship?”
“I’m sorry you felt obligated, is all I meant.”
“Bree,” Katherine says, “Let me make this very clear. You could’ve done all these things for me, and unless I cared about you deeply, I would not be doing this. I’m not here because I feel I owe you some karmic debt, I’m here because you’re my best friend and I can’t bear to see you suffering, okay?”
Bree nods, but Katherine shakes her head. Reaches over with those warm hands, taps Bree’s chin until she raises it to meet her eyes.
“I want to hear you say it. You’re more than welcome to a pity party – hell, I’ll join you on some counts – but not about this.”
There’s a startling intensity to Katherine’s eyes. Something burning, something that almost hurts to look at head on.
Bree nods again.
“Okay.”
“Alright then,” Katherine says, smiling in a way that makes it impossible not to smile back.
Bree can’t remember the last time she smiled involuntarily.