Work Text:
September brings forth a welcomed chill to California. And to his doorstep, a surprise. Also welcomed? Well...
"Hey—oh." A pause built of shock. "Um. Hey. What—what are you doing here?"
"I, uh—There was a psych conference. At UCLA. I was sent for work."
"Right. Okay. Did... did you want to get coffee? Or, um, dinner? Or something..."
"No, no. I—" A sigh. A commitment to her decision. "The clinic only paid for the hotel until today, but my flight is Sunday evening. I would've gotten a room, but money has been a little tight, so..."
So, can I stay here instead?
A moment of hesitation. A screaming of No!'s silenced by just the helpless look on her face. An inaudible sigh of resignation under his breath she doesn't hear.
"Okay, Belly. Sure. Come in."
To him, she is always welcomed. Even when she shouldn't be.
//
"So... How is work?"
"Good. Yeah, it's good."
"Good."
"How about you? Conference, you said?"
"Yeah. It was good."
"Good...good."
//
"I shouldn't be here, should I?"
"Honestly, Belly?"
"Yeah, Conrad. Honestly."
That's all I've ever wanted from you. The truth. Give it to me now, even if it's too late. Even if it no longer matters.
"Honestly... I don't know."
A sigh. Not disappointed, because that wouldn't be fair. Not when she doesn't know either.
//
A kiss. An almost kiss.
It's him who turns away. Her who gets embarrassed.
"Sorry. Sorry. Fuck... I'm sorry. I shouldn't—I shouldn't—" A shake of her head. "I don't want to use you."
An intake of breath, sharp. "No, it's not... it's not that." A sigh, soft. Then, a fact: "I've been made to be used by you."
She absorbs the revelation. Lets it reignite her courage.
"Then what's the problem?"
//
A slow blink. A stare that narrows.
"The problem, Belly, is that I'm not going to be my dad."
A huff of frustration. A matching glare. "Except you wouldn't be your dad. I'm the Adam in this situation. You're just—You're the Kayleigh."
"That's worse. I'm not letting you become my dad, Belly."
"Why not?" It's less of a question, more of a tantrum she's far too old for. "I'm asking for it. I want it. I want you. And I don't care if that makes me a bad person."
"Shut up, Belly. Just... shut up. Salmon?"
"...what?"
"Dinner, Belly. Do you want salmon?"
Another slow blink, this time from her. "What, did you finally cause the chickens to go extinct?"
A twitch of his lips. A smile. Barely there, barely enough to qualify for the title, but for her, it's enough.
It leaves her stunned. The sight of it after so, so many years.
"Something like that. So... baked salmon, good?"
"Yeah, good."
//
"Is everything okay?"
"Yeah."
Everything is okay. It always is.
The fork in her hand stabs the broccoli harder than necessary.
"It's just... Okay, well. You know I'm always here for you, right? I'm only a phone call—or flight—away if you... if you ever need me."
"I know that. Obviously, I know, Conrad. Why do you think I'm here?"
//
"I saw how badly what my dad did hurt my mom. As much as I—" A break in his breath. A whisper. "I want you, too. Of course, I do." A shake of his head. "But no. As much as I hate him sometimes, I'm not going to put him through that."
"The thing is, Conrad, I don't really think he'll care."
A pause.
"Fuck, Belly."
//
"Do you... do you have a girlfriend?"
"No."
"A situationship?"
"A what?"
"Like, a fling. A routine hookup... or whatever."
"I have sex with women occasionally, yes, if that's what you're asking."
"But no girlfriend?"
"No."
"Never?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Would there be a point? Any other girl... Well, any girl, I wouldn't be able to do right by her. Come on, you of all people know that."
"Mm."
"Have you moved on?"
"I'm married." A flash of her ring. His mother's. "Did you forget?"
"No, Belly, I didn't forget. That's also not what I asked."
No, I haven't moved on.
"What do you think?"
//
"Do you hate me too?"
"No, Belly. Who could ever hate you?"
"You should. You can."
A loaded silence. Then, a confession.
"I did once. Hate you a little. After that night on the beach."
"Now?"
"Now... Now, I just feel sorry for you."
A sigh, dejected. "I'd rather you hate me."
Another sigh. His matching hers. "I can't, Belly. I've tried. I can't."
//
She tries again. After he makes up the guest room for her. A please falling from her pouted lips. It's pathetic, but there's a fire in her body she didn't think she would ever remember again, a simmering of furious want that makes her abandon all dignity.
"I said no, Belly."
The rejection is a splash of cold water on her overheated skin.
She pulls away. Burrows her face into her palms, her too long hair draping over her shame.
"I'm such a slut."
A finger on her chin. A forced tilt of her head. Sea glass eyes, sharp and soft, meeting her doe eyes.
"Hey. You're only allowed to degrade yourself when I allow. Remember that?"
A shiver down a spine. Hers. A stutter of her vocal cords. Also hers.
"But, we're not together. The rules don't... they don't apply anymore."
A smirk. His. Wicked yet impossibly tender.
"Don't they?" The grip on her chin tightens. "Infinity, Isabel. Our rules are infinite, even if we aren't."
The clock ticks and then his skin is off hers.
He leaves her with an empty bed, with cold sheets and no one to warm them with, with an emptiness no one else can fill.
//
Friday night slips into Saturday's morning. There's breakfast waiting for her when she wakes, a post-it next to the waffles.
Quick shift. Be back by 2. Make yourself at home.
She settles onto the barstool. Takes a bite of the waffles. They're on the colder side of room temp. She gets up to warm them.
The microwave buzzes. She leans against the counter. Looks around the kitchen, the apartment.
Make yourself at home.
Home. She tries to imagine it, this apartment, his apartment, as her home.
It's almost too easy.
//
When he opens the door, he's greeted by the sight of her on his couch, in an old Stanford hoodie of his that nearly swallows her whole, a steaming mug he chipped on accident cupped between her palms.
"Hey."
Fuck.
But this is what he wished for, isn't it?
"Ask me again."
A shortage in breath. His.
A widening of eyes. Hers.
"Last chance. Ask."
"Can we pretend, Conrad? Just for this weekend?"
A sigh, locking it in.
"Yeah, Belly. Let's pretend."
//
"Ring off."
"Huh?"
"I'm not doing this with you with my mom's ring on your finger."
"You are the reason I have this ring!"
"Because there was no other choice! Don't you get that? No one would believe you were a wife with that other ring."
"Marriage isn't dependent on a piece of jewelry, Conrad. A ring means nothing."
"Then take it off."
It takes a tug, but it manages to slide off.
Her hand feels lighter than it has in ages.
//
They can't leave the apartment, because despite the hermit crab energy he exudes, he's actually well-acquainted in California. Not that it really matters. None of his acquaintances know him. None of this would get back to him, not really. Regardless... it's smarter to be safe.
They stay in his apartment.
Or, as it is for the weekend, theirs.
//
Old movies she hasn't watched in a while. Sour-then-sweet candy she hasn't enjoyed in who knows how long. The lap of the boy—the man now—she hasn't sat in since she was a teenager.
It's a perfect evening.
//
In between films, he looks at her. Darkness shrouds them, their sin.
A furrow digs between his brows.
"There used to be stars in your eyes. What happened?"
"Stars die, Conrad. You know that. You taught me that."
"Yours weren't supposed to, sweetheart."
//
A lamp is switched on. A small beacon of light, yet still too bright. But they need to see what they're cooking so they let their eyes adjust.
Limbs slide by each other, salt and pepper and paprika passed from one set of fingers to the other and back again. Arms curve around a broad back, palms resting on a set of abs, cheek against the hard muscle of his spine.
"If this ends up burnt, it's your fault."
"At least it'll have flavor."
A swat of the spoon against her arm. "Watch it."
She waves her hand in his face. Glares at him as he looks at the splatter of sizzling sauce on her wrist. "You watch it."
His head tilts down. Lips meet her skin in a kiss that burns even hotter. His tongue laps up the sauce.
He lets go, continues on casually.
"Go set the table, baby."
She's still dizzy as she grabs the plates.
//
The lamp is turned off again. Now, the light comes from the hazy flames of the candles. From the small stars in her eyes, miraculously born again.
He spoons out a heap of spaghetti onto her plate, thanks her with a kiss to her temple when she pours the wine into his glass.
They talk. She giggles. He smiles.
It's hard to remember this isn't their normal.
//
The candles snuff out.
He washes. She dries.
"This is how it would've been?"
"Yeah, honey. This is how it would've been."
She cries into his shoulder.
//
No matter how much she asks, begs, he doesn't budge.
"Sweetheart... it'll only hurt you in the end."
"I want the hurt. Please, Conrad. I just want to feel something again. Anything real. Just—just, I don't want to feel like this anymore."
"Like what?"
"Like... like nothing. I can't stand it. Make it stop."
//
He doesn't have sex with her.
It hurts almost worse than if he had.
//
He takes her to bed. Tucks her into his side, lets her tears wet his shirt as he rubs a palm down her back. Whispers sweet nothings into her hair, loving affirmations she pockets for a rainy day.
She falls asleep on his chest. One broken heart resting atop another.
//
Their weekend is coming to a close. They didn't even do anything. Certainly nothing to write home about.
And yet. It feels like they did everything.
//
"Why did you stay? Why didn't you go home on Friday like you were supposed to be?"
"How did you—"
An unimpressed look. He's no longer pretending for her. Her time is up.
"UCLA is five hours away. Next time you want to play a ploy, don't be dumb with it."
A sigh of defeat. She deserves that.
"I forgot how easy it is supposed to be to breathe. Did you know that, Conrad? I forgot how to breathe. Is it a crime for me to want the ease for a little longer?"
His grip tightens around her midsection. He pulls her back, closer into his chest. "No, Belly. It's not a crime. It's your right."
//
It's their last hour.
Her bags are by the front door, packed, ready.
She's in his bed, frayed, not ready at all, but trying to be.
"I'm not leaving him."
A sigh, unsurprised. "I know."
"I can't. If I left him for you... he'd never forgive us. No one would forgive me. I'd be the speak of, like, four different cities."
"Forget about me for a second, Belly. Remove me from the equation. If I wasn't a factor, would you still stay with him?"
"I don't know... I mean, yeah, probably."
"Why, Belly? Why are you so intent on punishing yourself?"
"It's not—I'm not—I made a promise to Susannah. I'd be a bitch to break a deathbed vow."
A pinch to her side. "What did we say about the name-calling?"
"Only you're allowed to do it."
"Good girl. And whatever promise you made my mom... this isn't how she'd want you to honor it."
"You don't know that."
"I knew my mom, Belly. I know. You were her special girl, weren't you? She would hate to see how sad you've become."
Her chest clenches around the cavity where her heart is supposed to be.
"Or maybe she would hate me for playing with both of her boys."
"Belly... no."
"Conrad, just... just stop. Hold me while you still can, yeah?"
Less than an hour now.
His arms wrap tighter around her.
//
She won't change her mind, won't change her circumstance. She's resigned herself to the fate she thinks she deserves.
It kills him.
If she's a bitch, then he's an asshole, because he's pissed. Pissed at his dead mom for bounding her to an impossible promise. Pissed at his brother for draining his sunshine girl of her everburning light. Pissed at her for letting him. Pissed at himself for wronging her first. For being the reason she was now stuck in this underserved suffering.
It's too late for him to save her. He can't divorce her from his brother. That's a choice she has to make herself. He just has to accept whatever it is she decides to do.
This is his suffering.
//
They arrive at the airport.
She's showered, no longer smells of him. The sweatshirt over her shoulders is now an old Finch one of hers. Her—his mother's—ring is back on her finger.
Their weekend is over.
He sends her off with a reminder. "A phone call or flight away."
She bids farewell with an acknowledgement. "I know."
They both know it means nothing. She won't make use of it again.
There are no hugs. No stolen touches. Only the blood of their decaying hearts. It's a stain on the airport floor, the only evidence of their crime, so dark and so invisible.
//
She flies back to Boston, and that's it. That's the end.
The seasons fold over, the years trickle away.
Their marriage stays the same. Bleak, boring, okay. Divorce is brought up, once, briefly, but Belly has too much shame and Jeremiah has too much pride. It's not brought up again.
Conrad continues to fill the absence in his life with women who aren't her, will never be her. His longest relationship lasts nearly a year. He never once refers to her as his girlfriend.
//
The curse of age starts to steal him away.
It starts slowly, with his mind first. His beautiful, intelligent mind she thought invincible.
She has to teach him about the stars again. Infinity. This, she doesn't mind. She likes laying next to someone who will listen. Who understands even with half a working brain.
When his tongue forgets the letters of her name, that's when the final part of her dies. The last of the tiny stars in her eyes finally burns out.
And when the curse of time buries him into the ground, a distance too far to be reached by a phone call or flight, she prays over his grave, hand in her husband's, for her to join him soon.
//
It only takes a week.
Broken heart syndrome, the doctors tell her husband, who doesn't want to understand but does. Because really, what else could it have been? Her tattered heart survived longer than most. It was time for it to rest.
//
Belly and Conrad. Infinite even in death.
Especially in death.