Work Text:
"Darling what we had
It cannot be taken
It cannot be stolen
And it won't be forgotten."
- It Will Not Be Forgotten, The Pierces
Much later, when everything had already fallen apart, she lay in bed, rolling over one particular memory in her mind. It came to her in sudden burst of clarity; like a tranquil, clean lotus in bloom in the midst of a swamp. The purity of that singular moment had, it seemed, withstood all the murk and shadow, the blood and betrayal. Sometimes, a look said it all.
“Look, the shareholders want a CEO successor named before the shareholder meeting, they have made that clear.”
It was business as usual at Logan's townhouse. Or at least, she was doing a damn good job keeping up the pretense that she was solely interested in a discreet professional alliance, the public outcome of which would be a leg up for both of them on the rusty rungs of the Logan validation ladder.
Gerri had perfected her poker face after years of working for a viper on steroids. Moreover, she'd become quite adept at rejecting the advances of boorish, forward men with large bank accounts and larger paunches. The kind of men who thought the only way she could have made it to the executive floor was by fucking the 'talent,' so to speak, even though Gerri could run circles around every bastard in the building and was far too pretty for any of those empty suits.
So, of course it bothered her to no end that after all this time, the man who had somehow managed to burrow himself under her skin, making himself a permanently aggravating home there—was Roman Roy. Her boss's utterly incorrigible youngest son. A walking lawsuit and a menace. Often the target of his father's misplaced wrath. And yet, also incredibly handsome, charming, and even, daresay—sweet—once in a blue moon.
The way he looked at her while she spoke made her stomach turn. Usually, she flat out ignored his little crush or whatever the fuck it was he felt (knowing him, it was more likely he was just being provocative for the hell of it. Roman with Gerri, so funny together, can you imagine? Hardee har har...), but that night, the sheer intensity of his gaze threw her off. His hazel eyes were fixed on her almost devotedly, entirely unwilling to glance away for even a second.
He was drinking her in like she was the only one in the blasted world that mattered, and she couldn't help but think that a weaker woman would have folded then and there.
Gerri recalled, then, with a certain nostalgic fondness, the romance novels she had read in her younger and more vulnerable years. How the girls' knees would buckle and give way when faced with the adoration of their suitors. And the suitors would then pretend that their lovers' frailty could be chalked up to their poor constitutions rather than to their overwhelming desire. A well-choreographed dance that would play out for pages upon pages. Until finally, someone would act upon their desperate need for the other and there would be a magical kiss for the ages.
Gerri hadn't kissed a man since she'd bid farewell to Baird in the cold hospital where he'd passed in his sleep quietly after a long struggle with cardiac issues.
After the loss of her husband, having casual sex every so often helped stave off some of the loneliness she felt. However she rarely, if ever, engaged in the kind of intimate foreplay that meant anything with these men. Besides, she had work to keep her busy. Even more so since the cruises scandal had come to light.
But now, she found herself embroiled, yet again, in all the impractical chaos of a messy workplace dalliance. She knew she should be more stern with Roman, but she couldn't bring herself to turn him away. His attention was, she found, not entirely unpleasant.
In fact, if she was being honest with herself, she permitted his advances because she enjoyed being seen for the first time in a while. Not as the sin cake eater, or general counsel, or a sensible but invisible—how had Roman put it?—filing cabinet. Seen as a woman. Not a woman to wave in front of the world as proof of Waystar's diversity, equity, and inclusion measures at the highest levels of the company. Not a woman to clean up the men's messes.
He saw her as a sensuous being, as the object of his longings. And with that, she'd been transformed from "NRPI" status back into a fantasy. (A sick fantasy, but a fantasy nonetheless!)
But none of that mattered. She had to feign absolute indifference to his regard for her, and her growing fondness for him and focus. Focus on their joint bid for the top.
"If you're serious about us as a dream ticket, it'd be smart to pre-empt any bad stuff that could come out if you came into the spotlight."
The promise of the dream ticket—a Roy kid at the helm with Gerri steering—had faded away after just the smallest taste of the wind in their sails. When Logan came to learn about what had come to pass between his son and his most trusted employee, he personally ensured the shipwreck that would follow.
Gerri doubted that Logan had truly understood the nature of the bond between her and Roman. After all, she herself had only just realized what had been so obvious all along, what had eluded everyone else. The key was that evening at the townhouse, when they'd stood in the center of a room full of important people, with eyes only for each other.
Roman Roy loved her.
She didn't know when it had started or why he had designs on her, but she knew that he was irrevocably in love with her the minute she translated the hidden meaning in his burning stare.
"You want me to just tell you all the terrible things, that I, Roman Roy, have ever done?"
She wanted to know everything. She needed to know, sure, for their plan to work. But the truth was, she was curious about him, about this weakling everyone couldn't seem to take even remotely seriously. She wanted to know what kind of skeletons were hidden in his multi-million dollar closets. What secrets were concealed just beyond that insufferable smirk?
"How would you feel if I had some oppo research done? See what a tenacious bottom-feeder could...grub up on you?"
At that point, they'd been so close she could feel his breath on her face. His head cocked to the side, his eyes following every minute movement of her lips, like he wanted to devour her whole.
"I'd say that sounds like fun."
The way he'd said it made her aware that the oppo research seemed to be the last thing on his mind. He was head over heels. And it was real. Not just a ploy or him fucking around and being awful. No, he actually loved her.
He was probably the only one in his monumentally screwed up family even capable of such a thing. Gerri had no doubt there was little love between her god-daughter and Tom. And Kendall was separated from his wife (God save Rava, she'd often found herself thinking!) No need to even get into the mire that was Logan and all his women.
For someone who'd spent what felt like a lifetime thinking about the optics, the goddamn optics, Gerri sure did feel dense or maybe just ignorant, for not having realized that his affection for her was written across his every feature. Sewn into the fabric of the shirts he wore to match with her, much to her chagrin. Threaded into the electric air between them. On the tips of his fingers and in the way he draped himself across furniture, almost as if to draw her attention to his body; to its slender elegance and the way it encapsulated the very form of his feelings.
It was a strange thing, seeing this boy she'd known for his whole life, grow up to be a man who found her attractive. Who wanted to fuck her, if he was even capable of the deed.
Knowledge didn't necessarily equate to action. A prime tenet for the most valued Waystar employees.
You were there to help convey the vision, not, by any means, to open your eyes to see what that vision asked of you, or to challenge the vision.
Gerri carried this ethos over into her personal life too. Just because she knew now, much too late, that Roman loved her, it didn't mean she could or should do anything about it. The pain, the shock, the sheer absurdity of it was still raw. A fresh wound that would need time to heal. And if she had any say in the matter, she'd much prefer to leave the wound untended. Bury that shit and rise above.
But hindsight was 20/20. Now, she could acknowledge just how deep of a cut she must have made in Italy, when she'd chosen the father over the son. Now, she registered his lashing out as the ravages of grief. Now, she understood that she had, perhaps, made a mistake in trying to paper over the tenderness between them, in pretending that there was nothing there.
When she drank sake, her throat burned with memories of Japan. When she did up her buttons, she thought of him hungover. When the cherry blossoms created a carpet of pink along her street, she thought of what he might be doing just twenty or so blocks away; wondering if he was even in New York, still, when he'd always seemed to prefer California.
One night, when she watched one of those terrible romance movies on Netflix, her heart caught in her throat at the way the hero looked at his love. And she thought, Roman Roy used to look at me that way in plain sight. At work, in restaurants, on corporate retreats turned into boarish nightmares, in Italy, on boats and planes.
She tucked the thought away, warming to it, even if it broke her just a bit. If what they all said about Roman was true—that he wasn't really interested in relationships, probably because of performance issues and unexplained trauma never to be unpacked in therapy—then Gerri might have been the one for him, whatever that meant. Even if he wasn't the one for her. For her, it had been Baird. It would always be Baird. Right?
A chasm had opened in her, with Baird on the one side and Roman on the other. What each man had offered had been invaluable. Baird had given her a whole life. Her daughters. A sample of the conventional. A steadfast, dependable sort of relationship premised on kindness and mutual care.
And Roman? What had he given her? A rare and remarkably passionate attachment, the likes of which she was unlikely to find again in however many years she still had remaining. Oh, what they'd had could never be taken away from her or stolen or marred by the bitter smack of firings and feral and faithless dealings. Such an attachment would not and could not be easily forgotten. Because sometimes, a look said it all.