From: Paige Caldwell Date: 14 Jun 1999 17:33:05 -0700 Subject: xfc New "Dream Within a Dream" MSR.X (1 of 1) Title: Dream Within a Dream Author: Paige Caldwell Feedback: paigecaldwell@hotmail.com Classification: MSR, X, S Rating: R Spoilers: Through "One Son" Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. No infringement is intended. Summary: Is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream? Author's Notes: My many thanks to Kimberly at Clinique's Hidden Gems whose kind support and encouragement is the true "gem" in my book. Archive: Please do, just drop me a line to tell me where. Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow - You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream. Dream Within a Dream by Edgar Allan Poe "What is the true significance of dreams?" Oh God...he's about to launch into another incessant, banal narration, Scully thought grimly, as she gingerly rubbed the side of her temple with her index finger. The threatened dissertation could not have come at a worst time. She was battling a tension headache, the type that stole up the neck and toyed around in one's head until it settled into it's prime location. It had found hers. She reached up to flip the visor down to shield her strained eyes from the late afternoon sun. They were weaving their way through the Virginia countryside on their way back to D.C. Mulder had taken one of his infamous shortcuts that seemed to lead nowhere fast. A small grimace formed on her lips as they passed the first intersection in miles. That was, of course, if a dirt road marked "Bob's Road" could qualify as an intersection. They were lost. She was sure of it. She edged closer towards the car door as he droned on, trying to shut out the sound of his words, the sound of him... "Why are dreams so easily dismissed as useless imaginings of subconscious mind?" Mulder considered, tapping his finger on the steering wheel, as if he was in tempo with the beat of his own thoughts. "In some instances, they are precognitive, a foreshadowing of events to come. Like deja'vu, a sensation realized, but not fully accepted. Too mysterious and threatening to be taken seriously. Yet, if you take away the mystery, dreams are instructive." Who gives a shit? Scully exhaled slowly as she closed her eyes. Mulder paused, as if he was allowing a discrete amount of time for her to respond. When she didn't, he shifted his opinion into overdrive as his foot accelerated on the gas pedal. Her hand instinctively fell down to clutch the door as the road curved to the right. "It's almost like one's mind is unconsciously sifting and sorting through possibilities that aren't constrained by rational thought. Dreams battle for our attention, Scully. If we only paid a bit closer attention, I think we'd learn alot from them." You should pay a bit closer attention to your driving, her mind jeered back. Her left eye cracked open to peer over at her partner. He was restless today. Since they had lost the X-files, his moods spiraled like the colors of a dark hued kaleidoscope. From bored to sullen to a frenzied agitation. It was unnerving. Her complacency only seemed to goad him more. He either wanted her to feel as miserable as he did, or he sought intellectual stimulation from the only source left available to him. Whatever the reason, his shifting demeanor was driving her crazy. One minute, she was left with the impression that he vaguely tolerated her. The next, she was the primary focus of his attention, a soon-to-be casualty of ludicrous rhetoric that made her jaw ache from grinding her teeth. No wonder she had tension headaches. Scully squirmed uncomfortably in the passenger seat. The pull of the car on the narrow curve of the road made her uneasy. "Slow down," she cautioned. "I'm not even going the speed limit," Mulder protested. There was an unmistaken edge to his voice. She opened her mouth to speak, but changed her mind and closed it. She knew better. "Do you dream, Scully?" "Nope." "Sure you do," He was not to be deterred by her abruptness. "What does that prudent, compartmentalized brain of yours dream of by night?" That's right...tempt me with insults, she thought in annoyance. She twisted around in her seat to search for her purse. "Come on, Scully, if you tell me yours, I'll tell you mine." His innuendo fell flat on her ears. "One little dream, Scully. Surely not a high price to pay to gain entrance into the inner circle of my psyche?" As if I'm interested in the ravings of a madman, she mused as she rummaged through her purse. "Out with it." His voice was demanding. "Okay, fine," she finally answered. "At this moment, I'm dreaming of a cold glass of water and two Advil." Her fingers closed around the bottle of pills. For a moment she debated swallowing them dry. It wasn't a pleasant thought. Mulder's took his eyes off the road to glance at her. She saw the rancor in his eyes, as if he perceived her need for pain medication as a personal attack. His response was equally biting. "Well, we're about to pass a nice, clear lake, if you don't mind lapping..." "Mulder, watch out!" she cried suddenly. From the side of road, a deer darted in front of the path of the car. Mulder slammed the brakes and jerked the wheel to avoid a head on collision. He battled for control of the car as it spun off the road. The tires screeched loudly as the car plunged down the slope of the embankment. Low lying branches and bushes whipped against the windshield as the car careened through the underbrush. His arm flew up to shield her as the front end of the car grazed the side of a tree. Did she lose consciousness? She wasn't sure. As her vision cleared, she found staring at her hands which were lying limply in her lap. It was then that she felt the car slip. The impact against the tree had spun the car around, continuing it backwards down the incline towards the lake. "Oh my God," she cried out. She felt the back end of the car rise up for a split second as it entered the water. "Oh my God..." She was seized by overwhelming panic. Her hands flew to the dashboard as the car lurched to one side then another as it began to submerge under the water. Her fingers fumbled with the latch of her safety belt. The collision had locked it tightly against her chest. It refused to give an inch, pinning her in her seat. She was trapped. "Mulder!" she screamed, turning towards him. He was slumped forwards, his head resting against the steering wheel. He was unconscious. Straining against the iron grip of the seat belt, she pulled him back. It was then that she saw the blood. His blood. Smeared over the steering wheel, coursing down the side of his face from a laceration that sliced across his hairline. "Mulder!" Scully shook him roughly, sheer terror outweighing her concern for him. He remained limp, the collar of his shirt turning crimson as it absorbed his blood. Her hand instinctively applied pressure to the cut as her eyes scanned the interior of the car. Water was gushing in from the bottom and streaming down the insides of both doors. As the water flooded around her legs, she tugged again at the seat belt. When it refused to budge, she opened the glove compartment to search for anything that might pry it open. Nothing...there was nothing. As the cold water reached her waist, she began to violently writhe against the unyielding restraint. "Please, God, please...." her breath came out in short, contorted breaths. She was beginning to hyperventilate. The air was swiftly becoming dank and oppressive. Her vision became distorted, almost dazed as she stared out the window at what was to become their watery grave. "Mulder," she whimpered then. Her trembling hand closed around his. Already the touch of his skin was cold. She jerked her hand back. Had the water chilled him or... Her fingers quickly closed around his wrist, searching for a pulse. When she was unable to find one, she began to sob. "No..." It was at that point that she woke from the dream. Thrashing wildly in her bed, she had managed to twist the sheets around her legs, imprisoning herself. For a moment, she froze, paralyzed by the terrified images and the frantic beating of her heart. A dream. A nightmare...the worst she had experienced in a long time. It was the type of dream that competed with reality, so detailed and lucid that it still lingered in her mind. She was not a stranger to dreams, both good and bad, but this one had been different. It had been devoid of nonsensical features or rapid transition that were typical of her dreams. She disentangled herself from the sheets and swung her legs off the side of the bed. Cupping her throbbing head, she exhaled slowly. It was then that she noticed that the silk pajamas she wore were damp and clinging to her skin. A cold sweat, she rationalized quickly. Nothing more. Scully staggered from the bed to the bathroom. She flipped on the light and opened the vanity mirror in search of her bottle of Advil. Her bare feet shifted against the icy tile as she grappled with the safety lid. As her thumb pressed the arrows together, she swore under her breath. Shit, of all times for the cap to refuse to budge. Irritated, she slammed the vanity shut. It was then that she saw his reflection in the mirror. Bleeding. He was staring at her, his eyes dark and terrified. Blood seeped down both sides of his face. "Mulder," she cried out in alarm, whirling around. He wasn't there. The bottle of Advil dropped from her hands. As it hit the floor, the lid popped off and spilled pills across the tiles. Scully shivered involuntarily as she lowered herself to the floor. She wasn't superstitious, but the haunting image of his face completely unnerved her. She retrieved the pills and tossed them into the waste basket. Taking two from the bottle, she leaned over the sink and cupped her hand under the faucet. "Well, we're about to pass a nice, clear lake, if you don't mind lapping..." She stared at the water in her hand as it began to trickle through her fingers. This is crazy, she thought, forcing the pills into her mouth. As she tried to gulp them down, she choked on the water which had somehow threaded into her lungs. Coughing, sputtering, she grasped the side of the sink and spat out the Advil. Her eyes glazed over with hot tears as she gagged spasmodically, the acid of her empty stomach rising to scald her throat. Pressing a hand towel to her mouth, she stumbled back to her bed where she curled up in agony until the nausea passed. God, this was awful. Was she getting sick? Not only would it explain the piercing headache, but also the harrowing dream. She glanced at the clock. It was a little past four a.m. She was scheduled to perform an autopsy later that morning on a case that Mulder had stuck his big nose into. Without authorization from Kersch, without consulting her, he had maneuvered them into another agent's investigation. A inquiry into a mysterious death that could possibly be linked to the paranormal. A moment later, Scully was dialing his number from the phone on her nightstand. The autopsy would have to wait. She didn't care that she was going to wake him. It would serve him right for volunteering her services in the first place. A metallic recording filled her ears. "We're sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in service at this time." She ran a hand through her hair. Redialing, she paused when the message played again. Typical. So typical of him. Probably forgot to pay his phone bill this month. By eight a.m., Scully was standing outside his apartment, pounding on the door. In her left hand was her cell phone which she had rhythmically dialed over the last hour in an attempt to reach him. Her level of discomfort had magnified to an acute state of trepidation. She needed to see him, to hear his voice, even if it meant suffering a round of his derisive needling when he realized how paranoid she had become. When Mulder answered the door, he was still half asleep. Clad in sweat pants and a t-shirt, he stared at her in numbed confusion. Passing his hand over his eyes, he cleared his throat and asked in a grumbling voice, "Dr. Scully, what are you doing here?" "You turned off your cell phone, Mulder," she accused. "Yeah..." he shrugged indifferently. "I've been trying to call you for hours," advised Scully. "And, it seems that your home number has been disconnected." "It has?" Mulder scratched his forehead. "Wait. I don't remember giving you my home telephone number. In fact, I know I didn't. Nor, did I give you my address." "What?" "Fox," a distinct female voice could be heard behind him. "Who is it?" "It's the forensic pathologist I was telling you about," Mulder called back. "The one who agreed to do the autopsy for us." Scully staggered back a few steps. A cry of anguish and indignation surged through her, booming in her mind but fortunately falling silent against her lips. The only noise that came from her was a barely discernable gasp as she stared at him in disbelief. They were lovers. Her worst nightmare was unfolding before her eyes. "And, I thought the days of doctors making house calls were long past..." Diana Fowley smiled as she joined Mulder at the door. Scully caught a quick glance at Fowley, her tall, slender body outlined in a black satin robe. How appropriate, she reflected with sudden cynicism. A black widow spider, spinning her gossamer web of lies, luring her prey with promises of rekindled love and shared convictions. Scully quickly averted her gaze so they would not see the humiliation that filled her eyes with tears. She blinked them back in a desperate attempt to compose herself. "Fox, don't just stand there," Fowley admonished him gently. "Invite Dr. Scully in. I'll pour her a cup of coffee and the three of us can discuss the pending autopsy." The three of us...a triangle that she had no intention of participating in. As Fowley moved away from the door, Scully's eyes flew up to Mulders. He stood there, nonchalantly, as if the startling discovery should have be no revelation at all. With one look, she knew her eyes revealed the depth of her reaction. Disbelief, revulsion and finally, heartbreak. His eyes flinched, then met hers again with an abstract curiosity. Without a word, she backed away from the door and turned to leave. "Dr. Scully..." Mulder called after her. She did not stop. At the end of the hall, she punched the elevator button. She found herself panting, laboring to breathe under a weight so heavy that it crushed her chest. For a moment, she thought she was going to pass out. Her hands flew out to the wall to brace herself. "Dr. Scully," Mulder was behind her, reaching out to touch her arm. "Are you alright?" His touch was like ice. She wrenched her arm away, pinning her clenched fist against her waist. Anger sizzled through her. She inhaled sharply, expanding her lungs and filling them with air. "Find someone else to do your autopsy, Mulder." "But, you agreed..." "And, why you're at it, find yourself a new partner." "Why would I do that? Diana's been with me for years." "I'm sure she has," sneered Scully. "What's that supposed to mean?" asked Mulder. The doors to the elevator opened. Scully stormed inside and smacked the first floor button. Before she could stop him, Mulder squeezed his body through the closing door. He flipped a switch which jerked the elevator to a stop, trapping them inside. "I think I deserve an explanation," he demanded. "The only thing you deserve is my contempt," snapped Scully as she reached out for the button on the panel. "Wait," Mulder warned her, his fingers closing around her wrist. They were like a vice, cold and unflinching. "You agreed to help me, Dr. Scully. Every other pathologist at the Bureau scoffs at the X-files. You're the only one who has been willing to give me the benefit of doubt." "Right now you should be grateful that I'm not giving you the back of my hand," Scully retorted. "To think that you qualify me as nothing other than some accommodating pathologist, that you are capable of dismissing everything that we've been through and everything that we've meant to each other." He looked puzzled. How dare he look puzzled. "Okay," he drew out the word as if he was attempting to comprehend the meaning of her last remark. "You're going to have to help me out on this one." "Not this time, Mulder. Not any more." She condemned him. "It stops here. It stops now." "Why are acting like I've somehow betrayed you?" "Because you have." "Are you implying that you and I had some type of personal relationship?" His look of genuine surprise was the worst betrayal of all. "If you have to ask that question then I guess we didn't." She tried not to sound as devastated as she felt. "But, you thought we did," Mulder paused and studied her face closely. "Has something happened to you, Dr. Scully? Have you suffered some type of recent trauma that might have distorted your memory?" "No," she stopped suddenly, remembering the horrifying dream. She shook her head emphatically, repeating to herself. "No." "I think one of us has rewritten history here." Mulder hinted. Oh my God... Scully's eyes froze on him as she began to sift and sort through possibilities that were no longer constrained by rational thought. "Mulder, when you look at me, who do you see?" "I see Dana Scully, a forensic pathologist with the Bureau. A very astute and discerning scientist, although unappreciated by her peers and largely ignored. That's what drew me to you in the first place. To offer you a chance the distinction you deserved. And, you agreed. You've assisted Diana and I on a number of our cases in the past." "You and Fowley..." her voice broke at the mere mention of the woman. "Look, I don't know what's going on here, This is more than bizarre. It's...it's like a bad dream that I can't wake up from." Scully circled the elevator, debating alternatives that were no longer fantastic but plausible. "She must have done something to you, Mulder. Given you something to make you forget..." "Listen, I know someone who might be able to help you." "I think not," Scully bristled at his offer. "I'm not the one who is delusional." "What makes you so sure?" "Because unlike you, my prudent, compartmentalized mind is not the type to take flights of fancy." "I hate to offend you, Dr. Scully, but I think one of those compartments has sprung a leak." Suddenly, the elevator lunged forward and began its descent to the first floor. Startled, Scully grabbed his arm and began to shake it. "Mulder," she cried out urgently. "What it is?" He leaned his head forward so that it was inches away from her face. "I..." Scully started to speak. For a moment, she was overwhelmed by a flooding panic, as if the four walls of the elevator were closing in on her. She was suffocating. Gasping uncontrollably, she stumbled back from him. When her back hit the wall of the elevator, she twisted around and groped along it with her hands, seeking an escape. "Scully..." She could hear his voice, but could not answer. Suddenly, the elevator door opened. The light from the hallway flashed inside, slicing through her terror. She pushed towards it, squirming away from hands that tried to restrain her, refusing to listen to the voice that kept repeating her name. I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand - How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep - while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God? can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream? Back at her apartment, Scully slammed the door and tried to strip off her jacket. It was pasted to her shirt. She was soaked from the steady rain that had followed her home. She tugged at the sleeves, tried wriggling her right shoulder loose, but could not free herself from it. Proof. She needed proof. Not only for him, but for herself. She ignored the discomfort of her sodden clothes and clammy, goosebumped flesh as she crossed over to her computer. She flipped on the monitor and booted the hard drive. Her finger impatiently tapped the mouse as she waited for the program manager to appear on the screen. Proof. She had years of proof. A chronology of field notes and reports that evidenced not only her role in the X-files, but their partnership. She knew it would be simpler to make a round of telephone calls to Skinner, the Gunmen and a number of others who could validate that Mulder's memory had been distorted. For now, she was reluctant to involve anyone else. Past experiences had taught her to be circumspect. Scully smoothed her wet auburn hair over her ears and studied the screen. It was all there, sorted chronologically by date. She began with the first entry in 1993. She leaned over to her printer and turned it on. Proof. Thank God she had prudently saved her reports and compartmentalized them on her computer. Suddenly, she blinked unsteadily and reached for her glasses. Peering closer, she discovered an autopsy report or rather notes on an autopsy that she had witnessed as a junior pathologist with the Bureau. Training notes. What the hell? Training notes. The year 1993 was filled with training notes. She weaved her way through the subsequent years, reading each entry, following the chronology of her career. Her career...her job as a forensic pathologist. No aliens, no government conspiracies, no blood sucking vampires, no ghosts, no flukeworms... History had not been rewritten by Mulder, but by her. The truth coldly glared at her from the computer screen. Page after page of incessant, banal narration...of autopsies...of forensic testing...the daily routine of her insipid life. Had she imagined it all? Had her role in the X-files been a long, continuous dream, a fantasy she played out in her mind to compensate for a stagnant career and an overwhelming sense of loneliness? Oh my God...Oh my God.... What had happened to her that she had fallen victim to such madness? Had it been some trauma? Some pathetic attempt on her part to gloss over an existence that had become hopeless and full of despair? Was it the cancer? Had it wreaked as much damage on her mind as it had her body? The cancer...it was there...in both worlds...the real one and the make-believe... Who was it that said that disease did not dull the senses, but sharpen them? She realized then what she had done. She had taken threads of the truth and weaved a tapestry of a fictitious life. An imaginary tale where she was the poignant heroine in a never ending battle of good versus evil. She had created her hero in the image of what she wanted him to be. Witty, audacious and trusting only of her. A man who not only challenged her intellect, but played her heartstrings like a virtuoso. No wonder they had never consummated the relationship. It was the tension that kept the story exciting. Except now, the dream was closing in on her. The truth was suffocating the illusion. She was drowning in the realization of her own obscurity. Scully wrenched her glasses off and threw them across the computer table. She buried her face in her hands and began to weep. She woke to the sensation of being pushed up against a hard substance. Her head was tilted back and her mouth open as she gasped for air. She writhed against the pull of the water, making small, spasmodic motions with her hands. Her nails grazed the felt material of the roof of the car which was inches away from her face. She was dreaming again. It was to be the final chapter. She knew that her mind was poised on the brink of insanity. The only way to stop the madness was to asphyxiate it, once and for all. Slowly, she submerged her face into the dark pool. She felt no fear. She would breathe in the water, allow it to pour down her trachea and fill her lungs. The first phase of drowning was painful, sharp enough to forever shake her from the dementia her subconscious had created. Suddenly, she felt a hand roughly yank at her seatbelt. It tore at the restraint with such a force that even under water, she was propelled towards the dashboard. Another hand joined the first, tugging her across the driver's seat to where the door had been kicked open. Mulder. He was dragging her out of the car, pulling her with him as he swam towards the surface of the lake. No, her mind screamed in agony. It had to stop. He wasn't rescuing her. He was condemning her to a fate worse than death, imprisoning her within a dream that would never end. Scully began to fight back. His grip around her waist tightened. She opened her mouth to shriek only to have water rush in. A sharp pain pierced through her lungs. It was more excruciating than she imagined. How could a dream be so physically painful? Her arms fell limply to her side as the beating of her heart slowed. Her vision began to cloud over. The pupils of her eyes dilated and fixed on the light that shone above her through the murky, grey water. She woke up on the floor of her livingroom. The lamp by her sofa was not only bright, but as warm as the afternoon sun. She tried to close her eyes. She was so weak that even this small effort seemed impossible. The feel of her carpet was gritty. She should really vacuum it later. Suddenly, he was there. Mulder. Leaning over her, straddling her body, his hands rhythmically pumping her chest. His lips pushed hers open. When he tried to force air into her, she tried to spit it back. She wanted nothing to do with this Mulder. The Mulder who belonged to someone else. "Breathe, damn it," he bellowed. His clenched hands pummeled so hard against her chest that she thought a rib might crack. "Don't you do this, Scully," he pleaded in a tight, desperate voice. "Don't you leave me." How could she leave someone who wasn't hers to begin with? Was he sweating or was he crying? Whatever the liquid was, it was dripping onto her face and coursing its way between her numbed lips. The taste of it was salty and warm against her tongue. It was blood. His blood. He was staring down at her. His eyes were dark and terrified, as blood trailed down both sides of his face. Suddenly, her mind recoiled and snapped back into place. The dream within the dream was converged and melded into one reality. "It's almost like one's mind is unconsciously sifting and sorting through possibilities that aren't constrained by rational thought..." Oh my God... "Dreams battle for our attention, Scully. If we only paid a bit closer attention, I think we'd learn alot from them." Mulder, help me...the scream tore from her soul. His mouth covered hers again. This time she inhaled his breath, willed her lungs to receive the oxygen. She began to choke. She struggled to expel the water from her airway. She felt him turn her head to the side as the water surged from her mouth and onto her livingroom rug. No...not a rug and not her livingroom. She was laying on the bank by the lake. The lake she had almost drowned in. "That's it, baby, breathe," she heard him encourage her. Baby...he had called her baby. This had to be real. Even in her wildest dreams, the closest term of endearment he had ever used was her first name. "Mulder..." The dream was over. Both were released from the hospital two days later. She, with the discharge instructions of follow-up respiratory therapy and he, with post-concussion and suture guidelines. He drove her back to her apartment, carefully monitoring his speed, keeping his eyes fixed on the road and applying the brakes way ahead of every traffic light. When they arrived at her building, he quickly came around to her door and opened it. When was the last time he had done that? Once inside her apartment, he stood by her door. He shifted back and forth on his feet. The expression on his face confirmed what she suspected. He did not wear guilt well. "Mulder, come here." Scully beckoned him to her sofa. "Sit down a minute." "You want to talk," he said, nodding to himself. She saw the dread in his hazel eyes and realized that he was expecting a reprimand for what he perceived to be unforgivable carelessness. She knew he blamed himself for the accident. She also knew that he would immerse himself into a pool of self-condemnation, deeper and more treacherous than the lake they had escaped. She did not want that for him. She did not want that for them. "I want to check your dressing," she told him calmly as he sat down. She angled herself over him and gently peeled back the tape which held the bandage. Suddenly, her fingers froze against his forehead. Once again, she was deluding herself, pretending to be concerned over bandages when all she wanted was to touch him. "No," she said, smoothing the tape back into place. "You're dressing is fine. I don't need to check it." "I don't understand," replied Mulder. "I know," she nodded sympathetically. "I've become very good at hiding my feelings. Even from myself." "You're tired of me." Mulder clenched his teeth. There was a flash of anguish in his eyes. "I've seen it coming for months. You regret your decision to stay with the Bureau, to stay with me." "The only thing I regret is my complacency," Scully responded as she sat down next to him. "Your complacency?" "Do you remember our conversation about dreams?" she asked. "I remember babbling on about some ridiculous theory just before I almost drowned us both." "It wasn't ridiculous," she asserted, taking his hand into her own. "Mulder, do you want to know what I dream about?" His gaze dropped down to the fingers that twined around his. "I dream of you," she murmured softly. His eyes shot up to hers. In them, she saw doubt. Proof. He needed proof. But, she was capable of it now. As terrifying as the dream had been, it had released her. It had flung open every door to her prudent and compartmentalized mind, allowing feelings to rush forth and be spoken. "I am in love with you," Scully admitted in a strong, certain voice. Mulder drew in his breath. He untangled his fingers from hers so that both hands might cup her face. He drew her so close that she could see the reflection of her eyes in his. "I should have been the first one to say it." He gave her an apologetic grin. "Well, you can always be the first one to show it," she suggested. His mouth lowered to hers. His kiss was soft and warm, just as she imagined it to be. When his lips parted hers, she knew that her dreams would pale in comparison to this reality. The last fragments of her imagination faded with each passing moment, with each piece of clothing that floated to the floor. As he lowered his body onto hers, she glanced into his face and saw the vision she was waiting for. The brooding, agitated look had forever passed from his eyes. Feedback is most graciously accepted. Please e-mail me at paigecaldwell@hotmail.com.