::  Keeping Vigil ::

NOTE: Answer to the "Rip off your favorite movie scene" challenge. Can’t figure it out? Drop me an email.

I shouldn’t be here. It’s stupid. I should be home in my own bed. I should be at the office, reading yet another useless report. Or even THE report. I’m sure we’ll be copied in on it. Dear God, they’ll probably have me investigate it and create our own report. I should be anywhere but here. I don’t belong here. She’d be so angry with me, if she knew I’d broken into her apartment and invaded her space. Why isn’t Rabb here? Is he afraid of her ghost? Will she haunt him? Is he afraid of the memories he’ll never have? Where the hell is the goddamn bastard – probably with Mindy – whoever the fuck she is! Is he crying to her about his best friend? Will Mindy put up with that shit?

He should be here, keeping vigil. It’s his fault. It’s his fault that Sarah’s dead.

I collapse on her sofa and stare around the room. I’ve only been here twice; both times it was just business. I reach into my pocket and pull out the flask, rubbing my finger over the dent. This flask saved my life once. I always thought it brought me luck. But it wouldn’t have saved me, had I been with her on that plane.

The scotch burns going down, just like a good scotch should. It’s a very small flask. Even with the three drinks I had in the bar down the street, consuming the liquid courage to come up here, this won’t enough to put me out.

How am I going to live without ever seeing her again? My eyes settle on a worktable, pushed against one wall. There are bones stacked on it. I vaguely knew about her interest in paleontology. I wonder if they’ll find any of her bones? Sick bastard. I sip from my flask. Make it last. I should have bought a bottle. They had packaged liquors at the bar. Damn it.

"Rabb! You stupid bastard. What were you thinking, throwing it all away? Throwing it all away for – whoeverthehell – MINDY!" I feel the tears begin to sting my face, and I brutally wipe them away. I’m insane! That’s it. I’ve lost my fucking mind. Sitting here in a dead woman’s apartment, staring at her stuff. She really had a nice place in this restored gothic mansion. There’s even a fireplace. And, in the time-honored tradition of such things, pictures fill the mantle and other shelves throughout the room. From the light of the one lamp I turned on after deftly picking her lock, I can clearly see the people who were important in her life. There’s a professional family portrait of Bud, Harriet and Little AJ Roberts. From the age of the kid, I would guess it was taken before Roberts lost his leg. Yeah, he doesn’t have that haunted look true veterans have. There’s a picture of Sarah and - what the hell was her name – oh, yeah, Imes. Must have been at one of the softball games they used to enter – before the world went crazy. They look happy, unaware that soon terror was going to hit so close to home.

There are some that she isn’t in: one of AJ and Tiner, one of Roberts and Sturgis, one of Gunny and Tiner. Both men looked annoyed at being made to pose together – it’s perfect.

It takes me a moment before I realize that there are gaps in the pictures, places where other frames could have – should have – rested. I must be drunker than I thought, because it takes me a while to figure out there isn’t a single picture of Rabb, save for a formal group shot. I struggle to my feet, failing on my first attempt. I go to the mantle and look closer. Sure enough, there’s a thin layer of dust, and the imprints of missing frames. I wonder what she did with the pictures. I hope she threw them in the trash.

I turn around, and begin to pace. I want to touch everything that I can. I have to get one last impression of her. I open cabinet doors, refusing to consider my invasion. I find an empty vodka bottle in one, a long Post-It ™ note taped to it. I pick it up and bring it to the lamp. "NEVER AGAIN." I can see that she has taped and re-taped the note to the bottle. Under the title, she’s written down dates. The inks are different, but the writing is clear and firm. I know what she’s done. After each refusal to drink under stress, she’d take out the bottle and write down her success. There are six dates. I try and correspond them to events in her life, but it’s useless. I don’t know her well enough for that. But then I recognize one. No. It must be a coincidence. 2/9/99. That was the date I died, or pretended to. What else was going on in her life then? Surely she didn’t think about drinking when she thought I was dead? Dear God.

"Don’t be stupid," I tell the picture of her and Jingo hanging on the wall. I wonder what happened to that damned dog. He was old, the one and only time I saw him. Must have died. God, I hope Sarah didn’t suffer. Didn’t know. I turn and take another look at the room. I see the door to her bedroom. I’m not ready for that. I know what I want, and it’s as sick a thing as I’ve ever contemplated. I’ll take a souvenir from Sarah’s lingerie drawer. I know I shouldn’t. I know I won’t be able to resist, once I walk in there. Her scent will be even more overpowering in there than it is out here.

"Oh, God, Sarah. Why did you have to leave like that? Why did you have to get on that plane? Why didn’t you just spit in the bastard’s face, and come to me? Didn’t you know?" But, of course, she hadn’t even seen me standing there. From the way they were going at it, in the middle of Dulles, I’d be surprised if they even realized where they were. Frankly, I’m astounded that the security guards didn’t try and break them up. But they’d been in uniform, and everyone knew why they were arguing.

She dropped her voice then, and I couldn’t hear the rest. But it was all on her face. She was still angry, but the determination of her decision left little hope that, when she came back, they’d be able to work it out. She was through with him. But, of course, I’ll never know for sure.

I stood there and watched her leave. I felt bad for her, but couldn’t deny my elation. Rabb had thrown it all away. I left the airport so damned happy, determined to call her when she returned. I even considered trying to find out where she was going, but decided that I’d give her time to work Rabb out of her head. She could even have her fling – I didn’t want to be her rebound. During the monumental backup on the Beltway, I must have gone over a dozen scenarios in which we finally came together – nothing erotic; those were plentiful in my wet dreams. No, just little scenes when she’d look up and suddenly see me as a man, instead of an annoying pain in the ass.

It took almost two hours to reach my apartment in Alexandria. Twenty seconds faster, and I would have missed it. The classical station never interrupts its music for news, so, when they did, my hand froze over the ignition. "This just in from the AP, British Airways Flight 1012, out of Dulles to England, exploded in mid-air over the Atlantic, thirty minutes after take off. The Coast Guard was on hand almost immediately, and there are no survivors."

She’d been dead an hour and a half before I knew it. Had I reached my house twenty seconds sooner, I could have gone in, showered, and fallen asleep, and been spared the news for at least another eight hours. The only people who might have called to tell me of her death had no idea I was back.

I drove for hours, my phone turned off. I had no desire to talk to anyone. I didn’t even care about the details. Who gave a shit? She was dead.

The tears fall, and I gulp down the rest of scotch. It hits me right between the eyes, and I sink into the couch again. Leaning back, resting my head against the cushion, my eyes fall upon a picture I’d missed before. It was in an 8 x 10 frame on her bookcase. Very formal, almost old fashioned; she sits ramrod straight, wearing a black sleeveless dress that reminds me just how damned long her neck really was. In a move that was pure Sarah, a stuffed bear and the skull of some long dead beast share the shelf, softening the rigid effect.

But I find I can’t take my eyes off that picture - her eyes seem to bore into mine.

I hear a key fumble at the lock, and I jerk awake. Sitting up, I try and get my bearings, but the monumental hangover makes it hard. Where am I? What happened? It all comes tumbling back on me, and I know that Rabb has finally come to take up the vigil. I guess I won’t get to see her bedroom, after all; her lingerie is safe.

I’m still asleep. Or, perhaps, I’ve released the last hold of sanity. She looks confused, tired, and it’s obvious that she’s been crying.

"Clay?"

"You’re dead." I stand up, and in a voice I know sounds accusatory, I insist, "I saw you go through the gate. Flight 1012 crashed! I heard the news."

She steps into the apartment and wearily puts her carry-on and her purse down on the floor, before closing the door behind her. "What are you doing here, Clay?"

Did I crash on the way over here, and I’m dead? I know I didn’t get on that plane with her. There’s no explanation. She’s not really here. Like the ghost she must be, she just stands there and watches me, not bothering to repeat her question. I take a step forward, and her image doesn’t waver. Another step, and I can see the question in her eyes. There’s incredible sadness there. It’s the sadness that convinces me a little. "You didn’t get on the plane?" I say, as I take another step.

"No." It’s a strangled whisper. She’s right before me now. If I reach out, I can touch her. "I was going to. But something stopped me. I couldn’t get on the plane. I-I-I should have." She takes a shuddering breath. I reach out my arms, and she steps inside my embrace. I know I’m hurting her, but I have to feel her, to know for certain. She’s crying now. I can feel the tears already soaking my dress shirt. Her body is heaving against mine. "I didn’t know what to do. It was so stupid. But I just sat there at the gate for a while, kicking myself for not getting on the plane. Finally, they chased me out, and I was walking toward the terminal, when people started running and security started going crazy. I knew, Clay. I knew right away even before they made it official. I went and reported to airport security. I-I-I finally called a friend at the FBI, because I KNEW it looked bad. I knew I’d be suspected."

I don’t know about her, but I have to sit down. Pushing her back a bit, I lead her to the couch. "Can I get you something? Coffee?" I can figure it out.

"No. I’m fine." I’m glad, because I don’t think I can let her out of my sight just yet. I settle on the couch so I’m facing her, telling her to continue with just a nod. She cocks her head, suddenly aware that I had never answered her question. "When did you get here?"

I can’t lie. I’ve forgotten how. "After the bar on the corner closed."

"Clay? That was six hours ago."

"I just needed to be here."

"Why? How did you even know I was supposed to be on that flight? Did the Admiral call you?"

"No. I was there."

"There? Where?" Her eyes grow round. "Oh, my God. You were at the airport? You saw? You heard?"

"Yeah. I should have stepped in."

"And done what?"

Bought you a drink, shouldered some of the guilt with you? How can I tell her? I don’t. Instead, I try and change the subject a bit. "Did you call Harm?"

She doesn’t even cringe. "No, just the Admiral. I got him before he heard the news. He was going to come out and sit with me, give me a character reference. I told him not to bother. Jenny, my friend with the FBI, was already there. He-he offered to call Harm and Harriet for me."

"They kept you for questioning for a long time."

"Not so long. They had things to sort out, and it wasn’t the first time a person has ever backed out of getting on a flight, particularly after 9/11. Of course, they made it clear that they expected more out of a Marine. I’m just glad I didn’t have to go into any big explanation about my premonitions."

"So, will you have to go through more questioning?"

Her sadness grows, and she shakes her head. "No. They know what happened – just not why yet. A private Learjet was off course. From what Jenny relayed to me, I guess it was having trouble with its instruments, including the radio. Both the commercial plane and the Learjet dived to avoid the collision, and they hit head on. Of course, everyone is checking into the owner of the Learjet. No one’s claimed responsibility - if it was done on purpose."

She bites her lip and grows silent, pondering God knows what, but she never takes her eyes off mine. "Why did you come here, Clay?" Her voice is soft, but I know I can’t ignore her any longer.

I try to look away, but her hand on my chin prevents that. Taking a deep breath, I take her hand in mine. "Just something I needed to do."

I don’t know how long we sit there, but it’s like she can read everything I’ve kept hidden for so long. "How long?" she finally whispers.

I purposefully misunderstand the question. "I told you; after the bar closed."

But she continues to work the problem out for herself, almost like I wasn’t there. "Not at the beginning. Not even in Colombia. I think you really hated me in Colombia. I embarrassed you. Was it when we went to Russia? I felt bad about ditching you."

"No, you didn’t. You were chasing Harm." It’s the one truth that neither of us can deny nor ignore. I stand up and walk away from her. I should never have come. "Look, I consider you a friend. I felt that…"

"Bullshit!" She’s furious, but I’m not sure why. Because I broke in? Because I dared to bring up Harm? Or because I’m treating her the same way that Harm always has? I turn to face her, only to find she’s right in my face. "Don’t give me that shit!" She fists her hands on my chest. "Damn you! Just tell me the truth! I can’t stand any more games! Why did you come here?"

I take her hands in mine. They ‘d only struck me once, but the woman is a Marine and it hurt. "Fine! You want the truth? I came here because I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. Where the hell was I going to go? THEY all have each other. THEY could cry together, and hold each other, and talk about all the great times they had with you. I had nothing – no one I could share my memories of you with. Who? Harm? Please. I wanted to kill him. Up until last night, I thought he was a friend. I don’t move on friends’ girls. I thought he was good for you. Besides, he was what you wanted, and all I wanted was for you to be happy. But you weren’t happy last night. He hurt you – badly. And one part of me wanted to kill him for hurting you."

"Oh, Clay." She steps away from me, the tears glistening in her eyes. "It’s always about Harm, isn’t it."

"Oh, God, no. You silly idiot. Don’t you get it?" She just waits, waits for the spook to tell her another lie. "It was never about Harm. Why do you think I maneuver around JAG as much as I did? Even when I wanted something from AJ or Harm, I always made a point to look in on you. You asked me how long? How long what? How long have I admired you? Before I even met you." I could see the disbelief in her eyes, and suddenly I have to make her understand. "Remember? I read your file before getting you assigned to JAG, so you could help me find your uncle. There aren’t a lot of people in this world that I admire and trust completely. For a long time, it was just my mother. AJ Chegwidden is another. And you. You’ve made some monumental mistakes in your life, and you never once gave up. You’ve stumbled; hell, you’ve fallen flat on your face, but you always get up, usually with no help from anyone."

I have to turn away from her intense gaze. I find myself staring at the picture that I’d fallen asleep looking at. I walk over to it, and hold it in my hands, knowing that this was what I would have ended up taking, instead of anything more intimate. I find I can talk to this picture easier than the woman behind me. "How long have I loved you? Longer than that idiot Brumby. But probably not as long as Rabb." I sigh, and put the picture back.

"As much as I hated Harm for hurting you last night. I was glad - ridiculously happy – at least until I heard the news. I came here, and just wanted to be around your stuff." I turn and face her, and tell her the final truth, or a nice sanitized version of it. "I was going to steal something, just something I could hold at night, and…" Well, I can’t continue, because I suspect, from that arched eyebrow, she knows exactly what I’d planned on taking.

"Why were you glad? You said Harm was your friend. Why were you glad?"

Well, I’ll never get another chance. I walk up, and take her by the shoulders. I need her to see the truth in my eyes. "Last night, before I heard about it on the radio, I decided that, no matter what, I was going to call you when you got back. I was going to take a chance on you shooting me down, but I wanted to finally hear if from you. Then I lost the chance – or thought I did. It almost killed me." I put my hands on my hips. "So?"

Her eyes widen. "So?"

"So, may I call upon you, Sarah MacKenzie? May I take you to dinner? Can we talk about silly things, like what movies you want to see, what books you like to read?" I can’t read her expression and, of course, I read everything that I fear into it. Stepping back, I try and shake away the hangover. "Look, you’re tired, I know. I should go and let you get some sleep."

"What about what I want?" She nails me with a glare that I’m sure she only uses on hostile witnesses. I steel myself.

"What do you want?"

She begins to pace, formulating what I know will be a rousing argument questioning my motives, my morals, my very manhood. She turns and faces me, her sofa between us, her hands on her hips. "I’m tired, Clay." She’s sending me away. "I’m tired of having to read things into relationships. You say you want to date me."

"Yes."

"You say you’ve been in love with me for years."

"Yes."

"You don’t even care about what I’ve thought about you?"

"You mean besides the annoying ass part?"

"Don’t joke around." Her voice is full of anger, but I see a spark of something in her eyes.

"Of course, I’ve wondered, I’ve just never…why didn’t you drink on February 9^th of 1999?"

Her anger travels to her eyes. "You were a busy boy. Did you have fun in my underwear drawer?"

Guilt battles with self-righteous anger. I need to get a bit of control here. "I never entered your bedroom. I looked around at your pictures. Yes, I invaded your space." I take a step to the edge of the sofa. "Why didn’t you drink that day?"

She has the grace to look away for a moment, then takes a deep breath. "You know why."

"No, I don’t."

"That was the day that the Admiral told us. Harm was all set to go and find your killer. I didn’t care. What difference would it have made? I still thought you were dead. I sat here that night, staring at the bottle, telling myself that we were never anything to each other, that you were just another lost opportunity. That since I was really in love with Harm, what difference did it make? By the time I fell asleep, I’d convinced myself that all you were to me was a dear friend."

"You thought I was a dear friend?"

"Loveable, actually." She smiles ruefully, and then rubs her hands over her face. She shakes herself. I know I should leave, but her gaze holds me. "You’ve always been there in the background. Like some gnome; cuter, of course."

"You think I’m cute?" My face hurts from the smile there.

"Shut up. Hold on to your ego, buster." She closes the gap a bit between us. I could almost reach her, but I don’t dare. "Okay." She takes a deep breath. "I’ve always had this crush on you." She looks away for a moment, and when she meets my incredulous stare, she delivers the next blow. "You want to know the truth?"

"Yes," I choke out.

"Had I known you were in town, had I even thought you might have answered your cell phone, I would have called you, instead of Jenny. I had the number punched in."

"My God." I can’t believe my knees don’t buckle. "W-why didn’t you?"

"Because I was ashamed. Because we only call you when we need something. But that’s not why I would have called. Oh, I knew you’d make it right. I just…I just."

She’s crying again, and I find the strength to take her in my arms. "Oh, God, Clay. All those people. I should have said something. Done something. I should be dead, too."

There’s nothing for me to say. There’s nothing for me to do but hold her and murmur useless platitudes. I kiss her hair and rub her back, telling myself that I’m offering comfort, but I know better. I’m taking more than I give. She’s molding herself to me, and I can’t help it. I’m too tired, but I’m holding the one woman who has invaded my dreams for years. I’m kissing her forehead now, not even understanding for a moment that she’s orchestrating it by moving her head, until my lips taste her salty tears. Finally, my mouth covers hers. Her hands are fisting the material of my jacket, and I should release her. I should chastely kiss her forehead and walk away. A better man would. But this is Sarah MacKenzie. I pour every damned emotion that I’ve hidden for eight years into that kiss. My tongue demands entrance into her mouth, and she doesn’t hesitate. I need to leave.

My body, even suffering from an impressive hangover, tired beyond measure, and guilt-stricken to boot, betrays me, and I know she feels me surge against her mound. She pulls back, and stares into my eyes. She should slap me and call me a pervert. She should tell me to go. She should do a lot of things, none of which I’d blame her for.

She takes my face in her hands, and I can’t look away. Dear God, just don’t let that be pity I see in her eyes. "Clay. I know it’s a normal reaction. I know that people do this after funerals and life changing moments. But I know this, too: I wouldn’t ask this of anyone but you. I’m glad you were here waiting for me. I’m glad I don’t have to stare at that damn bottle today. Please, Clay."

What the hell is she saying? She can’t want that – not from me. Is that all she wants? Comfort sex? What did she say? ‘I wouldn’t ask this of anyone but you?’ I should go. She’s going to regret this. She must see something in my face, because shame tints her face. Her grip on my face loosens, and she moves her body away from mine. I’ve never had any illusions about my own moral character. I know right from wrong. I do right when I can. I tighten my grip on her hips, and pull her hard against me. I want there to be no doubt that I want her. But I want her to understand. "Today, we’ll take comfort in each other. Today, I’ll make you forget the guilt. I understand that guilt, Sarah. I’ve dealt with that guilt. Today, I’ll make you forget. But tonight, and tomorrow, and for as long as you’ll have me, I’ll make you understand just why I came here last night." This time, it’s my hands holding her face. "Do you understand me, Sarah?"

"Yes, Clay."

My lips find hers again, and my hands drop to her shoulders. I can’t believe that we’ve been here as long as we have and we both still have our trench coats on. I pull hers off her shoulders, but she’s tugging at mine, too, and we are both stymied. We both step back to consider the situation. A small smile tugs at her lips. She doesn’t say a word, but she lets her coat fall to the floor. I follow suit, struggling for a bit before I can throw it on the couch. I follow her lead. She takes off her uniform jacket. I take off my suit coat. She glares at me for a moment, as she’s in her uniform blouse and I still have my vest on. Nodding my head in acquiescence, the vest soon joins the jacket. Together we unbutton our shirts. Together we kick off our shoes. I grin, knowing that I’ll get a better show when she takes off her nylons than she will when I shed my socks. We tease each other as I remove my slacks and she removes her skirt. It’s my turn to wait now. I’ve got an undershirt, briefs, and socks. She’s got slip, bra, panties, and either stockings or panty hose. I hold my breath as she shimmies out of her full slip, not pulling it over her head, but revealing her serviceable white cotton bra, then panties.

"I wish they were prettier," she murmurs, before abruptly turning and heading toward the bedroom. As if to make sure I understand, she pauses at the doorway, hand on the knob, and looks over her shoulder at me. I almost trip pulling off my socks, as I quickly follow her.

I reach the doorway, and she’s already pulling down the comforter. But I have to take a moment to breathe. At last, I’m looking at her room. I don’t know what I’d expected, but I’m glad I didn’t come in here while I thought she was dead. This isn’t a Marine’s bedroom. Not really girly, but feminine and soft, and oh-so-Sarah MacKenzie. She’s standing there, at the head of the bed, the fingers of one hand caressing her throat right above her breasts, waiting for me. Is this just comfort sex? For her? For me? No. I see it in her face. The grief of the situation is there, but so is the aggravation that we waited so long, and the hope that perhaps we’re starting something more.

I don’t wait for her. I pull off my tee shirt, and then my briefs. She gives me that half-smile again, and instead of following suit, walks up to me. Our lips fuse, but her hand is between us, stroking me. I manage to work her bra loose, but it has nowhere to go for the moment. "Bed, now," I demand, as I pull away from her, grabbing at her bra as I do.

She turns away, and, with her back to me, pulls off her panties, teasing me as she does. I stand there and watch as she stretches out on the bed, every wet dream I’ve ever imagined shattering in the reality. Lying next to her, I gaze down into her eyes. I’m so lost in the moment that I can’t hide anymore. I have to make her understand what this really means to me, even if I end up driving her away. "I love you, Sarah. I want this more than you can possibly understand." My lips cut off any protest. But I don’t feel any hesitation. Her tongue demands entrance into my mouth. Her hands roam over my body.

She pushes me until I’m on my back and she’s looming over me, her sex poised over my cock. She can’t be ready. But her hands are on my shoulders, and her eyes nail me to the bed. Will I ever be right about this woman? She’s so wet that, when she plunges down on me, it’s tight, and slick, and the most heady experience of my life. Her eyes flutter and she arches back, freeing me to begin my own exploration of her glorious body.

Of course, I’ve dreamed of touching Sarah’s breasts. I worship them now. Hefting them, I consider their texture, their weight. I’m so glad it’s light out. Her skin is golden olive. Her nipples are coral and hard. The only thing I don’t know is how they taste. Pulling on them until she gives into my demand, I arch up to take one in my mouth. I don’t have to work at it for long, because she holds my head to her. Sitting up so I can get a better angle, she helps by wrapping her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck. For a long time, I’m content to suckle and worry her tits with my mouth and hands.

"Please, Clay. Feels so good. Oh, Clay." She’s thrusting against me, rubbing her clit against my pubic hair, slowly, wonderfully, losing control. Her walls begin to milk my cock, and she arches back as her orgasm overtakes her. All I can do is watch in awe. When her shudders recede, a satisfied smile lights her whole face. "Lay back, Clay." She releases me from her embrace. Kneeling over me, she pushes me back. "Tell me how you want this, Clay." She rises and falls, squeezing me with her incredible muscles. "You want to come inside me? Or do you want me to suck you dry?"

Whatever I want is beside the point. Her words, her look, the incredible scent of her pleasure, is too much for me. Without thought, I flip her over until she is splayed under me. Her look of contented satiation has been replaced by a grin of approval. "What I want is for you to come again, with me this time."

She playfully pinches my nipple. "Now, that’s a tall order."

I thrust into her, holding my cock deep inside her. I don’t know how I’ll manage. I want to pound into her, take my pleasure. But, more, I want to see that look on her face again. I pull out so slowly, it’s actually painful. Her eyes hold surprise, and I know she’s feeling it again. I plunge in so deeply, my balls slap at her skin. Her moans, and the sound of her cum squishing out of her, adds audio to this incredible wet dream. I try and close my eyes, as I slowly pull out again, but now I’m losing it. I have to see her. I try and maintain some semblance of control, but, as I watch the light pink flush spread out from her stomach right to the roots of her hair, it’s like a switch has been thrown. I hear her shouting my name as I nearly pass out from my release. I struggle not to fall on her, but she pulls me tight, until I cover her.

I’ve never fallen asleep still buried inside a lover. I wake up when the cold hits my shriveled cock. I’ve managed to work to her side, but my leg is still over hers, and my head is nestled on her chest, which rises and falls in sleep. I lift my head to gaze at her, only to find her eyes are open. "You’re a lighter sleeper than I am."

"Clay." Her murmur tells me that she really isn’t awake. I roll over, pulling her with me, so she can rest on me. Her hand slaps dangerously close to my cock, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s searching for the covers. My foot hooks around the sheet, and, between us, we manage to pull it up and over us. "Clay?"

"Yes?"

"You’ll be here…when I wake up?"

"I’ll be here until you kick me out."

"Don’t think that’s going to happen." She snuggles tighter against me, and I lay there, watching her sleep, keeping vigil.

~~~Fini~~~

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