It's Only Forever

She had loved him, and he her; and in the early days of time itself, she had brought joy to Astra and to the tales he wove that would become the earth itself. She had loved to dance in that same early morning light from which she was born, and she did so with the rising of the sun each day, and the setting of it at night. And her dance and her beauty had brought forth creation to admire her - and to bring her gifts.

You remembered waiting, with a knot in your stomach, for the inevitable twist you knew was coming. You remembered how the older woman had paused, and taken a long drag off of a cigarette, before continuing her tale with smoke spilling from her lips.

Astra had grown jealous. Not of creation worshipping a god that was not him - but of the fact that he was not the only one to worship her. He had decided to hide her away from the world. So it was that one evening he invited her to dance with him, and as they spun through the heavens beneath the setting sun, he had trapped her in the sky. A place of utter darkness so that no other could cast their eyes upon her beauty, a place where only he could admire her. And he had set stars around her, knights to guard her, to keep her there.

But over the many years to come the one of the stars had taken pity on Lyros, watching her weep night after night in her prison of darkness. In the hopes that she could be happy again, that star had begged her to dance for him. And when she did, she had reflected the brilliance of the very sunlight she was made of, illuminating the sky once more.

Here the older woman had stopped again, blowing smoke lazily from her nose as she cast her glance skyward at the nearly full moon that had hung above you - before finishing the story with the soft cadence of a mother telling a child a bedtime story that had been told so many times before, it was almost a prayer.

"...the stars guard not only her, but all the women who dance in the darkness.

And you had both turned your faces towards the sky, and early morning dawn that was just beginning to break somewhere beyond the N109 Zone, where the moon had hung heavy and near.

Haven't you seen her? Dancing through the heavens? The only nights she isn't visible are the nights she visits Astra. Even after what he did...they still love one another, even now. May Astra's starry watchers guard us all.

You thought, perhaps, that was what you saw as you opened your bleary eyes- one of Astra's watchers, sent to protect you. It would have explained the handsome face and the ring of light that refused to let your eyes focus, even as you blinked trying to better see the figure who swam just out of view. You feel one hand cool hand cradling your head, laying you back down on the pillow with a gentle reverence.

Then Zayne had clicked the penlight off, removing the blinding light from your field of vision, jotting a quick note about your pupils in the notebook on his lap. But before you could truly see his face, a renewed wave of drugged sleep had overtaken you once more, pulling you back under the heavy weight of your own mind, and sinking you back into dreams of a celestial guardian standing watch as you spun about a starry room, his sad green eyes following your every move.

When you do begin to wake - it's almost painfully slow. You first became aware of how heavy your limbs are, and then the soft bed around them. Pulling your eyes open is a feat of strength in and of itself, as you become aware that everything around you is unfamiliar. Not unpleasant, but certainly unknown. As consciousness winds its way up your spine and into your mind, you become aware of a dull ache in your muscles, the sort that comes from laying in one position too long. With a soft groan you manage to pull yourself upright, and room tilts on its axis with you.

The light spilling through the curtains suggests that it is already late in the afternoon or early in the evening, the sunlight low on the wall. The clean sheets and soft bed beneath you far more luxurious than your own, and so are the furnishings of the sparse but well outfitted bedroom you find yourself squinting at.

To your surprise you find that you are wearing a light linen nightgown, and as your hands find your face, you realize that someone has washed your dark stage makeup away. As the room steadies itself you swing your legs over the edge of the bed and take a deep breath, fighting the fog in your mind for any recollection of what has brought you here.

You remember a dream, perhaps a memory, although it is far off and soft around the edges the way a dream should be - of Dr. Zayne, and you snort softly to yourself - rolling your eyes at your subconscious and foolish desires.

Distantly, you hear the sound of a door opening and closing, followed by footsteps growing nearer. Something in your stomach fills with fear and you lay back down, quickly closing your eyes to a point where you are only barely peeking through your lashes.

The door opens in through it steps the tall figure of Doctor Zayne Li. You have to fight to keep your breathing regular.

He's dressed in a long black coat which he removes in one graceful motion, swinging it around his shoulders and onto a hanger. You fight back a gasp as you recognize the sparkling ash of dispatched wanderers clinging to the cuffs of his sleeves, catching in the light as he calmly unbuttons the black shirt underneath. He shrugs out of the shirt with the same practiced grace, revealing a physique that almost makes your breath catch in your throat, and steps out of the room, and into what you assume is an adjoining bathroom as you hear the shower turn on.

Waiting what seems like forever, you take the chance to once again sit up, and this time, with the room steady, sneak out of the bed. You set one foot in front of the other with careful intention, not sure why your heart is racing the way it is as you cross the bedroom, slowly. You place one hand on the doorknob and to your relief, it turns easily. The door is open, and you are stepping through, when you hear him behind you.

"Going somewhere?" His voice is soft, and far too close. Every hair on the back of your neck stands up and you let out a soft and startled noise, as Zayne pushes the door back shut.

"Did you think I wouldn't notice that you were awake?" There's a soft tone of amusement in his voice. "Sleep slows the natural respiration rate." He hasn't taken his hand off the door, and you aren't sure where to look, as he stands over you, wearing nothing but a dark undershirt and trousers. "And you were breathing quite quickly the moment I stepped through the door."

Indignation takes over, and you raise your eyes to meet his. "Then you were pretending you didn't know I was awake?" You can hear the indignance in your own voice, raising the question to an accusation.

"Only because you were pretending to be asleep." He affirms with a calm tone that only serves to make you more indignant.

Lacking a good retort you duck under his arm and return to the bed, taking a seat on the edge. Hoping it's not too visible, you're relieved to sit back down, your legs feeling weaker than you'd bargained for.

Zayne simply returns to the bathroom, wordlessly slipping the undershirt over his head as he goes. He closes the door behind him, without completely latching it, and you hear the shower door open and are left chewing your lip and nervously glancing about the room as you can only assume he is bathing.

There are fragments of thoughts, memories perhaps? That begin to surface slowly as you stare at the small tendrils of steam that escape the edges of the bathroom door. There are thoughts that make your stomach acidic, and your breathing faster.

Pieces slide together like fragments of dreams. The missing clients, the feeling of being watched. They tell a story dressed in black, familiar with the shadows in a way you don't want Zayne to be.

Thoughts that tell you the only logical explanation for how you got here, is one that means you should run for the door sooner rather than later. But they're cloaked in enough uncertainty, just enough haze and fog, that you don't believe them.

That you stay. That you tell yourself that paranoia has been your friend for far too long, and that the kind eyed doctor would never act in such a way. That you're projecting the cruelty of the N109 Zone onto a man who doesn't deserve it.

But the nagging misgiving stains the edges of these thoughts too, clinging to them like the wanderer ash you saw on his cuffs and shoes.

When Zayne returns through the bathroom door he's dressed jeans and a casual short sleeved top, black with silver threads woven through it. Your eyes fall on the scars that trace themselves up his forearms, deep and violent, crossing in gashes that lead your gaze upwards, that you cannot help but follow like a map.

You're exactly where he left you, perched on the side of the bed, and he regards you with a look that you cannot help but interpret as silently pleased.

If he notices your stare, he doesn't say so. Instead he's opening the drawer of the bedside table and retrieving a small notebook, a stethoscope, and a penlight. Then he's kneeling before you, one knee down, and carefully examining your confused face.

"How are you feeling?" His voice is gentle this time, and without waiting for a response he's gently placed his hand to the side of your face, as if reassuring himself that you're real.

"I'm..." You pause, realizing it's a harder question to answer than you had anticipated. "...dizzy." You finally answer with some hesitation. At least it's an honest answer, you tell yourself. He nods and makes a small note in his notebook that you can't see.

"That's a normal side effect." He murmurs, almost more to himself than to you. Then he's setting the notebook aside and both hands are tracing gently moving down your neck, and across your clavicle. Before you can protest, one hand has settled just beneath your jaw, and he presses, with just enough pressure to encourage your mouth to open, as with the other he shines in the light. Then he's moving on to your eyes, checking your pupils. But the blinding light causes vague memories to echo again, and your head to pound.

"No!" You react instinctively, without thought or rationale, ducking away from his touch and his light. He catches you with ease as you dodge to the side, hands grabbing your shoulders and preventing any easy escape.

"It's alright, it's ok..." he's offering soothing words, but your heart is racing. He's holding you firmly, but gently, like a wounded animal that might bite the one who tries to rescue it. "I just need to make sure that you're..."

"Who are you?" You cut him off and it's as much an accusation as it is a question. It clearly wounds him - his face crumpling with worry, and you can't quite say for sure, but perhaps even grief.

"You know me." This time it's his turn to respond with a statement that is also a plea. "Zayne." He says his own name with the same desperate note, as if begging you to remember. "It must still be the medication..." He's reaching for his stethoscope now with one hand, as if he can explain this all away with data, with science, with something he can measure.

"No - no, you can't be." You're shaking now, and you can feel the trembling in your hands and spine. "Because I don't know how I got here, and I don't know what's happened, and I didn't take any medication..." your voice is rising in pitch and tone as the words spill out of you, the dam has broken and the fear and disbelief are flowing out and over, "And Zayne would never hurt me."

You say the last part with a conviction you didn't know you had, and it's enough to catch both of you off guard. There's a moment of stillness, and you feel his hand still on your shoulder tense ever so slightly.

"I would never hurt you." The words are heavy, each weighted with an emphasis that sends your breath shuddering out of your chest. His voice is soft and dark and his eyes stare back at yours with a certainty you find impossible to break away from. Then with a practiced hand he's slid the earpieces into his ears and pressed the diaphragm of the stethoscope to your chest.

"Breathe for me." He instructs, without breaking eye contact. And without meaning to, you obey. He moves the bell with practiced rhythm before nodding softly to himself, and rising to his feet. Tucking his instruments away, he turns towards the door. "You need to eat and drink something. What do you want?" He's crossing the room as if nothing has happened, his posture relaxed once more.

"I want to go home." You stand, intent on ignoring the way the room shifts again as you do so. He doesn't turn back to face you, only shaking his head ever so imperceptibly.

"You need to hydrate." Is his response, on hand on the door handle. "What do you want to drink?" He repeats it in the tone one might ask of a slightly petulant child who has refused a reasonable request.

"I don't want a drink, I want to go home." You try again, without raising your voice, doing your best to sounds as rationale and calm as you can.

He turns to look at you, and his expression is enough to cause your heart to clench in your chest.

"You don't understand. I would never hurt you." He looks like he's pleading, but his voice is a soft command. Then, as if it is causing him unbearable pain he looks away, and opens the door, stepping through it before you can stop him.

"I'll bring you some water and some tea. If you don't drink them, I'll start an IV." And then he's shut the door behind himself, and left you standing, bewildered, and alone once more.

He's gone long enough that you have time to check the windows, which are locked. The bathroom is suspiciously devoid of sharp objects such as razors or scissors, and the room itself as well. Even the drawer of the bedside table seems to have some sort of hidden latch, preventing you from getting ahold of the stethoscope or notebook. Eventually you give up your search and return to the bed, pulling your legs to your chest, and fighting the tears that well in your eyes.

You aren't sure how long he's gone, but you do drift off to sleep once more. Exhaustion and lingering medication winning against the anxiety and grief.

When you awake, there's a glass of water on your bedside table, and a cannula snaking from the crook of your elbow up to a bag of clear fluids hanging from the bedpost above you.

With a sudden surge of anger you sit up, intent on ripping it out, only for a gentle hand to cover yours, met with a disapproving tsk.

"It comes out when you drink." His voice is gentle but firm. Your eyes focus to the dim lighting of the room at dusk, and the single table lamp's illumination. Zayne is seated in a chair next to the bed, a book carefully balanced on his lap.

"Do you want help?" He's folding the book shut, and before you can object he's leaned forwards, practiced hands sliding underneath you, allowing you to grab his neck as he sits you up in bed with gentle ease.

"Here." There's no room for objection as he hands you the cup of water, and you realize just how dry your mouth is. Bringing the glass to your lips you begin to drink, and it awakens a thirst you had seemingly forgotten. The water is cool and sweet and you drink greedily before he's pulling the glass away with a look of gentle exhaustion. "Slowly. Not too much. See how it sits."

You make a soft noise of disappointment, trying to cling to the glass as he sets it just out of reach. He almost smiles, you think, as he runs a hand through his hair and looks down at you with something akin to relief.

A wordless moment passes between the two of you, and you feel almost as if he's resisting something - although what you do not know, before he gentle moves a stray lock of hair from your face.

"You're weak, you need to rest and let me-" He begins softly, but you cut him off with an indignant shake of your head.

"No, I'm not. I need..." you trail off, not sure of what exactly it is you're grasping for. "I need..." You try again, with no more success. You swallow hard, and summon all your faculties to another attempt, "I need..." a single tear winds its way down your cheek in place of an end to the sentence, and you find more begin to follow it in quick succession.

Then he's there, wiping your tears, and lifting the glass to your lips again gently. You accept the offering, swallowing another sip of water, and leaning into his hands.

"It's alright." He murmurs, and the words are soft and low. "I'm here. I'll protect you." And it's a promise you both believe and fear. So you let him hold you, as the sun sets and stars begin to populate the sky.

He slid his coat off, and loosened his tie. One arm guiding the laughing shiny girl to a table. Protective, authoritative, almost fatherly. You had to fight not to stare any longer.

The girl, she laughed, she smiled, she was more animated than you'd ever seen her. She was, nervous? Yes, anxiety radiated off of her. You became more certain the longer you watched.

You'd watched many a soap opera play out from your stage. Spinning around in your sequins and nothing more, you had the perfect vantage point. They were either watching you, or engrossed in their own drama. No one noticed that while you put on a show, they were putting on a show for you.

The music continued to pulse softly around you. Muscle memory keeping your hips rotating in time to the beat. You couldn't help but notice that this new character wasn't watching the stage. He only looked at her. If his gaze slipped your way, he was looking determinedly past you, before returning his attention to the table or the girl.

You felt the heat of envy somewhere in the pit of your stomach. The way he gazed at her. His eyes were hazel-green, even at this distance. You couldn't help but imagine what it felt like to have them look at you.

Eventually her usual companion, the silver haired man, had appeared. The three of them had settled with drinks. He didn't partake from his. You had watched their introductions from the wings of the stage in-between dances. Her nerves had slowly dissipated, but the two men had stared at one another with something that you couldn't name.

Your attention was stolen by a commotion by the bar. The tall silver haired Onychinus boss had appeared. He'd pinned a shadowy figure to the wall. No one else in the club reacted. Just another Friday night in the N109 Zone.

It was your turn again. You stepped back onstage. You kept dancing.

If someone had asked you what happened next, you weren't sure you could give them an accurate answer.

Someone had thrown something. The sound of breaking glass a music all its own. Then red smoke had bloomed thick and angry across the room. Voices had raised, the sound of anger and fear a familiar soundtrack.

Until the air seemed to shiver. A wanderer coalescing near the front of the room. A sickening shift in the air and light filling the now blurry room. Someone screamed.

And then you'd felt it. A searing pain that tore from your shoulder and across your chest, accompanied by a strange warmth. A red more vibrant than you'd imagined it would be that poured over your breast. Stumbling backwards, you'd lost your balance. Your feet sliding out from under you, the floor rising to meet you with alarming speed.

Until your head cracked against the floor. Some distant part of you was surprised by how loud it was. The crack of your skull against the dance floor.

And then he was there. His eyes as beautiful as you had imagined as the world began to swim.

"Stay with me." His voice was calm, a contrast against the panic of the room.

"Didn't plan on going anywhere." You hear your own voice, although it feels out of sync with your lips. He smiles wryly in response to your sardonic response, one hand cradling your head, the other gingerly lowering the sparkling strap on your shoulder, now stained with blood.

"I'm a doctor -" You snort, and cut him off.

"If I had a dollar for every time I'd heard that one." You feel your hand meet his, and surprised to feel just how sticky and wet your own blood is. You hear gunfire, but he doesn't flinch.

He gently moves your hand, concern flickering across his face. Despite the pain, the chaos, you can't help but find yourself fixated on the man above you.

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The pain is what pulls you back to reality. You fight it while you can, knowing that it's preferable to stay in the haze of darkness. But there is only so much you can do as the tether of your consciousness inevitably pulls you back to earth.

You're in a room, far too white. Far too bright. You squint and try to sit up, only to be rewarded by the pain magnifying itself by several magnitudes. A whimper escapes your lips. A bandage is wound around your right shoulder and across your chest. Someone has dressed you in soft linen hospital pants and a loose scrub top.

"You're awake." The voice is familiar, and it makes your heart leap. It's him.

He's as clean and white as the room. Wearing a pressed shirt tailored to his well postured frame, and a doctor's coat that hangs squarely from his shoulders as if it were made only for him. His dark hair and features punctuate his pale face, contrasting starkly in a way that takes your breath away.

But it's his eyes that you can't look away from. Hazel green with a burning intensity that freezes you on the spot for just a moment.

"You weren't lying, Doctor." You manage with a breathless laugh.

He doesn't laugh, but you see a hint of a smile at his lips. He crosses the room in two purposeful strides, his eyes fixed on the monitor above your bed.

"Doctor Zayne." He replies. "You should lay back down." His tone is matter of fact, it brooks no argument. You gingerly acquiesce. "You're in Akso hospital, you -"

"What?" You shoot back up without thinking, and the pain screams back into your body.

"-you were injured by a wanderer attack." He continues as if you haven't interrupted him. "And sustained a laceration to your right clavicle and arm requiring surgical repair, and a minor concussion with loss of consciousness."

You fall back against the pillows, cursing every star you know to name. "I have to go back."

He pauses, his routine interrupted. "Back where? I can assure you the club sustained enough damage that it won't be open for-"

You groan, placing your hands over your face. "No, no, no. Back to the N109 Zone. I can't be here."

"I can assure you, that the hospital is exactly where you belong." He replies curtly, a tone of annoyance edging at his voice.

You sigh and grit your teeth, and then remove your head from your hands.

"Thank you, so much. Truly, I can't thank you enough." You begin, while carefully sitting the rest of the way up and swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. "But I don't belong here." You carefully begn to remove the wires attached to your chest.

"The hospital is exactly where you belong." He's standing in front of you now. A wall of man blocking your path as you shakily stand. You shake your head in wordless disagreement, ignoring how the room swims when you do.

You step past him and he doesn't say another word as you leave, but you feel his eyes on you with every step you take.

Crossing the thresh hold you quicken your pace, and you nearly slam straight into her. She's beautiful up close. Her elfin features and lithe figure seem almost otherworldly, you think.

"It's you!" She exclaims, as if you're old friends. "From the club! I'm so glad you're ok! Dr. Zayne said..." her words fade into a buzz of chatter as you see her gaze slip past you and over your shoulder. You glance behind you and see him standing in the doorway to the room you just exited. He's looking at her like the rest of the world doesn't exist. He's looking at her in a way that makes your chest ache in a way that isn't related to your injury, but much, much, worse.

You almost feel like you're intruding on something. You duck your head and step to the side. "I really have to go..."

You leave without looking back.

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A week later your stitches have mostly dissolved, and the clanging headache you've been fighting has begun to fade. The club re-opens tonight. The N109 Zone is no stranger to rebuilding, and they have it down to a science rather than an art. You've carefully chosen a high necked top to hide the healing gash, and you've prepared yourself to step on stage once more.

No one speaks of the attack. It's not worth mentioning in a place like this. Instead the music plays and you follow its lead, the familiar cadence of lights and bass a welcome relief.

You're lost somewhere in the song when you see him. He's seated at a table by himself and his white dress shirt nearly glows in the darkened room. His sleeves are rolled up past the elbow, his tie loose but still around his neck, and he rests his chin on top of folded, thoughtful hands, but his eyes are fixed only on you.

For a split second, you freeze, before finding the beat again. You can't tell from this distance, but you'd swear that he notices and almost smiles.

The night passes from there in a way that you can only describe as agonizingly slow.

He remains seated the entire night, watching you dance. Slowly, the club empties. As the morning draws closer the last few stragglers finish their dels and drinks and slink towards the exits. And as you wind down and the music fades, he stands, and approaches the stage.

You step to the edge of the worn wooden platform and lower yourself carefully down, sitting with your legs dangling over the edge.

"You came back." You state it as a fact, but the surprise is evident in your voice.

"I came back." He answers with a succinct nod. "You didn't come to your follow up."

You laugh, and it's short and shocked. "I didn't know I had one."

"You're lucky." He replies, crossing his arms across his chest. "I don't know many doctors who make house calls."

You slide off the stage so that you are standing before him, although even in your heels you have to look up at him.

"Lucky?" You raise one eyebrow in faux disbelief. Carefully removing one arm from your top, you reveal the healing wound beneath. You see his gaze drop to your revealed breast, and a light pink flushes his ears.

"Usually I charge for this." You grin, and watch the flush creep further up his neck. "And we're sure you're a doctor?" You tease, although you aren't feeling half as bold as you're acting.

He makes a disapproving noise in response as his graceful fingers begin to gently explore the forming scar. You have to think about your breathing in order not to hold your breath.

"Are you experiencing any pain?" His brow has furrowed ever so slightly, and he's pressing gently at the base of the scar. You shake your head and resist the temptation to reach out and touch him in turn.

"It itches a bit, but it doesn't hurt." You're entranced by the way his eyes look through his long dark lashes, and your voice comes out softer and breathier than you mean for it.

Slowly he pulls away and looks up. The electricity still crackling silently in the air between you. "And your head?"

You grin, "Oh, don't worry. I'm just as dumb as I was before." He doesn't look impressed, but instead sighs softly.

"That's not what I meant."

You slide your arm back into your top and pull it back down. "So, what do I owe you for this house call, doctor?"

He waves your question off with a dismissive hand. "I'm simply caring for my patient."

"It's a dangerous thing to owe people favors in the N109 Zone." You purse your lips. "I know you aren't from around here, but -"

"But-" he interrupts you, "-You don't want to be in my debt?"

You nod, wordlessly. The club is empty now, and the dim lights illuminate dingy velvet and well worn carpets that have long ago lost their luster in the light of day.

"Then don't be." He says, matter of factly. "Just...don't waste my work." His eyes have gone cold and distant, as if he's turned a switch off somewhere inside, and he turns to leave. You feel your stomach sink unexpectedly, and you fight a sudden instinct to find an excuse for him to stay.

Before you can find words, he's gone. You shake your head, as if you can free yourself from the recurring image of him gently, tenderly, reaching for you. And you remind yourself exactly where you are.

He belongs with someone like the shiny girl from before. Someone who still radiates light.

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The wound faded to a pink and pale scar, neat but raised. And the nights faded into one another again, neon lights the comforting companions to the N109 Zone's familiar darkness.

You still saw her sometimes, laughing, an oddity in the N109 zone. Always accompanied by her red eyed and powerful companion. They'd clearly grown closer, if even possible. They moved in sync, and his arm was usually wrapped tightly around her waist or shoulders.

Every time you saw them, your heart fluttered. Not because of his unsettling stare, not because of her strange light, but because there was always a chance, perhaps even a hope, that Zayne might be there too. Even his name felt dangerous - like thinking it, let alone saying it out loud, was too great a risk to take. So you simply, didn't.

You kept to yourself the growing fear that sat deep in your chest. The feeling that something just wasn't quite right. You'd been through a traumatic event, you told yourself. Of course you wouldn't feel great. But glances over your shoulder on the way home told a different story, unease becoming a constant companion.

And there was the fact that work wasn't the same either. Your usual customers, your 'regulars' as it were, were either missing, or not themselves. It wasn't unusual in the N109 zone for people to disappear, or even to reappear after disappearing for weeks. But this was different. Three of them just never returned to the club after the night Zayne came to check on you. And the others no longer requested dances in private rooms. If you approached them on the floor, they would shy away, and if you didn't know better - you would swear you saw them looking over their shoulders in fear. Some of them you were glad to see go, lecherous and handsy types that they were. But you couldn't pretend it wasn't affecting you. You had certainly begun to feel it when you counted your payout at the end of the night.

However, in the place of their eyes, you felt new ones watching you. You tried to explain them away. Telling yourself the years of hypervigilance were coming to claim their toll. That it was simply the decades of looking over your back morphing into something greater.

And yet - there was a nagging feeling of being watched that you couldn't quite shake.

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By the time your arm had fully healed the air had turned cold. The last strains of Autumn's chorus still echoed in the N109 Zone, but the biting wind of early winter was determined to drown them out. You pulled your coat closer around you as you stepped out the back door of the club, letting the cool air of the night hit your face as you tipped your head back. A sigh escaped your lips, and you watched your breath appear in the air, dissipating upwards like smoke.

The walk home wasn't short, but it was at least a familiar path. Although since this new feeling of being watched had appeared, it had felt longer the colder the nights grew. You set out, heels from the club dangling loosely in one hand. You mused to yourself that perhaps in the N109 Zone one was always being watched, and that maybe, you had simply become aware of the eyes you couldn't see.

A street lamp flickered and you jumped. You chided yourself for your foolishness - and for showing weakness, and doubled your pace. The air grew colder, and you wondered if the howl of the wind was growing louder, or if it was your imagination. Rounding the final corner before your block, you almost walked straight into a darkly clad figure as they emerged from an alley.

"Sorry I -" The words froze on your lips as you looked up into a familiar face. "Dr. Zayne?" Your surprise registers in your voice coming out almost a squeak. In the flickering light of the now distant street lamps he looks different. The shadows on his face deeper, his eyes darker.

"I'm sorry." His voice is darker too, softer in a strange way, but tinged with something unfamiliar. "I didn't want to have to do this, but I can't keep you safe here any longer."

So you tiptoed around the house, giving him space, giving him time, giving him the quiet. Trying to give him whatever it was he needed, without fracturing the stillness that he had created.

Your first winter together you thought it was all in your head. That you were imagining it. You weren't close enough yet to be sure. Your second winter together you had overcome the awkward early stages of the relationship - and then he just, disappeared. A nearly whispered sentence about someone named Dr. Carter and some arctic research center.

You'd put the pieces together while he was gone. Mostly because you saw her for the first time. She came to the hospital to see Dr. Greyson, and she was beautiful. She was petite but strong, her presence at once impressive and gentle, a study in contradictions. And she hung, nervously, you thought, on the arm of a tall silver haired man with eyes that you swore glowed with red light. They cut quite the picture as they made their way through the lobby.

When the two of you had started dating, an office romance beginning to blossom - you'd heard the rumors. A secretary heard everything. A girl who'd all but disappeared. The braver nurses who whispered that she'd faked her own death in order to be with the man she loved. You'd rolled your eyes.

You weren't naive to the fact that someone had broken his heart. You'd never asked him for the story - it wasn't yours to ask for. But when you saw her, eyes laughing at something the tall baroque man had murmured in her ear, you felt your stomach sink.

You'd watched her slowly peel off his arm and approach Dr. Zayne's office with what you could only describe as reverence. She'd knocked, and of course he hadn't answered. You'd gently cleared your throat, and softly told her that the doctor was away on research. She'd looked at you like you were a ghost, a surprising apparition who didn't belong in a landscape she was at home in.

When she'd left, her head hung slightly, and his arm encircled her protectively, consolingly. And you'd understood enough.

Now it was your third winter together, a proper couple now, and this time he didn't disappear. But by late January the quiet had settled over Zayne's flat like a heavy snow. And now you were certain - she was the ghost haunting the narrative, and you could see her reflected in the frost that fogged the windows, and feel her presence in the cold that snuck in under door frames and around the heavy curtains, no matter how you tried to keep it out.

-----------------------------------------------------

Saturday morning dawned with the sort of grey light that only January can bring. You roll over in bed and groan, wondering if there's a way to deny the fact that it's already morning. The bed next to you is already empty, you don't have to look to know. The warmth and shape of Zayne is an absence you can't help but feel like an ache.

You could tell yourself he got called in. He got paged and decided to slip away to the hospital without waking you. But you can hear him downstairs, and smell the coffee he's already brewed. And you've never been a good liar, even to yourself.

So instead you slide your feet into slippers, and your robe over your shoulders, and make your way down the stairs. He's sitting at the table, a cup of coffee in one hand, and a crossword in the other. You mutter a "g'morning" as you pass, but he doesn't respond.

The motions are familiar, merciful in that they don't require thought to complete. You fill your cup with coffee, you find a granola bar, you shuffle to the table and take your seat at his right hand.

The wordless silence stretches on.

You stare out the window over his shoulder, allowing yourself to be transfixed by the small black and white bird on the bird feeder, the lone creature bold enough to venture out in the chill of the morning. You dread its eventual departure, knowing that when it takes wing, it takes with it your excuse not to look at him.

But eventually the coffee runs out, and the bird flies away. And you are left at the table with the shadows under Zayne's eyes.

He speaks first, to your surprise. But the hope that comes with hearing his voice is quickly dashed when he says, "I may have to go in to work today." All you manage to do is nod.

There's a pause.

You point to the paper in front of him. "Neglected." "What?" There's a delay before he startles slightly as if your voice has surprised him after reaching him from a ways off.

"Your puzzle. Thirty two across, nine letters, "A field left barren."

He nods, offering you a soft hum of affirmation, followed by his pen moving in neat strokes, filling in the letters one by one. You watch quietly, for a moment content to focus on his hands. You trace the scars that cross his upper wrists with your eyes, familiar patterns that you know all too well.

Your reverie is broken by the soft scrape of his chair against the floor.

"I'm going in to work."

"Oh." Is all you manage in response. He's already placing his cup in the sink, you try to force yourself to focus on the crossword in front of you, each square now neatly filled. But the letters swim and dance before your eyes as you blink back tears.

You beat them back with a mixture of determination and a long drink of your coffee. By the time you stand from the table he's already shrugging on his coat.

"Will you be back for lunch?" Your question hangs in the air and you wish you could take it back, at least try again, try to say it in a voice that sounds less needy, less hopeful.

He opens the door and the cold air cuts through the room like a knife. The black wool of his coat throws him into stark contrast against the white landscape beyond him.

"I don't know." His voice is as gentle and calm as ever, but his answer makes you shiver harder than the frigid wind that has hungrily swept into the room. "Stay inside, you won't last long in this cold." It's a protective sort of warning, and you almost find it comforting. Almost. He shuts the door gently, and is gone from sight.

You're left painfully, chillingly, alone.

----------------------------------------------------- By lunchtime you've pulled yourself together. Just enough makeup to feel like yourself. A favorite sweatshirt that you know every seam of, a spot on the couch, a familiar movie playing softly in the background. These things should be cozy, comforting even. But instead they feel more like distant memories that you are somehow inhabiting.

The fact that he's at the hospital shouldn't bother you. He's always at the hospital. But today, today you can't help but see her there too. You can't help but imagine her there with him, probably because you can't help but think that's what he's doing.

You think maybe it would be easier if you could hate her. Or at least be mad at her. But you don't have that in you. You saw the way she looked for him. Reached for Zayne's door like it was the portal to something sacred she was too profane to touch. And you saw the way she looked at the man she was with, like he was the only light she'd ever seen in the dark. Hell, you'd seen the way he held her as the left - like she was the only thing in the world worth holding. So as much as you wanted to, you couldn't even be mad at her.

You couldn't be her either.

You didn't remember pulling your knees to your chest, but at some point you had. You didn't remember crying either, but the damp streaks down your cheeks told a different story.

That was how you found yourself when the sound of the front door opening pulled you back to reality.

He enters the living room before you have a chance to finish wiping the tears off your face. The snow still clings to the edges of his hair, and his coat is thrown over one arm.

And when he sees your face, the silence finally breaks.

He falls to his knees before you, the coat forgotten and dropped in a heap.

"What's wrong?" His hands are cupping your face, familiar, gentle, and firm. He is using one thumb to gently wipe the remnants of the tears away.

It only makes you cry harder.

"Are you alright?" The worry in his voice is warm and it makes you suddenly aware of how cold you've been. All you can do is wordlessly nod, as you fall forwards into his arms. He lifts you gently, placing the two of you side by side on the couch. He strokes your hair, making soft hushing noises and letting you weep.

As the tears slow and become soft sniffles, you lifts your chin.

"Can you tell me?" He asks in a way that is so gentle it almost makes you start to cry again. With great effort you meet his eyes, your own hands finding a place to rest on his shoulders.

"I'm sorry I can't be her." The words come unbidden, unwished for, without trying. You watch his brow crease and furrow, and he brushes your hair from your face with tender care. You recognize confusion in his eyes.

"Who?" He finally asks, struggling to follow your thought.

There's a moment of silence - and you shake your head ever so slightly. "The girl before me, the girl you loved, the one you miss every year at this time."

Realization dawns on his face, and it is accompanied almost instantly by a deep pain that makes you wish you could take every word back. The pause stretches on, and you see him searching for words, reaching and grasping for something you don't understand.

When he next speaks it is only after he has grasped your face in his hands, and turned your gaze unequivocally to his.

"She has nothing to do with this, my love." His voice is pained, but raw. "I have failed you. And for that, I am sorry." He punctuates each of the last three words with a gentle squeeze, never looking away from you. "I should have been honest with you a long time ago." You can see tears beginning to form at the corners of his hazel-green eyes. "But I didn't want you to have to carry my grief." His next breath in is ragged, his shoulders almost shaking. "And I didn't have the words to tell you."

Over the next hour he tells you a story you wish he didn't know. Of a long dark night on a mountain. Of a friend who died. And you get the feeling he doesn't tell you the whole story, or at least, not the parts that he still doesn't have words for. But he shares his grief, at least the parts that he knows how to share.

And the ghosts leave in the light of the words between you.

-----------------------------------------------------

Sunday morning was as grey as the previous morning. But as the light opened your eyes, you felt arms around you. Blinking away the last remnants of sleep, Zayne's face slowly comes into focus.

"Good morning." his voice rumbles deep in his chest, and you can't help but giggle as his arms wrap around you, pulling you close.

"Your hands are freezing cold!" You exclaim with a squeal, although you don't try to escape.

"Then warm them up for me." You feel his words as breath on your neck and he's placing kisses slowly behind them.