"That would be nice. I think I'd like that. The garden," he said, clinging to her voice, curled up in a ball in her embrace, at once relieved that she didn't want to keep him a secret and worried that his mere presence there was going to cause trouble between her and her family. "Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow," he continued, letting his eyelids droop closed, unable to keep them open any longer. "My mother had a garden," he said quietly, his voice trailing off.

Elena smiled gently, recognizing the signs that the bad was passing, at least for now. It was strange, to be on the outside looking in, watching someone else suffer through the agony of not drinking. But it was empowering as well, she realized. She could help, and in helping him, she was helping herself. Experiences shared like this bound you together or tore you apart; she thought she was prepared for either. But still that fatalistic streak was holding out for together, threatening to break her all over again if together didn't happen. "Tell me about it," she asked him in a low whisper, fingertips stroking against his chest through his shirt as she nuzzled to his temple, wanting him to slip off to sleep with a good memory in mind. "What did she grow there, what did she do in her garden?"

"She..." He squeezed his eyes closed, brows furrowing in the darkness as he tried to resurrect the memory of his mother's garden. "Roses..." he replied quietly, his voice sounding calmer as he tried to focus on the memory and forget about the pain. "I remember roses," he continued, his mind drifting, settling back down to sleep.

She bit her lip thoughtfully as he spoke, her mind wandering to some other way she could help him to sleep perhaps. "Wild roses?" she asked him in a soft whisper, not truly expecting an answer as he drifted. Her arm unwound from him for a moment, her body rolling away to let her hand rummage in a drawer. She came back with a tiny bottle of essential oil ....rose oil ....setting a tiny drop onto the pillow he rested on. Memories came easier when your senses were a part of them. That was something else she had learned over the months since cleaning up.

"No," he replied, drowsily, barely hearing her as his mind drifted off toward dreams. For a moment, he thought he smelled his mother's roses, and the scent took him back to his childhood; running in the backyard while his mother tended the roses, an old blanket she'd given him to play with fastened at his throat, fluttering in the breeze like a cape. A single tear slid down his cheek at the boyhood memory. Of how she'd laugh as she watched him and catch him in her arms and sweep him off his feet, swinging him around like he was a superhero flying through the air. He remembered picking a rose for her once, the thorn pricking his finger. After bandaging his finger and kissing his tears away, she'd hung that single rose to dry and years later, it still stood in a glass vase on her dressing table, in memory of that first flower he'd ever picked for her. "She loved roses..." he murmured, falling silent as his mind was filled with dreams of his mother.

Elena let him drift off to his dreams, resuming the gentle wrap of her arms around him as she rested close, glad he was sleeping. She didn't want him to see her cry, even if her tears were for him. He was so alone, so damaged, trying so hard not to cry out for help ....and she'd done even more damage to him than anyone had any right to. Her tears wet his shoulder as she cried softly, watching him sleep until she gave in to the desire to hide from the pain, and drifted away into her own tormented oblivion.

It wasn't until the sun was once again peeking through the basement window that Michael's eyes fluttered slowly open. The chills had turned to sweats, though his skin felt oddly clammy, the t-shirt and shorts he'd worn to bed soaked through with sweat. He was still feeling like crap, though the sleep had helped clear his head a little, at least for now. He remembered having strange dreams about his childhood, things he hadn't thought about in years. He laid there quietly listening to the world starting to stir to life around him, the soft steady breathing of Elena close by.

Laughter from the floor above filtered down to him as he lay there, the sounds of Elena's sister and her fiance, their adopted daughter, going about their morning routine together in varying degrees of urgency and laziness. At his back, Elena stirred, seemingly aware that he was awake even in her sleep. But instead of rolling away, she pressed closer, a quietly girlish sound in her throat, her arms tightening around him as her face pressed into the line of his neck, breathing him in. Just as she'd promised; even in her sleep, she was right there with him.

His gaze drifted toward the ceiling as he heard Elena's family going about their morning routine. He wasn't sure if they knew yet that he was there, and he wasn't about to announce his presence. He was pretty sure they wouldn't be catching him at his best right now and that he wouldn't be making a very good first impression. Still, there was something both comforting and disconcerting to listen to other people go about their lives, as normal. After a moment of quiet listening, his attention turned from what was going on above his head to his immediate vicinity as Elena stirred in her sleep and pressed herself closer. He seemed to recall asking her not to leave him, and there she was, arms wrapped snugly around him in her sleep, blanketing him with her warmth.

He felt her breathing, soft and warm against his neck; heard her make a sound, almost like a soft, contented sigh. As much as he longed to see her face, he didn't dare move, lest he wake her and break the spell. He laid a hand against hers, as if to make sure she was real. So long as he remained still and didn't move, the pain in his head was almost bearable. He wondered if she'd been there with him all night, just as she'd promised, and more importantly, he wondered why.

They'd barely moved since both succumbing to sleep in their own time, the blankets heavy over them. They seemed heavier over Elena, dressed only in the robe she'd thrown on straight from the shower during a flare of anxiety over having left him even for that short time. As she shifted again, her breath ghosted against his ear, green eyes slowly blinking open, gritty with the physical memory of the tears that had lulled her into nightmarish oblivion. She bit her lip, unconsciously pressing even closer for a brief moment before daring to speak. "Michael?" she whispered, his name coming easily to her lips as the first coherent word of her wakefulness. "You okay, baby?"

"Yeah," he replied, his voice sounding strained, his throat feeling parched. He licked his lips to wet them, but it was mostly futile. "Thirsty," he added, reluctant to move, knowing as soon as he lifted his head from the pillow, the room was going to start spinning again. "I'm okay." He kept his voice low, afraid those moving around upstairs might overhear him if he spoke much louder. He rubbed the back of her hand with his fingers, more than a little amazed that she'd kept her word, when no one else ever had before. "You been here all night?" he asked, in a hushed tone.

"Mmhmm." The sound was a murmured agreement to his question, sleepy still as she stretched and fitted snug to his back, only just beginning to notice the damp cling of his clothes under her grasp. She breathed in one long breath, gently sliding her arm out from under his neck to prop herself up on her elbow and look down at him. "All night," she promised, teasing her fingers delicately against the line of his hair. She wasn't stupid enough to ask if he'd slept well, instead leaning down to kiss his cheek softly. "I'll get you a glass of water." Reluctantly, she began to untangle herself from him, belatedly embarrassed by the revealing slip of her robe as she did so. After the way she'd behaved yesterday, modesty really wasn't something she could hide behind now.

"No," he said, chancing a turn of his head toward her and clutching her hand to keep her there. "Not yet. Just....Wait 'til it's quiet upstairs," he said, using her sister's family as an excuse to keep her close for just a little while longer. He knew he needed a shower and some breakfast, and he'd just about kill for a hot cup of coffee, but it could wait a while longer.

It didn't take much to keep her from moving away. Wrapped together as they were, it was easy to lose herself in the fantasy that he was fine, that they were together, that this was the beginning of happy ever after. Self-delusion could be a wonderful thing when employed in a healthy way, after all. Ignoring the baring of her hip and shoulder, she rolled against him once again, feeling his craving in the air, feeling her own beginning to make itself known. But she knew her struggle was infinitely easier than his right now. Her fingers slid gently through his as she leaned to kiss his cheek again. "It's okay," she promised. "I won't go until you're ready."

"Juno' Shouldn't she be in school or something?" he asked, assuming she was a child or maybe a teenager, since she'd obviously been left home alone while her parents or whoever they were who took care of her went to work or wherever they went during the day. He hadn't quite wrapped his head around the inner workings of Elena's family just yet. "I would just about kill for a shower and a cup of coffee right now. And maybe some breakfast." It was heartening to hear he had an appetite, but there was no telling how long it would last.

She chuckled softly. "That's another complicated explanation, but no, she's not a child," she assured him. "She'll be out of the house soon anyway - I think she has to go to work." Hearing him mention at least a willingness to eat and drink something that was alcoholic made her smile rise, encouraged by this sign. "You wanna come up with me?" she asked him, not pressing either way. But hoping he would.

He frowned uncertainly, not ready to meet her family yet, though she seemed to think they had left for the day. "You think it's safe?" he asked, looking back at her, a worried expression on his face. It was only a matter of time before her sister's boyfriend-husband-fiance....whatever he was....realized his clothes were going missing. Hopefully by then, the worst would be over, and Michael would be able to sort out what to do next.

Elena's leg rose, slipping free of the robe she wore, hooking over his hip, wrapping him close in her arms and legs once again. Words wouldn't do to reassure him that whatever happened, she'd made a promise. But this ....this might. "You wanna wait until she's gone?" she asked gently, nose to nose with him once again. "I've got all the time in the world."

He frowned again, a little disconcerted by the wrap of her arms and legs around him. It wasn't that he didn't like it or enjoy it, but if she kept at him like that, one thing was going to inevitably lead to another. His will power was sorely lacking, to put it mildly, and his physical reaction to her was going to be more than a little obvious before long. He tried to keep his eyes fixed to hers and not let his gaze wander to the fact that she was had nothing on beneath her robe, as attested to by the bare leg she had hooked over his hip. "I, uh..." He swallowed hard, his throat dry. Was she offering an alternative to aspirin and water"

Belatedly, she realized the position she'd put him in, rolling her eyes a little at her own lack of forethought. "Sorry," she murmured through a smiling wince. "It's not a proposition unless you want it to be. I'm really not as selfish as all that, I promise." She kissed the tip of his nose. "I just ....I don't know how many ways I can tell you I'm not going anywhere. Holding on seems like it might work better to convince you. Of course, I could let go, if you'd rather ..."

"Elena, don't worry so much. I'm the one that's not going anywhere. I have nowhere to go. And I'm flattered, believe me. I..." He frowned further as she kissed the tip of his nose, the innocent show of affection stirring something inside him that wasn't a physical reaction, but an emotional one. "I trust you," he told her, after a moment, making a leap of faith he might not have been able to make even as short as twenty-four hours earlier. He had asked her not to leave him, and he had meant it. It hadn't just been fear that had prompted him to ask for that promise, but he didn't want her to feel obligated or beholden to him in any way. "I don't think I can do this alone," he admitted, deciding the truth was the best course of action.

"You don't have to." She kissed him again, wishing he would stop worrying about her and start worrying about himself. He had a long road ahead of him, one she was still walking herself, but for some reason he kept pausing to be concerned for her. How could you not go a little gooey for an idiot like that' Maybe not even gooey; she could feel herself softening each time he expressed concern for her, despite the fact that she knew she was the worst choice he could make. "I said I'd be here with you, and I meant it. I need you just as much as you need me, baby."

"Then stop trying to talk me out of being here. I'm a big boy. I can make my own choices. I'm here because some....force we don't understand brought me here, for whatever reason. Do you really think it was just chance?" He sighed, closing his eyes a moment as he rested his aching head against the pillow. "There's a story there somewhere if I could think halfway straight."

"I'm trying to talk you out of staying?" She blinked, as confused as he was at that comment. She hadn't thought that was what she was doing at all. "I want you to stay, Michael. I just ..." She sighed a little awkwardly, embarrassed and ashamed by what she was about to tell him. "Look, I'm gonna be honest with you here. I want you. I really want you, right now, all the time, and I'm trying so hard not to take advantage of you because I know it's not what you need, and it's really selfish of me to even be considering it while you're hurting so bad. I mean, it's not like I've got a magic vagina and sex is just gonna make you all better real fast, although I guess it might help a little, but I'm not just about sex, really I'm not. Wanting isn't just physical, it's ...there's more to it than that, but I don't know how to say it, and ..." She trailed off, aware that she'd just filled the silence with babbling inanity that she was unlikely to be able to explain. Her eyes watched his face, lower lip caught between her teeth, worrying exactly as he had told her not to.

True to his word, he was flattered as all hell that she wanted him, not to mention shocked. His mouth dropped open a little at the stark honesty of her words, wondering why they hadn't gotten on like this the first time around, but then they'd been different people then. Much different. They had both hit rock bottom; there was nowhere to go but up from here. He wasn't quite sure what it was she was trying to tell him, other than the fact that she was physically attracted to him, as if that wasn't enough already to make his ego soar a mile high, but he couldn't help but press her further, needing to know. "Maybe you should just say it," he told her, curious what she was trying to get at exactly. He wasn't stupid enough to think that she was in love with him, not yet, but what was she feeling for him then" Pity' Compassion' Friendship"

She hesitated, biting harder at her lower lip as she struggled to find the right words to explain herself. "I-I don't really know how to say it," she confessed in a rush of breath. "I don't wanna let go of you. And it's not just because you need someone here, you could have anyone be with you if you needed them. I ....I need you to need me, and I ....I'm easy with you. I'm me, and you don't seem to hate that. I've never been easy with anyone, and, and ....Well, that makes you special, doesn't it?" She breathed out, one long, slow, shaken breath, closing her eyes as she nestled closer, dropping her voice to a whisper. "Please don't tell me to let go. I don't want to. I'll hold on until the day you drop me."

Just one day earlier, he might have told her just that. To let go, to leave him be, not to torment him, but a lot had changed, a lot had happened since he'd miraculously appeared in her bed just a little over a day ago. She had softened to him somehow, admitted that she needed his help. At first, he'd thought all she wanted was to use him, and while most men would be okay with that, he wanted more than just to be used as a substitute for her own addictions. "Love is the drug," he muttered quietly, quoting Roxy Music. No, not love. Not yet. "I'm not special, Elena," he replied with a frown, ready to berate himself and beat himself up. "You could do so much better than me." He didn't want to push her away; he just wasn't sure he was good enough or ever would be good enough. Not like he was right now anyway. "Maybe....if I can get clean..."

Her eyes flew open as he began the same round of self-recriminations he had stopped her in the day before. "Don't say that," she told him, laying her fingers gently against his lips. "Didn't I just finish saying that it's you I want' Nothing gets better than that." She drew her fingers away, replacing them with her lips, still unable to stop herself kissing him, needing him to understand that she wasn't changing her mind. "We'll get there together. And we'll stay there." Another kiss found his lips; he had been right about one thing. He could easily become her new drug, but she wanted to be his, too. She wanted to be needed the way she was beginning to need him. "Together."

She effectively silenced his self-reproach with a finger against his lips and even more effectively with a kiss. He would have protested further, but he wanted so badly to believe her. He had told her he trusted her, and part of that trust was believing what she told him, whether he felt worthy or not. He had a feeling she felt as unworthy of him as he felt of her, but that just wasn't true. He quieted under her kiss, realizing she was putting her trust in him, too, and for some reason, she seemed to believe in him, though he had no idea why. "You were my dream girl," he told her quietly as their lips parted, staying close.

He looked into her eyes, as if to search for an answer there. She was almost too beautiful, too wonderful to be real, and yet, here she was, in the flesh, and she wanted him. Him, of all people. "Nothing," he replied quietly. "Just be with me. Just don't leave me. That's all." He tangled his fingers with hers again, just a hint of fear in his eyes, knowing the worst was yet to come. "I want this, Elena. I want to be free." Not free of her, but free of the hold alcohol had on him, free to be everything he could be without that weight hanging over his head.

"I'm not going anywhere." Though it was a whisper, there was no way she could have said it with any more fervor and intention. "I'm your girl, Michael. You promised." That shower didn't seem to be so urgent now, nor the need to feed him. She had to make him understand; there were so many people who didn't have faith in her, who thought she couldn't keep a promise. But this promise, she intended to keep, hoping he would keep his own to her. "We'll get you free of this," she murmured, resting her forehead to his, wishing there was some way to leech even a little of the pounding from his head into her own, to relieve him of that pain which she had already experienced. "I won't leave."

There was nothing he could do but trust her and believe her. He knew he couldn't do it alone; he'd tried before and failed. There was no one back home who cared enough to try and help; there was only her - the girl of his dreams who he thought he'd never see again. God, they were a pair. But if anyone understood what he was going through, if anyone could help him through this, it was her. If anyone could free him, it was her. There was nothing else that needed to be said, nothing else he had to say. He slid his fingers through her hair as she rested her forehead against his, and leaned his head toward her just enough so that he could seal all their promises with a kiss, one that rekindled the fire in his heart that she'd already lit years before.

The sound that escaped her was almost a whimper, a tender exclamation of emotion that throbbed with the relief of knowing that he'd accepted her promise, that he wasn't going to accuse her of not speaking the truth as she believed it. Whether he'd intended it or not, that kiss lit her up, setting the desire burning, demanding it be quenched somehow. Her lips parted, slowly, gently deepening the kiss he gave her as her fingers tightened on his, as she shivered in visceral enjoyment of the way his fingers stroked through her hair. "Michael ..." She breathed his name, shaking with the effort of pulling back even this much. "I ....I don't know if I can stop ..."

The sound of his name breathed in such a way that he knew she not only wanted him but needed him sent a thrum of desire through him, a craving of a different kind than that of alcohol, but just as urgent. He met her gaze, unable to disguise the blaze of desire he was feeling inside. "Then don't..." he replied, his hands finding the front of her robe and pushing it back over her shoulders, his eyes wandering over the view.

So much for trying not to take advantage of him. Mind you, he wasn't exactly helping her with that, either. As his hands followed the cloth of her robe over her shoulders, Elena felt herself tingle in the wake of his touch, something she hadn't felt in years. What was it about this man that made her want so much so soon, that reminded her of how to truly feel rather than letting things pass her by' She couldn't have given the why or the wherefore, but clung instead to the hope that it wasn't just a passing phase. She let him slide the soft robe from her arms, her lips on his once more, stealing his breath as much as his kisses as she pressed to him, each kiss burning with a gentle sort of frenzy that didn't want to be rushed. Not this time.

Despite his earlier claim of not wanting to disappoint her, he couldn't help the feeling of desire she elicited in him with just a look, a kiss, a touch. He slipped the robe past her shoulders, his hands sliding inside the robe to cup her breasts, almost as if to prove that she was, in fact, real, and not just a figment of his imagination. Her kisses were returned with equal fervor, trembling with a mixture of fever and desire, unsure where one ended and the other began. It didn't seem to matter for now. All that mattered was that she was here and she was real and she was his for as long as he wanted her, as long as she'd have him.

Her hands shook free of the enclosing cloth that held her, leaving that robe bunched loose at her waist as she arched into his touch. Whatever had passed between them yesterday paled in comparison to what was beginning now, with the merest touch, the softest kiss. That had been about loneliness; this was about togetherness. "I won't let go," she whispered to him between those soul-shuddering kisses, repeating her promises, needing him to believe her without a moment of doubt. "I'm staying right here ....all yours, baby ..." A slip of her body, and she straddled him, not even considering that he might have the strength to take her onto her back yet. There would be time enough to feel encompassed by him, surrounded, wanted ....the L-word hovered in her thoughts before being dismissed. That really was being optimistic.

It wasn't lack of desire that kept him on his back, that much was obvious, but even the slightest motion seemed to make his head swim like he was at sea, and he knew no matter how badly he wanted her, he wasn't going to be able to fulfill his side of the bargain without her help. He groaned against her lips as she straddled him, the start of a different kind of addiction, wanting her, needing to possess her completely, to let her possess him. He shifted his body beneath her, arching his hips to find that sweet spot of hers and bury himself inside her. Whether she wanted to go slow or not, he couldn't bear to wait any longer. He'd waited long enough; he'd waited years.

With a little help, he found that sweet spot, and claimed his reward as she shuddered, moaning softly into his kisses, peppering his lips as much with his name as with the taste of her own breath. This was better, he was better than any temporary thrill that could be found in the bottom of a bottle. She was losing the battle against her new addiction with each kiss, each touch, each moment that passed as he claimed her, wishing harder than she had ever thought to wish before that he might fall into the same trap with her. It didn't matter how screwed they both were, not if they could have this. This, and perhaps the promise of what might come in time, as a result of this.

As for him, he already knew he was well on his way to replacing one addiction for another, but this new addiction was so much better than anything he'd ever tried before. Maybe, just maybe, with her help, he'd finally conquer his own battle with the bottle, just as she had. Maybe there would be hope for them both yet, but for now it was one small step at a time. That he'd come this far already in only a day said something for how he felt about her and about the impression she'd made on him.

Though she might have wanted to take things slow, he wanted everything now, right away. Life was too short, and he'd waited long enough. That she was promising to be part of his life when he'd thought he'd never see her again was a miracle in itself. That she was saving him from himself was the icing on the cake. His lips found hers, kissing her with the urgency of a man too long alone and too long denied, shuddering as he found himself buried in her warmth, safe in her arms, no longer alone. He knew it wasn't going to be easy, but nothing worthwhile ever was.

There was something about his kisses, something about him, that called to something long neglected deep inside her. She barely knew him, but she'd made a promise to stay with him, help him, be with him as long as he wanted or needed her, without a second thought. Her family were going to be difficult about it, she was pretty sure, but Elena had never let that get in her way. This was a good thing, she was also sure, and this time she wasn't going to let it get ripped up by her pride or stupidity. Rocking to him with the urgency that bled from him to her, she gasped into his kisses, one hand locked with his, the other trailing over his chest, up beneath the shirt he wore, pushing hard and fast for what they needed from each other.

His eyes fell closed and he leaned his head back against the pillow, one hand linked with hers, the other clutching her hip, fingers grasping tightly as if they never wanted to let go. Her kisses muffled the groans she was drawing from him as his body crested, teetering on the edge of his climax, achingly close to the summit. This was better than any drink, any drug, any high he'd ever felt before, just as addictive, just as intoxicating, just as dangerous. Unbeknownst to her, she'd broken his heart once already, and he was taking a chance offering it to her again, but he was quickly becoming addicted to love and she was the drug that he craved, the only cure that could save or destroy him.

Her hand slipped from beneath his shirt as they moved together, curling to his neck as her lips broke from his, giving voice to a moan that bore his name as clearly as any other exclamation could make itself known. She could feel the shudder rising up along her spine, closer with each passing moment, but somehow knew that he would get there before her. And for the first time she could remember, possibly just the first time ever, Elena found she didn't mind that so much. He needed it more than she did; he lacked the strength right now to accomplish it alone. But she could give it to him, and somehow that almost made up for the ache she would have to live with until she had time to finish things herself.

As hard as he tried to hold back, to wait until she could catch up with him, he couldn't. He was too far gone and too needy, not yet strong enough to take control of his body or of the moment, dependent on her and completely at her mercy. She could have done almost anything and he wouldn't have been able to resist. That she had decided to give him something only she could give, offer him a moment's release from pain and frustration was more than he could have asked or hoped for. The fact that she had put his needs above hers wasn't wasted on him. Even as he went over the edge, crying out her name in ecstatic release, he made a promise to himself not to forget, never to take her for granted, and to make sure he repaid her in kind as soon as he was able.

She let him savor the moment as long as it lasted, slow to still the gentle motion of her body until he was ready for it to end. Soft lips trailed kisses from the hollow of his throat, up to ghost along his jaw, tasting his skin with the breathless enjoyment of knowing that she'd given him something selfless. She hadn't been selfish. It was such a simple thing, yet it meant a great deal to her to know she was capable of it. Catching his lips, she kissed him gently as she slipped from that intimate press, setting his shorts back to rights before settling against his side, groping to throw the uncomfortable twist of her robe over the side of the bed. It was hardly necessary now.

He was gasping for breath, even as she kissed him, rocked to the core of his being by the force of his climax, wondering how he'd lived without her for so long, fearing he could never live without her again. "God, you're..." He shuddered again as she slipped away from him, frowning regretfully that the moment had ended, promising himself there would be time for more moments like these later. Lots of time. All the time in the world. He drew a deep breath, at a loss for words. Poetry. He'd have to write her some poetry. Or a story. Something as beautiful as she was. He wished he was an artist, so he could paint her picture. He'd spend the rest of his life painting pictures, all of them of her.

"Well, you got the stubborn right," she agreed with a faint grin, easing him over the carpet and into the bathroom just one step at a time, letting him set the pace. She'd been unlucky enough to have been carried around by Max when she'd first gotten to Rhy'Din, when she was in this early stage of withdrawal, and it wasn't something she ever wanted to experience again. The sensation of being completely cut off from the ground while the world spun too fast was not a pleasant one. "Are you sure you can handle a shower" The bath's right there too."

"I don't think I have much choice," he remarked, focusing his sight on the short trip to the bathroom that seemed a lot longer than it was. One step at a time, literally. He wasn't going to just lie in bed and wait for this to go away. He was too stubborn for that, but maybe that stubborn streak would serve him well. For the first time in four years, he was bound and determined to beat this, for her, for himself, for their future.

"I'm giving you the choice," Elena informed him, smirking a little as she added, "Just that, you know, one involves you sitting and washing yourself, and the other one involves me getting in there with you to prop you up while you wash yourself. Isn't that a choice?" Reaching the door, she leaned him against the door-frame, stepping back to look up into his face. "Point of no return, gorgeous, make a decision."

He had a feeling that if he let her take care of bathing him, one thing would lead to another, and he wasn't sure if he could physically handle it again. "Says the girl of my dreams, who's naked by the way," he pointed out. "You did promise to wash my back," he added, tipping sideways to take a lean in the doorway, arching a brow at the smirk on her face. "I think you're enjoying this a little too much."

She grinned back at him, holding up her hand, thumb and forefinger half an inch apart. "Little bit, yeah." Flipping her hair back off her face, she laid her hands on her hips, refusing to blush as he pointed out her less than clothed state. "All right, if I promise to get dressed, will you take a bath over a shower?" She bit her lip yet again. That look on his face was doing nothing for the unfulfilled ache she'd volunteered herself for.

"Afraid I'm going to slip on the soap?" he asked, with a wry, almost teasing smile. It was sweet how she wanted to take care of him, and who was he to argue about that' His gaze drifted to her mouth as she bit her lip, which made her look so much more vulnerable than she let on. He felt an urge to kiss her again, but he refrained, knowing where it would lead again. Man could not live on love alone, even if he wanted to. "Okay," he relented, finally. "But just my back. I can handle the rest myself." And by that, he meant his unmentionables, or else she was going to give him a hard on again.

To her credit, she didn't mention the state of his head or the shakes that were still perceptible when she pressed close. He knew how he was feeling, and he knew she did, too, without it being pointed out. Instead, she beamed, raising her hand in a Brownie salute. "I do solemnly swear I will get dressed, once you're in the bath," she promised, and slipped by to turn the water on. Despite her long absence from constant sunshine, her skin was still tan, the trim line of her waist highlighting the dark character of a single tattoo that decorated the small of her back as she bent over the tub. "How hot do you want this?"

He didn't notice the tattoo right away. Having enough trouble staying upright on two feet without falling over, as soon as she turned away, he sagged a little and shut his eyes against the slowly spinning room, only opening them again when he heard her voice calling him back with a question. "As hot as possible," he replied, arching a curious brow as he looked back at her and noticed the mark on her back. "Where'd you get that?" he asked, not only interested in the tat's history but in tattoos in general.

As steam billowed up from the water filling the bath, Elena straightened up, glancing down the line of her own back before lifting her gaze to meet his eyes with a half-smile. "There's a parlor in Brooklyn, around the corner from where I grew up," she shrugged lightly, turning back to face him where he sagged against the door-frame. "Kinda illegal, seeing as the guy was tattooing kids for enough money, but I got it when I was seventeen. My first paycheck, and I didn't wear a short top for over a year, just in case Mama saw it." She laughed a little at that memory, stepping close to slide her hands beneath his shirt, lifting the material up from his skin.

"You were a rebel," he remarked as she tugged at his shirt. It wasn't a question. He had to let go of his lean in order to get the shirt off, and he reached out with a hand to steady himself, before yanking the sweat-soaked t-shirt over his head. "Why faith?" he asked, retaking his lean, knowing the shorts were going to be next, and that was going to be a bit trickier.

Odd, how easy that question was to answer, even for the woman that rebellious teen had grown into. "Because I needed it," she told him through a wry smile. "And I was arrogant enough to think that just having it written on me was enough. I was wrong." She shrugged a shoulder, lowering down onto one knee. "Lean on me, or you're gonna go down hard when we get these off."

But he wasn't giving up that easily. He knew it took a certain amount of courage to get something permanently inked on your skin. Every tattoo had its own story, and hers was no exception. "Faith in what?" he asked, pressing further, following her with his eyes as she went down on one knee. "No teasing," he warned, before he held out a hand to lean against her unsteadily as he started to tug the shorts down off his legs.

It was tempting to tease just because he'd warned her not to, but she had a feeling he'd pitch right over if she did anything to him right now. As her fingers took over from his hands, gently pulling the shorts down his legs as he leaned on her, she looked up at him. "In anything," was her answer. "I didn't believe in anything, or in anyone. No one had faith in me, so why should I have faith in them' But I wanted to." She shook her head, urging one of his feet up to let her guide the material from that leg completely. "I wanted so badly to have faith in someone and ....and not be let down. I figured I was the only one who could be that person for me. Bad call, as it turned out."

He steadied his lean with one hand on her shoulder while the other was pressed against the door-frame as she slid his shorts down his legs and off, one foot at a time. A shyer man might have blushed, but if there was one thing Michael had never been, it was shy. "I have faith in you," he told her without hesitation. It was true. Though they didn't know each other well yet, he'd seen enough to know he could trust her and that he had complete faith in her, at least where he was concerned. The rest would come in time.

She stood slowly, holding his gaze with impossibly soft eyes, torn between the different ways she could respond to that simple declaration from his lips. Should she be flippant, indifferent, grateful? And yet, of all the choices, she came up with the most unlikely ....truthful. "You're the only one," she murmured sadly, a moment later stepping up to kiss him, reminding herself that he was real, that the faith he had in her was real. That she couldn't let him down, no matter what.

He would have protested, would have told her he was sure she was wrong, that others had faith in her if she only believed them, but whatever he might have said was wiped from his mind and his lips as she kissed him again, stirring the feelings - both physical and emotional - that he couldn't deny were growing between them. He returned that kiss, as if to prove to her that he meant what he said, letting his lips speak for him, instead of words.

The kiss burned, searing deeper than skin and bone until Elena could have sworn it was etching his name on her soul. She never could have predicted such a sudden attachment to anyone, to the point where she would promise her lifetime to him if he wanted it, but that was what had happened. She just had to make sure he had a lifetime to give back. Gently easing back, she leaned into him a moment longer, her forehead resting against his, eyes closed. "We should get you in the bath."

He felt it, too, some sort of unexpected and almost electric connection that seemed to sear that kiss into his heart and soul, but whether she was feeling it, too, he couldn't quite be sure. It wasn't the lack of bourbon in his veins that was making him feel this way, he was sure of it. It was something else, something he'd never felt before, not just an attraction, but a connection. He felt her ease back, and he slid his eyes open to see that hers had drifted closed. The words were poised on his lips, words that he knew it was too early to say.

"You talking about my heart or my body?" he asked, turning his head toward her again and prying his eyes open, the light making his head ache, though her face was a sight for sore eyes. Like an angel. His angel. He winced just a little as he sloshed in the water, forward forward so she could wash his back, like she'd promised. "Feel like an *ss," he remarked quietly with a frown, feeling like he should be able to handle this on his own. He was a man, after all, not a child.

"Maybe both?" was her quixotic answer, her eyes watching the cloth as it moved over his skin, careful not to press to hard or scrub too deep. Easing the dirt from him, rather than stripping it away. Her gaze flickered for a moment at his frowning comment, but this, at least, she knew how to answer. "You're doing better than I did," she told him in the steamy quiet. "I couldn't even sit upright. I cried all the time. Mama and my sisters, they had to do everything for me. God, they even had to take me to the toilet. That's embarrassing."

"Give me a few days," was his pessimistic and somewhat deprecating response, not only anticipating but expecting that the worst was yet to come. The aspirin was helping a little anyway, but he knew before all said and done, he knew he was going to need more than aspirin before all was said and done. "Ever wish you could go back in time and change your own life?" he asked, changing the subject, just a little, but not really. It all circled back to the same thing - the common denominator between them - their addictions.

"If wishes were dollars, we'd all be millionaires." It was a favorite saying of her mother's, always trotted out whenever any of the De Luca siblings expressed a desire for the easy way out of anything. "All the time," Elena told him quietly, drawing the cloth over his shoulder and down along his arm, working the soap between his fingers. "But I don't think I was wishing for the right thing to change."

He closed his eyes a moment as she drew the soap-laden cloth over him. As silly as he felt, he thought he could get used to this, used to the thoughtful care of a beautiful woman. He'd never had that before, not like this. You can't miss what you don't have, someone had once told him, but that was nothing but a crock of sh*t. "What do you mean?" he asked, turning to face her again, his vision a little sharper, the bath and the aspirin helping to clear his head a little.

She lifted her eyes to his, her fingers still rinsing the soap from his fingers as she shrugged one shouldered. "I, uh ....Well, I used to wish that Papa never left," she admitted reluctantly. "And then it was that I'd never met Sam Nicoletti or any of his stuffed shirts. But what I should have been wishing for ..." She swallowed, shyly glancing away for a moment before resuming that tentative gaze. "I should've been wishing that I gave you a chance. I'm really sorry I didn't. I'll make it up to you, any way you want me to. I promise."

His expression changed again, noting the regret in her voice, the guilt, feeling some remorse of his own, sympathy, compassion. He didn't want her to feel forever guilty about what had happened in their past. The past was the past. Nothing could be done to change it, no matter how much they might want it to. "You have to stop thinking like that, Elena," he tried to reassure her, his voice sounding strangely quiet to his own ears, small, distant, though to her, he probably only sounded like he was trying to speak gently, calmly. "We're not the same people we were then. A lot has changed."

She smiled a little, a short huff of laughter escaping through her nose as she shook her head a little. "I know I've changed," she assured him. "Hot nekkid dude in my bath-tub; sick or not, I'd have been on you like a shot coupla years back." Her hand rose to touch to his cheek, drawing her thumb over his skin. "But I don't want to break you."

As much as he didn't want to revisit the past, he couldn't help but ask the question that had been gnawing at him for the last four years or so, the frown on his face indicative of the pain it had caused him, whether he admitted it or not. She wasn't the reason he'd started drinking. She was only one of many reasons. It was complicated at best and not something he was really ready to talk about. Maybe he'd get there before this was through, but not yet. "Why didn't you then" Was I really that much of an *sshole the first time around?"

She stilled, her arms resting on the edge of the bath, fingers trailing in the water, as she considered his question, forcing her mind to turn back into the hazy remembrances of years spent at the bottom of a bottle. "I don't know," she said thoughtfully. "I remember that you bugged me for weeks, and that I kept saying no. I don't remember why I said yes, but I do remember one thing ..." She bit her lip, hazel green eyes lifting to his once again. "You were so disbelieving. Like you couldn't believe your luck. You kept on and on about being on a date with Elena De Luca, and ....I've always hated being Elena De Luca. I guess you just rubbed me the wrong way, and I reacted really badly. I shouldn't have said the things I did, Michael. Bourbon only offers up an excuse for so much."

His brows furrowed worriedly as he heard and accepted her explanation, remembering back to the fateful night. He'd known who she was long before she'd walked into the office and read for the part. He'd always thought she was beautiful, but he hadn't realized just how beautiful until she was standing right there in front of him. He wasn't sure why, but he decided maybe it was time for him to tell her a little bit of the truth that had been withheld all those years, though he knew he was chancing making her feel bad all over again. "They were looking at someone else for the part," he admitted with a frown. "But it was my book, my screenplay, my baby, and I insisted it had to be you. No one else. They tried to talk me out of it, but..." There was that thoughtful, worried frown again, worried she'd feel beholden to him, and he didn't want that. "You were perfect. I didn't want anyone else." And she was still perfect, in his eyes, but in a different way now.

She smiled at his confession, touched that he been so instrumental to her first role played away from the constant presence of her sisters. It was still her defining role as an actress, the one she had yet to top. "I wouldn't have auditioned if I didn't like the pages I was sent," she reminded him, laying her fingers over his lips again. "I remember Boston Nights, Michael. I loved that role, I loved the character. I love the way you wrote me." Because even then, even in the haze of intoxication, she'd been able to recognize herself in the lines she'd read. "Maybe that was why we didn't work. You had a really clear idea of me that you'd written down; I never could have lived up to that standard."

His heart skipped a beat as her fingers touched his lips, stilling him for a moment before he continued. "You're living up to it now," he told her, his eyes betraying the hope he was feeling, along with the confusion. "I should have called you a long time ago. I should have set things right. Then maybe none of this would have happened." Yes, he was still blaming himself, even as she was doing the same, when the truth was that it was all just part of life and part of the lesson both of them had had to learn before they could move forward with their lives or have any hope of being together. "How do you think I got here" Think one of us has a fairy godmother somewhere pulling the strings?"

"We're wishing again," she pointed out, poking at the maybes that didn't matter now. Rising up from her kneel, she pressed the cloth into his hands. "You need to wash up so I can feed you before you pass out again," she told him. "And I need to get dressed." And deal with that little aching problem while you're busy. "There's something called the Nexus that seems to pick people up and drop them here in Rhy'Din," she went on, blowing him a kiss over her shoulder as she turned away. "I don't know whether it grants wishes, though."

He wrapped his fingers around the cloth, his eyes never leaving her, even as she pulled away from him and moved to her feet. It seemed she was suddenly too far away, though she was only in the next room, and he wondered how he'd ever lived the last four years without her. "It granted mine," he admitted quietly, not really loud enough for his voice to carry. He owed whoever or whatever had sent him here a debt of gratitude.

Now, all he had to do was get clean - in more ways than one - and sort out where to go from here. It was slightly more complicated than that, but one thing at a time. With her not there to distract him and the water losing its heat, he went about finishing up with his bath. There was no need to shave yet, though the shadow of whiskers on his cheeks and chin were growing darker by the day, and his hair could use a trim, but it could wait a bit longer. Everything, it seemed, could always wait a bit longer. He realized with a sigh that he was getting tired of waiting for things to happen. Maybe it was time to make them happen.

He was slow in getting to his feet, but eventually, he made it, pausing a moment to let his head catch up with the movement of his body. He felt as weak and as helpless as a baby, and it irked him to no end, but he was doing his best not to take it out on her. It wasn't her fault, after all. He had no one to blame but himself. "I'm....I'm gonna need help getting dressed," he admitted with some embarrassment. It was humbling, to say the least, and he wasn't sure what might have happened to him if it wasn't for her help.

"Aw, c'mon, baby," she smirked faintly, nuzzling to the line of his jaw. "That's just an excuse to get my hands all over you again, isn't it?" She wasn't going to make a big deal out of his needing help, not at all. That wouldn't help the bigger issue, after all. She smiled, guiding him to lean against the wall. "I'll be gentle, I promise."

"You better be or I'm gonna pass out again," he warned, mostly teasing, but not completely, as he looked down at her from his crooked lean. It was a very real possibility and would more than likely only get worse before it got better. He wondered just how bad it might get, and he shuddered involuntarily. He leveraged himself against the wall, unable to even begin the chore of getting dressed. The Leaning Tower of Donnelly, that was him, he thought with an inner wince.

True to her word, she was gentle with him, taking her time to dry his skin and ease his briefs and jeans up over his legs, letting him lean on her as much as he leaned against the wall. And she talked to him as she did it, telling him about the garden, the fresh coffee upstairs, what he might want to eat. Anything to distract him from feeling the humiliation of being dressed by a pretty, half-naked woman. And his reward for being patient with himself" As she drew the hem of his t-shirt down, her lips found his, slow and gentle and something very close to affectionate.

He was trying very hard not to think about the half-dressed beautiful woman who was helping him into his clothes - just as she'd helped him out of them. He tried to focus on the garden and the coffee and breakfast and whatever else she was going on about in her attempt to distract him and keep his mind focused. It was no easy task, as his mind was accustomed to wandering, drifting, daydreaming, as a writer's mind was wont to do, but lately, there were no characters poking at his brain, no story wanting to be told, except his own.

There might be a story later, but for now, it was hard enough just getting through the day. He held himself as still as he could, despite the tremors that were threatening to take his legs out from under him again, focusing on the sound of her voice, if not the words she was saying. Something about flowers, and he thought of his mother's rose garden again all those years ago. And then she was drawing him away from those thoughts with a kiss that was as slow and steady as a heartbeat, and though it only lasted a moment, it almost seemed to go on forever. Something was definitely changing in the way she kissed him, the way she touched him, even the look in her eyes as hazel green blinked open to meet his gaze. Her hands smoothed down his arms as she looked up at him, standing close but not so close as to give him too much trouble. For a moment, desire was bright and clear in her gaze before she made a visible effort to tamp it down, lock it away in the drawer marked "Later". A lot later. "Better?" she asked softly, feeling the threatening tremble in his core and wondering if he had the strength to get up the stairs to the kitchen.

"Better," he lied with a strained half-smile, the reply more in answer to her kiss than anything else. Between the aspirin and the bath, he was feeling half-way human again, but it wouldn't hurt to get something in his stomach and a little fresh air. Still, he knew it was only temporary at best, and that the worst was yet to come, unless he was granted another miracle by whatever forces had brought him here. Still, in a way, she was his miracle, and he thought so long as she was there with him, he could conquer anything - he would conquer anything, even this. His fingertips trailed briefly against her cheek before through sheer force of will, he pushed off the wall and straightened to his full height of just over six feet.

Her brow rose, her expression calling him in the lie even as she took a half-step back, her head tipping to let her follow him as he straightened fully. He was almost a full foot taller than her, and though that made her feel small, it wasn't a bad thing. She actually liked the feeling, with Michael, anyway. "Okay, let me get dressed quick," she told him, drumming her fingertips on his chest for a moment before turning away to jump into a pair of shorts, catching up a tank to put on over her head as she turned back. Not the most appropriate clothing for the weather outside, but that was what coats were for, right' Smiling, she stretched a hand toward him, inviting him to take a few steps alone to reach her. "C'mon, coffee's all hot and ready to be drunk up there."

He chuckled as he watched her, sagging backwards to take a lean against the wall, but trying to remain as straight as possible, his face a little pale with the effort, but hey, at least he was laughing. "That's not dressed, Elena," he remarked, his eyes moving over her appraisingly, though she was more covered up than she'd been since his arrival. "Coffee would be great," he replied as he reached for her hand and pushed himself off the wall again. Coffee wasn't a cure, but it was hot and it would help with the headache.

"Hey, if it was summer, you'd say I'm dressed, so I say I'm dressed." She stuck her tongue out at him cheerfully as his hand slid into hers, leading the way to the door and the stairwell beyond. "You should be glad I'm not wearing a dress. This is harder to get off me." That comment came with a cheeky wink over her shoulder as she began to lead him up the stairs, from the warm dimness of the basement to the sunlight-bright ground floor.

"And why's that?" he asked, as he followed her shakily, groping his way up the stairwell to the mysterious ground floor above them. "I'm sorry about earlier," he said with a sober frown, realizing he'd lost control of himself and crossed the finish line before her, leaving her feeling frustrated and wanting. He'd never done that before and was forced to admit that he didn't have as much control over himself right now as he thought. "You should have said something. I feel like an *ss."

She winced, wishing he hadn't asked her why, still refusing to lie to him. "Because you're not up to it," was her soft answer, biting her lip in the aftermath of pointing out a weakness most men would be deeply offended at having highlighted. At the top of the stairs she paused, taking his hands as she led him through a bright living room and into a sunny kitchen, a wide space that was bordered along one wall entirely with glass, offering a view onto the frosty garden outside. "You don't need to feel like an *ss," she assured him gently. "You can make it up to me when you're better."

He paused at the top of the stairs, wincing in the suddenly too-bright light of daylight, feeling like a vampire or a cave-dweller. Somewhere along the way, he'd gotten his days and nights mixed up, sleeping the days away and staying awake long into the night. Sometimes, the nights seemed to last forever. Sometimes he thought they might never end. "It's bright," he remarked, as if it was the first time he'd seen sunlight in a very long time. He took no offense to her estimation of his ability or inability to physically please her in his current state of sickness. That's what it boiled down to, he realized. It was a sickness, an illness, a disease that would most likely kill him someday if he didn't find the strength to beat it. If I'm better, he thought to himself with a heavy heart.

"That's what happens during the day," she told him with playful facetiousness. "There's this big flaming ball that comes up in the morning, I don't know if you've heard of it - it's called the sun." She blew him a kiss, patting the table beside her as an invitation for him to sit down. "It makes light and heat, and then when it gets tired, it goes away and we have something called night, which is a lot darker." She padded barefoot over terracotta tiles to the kitchen counter, seeking out cups to fill with the fresh coffee bubbling in the pot.

"Very funny," he replied, with a half-smile, half-scowl directed her way. He wasted no time in claiming a chair, dropping heavily into it, as if his legs were about to give out at any given moment. There was something sexy about a woman in shorts, long legs and feet bare, and for the umpteenth time since he'd arrived, he felt his body reminding him that he was still alive and well enough to want her. "God, when I'm better, we're not getting out of bed for at least a week," he remarked, almost not realizing he'd said it out loud.

"You'd be surprised how many people forget that all those characters they're so fond of start out in the mind of some writer somewhere." He wasn't sure why he was telling her that. Writers were often unsung heroes, in his mind, overshadowed by the visual arts, actors and actresses who wouldn't have any words to speak if it weren't for some writer who'd sweated blood to give give their character life. He shrugged the thought away and guided a forkful of scrambled egg to his mouth. "Anyway, you should take it as a compliment. If people think you are your character, that means you did your job right." He paused a moment, as if debating whether or not to let this trail of thought continue. "You should have gotten an Oscar. You were Allie Noble." The name of the female protagonist of his single best-seller turned blockbuster movie.

"I'm not Academy material," she chuckled, shaking her head. "You're the one who should at least have been nominated. I mean, you wrote it. Without the words, where's the story' I wouldn't have had anything to do if you hadn't created a character that I could just step into." She shrugged, unaware that her thoughts had paralleled his as she spoke. "Writers don't get enough credit," she added around a mouthful of bacon. "I'm just glad the strike a coupla years ago got the screen writers a little recognition. There's no point to acting if there's nothing new to challenge you, and the new stuff comes from geniuses like you."

He shrugged again as he scarfed up his eggs, almost as if he'd inhaled them. "I created her. I wrote her. I gave her words to say, but you..." His fork gesticulated toward her with a circular motion in the air. "You breathed life into her. You made her real. That's the thing about movies and actors. They make it all real. Everything I saw in my head became real." He snorted as she used the word that had been used to describe him one too many times before. "Shakespeare was a genius. Poe was a genius. Twain was a genius. Hell, Stephen King is a genius. I got lucky. I wrote one book. That's all. I don't know what it is, Elena, but it sure as hell isn't genius. Lightning isn't striking twice here," he remarked with just a hint of irony and bitterness.

"You wrote a great book." A book which was even now hugging a corner of the drawer of her bedside cabinet, dog-eared and much read, one of her favorites, though she had yet to admit to that. "You're just letting it get in the way of writing something new." She shrugged again, taking one last bite of sausage and setting her plate aside. "It's the same problem actors have, and singers, anyone who expresses themselves through any of the arts. You have one shining moment, and then the whole world focuses down to what?s next' Like what you've already done isn't good enough and you have to top it. But you don't have to top it. You need to forget that you ever wrote a book. Get in front of the page like it's the first time, all over again."

"I think," she added, realizing she sounded a little more authoritative than she had any right to. "I mean, obviously I've never written anything, so I ....Yeah, advice from a drunken actress, that's really not helpful." Shaking her head, she looked down into her coffee cup, wishing she hadn't opened her mouth in the first place.

He opened his mouth to protest, to tell her it wasn't such a great book as everyone deemed it to be and that he had no idea how he could ever possibly top it, but his mouth snapped closed as she continued, telling him what he already knew but was too stubborn to accept, or maybe was just to afraid to face. She was quite possibly the only person he knew, other than his agent, who actually seemed to get it. He lowered his fork with a piece of sausage skewered to the end of it. "I don't know if I can, Elena." His expression betrayed all the self-doubt he was feeling, the fear of failure, the worries that everything he wrote from that moment forward would forever be compared to his first triumph, pi"ce de r'sistance, his opus magnum, his masterpiece. "What if everything I write from here on is just sh*t?"

"I don't believe that." It was a flat statement of fact, not to be argued with, green eyes confident with that force of belief leveled on his as she spoke. "You can do anything you set your mind to. Anything. You just need a little inspiration, that's all." Her hand reached over, stroking her knuckles tenderly down his cheek. "If you don't trust yourself, then trust me. You're a great writer, Michael. It'll happen. But until it does, there's no point beating yourself up about it. I bet you'll be published again by the end of the year, and if you're not, I'll ....walk naked in the St Patrick's parade in New York."

He met her gaze, astounded at the belief she seemed to have in him. What a difference four years made. Or maybe she'd believed in him all along; he just hadn't believed in himself. His parents had; his mother, in particular, but he didn't want to think about that right now. Her touch made his heart ache with longing, not just a physical longing, but a longing of the soul. He was a writer, and as such, he was happiest when he was writing, but it was a lonely, solitary kind of existence, torn between the need to write and the need for human companionship. Sometimes the lines blurred, and he felt like he had only his characters for companions, as though they were real people, but they weren't. They only lived in his head. This was real; Elena was real. "That doesn't give me much time. St. Patrick's Day is in March, unless you mean March of next year."

She laughed, flicking honey gold hair back off her face with her fingers. "March next year," she clarified. "I'm not that cruel. Unless you want that kind of deadline, of course." She drew her cup to her lips once again, finishing what little coffee remained in the bottom with a soft sigh. It was amazing what a little food and some interesting company could do. Not that her family weren't interesting, but ....they weren't Michael.

He leaned into her touch for a moment before she pulled away, not quite knowing how to tell her how much her belief in him meant to him, how much she meant to. "You going to go Lady Godiva on me if I don't get published" How's that going to hurt me" You're the one who will get arrested," he pointed out, not quite understanding her logic, but clearly amused by the threat, which he didn't take seriously. He heard the sigh and mistook it for boredom or annoyance. "I wrote Boston Nights in six months, from start to finish, not including the rewrites." He shifted his gaze at the plate in front of him, fiddling with the sausage on the end of his fork.

"So you can do it again. Were you clean when you wrote it?" she asked him, her tone suddenly incisive as she studied him. Clean or dirty, words that only really had a double meaning if you knew exactly where she was coming from by using them. "Because, let me tell you, you can get a lot more done when you're not always thinking about where the next drink is coming from."

"I wasn't drinking yet. I didn't start drinking until after..." He trailed off, leaving that statement unfinished. Until after what? After the movie" After she dumped him' After his parents died" All of the above" "I don't even know how I got started," he admitted. "I don't know if it was all the parties or what. I shouldn't have done all those parties. The fame went straight to my head. I thought it would last forever, you know" But then....everything changed." He glanced off to stare out the window at the frozen garden, lost in thought again.

She went quiet for a long moment, her own thoughts following his toward the endless round of parties, public appearances, the public relations outings that could fill a life so easily with disarray. "It's one of the worst aspects of entertainment," she said softly, her own gaze focusing on his hand where it lay still against the table. "The same people who want you to do well ....they go out of their way to destroy you in the name of success. It's easy to get sucked in, baby. You're not alone there."

"They wanted too much from me," he continued, hearing everything she was saying and taking it in, realizing she understood where he was coming from, what he had been through, what he was going through. "I gave them everything I had, Elena, and it still wasn't enough. Blood, sweat, tears. That's what goes into writing. It's like....like baring your soul to the world. They're not just words, Elena. My heart and soul went into that book. I'm just....I'm not sure I can do it again." But that wasn't completely true. The first novel had come easily enough. It was the second that was hard. He sighed as he leaned his head wearily against his hand. "I don't know what to write about anymore. Nothing seems good enough."

"Hey." Her voice was soft as she drew his hand from his face, easing her fingers against his cheek. "You gotta stop thinking like that." Rising from her chair, she eased him to sit back, settling herself once more in an easy straddle of his thighs, her hands gentle on his jaw as she looked into his eyes. "Maybe you should write what you know," she suggested in a low whisper, punctuating each sentence with the barest suggestion of a kiss to warm his lips. "There's a bestselling writer who gets caught up in the hip set in the cities." Her fingers trailed down the column of his neck. "He gets stuck in the round of parties and alcohol." Her nose brushed his tenderly. "He meets a girl who has the same problem." Her lips claimed his once again. "He saves her, and saves himself at the same time." Finally, her arms looped about his shoulders, her forehead resting to his, her eyes locked with his, green to blue. "I think your take on that would be incredible."

The turmoil bubbling just below the surface was almost palpable, blue eyes reflecting all the fears and the doubts and the worries as she touched his cheek and eased herself into his lap. He set the fork down on his plate, his breakfast only half-eaten, enough to still the hunger cramps and the grumbling in his stomach, but not nearly enough to satisfy the craving for bourbon. There was a look of utter sadness on his face, utter desperation, and hopelessness, her kisses slowly quelling the turmoil, her suggestions, however serious, stilling the fears in him and stirring his innate desire for creativity. "Does it have a happy ending?" he found himself asking, as his forehead came to rest against hers, her kisses still burning on his lips.

"You tell me." She held his gaze for a long moment, putting the future in his hands ....not just his creativity, but herself as well. She'd made a promise to stay with him, to be his girl as long as he needed or wanted her to be, but hadn't heard an answering confirmation of what he truly wanted. It was all maybes still with him; she needed him to be certain. That certainty would get him through the hardest times coming, lending him the confidence to push through the pain and find the sanctuary on the other side. "Do we have a happy ending, Michael?"

Forced to meet her gaze, her green eyes locked to his blue, he was unable to lie, unable to fool himself or her. He had to face the truth head on, face to face, no procrastination, no pretension. It was the moment of truth, the turning point, the crossroads of his life. He felt a deep well open up inside him, a well of pain and frustration and fear, and an undeniable desire and hope for the future. Hope springing from the darkest and most unexpected places. His blue eyes were suddenly swimming with tears, pain that had been too long repressed. "I want to..." He whispered through trembling lips. "I want to be with you. It's all I've ever wanted." Maybe it wasn't really all he'd ever wanted, but it was a good place to start.

Never in a million years could she have expected him to say that. Elena wasn't used to being the sum of all a single person's wishes and hopes and fears, feeling the weight of that responsibility settling on her shoulders as she gazed into his eyes, fingers stroking through the hair at his nape in a weak attempt to comfort him against the pain that her query had allowed to flood through him. "Then I hope I don't disappoint you," she whispered back to him, smoothing her hand warm against the line of his jaw. "Because I meant it, Michael. I don't wanna let go of you. Not ever."

Tears spilled over onto his face as if she had with a single question ripped open his heart and tore out his soul. "I'm sorry," he apologized yet again. "I shouldn't have said that. It's just....You're all I have left, Elena. There isn't anyone else, and I....I don't want anyone else. I just wish it wasn't so hard." He wiped a hand across his face, ashamed of his tears, of the fact that he'd let her see them. "If I get through this, I promise....You'll never regret it. We'll show everyone, Elena. We're stronger than them. We can do this together."

"Then I'm never gonna regret it, am I" Because you will get through this. I promise you, you will beat this, baby. I swear it." Her lips found his again, bestowing another of those slow, gentle kisses that could so easily be called loving by a daring heart. She didn't see his tears as anything but the gift they were, the truth and evidence that he wasn't hiding anything from her. And though she felt the weight of his need to believe heavy on her shoulders, she thought that maybe she was strong enough ....so long as he stayed.

Stay he would, for as long as she'd have him. At least, that was his intention. Whether the powers that be, that seemed to be in control of their lives, agreed would have to remain to be seen, but for now at least he wasn't going anywhere. She was his lifeline, his angel, his reason for living, and if he had any choice in the matter, he wasn't ever letting go. He sealed that mental promise with a kiss, kisses that were growing more caring, more heartfelt with each moment, surrendering his heart to her once and for all and putting his trust in her completely. They were in this together now, for better or worse, no matter what might the future might bring.

((I'm very much enjoying these two, and we've barely scratched the surface! Uberliciously excited thankibubbles to Michael's player!))