What Would Not Be

AU Eternus Infinuum

Written by V. and Anne, who owns the Swede.

Icy wind whipped from the southeast, coming off the water and chilling every tourist to the bone. The inhabitants of the Big Easy were used to the cooler weather by now; December meant more than just frost in the gardens. For every gaudy storefront that sold gold and purple trinkets in celebration of too many winter holidays, there were a dozen frozen panhandlers and streetwalkers who fought over the warmer grates after the sun went down.

Meli took a long drag on her third cig of the night, the smoke curling about her gaunt face and gathering to form an impromptu halo above dirty blonde hair. Fifteen, she might have been going on twenty-five. What did it matter in New Orleans anyways, she figured. Old enough to get out of the house, old enough to get out of school, and young enough to stay the hell away from a war that kept sucking the life from home and everywhere else. She stamped her feet on the icy ground, more out of impatience than actual cold. Where the hell was he? He'd said twenty till eleven, hadn't he? The end of the cig flared crimson, a dying salute to the day as Meli exhaled noisily in the glow of a streetlight.

"Meli." The voice was sharp, heavily accented, and her name came out clipped, a harsh, 'Mel.' He appeared suddenly from the alley, a shadow forming out of shadows. His face was hidden both by poor lighting and his unkept hair; he took his own drag, from a carefully rolled joint. "Sorry. Got held up by some jerkoff guards on the corner. Frisked me for the shit, but I hid it in my shorts and none of 'em dared make me drop and share the wealth. So much the better for you, then."

Kort Langer stepped into the light, shuffling in the filthy, melting slush around his feet. In one time, a world without war, he would have been devastatingly handsome. But time, malnutrition and a life of drugs had robbed him of his attractive spark. The only thing about him that remained as they had in his youth was the startling color of his eyes - teal, like the first robin's egg of spring. But these, too, had lost their intrigue, and once remarkable for the spark of humor and good cheer they held, they had become nothing more than glassy and hardened. He was in a constant state of poor health, an unhealthy drug cocktail waging war in his system every day of the week. He looked like a walking ghost, not quite dead but really not alive.

He plastered a bit of matted blonde hair away from his face, to look at the young woman in the dying light, as he took another deep drag from his joint. Under a faint blonde stubble - he had been without razors and soap for going on a week - a bruise had already begun to form, lending validity to the friendly police visit he'd just wrapped up. "You haven't been waiting long, käresta, I hope."

"Nah." The nickname was more of a reproach than a term of endearment, and it made her cringe inwardly. "Got off work late. Lousy tips, too." She ground out the cig with the heel of her boot and rubbed her scarred hands together. Gloves and long sleeves hid the majority of the abuse, and the spiderweb of back-room tattoos served as camouflage for the rest. "Y'okay? They didn't rough y'up too much, right?" The concern was part courtesy and part genuine, but always necessary. You didn't rush into some things without a little bit of conversation.

"It's all superficial, honey. I'll live. Got a good shot at my jaw, but they missed the important stuff by a mile." He laughed, mirthless; there was nothing funny to laugh at these days, but without laughing, even the fake kind, the whole charade that New Orleans was still surviving could come crashing down around their feet. It was an empty gesture, but he never stopped laughing, even if the humor had been sucked out of everything for an infinitely long time.

A brittle, almost delicate hand disappeared into the depths of his aging trench coat, and his face twisted in discomfort as cold flesh met warm, and he found the prize down in the depths of fabric. Slowly, his hand reappeared, clutching a small plastic bag tightly so as not to spill its highly valuable contents all over the slush. "You just want the usual, I hope. There wasn't enough room in my briefs for any extra supply."

She squirmed uncomfortably; today's honest pay combined with the dishonest collection of wallets outside the graveyard tours wouldn't cover more than half of what the bag contained. Meli knew this, but withdrew the cash from her pocket anyway. Rolled neatly, she stepped in towards him and tucked the smaller-than-usual payment into an inner pocket of his coat. "I... I can't t'night. Maybe I can see ya t'morrow, pay for one and a half t'make up for it..."

Kort sighed, shaking his head and dislodging what was either the beginnings of snow, or the leftovers from a very enthusiastic binge. "Käresta, I can't come all the way out here with fuckin' cops on my tail for half pay. You're cute and all, but ugly guys like me have to eat, too."

As she moved to pull her hand away, he caught it with surprising strength for such a sickly addict. "If you want to make up for it, we'll have to do it another way." He smiled, and for a moment there was a flash of life - meli i love you i need you käresta i'll never let go, meli oh oh - but it was gone as soon as it came. It was a rotten smile, as though the simple fact that it graced his face soured the air. "And don't make like you're all scandalized. I hear things, from Ben and Arthur and xi and evan, andy and noel I've heard what you do for them when you come up short."

The air around them seemed to chill. She shivered violently, and Meli couldn't figure out if it was disgust or the craving or truly cold, but it rattled her teeth and gnawed at her from the inside. Wrist caught, she sneered up at him, chapped lips raw from the wind. "Then gimme back the money, Langer. I got better things t' do than get my knees wet just so you can tell stories t'the rest of 'em." She stomped maliciously on the joint that had fallen in the snow. "You ain't nothin' special, cher. Same goes for the rest of 'em that hang around you and stand on the corners."

He laughed again, so hard that his whole body shook with the force of it. "Is that so? Then why do you keep coming back? You're hooked, Meli. You're as filthy an addict as the rest of us. Don't look me in the eye and tell me you won't wake up hours from now, sweating and moaning like a dying cow because you didn't get your goddamned fix. You think I can't see it all over your face, kid, but it's there."

Kort reached into his front pocket for the small folded bills, still clutching the bag in his hand like it was worth more than gold. "You want your cash back, käresta? Take it back, then. I'll be amused something awful when you come busting down my door at 3 AM, begging on your knees, bawling like a child for a good fuck just so you can get your burny. It happens every day, to girls stronger than you. Every damned day."

He let her wrist go, palming the money and pocketing the drugs in one motion. "So. What'll it be?

Tawny eyes glowed defiance for a brief moment, and then dimmed as reality set in. Her face - still a child's face, despite the hollowed cheeks and angles - it crumpled in, chapped lips bleeding and saltwater tears making the hurt worse. He knew it, she knew it, and she had to have that taste to get her by. Gloved fists beat against his rail-thin frame, a futile assault against an unbeatable adversary.

"I hate you, Langer," she spat, shoving the money back in his hand. "I hate you hate this why this an' I hate your goddamn powder an' I hate that fuckin' laugh." She choked back another sob and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. "An' I hate the cold, so move. Y'ain't gettin' payback from a frozen corpse, an' you know it." She barked a laugh, harsh and raspy as she fished in her pockets for another smoke. "An' I hope you got a place where there ain't cops. Ain't spending another night downtown and blowing money on bail again." Shaking fingers put the cig to her lips.

He didn't acknowledge the tears, the hate, the hands that thumped against his chest - couldn't, not anymore. He was distanced from everything, cried all his tears out now that everyone was gone. This was reality. He had power, and it satiated his cravings, even if it wouldn't bring all those people back. Angry, addicted and surly or not, Meli was beautiful to him. She fought back. She wasn't going to let the world take her down without a fight.

But the world knew how to fight back.

"I'd better go to a motel tonight, anyway. Stupid fucking cops probably staked out my building." He did her the favor of not pretending like the affair was mutually enjoyable, and instead of putting his arm around her god i wish i could chase the cold away for her, he simply gestured toward the east, where a faint neon sign glowed above the dim darkness of the inner city. "Motel 8 is close by. At least their heaters still work."

"Fuck it." She started up the street towards the river, towards the old Brewery and between the rundown bars and what had been nightspots. "Ladder got left down t'the third floor, an' Nan's outta town. Heater works there too, and I've got a fifth of whiskey in case it don't." Flame served as a beacon, while a curl of smoke wreathed her hair. "An' I ain't spending more money on you that I don't have." She hugged her coat around herself, eyes on the sidewalk.

They'd never go to a motel, no matter how many times he offered. She always put him up, even the nights when they'd keep warm by screaming at each other, she'd come back and take him back to Dauphin street. She slogged along, defeated and deflated and dead to the world. She could go through motions, couldn't she? He'd be another body to keep her warm. Might have been more than just a body once upon a time and they lived happily ever after and might have not been.

Meli preferred to think the latter. And to keep her eyes closed.

Numb.

Numb in body, numb in spirit, numb in soul. Pupils wide, the honeyed hazel of Meli's eyes was merely a ring about black, framed by winter white. The needle had been tucked back into the not quite sterile pouch and tossed to the corner. Her upper body slumped against the wall, surrounded by blankets and pillows. The whiskey was no longer in her possession, but she didn't care. At the moment, there was nothing to care about. Cold, hunger, pain, loneliness, none of it mattered. The absence of pain was addiction enough.

Her head lolled to the side, eyes blankly staring at the entryway. Pain and shame were dulled once more, and she could look for him without crying. It always seemed easier to rationalize after everything happened; the promise of not feeling anything afterwards made it almost worth the humiliation.

Footsteps thumped heavily up the stairs, as Kort trudged up from the floor level to check on his escape route. Despite his loud, noisy boots, he still managed to slip out of the dark as though he was part of it, in complete silence. He brushed some mussed clumps of blonde hair away from his eyes, taking in the image of Meli on the floor, high as a kite and disconnected from the world. There was an echo of pain he couldn't quite describe, and for a moment, his face was different, creased with worry - meli why do you do this to yourself - but it was gone as fast as it came, and his face was impassive as stone once again.

"I think there's a patrol of cops down there," he said, almost sounding conversational. He fumbled around in the pocket of his unbuttoned pants for his cigarettes and lighter, pulling one out and lighting it in a fluid motion. "I'd better wait in here a few, until they move on."

She hummed her agreement, which slowly turned to a rich mezzo hum of some melody they played in the Quarter during the winter holiday season. Fingers airily conducted the imaginary band for a few measures, the fabric and her thin arms and fingers giving her an almost-gypsy appearance. Had it been warmer, had it been Christmas, she might have asked him to dance. She could have pretended it was Mardi Gras, full of pretty costumes and laughter and gaiety and venez ici, je voudrais t'embrasser sous tes levres, tes levres doux, une fois.

"Y'gonna stay th'night, cher?" She always called him cher, even on the nights she hated everything he was and everything he stood for. "Gonna stay an' keep your käresta company t'night?"

"If you want me to," he said, over a puff of toxic smoke. He looked at everything in the room; Meli, the spiders nestled in the corners, the bed stripped of the sheets and pillows that she was now laying on. "I thought you were mad at me."

Kort could hear the shouting of the angry police down in the street. He hoped they were only around to pick up dealers from the street, that they hadn't tracked him to this house. They would hurt Meli, too, if they found her--

But what did he care? She was doing a damn fine job of destroying herself; it was her choice to get high, after all. They would face the consequences together, if the cops broke down the door.

She raised her arms in silent invitation, the gesture as pure and as innocent as could be managed these days. "Forgive ya." It was the softest drawl, and even Meli couldn't tell if the words were just a result of the powder or maybe something more. If she could hear the noise on the street, she didn't give any indication that she cared about them.

"I'm glad. Couldn't stand the thought of you being mad at me, käresta." Kort shuffled across the room, taking the occasional drag from his cigarette, and sat down next to Meli and her throne of bedcovers. Gently, still thinking she was furious and ready to punch him senseless, he ruffled her hair in his brittle fingers. He wished she weren't so young. He wished this didn't feel so wrong, even to him. He would love to love her, if he could have.

And he wished he couldn't hear the police, louder and louder, marching down below them.

She curled up against him, head just below his shoulder as her fingers played with his clothing. "No? Can't always be mad at ya, I'm th'only one who'd put ya up on a night like t'night. Them other girls? Shit, they ain't gonna be as sweet as me, ever. You know that, you said so once." She rubbed up against him like an eager kitten, soft and benign and utterly incapable of a vile word in this state.

"You're sweeter than all the other girls I know." He rubbed out his cigarette on the floor, and kissed her forehead, a gesture from a different time. "None of them would let me in their house like this."

Kort neglected to mention that most of them didn't actually have houses; they'd been addicted so long, every meaningful possession had been bartered away - children, too, even as old as Meli. How long would it be, before she was out on the street, too? How long would it be until she was crashing with him, drugged beyond reason, clingy and inebriated 24 hours of the day?

He couldn't deny that some part of him was looking forward to it.

"You're a sweet girl, Meli. Don't change."

"Really? 'Kay, ain't gonna change." She nuzzled his chest before raising her fingers to examine the damage to his jaw. "Poor cher," she cooed softly. "You cold? You can sleep right here, next t'me." She tossed the blankets over the both of them. "You stay here, an' I'll keep ya warm, huh? Warm an' safe an'-" Meli reeled clumsily and fell into his lap, giggling. "An' all that. An' did y'drink all that whiskey again?"

"Tsk, you can't blame it all on me, käresta. You drank the half I left." Kort held her in his lap, cuddling her as he struggled with the impulse to keep her safe from everything meli please don't cry, meli, wake up. He readjusted the blankets, unconsciously making sure she had more. He ran his hand over her shoulders, under the blanket and under her shirt, where cold hands met warm skin, and he could feel her flinch.

"Sorry. You know what they say about guys with cold hands."

"Wear gloves?" Meli burst into laughter at her own joke, the laughter becoming a hoarse and hacking cough. Her smaller body shook and she clung to his lap until the episode passed, eyes now more bloodshot than honeyed. It was starting to wear off; she could feel the tingle beneath her skin again. She pressed his hand back into place, and smiled.

"Y'got a warm heart, cher. Might be encased in ice some days, but it still beats." She clumsily pulled his head down to hers for a kiss.

He accepted the kiss, surprised, but not unpleasantly so. He slid his other hand around her waist to support her as he teased with his tongue, tasting the whiskey and the burny; even though she'd injected the latter, it always filled her up with a strange, bitter smell. His hand wandered, cupping a breast as gently as he could--

"Police! Open this door!"

Kort froze in mid action; eyes bulging out of their sockets, everything around him seemed to stop. Shit, shit, they'd found him out. Someone on the street must have squealed. If he ever made it out of jail, he'd find them out and skin their hide--

"Open this door! I'm giving you to the count of three!"

Meli stopped, but not fast enough. Her hands couldn't push away fast enough, mouth couldn't form the words well enough. The door slammed open even as she tried to crawl, tried to throw his coat at him, but she couldn't move fast enough move, move, damnit, I said move and it seemed to slip through her fingers. She could hear the footsteps, even as a hand hauled her up and shook her so hard that her teeth rattled in her head.

"Langer? Langer, get up! The door, th'other door-" And she was silenced by a leather-gloved hand to her mouth, as the first club cracked across Kort's jaw.

The world seemed to disappear in a haze of pain; after the first blow, he couldn't even count them. His head spun like a Ferris wheel, and he was flung to the ground with his arms pinned behind his back. The words they shouted seemed like nonsense, and he couldn't hear them over the church bells that drowned out all noise. Kort tried to answer them, but the reply came out as nothing but Swedish, so badly confused was he.

The officer holding him to the floor grabbed him by his hair and slammed his face down with all his force, and for a moment, he was sure he'd blacked out. What had inspired this brutality? Certainly, they didn't do this to all the druggies. Maybe the witness had also spilled about his companion's age; cops were notoriously violent with suspected pedophiles.

Meli's voice only added to the noise, Cajun and English mixed and frantic as she clawed at the air in protest. He needed help, needed something... she needed him, or she'd crumble tomorrow night, sweating and moaning like he'd said. And yet, there was a part of her that didn't cringe when the baton came down, or when the cops ground his face into the dirty wooden floor, She'd wanted to do that earlier, do that and run with the powder, run away and never look back and wake up from that nightmare she lived day in and day out.

Wake up, Meli.

Kort was too tired, too pained to even breathe, and he couldn't fight back. He was dimly aware of being kicked, punched, slammed down and thrown up again, but everything disappeared in the red haze that surrounded his vision. Two of them hauled him to his feet, but he could not stand, and as he disappeared into darkness, he looked up into Meli's face, for what could only be presumed as the last time.

Meli, shh, it's only a nightmare. Wake up.

And then his face changed; the dirt and creases melted away, the scars from his face and all the weariness that had burned into him, and suddenly it was the innocent, naive Holder that hung limp in the impossible grip of the officers. "Meli," he mewled, so much in pain that his voice sounded like a person all its own. "Meli, help--"

Come on, Meli. You can wake up now. Shh, it'll be all right, you just need to wake up...

"Lang-" No, it wasn't that horrible creature, it was Kort. Her Kort. The one who could call her käresta and mean it with all of the sweetness of the word and tone, the one who could take her scarred hands in his and comfort and make things better. "Kort? Kort?" Fists beat against her captor, the blue fabric of the uniforms going lighter and grayer, wrapping around her hands and keeping them pinned, and the blankets wrapped about her legs, and she couldn't get to him, couldn't save him, couldn't move, couldn't help-

Help. Help me. I don't want to be here, I-

"Move, Kort, move, don't let them-" Meli thrashed against the cushion of the futon, caught in the throes of a horrific episode again. Limbs flailed, clutching at the air for something and someone that only she could see.

In the world outside the nightmare, Kort shifted his weight on the futon, away from the range of flailing limbs. This was a nightmare that couldn't be talked away; he would just have to wait, reassuring her that he was here, it was only a nightmare, and she could end it if only she would wake up.

"Meli, everyone's okay. No one's doing anything to me," he said quietly, trying to brush the sweaty bangs out of her face, in the hopes that the touch would bring her out of it, even if the embrace would not. "You just need to wake up, käresta, and everything will be right."

Tawny eyes flew open, unfocused and oddly bloodshot. An arm swatted his well-meaning hand out of the way, her other fist swinging dangerously close to his face. Meli fell off the futon hard, screaming. "Don't call me that! Don't fuckin' call me that, ain't gonna be all right, you'll just use me again, say the pretty words and use my body over and over, I know it, don't CALL ME THAT!" She scrambled backwards, shaking and crying until her arms found their way around her bare legs. Eyes screwed shut, Meli tucked her head between her knees and sobbed.

"Meli?!" To say that Kort was shocked by the violent outburst was a great understatement. He sat on the futon, stunned, wondering what awful nightmare would inspire her to say those things. He could feel the gust of air from her swinging fist, and even her words bit like angry insects, stinging for the kill.

"Meli, I would never..." He slid cautiously to the other side of the bed, so tempted to pull her close and wipe away the tears. He rolled off the futon and crouched, both close and far away at the same time. "I'm not that nightmare. This is me, Kort in Haven, Chicago; I swear, I'd die before I'd use you. Please, I won't call you anything that upsets you. Just...let me help you back to bed?"

"Haven?" The mop of blonde hair lifted ever so slightly. "Haven in Chicago?" Hands trembling, she slowly patted her legs, her knees, her chest, her face, and felt nothing. Hands were held up to the glow of the half-moon, showing shadows of scars and naught but the single inking on her shoulder. Meli shuddered, but crept on her knees towards him.

He was terrified; the one in her dreams hadn't been terrified. No scars on him, there was no scent of smoke on his clothing. She tentatively reached out a finger to his cheek, half-expecting to see that same bruise or feel that stubble. "Cher?"

"It's me, kä--" Shit. "It's me. Your everyday, average Kort." The Swede didn't dare move, or breathe, until he was sure Meli was sure, too.

He was afraid; just as much for her as of her. He had never seen Meli so violently angry at anyone, and the surprise might as well have been the punch she tried to land. He desperately wanted to know what the nightmare had been about, that would bring out such hatred, but he merely stayed in his crouch. The position was ungainly at best, uncomfortable at worst, but he stayed.

Her fingers traveled over his face. Meli inhaled deeply; no smoke, just sweat and that winter-cold scent that hung on everyone at Haven. She turned her attention to his hands, bringing the fingers up to her face to check for burns and half-expecting to find traces of the powder underneath his nails. Back to her own body, back to the patdown of clothing and blankets and the examination of the single tattoo on her shoulder, before Meli's fingers went back to the contours of his nose and cheeks and chin.

"No cops?" Her voice was raspy and raw to go along with her still-wild appearance, and Meli finally stopped with both hands on his cheeks. "Ain't no cops here?"

"No cops here. I promise, Meli, you're safe from..." From whatever it was that had angered her so. Kort shifted his position, moving his legs so they could support him as he raised his hand. Gently, he cupped Meli's shaky fingers in his own. His voice was quiet, reassuring, except for the tiniest hint of fear that he couldn't quite shake. "Meli and Kort, Haven in Chicago, and no police in sight."

Her lower lip trembled as she nodded slowly, her forehead coming to rest against his. The trembling increased as her eyes screwed shut, the Cajun fighting to place herself in reality. Here was Haven, in Chicago, still winter but warmer in soul. Meli tightened her grip as the images in her mind's eye slowly ebbed, the anger being swiftly replaced with shame and emotional exhaustion. Without warning, her knees gave out and she fell against the Swede, sobbing loudly.

It was Kort, her Kort, her 'cher' who couldn't always get the double entendres and couldn't hold his liquor and who preferred Go Fish to poker and who could laugh in the darkness because he was happy and not have to necessarily lie about it. This wasn't the horrible monster in her dream, this was the angel in her reality, and the fact that she had somehow twisted him into something so abhorrent in her subconscious made her heart wrench.

Suddenly supporting two people, and unable to maintain it, Kort's bare feet slid out from underneath him. He managed to pull Meli into a hug even as he landed on the floor with a loud "thump!"

"Oh, Meli..." He made sure she felt safe all around, long arms wrapped around tight to hold her against his chest. Now that she was back to reality, he could find familiar ground; he could kiss her, hold her and make sure she knew that everything, everyone was okay. "It was only a nightmare, Meli. None of that can hurt you now."

She curled up against his shirt, clinging to the fabric. "But it used t'be all real, all of it. Th' wallets an' th' street corners an' th' cops, it was all real b'fore I came here, but you were there, but you weren't you," she cried. "You were somethin' else, an' it was horrible, an' I hated what it was, an' when th'cops came, I-" She hiccupped and coughed, hiding her face. "I didn't care what they did. An', an' I could feel, but I didn't wanna..."

It dissolved again into tears, softer than the first time.

For a moment, Kort could feel the winter chill prick every hair on his neck. He knew, if not the full story of Meli's younger days, at least the bits and pieces that she decided to share with him about it. These moments, like the one she dreamed about, must have been some of the most difficult to reflect on, short of the accident on her ship. And to relive that night after night was a terror all its own; then, to be faced with someone you love, twisted into the nightmare by your subconscious...

No wonder she wanted to clock him.

"The past can't hurt you here, Meli. I won't let it. The nightmare was only that; terrifying and awful, but not real. I'm real. Right here, right now. You're not that person, and I'm not whatever you saw; we both know that." He kissed the top of her head, buried his face in her tangled hair and ignored the sweat that clumped it together. "This is what's real. Me loving you; that's real now."

She whimpered in the darkness. "Me bein' your käresta, that's real, right?" She still sounded fifteen to her own ears.

"That's right. You're my sweet darling. Käresta." The word came out almost like a growl, his voice so quiet that the accent didn't roll off his tongue quite the way it usually did. But the affection was there. "That's definitely real."

"Did I hit you?"

"Missed me by a mile. Even if you had, I'd get over it." Kort snuck an arm from around her waist, to wipe away a path of tears. He smiled, just a little hint of his lips. "You never saw some of the bruises I got training for the MU. Their instructors are vicious. Not unjustly so, mind you, but I don't think my left knee will ever properly recover."

She tried to smile, "Well, if I ever really mean t'hit ya, you'll know it." Meli pressed her fingers to his lips, tracing the bit of smile. "What time is it?"

"Either too early or too late." He shifted his attention to rubbing his hand in comforting circles on Meli's back, though to whose benefit it was, he wasn't quite sure. "But I think we'd both be happier if we got back on the futon, wouldn't you agree?"

She nodded, detangling herself so she could heap the blankets back onto the cushion. "Floor's cold," she offered, scooping up a pillow. It was as if someone had flipped a switch; the tears were gone and Meli's face had switched to unreadable and impassive. She expertly fluffed a pillow and tossed it onto the futon. "You first. I'll work around you."

"Getting both of us to fit on a futon is rather like assembling a puzzle. And I get to sleep right next to the best piece." Kort inexpertly climbed up from the floor - no matter how accustomed he was to his height, getting up off the floor was still difficult. Once he was up, it was just as awkward to position himself just right, and even when he did, his feet and the better part of his shins dangled off the end.

He chuckled, wiggling his toes. "Good thing circulation isn't my top priority when I sleep."

She cozied up against his torso, tossing another blanket over his exposed feet. "'S mine. You're not gonna freeze t'night, cher."

"Whatever would I do without you, käresta, mm?" He wrapped his long arms around her, one across her shoulders and the other circling her waist. Whatever happened for the rest of the night, he wanted to make sure Meli knew she was safe.

There was one thing still on his mind, though. One thing he wanted to make sure he shared. Her words were still echoing in his ears, even though her anger had already passed. Her words made him worry.

Kort turned himself a little bit, to make sure he could look down right into her face. "Meli...You know I would never use you, right? That I don't just say 'I love you' to take advantage of you?"

"Aw, shit..." Her voice grew soft and patches of red burned in her cheeks. It was so hard to look him in the eye when it came to stuff like this. She hadn't realized the line between awake and asleep, and how could she explain to Kort that she knew deep down that the person in her nightmares couldn't hold a candle to the person holding her at the moment.

"Of course I know that. I don't think y'know how t'take advantage of someone, cher," she began, turning away. "I know that, and it wasn't you, it was just..." She stopped, fingers teasing the strands of a ragged spot on the blanket. "It was just a bad dream. Like my subconscious pasted your head on somebody else's body, and tried t'use your voice." Meli couldn't look up again. "I know you're not that way, cher."

"I just wanted to make sure you knew. It got me a little unsettled, to tell you the truth, so I...I just wanted to make sure." He paused, and then used the hand on her shoulder to gently turn her face towards his. With a little smile and a laugh, he said, "It's much harder to talk to you when I can't see your lovely face, you know."

She smiled, a little twist of her lips that soon caused her face to crumple into tears. Meli burrowed her face into his shoulder, tears slowly subsiding. "I know, I know, and I love you, too," she whispered.

"I love you, too." It wasn't something Meli said to him often, although he didn't doubt the sentiment simply because she didn't say it that way. He just presumed she had trouble putting it so directly into words, so hearing it was like music to his ears.

"Jag älskar dig, Meli." The worlds rolled as he turned his head, bent his neck so he could kiss her cheek. "I love you, no matter what. And I'll always help you chase those nightmares away."

She clung to him tightly, nodding. He could make it go away, he always did. She brushed her lips clumsily against his, eyes still closed. "You'll hold me 'til I go t'sleep, cher?"

Kort returned the kiss on her lips, brief but sweet. "I'll hold you as long as you want, käresta. I'll stay all the way through morning."

"I'd like that."