Notes: I keep getting weird story ideas. . . And considering I was trying to work on either XMen or TPM and this happened . . . My muse is just jerking my chain *g*

Disclaimer: Not my players. Just my playground. :-)

I gasp, wrenched from my dream, and search desperately around the room. Taking a deep breath I remember where I am, how I got here. Write a few letters, pack a few boxes and presto - a new life.

Dropping back into the pillows and covers, I long to disappear into their depths and never dig myself out. But I don't want to sleep, because that would mean I would dream. Again.

It's the same dream, night after night. I can't remember when they started and I don't know why. They just appeared gradually, until it was a nightly occurrence to be with John in my dreams.

He haunts my sleep. Piercing blue eyes and dark, curly hair . . . I never realized how well I'd memorized his features till I didn't see them every day. Instead, now, I see them every night.

I have to admit, it's a vast improvement compared to the endless nights Jack haunted me. The fear and hopelessness of those nightmares is a hard feeling to forget. Even now, years later, it gives me chills.

These are different, it is my own guilt that drives me to escape. The guilt that I never told him goodbye. The curiosity as to what he's doing now. The realization that I didn't see what I had a chance at until it was gone. The knowledge that I have no right to wish we could have something . . . more.

It's too much, the questions and the doubts. I throw the heavy covers off, climbing out of bed. Glancing at the clock I'm not surprised to see that it's still early - three am. Fighting back a yawn, I walk silently down the hall and peek in on Chloe. She's sound asleep, clutching a worn teddy bear. I smile. Leaning against the doorframe, I thank whatever fate is listening that I have her in my life. My one constant

After several long moments I'm almost convinced I can go back to sleep. Almost. But instead of going back into my bedroom, I walk down the stairs and into my office. Pushing the door closed behind me, I flip on the light. Squinting for a moment until my eyes adjust, I hug my arms to my chest.

Part of me still expects a video camera to be recording my every move. Two years later and I have yet to stop looking into the corners when I walk into a room.

I drop into the chair that's pushed up to my desk and pull open the bottom drawer. It's where I keep everything I can't bear to part with - but don't have the heart to look at, either. Letters, cards, photos and phone numbers. They're all there.

I have to dig for a bit, before I find the photograph I'm wanting. Pulling it from the stack, I lean back in my chair and run my fingers over the faces that stare up at me. It seems so long ago - the Christmas get together we had during the first year of the VCTF. We were smiling, and it makes me smile still.

Everything was still so new. None of knew one another, and yet we did. George and Grace, Bailey and Nathan. Looking at the man standing next to me in the photo, my smile fades. John. He's smiling, but . . . not.

I didn't realize at the time - or for a long time after, really - how much he hid behind that cocky smile and the lewd jokes. But pictures don't lie, and this one tells a story as well. I'd asked him about the look in his eyes, later, but he said he didn't know what I was talking about.

Curled up in an oversized chair, years later, it's easy to see the lie. But back then it was easier to play along with it. I wish I hadn't. Not that there's anything I can do about it now. One more regret to add to the pile.

At the time I thought I'd lost so much, that the world owed me something. I wish I'd realized then that I wasn't alone in that. Glancing upward I'm grateful once again for Chloe. Others had lost, too. John had lost almost everything, his family and the life he knew - yet he moved on and refused any pity. No, pity was never his style.

Closing my eyes, I shudder. Not even after Boston. That is one city that I will, hopefully, never return to again. The memory of his eyes - haunted and pained - will stay with me forever. I wanted so much to help him then, to ease that pain but he wouldn't let anyone that close. Not even me.

Reaching back into the desk drawer, I find several other photographs. Candids from a cookout we had one summer. Bailey with a chef's apron on by the grill. More formal poses from work. There's one of John teaching Chloe how to play softball, wearing matching baseball caps.

How is it that my life can be so easily summed up by the few short years I was in Atlanta? Even under the threat of Jack, many of the happiest times I've known happened there - among federal agents and criminal cases. Not that we haven't been happy since we left, or before Jack entered our lives, but there was a spark to life that's gone now.

What's even stranger is that, if you were to ask, I might even say that spark had a name. Striking blue eyes and a killer smile. Letting out a long breath, I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them. God I miss him.

I don't move for a few moments. Looking around the room, my gaze lands on the telephone. The temptation to call has been growing the longer I've been dreaming about him - the desire to at least try and set things right between us. Never mind the fact that I regret leaving behind the chance that we might have . . .

Groaning I press my forehead against my knees. I can't call. It's been two years, what would I say? What would he say? I left - I'm not allowed to feel this way, right?

Damn it. I shouldn't call. I can't. I sigh. I have to call.

I grab the phone before I can second-guess myself. Why tonight is different from all the others is a moot point. It just is. Trying not to think about what time it is, I dial the number from memory.

As it rings, I don't realize I'm holding my breath until someone answers.

"Hello?"

Hearing a woman's voice, my heart freezes. My mouth opens and closes, but words won't come out. Somewhere in my mind it registers that she sounds vaguely familiar, but a deluge of be anguish over rides that thought.

"Hello?"

When the greeting is repeated, I manage to find my voice. "May I speak to John Grant, please?"

"I'm sorry, he's in the shower. Can I take a message?"

I'm clutching the phone so tightly I'm surprised it doesn't crack in two. "Ah . . ." I pause, trying to swallow and remember to breathe all at once. "I'm sorry. Never mind." I hang up the phone before she has the chance to reply.

In the silence that follows all I can hear is the pounding of my heart. It was stupid of me to think that I could just call two years later and him jump at the chance. That someone wouldn't have seen what I eventually did in him.

I curse my moment's weakness - it's logical really, that he's found someone to love. But I'm reminded the heart doesn't give a damn for logic when the tears that were burning the backs of my eyes finally begin to fall.

I wish I'd only admitted then what I realize now. Even with Jack out there I learned to love again. I fought it, ignored it - but all the same I felt it. At some point I fell in love with John Grant, only I wouldn't take the chance. Now it's too late.

End