The Night Dances

And it's a long way down to the place where we started from... - Sarah McLachlan - Ice Cream

***

He's crying.

He's screaming and it wakes Ash up. The sheets are kicked away, bleariness clinging to his skin
like dust as he struggles into the discarded old bathrobe and trudges across the room. The little bundle
wiggles, outraged, as he picks it up. "Whatsamatta?" he wonders, his mouth barely functional so soon
after waking.

He runs a quick check on the boy's body - the diapers are (blessedly) dry, and the child's forehead is cool
to the touch. The rosebud mouth puckers and quivers, his own brown eyes looking back up at him
pleadingly. Oh. That he couldn't fix.

The sound of Sheila re-arranging herself in the bed behind him caused Ash to turn around. She holds out
her arms, her own face a sleepy mask; life returns to her features when the baby touches her skin. "Shh,
little one," she mumbles, lifting him to her nipple, wincing when he latches on. She raises her face,
smiling at Ash. "The time, love?"

"Muh?" She can't possibly expect coherence from him at... "Three."

Sheila makes a noise that combines frustration and exhaustion. She looks back down at the baby, rubs
her fingers over the thinning, downy hair and groans. "To market in an hour," she murmurs.

"It's Saturday," he explains. "The weekend. We both have it off." Sheila's a quick learner, but she
hasn't quite accepted the concept of "days off" from work; life to her was good work done with great
love.

Sheila hums her response, the sound turning into a low-voiced incantation. The words are an unfamiliar
lullaby - an ancient folk song her mother sang hundreds of years ago. He listens and his eyes drift closed,
his mind stretching backward over the months.

He opens them and she's still lying there, singing, an expression of utter peace on her features.

You don't belong here, a wicked little voice whispers in the back of his head. It's one that's with
him, waking and sleeping, and most of the time he can block it out. Not tonight, however, lost to the
ravages of sleeplessness - it's insistent.

You don't deserve any of this. He'd believed that for a very long time. Some part of him still
does, when he looks at his son and wonders why his sister never had the opportunity to have one of her
own. And he's aware that it's all been a mistake - everything from meeting Sheila to getting back here to
her following him home (her story about the castle's well leading into his closet would have stretched his
credulity to the breaking point, had he not witnessed it himself). He still doesn't know how she managed
to make him love her - how she'd grown the possibility of affection into something that took his breath
away when he glances at her.

But here they are.

You're only here 'cause you're lucky. Don't forget that...Don't forget that you can lose her in a
second. Don't forget that you had perfect before, and it slipped away...

Something warm brushes his chest. Her hand; it rests against his heart.

"Can ye feel me?"

He swallows hard and opens his eyes again. "Yeah..."

"Art real, Ashley."

He doesn't know how she manages to understand him - how she knows him so well. It makes his flesh
prickle with goosebumps. He risks losing everything, loving her like this, yet he cannot stop himself
from feeling when he's with her.

"Art here, love.."

She leads him away, out of the bedroom and into the living room.

The baby takes a turn in his crib, unaware of his parent's private world.

***

"Nay," she tells him, gripping his shoulders. "HOLD me," she requests. They slide along the surface of
the coffee table, trying to find comfortable purchase against the cool wooden surface, his shins and knees
scraping against the harsh rug. He'll have burns tomorrow, but he doesn't notice now.

She slips and slips, her head bobbing dangerously over the edge. But he's there this time, his hands
cupping around her skull, entangled in her hair.

"I won't let you fall. Not again," he insists.

Her smile turns into a look of frustrated passion as he stretches the minute for all it's worth.

***

The sun rises, blinding him for a moment. Peering out the window, coffee cup in hand, he feels the
warmth penetrating his skin.

He loves the morning. Never used to matter that much to him before, but now....

Her hand presses against his back. "We are lucky, love. Be happy."

He won't believe that, but now, when he bends to kiss her, he will. And, right now, he is.

He's so damn happy.

The End