A/N: This in an angsty little oneshot I wrote when I couldn't sleep one night. (The title is a song by the music group "Heart"). Suffice to say I have a lot of background for this type of fanfic, unfortunately for this mysterious narrator. Let my previous story be your warning for this one. Hope you enjoy!

It hurts. Oh, Bast, it hurts.

I gaze upon the cat before me. He's snoring quietly, breath misting in the cool night air. His daytime vest is off, cast to the side along with his pocketwatch. Apparently he's uncomfortable wearing it when he's not on duty. His paws are curled under his chin, his breathing quiet and gentle. I find him beautiful and fascinating. And I want him.

I want him but I'll never have him.

It is this knowledge that hurts me so, as, crouching low, I peer out from under the shadows of the tire. My body is tense. This is wrong. I shouldn't be doing this. I'm ... spying. Though in my defense, there's nothing really to be spying on. Skimbleshanks the Railway Cat is asleep after a long hard day at work, resting contentedly on top of an old abandoned car hood in the middle of the junkyard. Nothing at all is happening. Distantly I wonder why he's alone. Roundabouts this time he's usually curled up with Jennyanydots. He is a good match for her, it is true. They're perfect together.

And this is why I can never have him.

He's already head over heels in love, with someone else. A queen. Not a tom. I know this and yet I cannot help but lust after him. Hope that one day he will realize that I truly am the perfect mate for him. That we are destined to be together. That maybe he has a likening for toms after all...

But as the Jellicle leader has said, when counseling lovesick cats much like myself, we all have dreamed the same dream.

An egotistical dream at that, I reflect as I creep closer to the Railway Cat's hiding spot. A dream that the one you are infatuated with feels the same way about you. That their status as a friend, and an excellent one as that, has been a carefully constructed act. That truly they love you as something more, as a mate, and they are ashamed. And that one day you will break them out of this shell and help them to realize that their feeling is, indeed, mutual, and a thing to be proud of, not ashamed of.

Ironic, then, that I'm the one to want to do the healing when I'm in need of it myself.

Skimble stirs and I freeze, tail bushy. If he woke up ... no, I can't imagine what would happen. I don't know what would happen. All I know is that I have no desire to be discovered. And fortunately, the Railway Cat mutters and turns over in his sleep, breathing steady. I sigh with relief; I should be more careful.

Careful of what? whispers a voice inside my head. An evil, menacing little voice. Cast aside your aspirations, it says. Let him know how you feel and damn the consequences. Damn what others would think. Curse them all. Throw them aside. Your feelings are all that matters. Let them be known. Let them be known to Skimble, to the junkyard, to the world —

I cover my ears with my paws, as if by blocking out my hearing I can make the voices stop. NO, I retaliate inside my head. It's wrong. I'll not make him suffer just for my own selfish reasons. Because letting my true feelings be known would put Skimbleshanks in an awkward, uncomfortable position. I don't want him to have to go through that.

And I don't want to lose his friendship.

The Railway Cat is a quiet tom, perhaps even aloof at times, when he's not on duty. Yet he is patient, and has a good heart. He reaches out to others when they're in need, and always has a kind word for anyone and everyone. And when he is patrolling the midnight rail, his eyes are alight with a passion for what he does and a feeling of protection for all the passengers involved. It is this protective feeling, I suppose, that extends into the tribe and makes him a semi-leader. A quiet one, yes, but one whom everyone knows and respects. Skimble is a good friend. And he has been understanding of me where others have grown exasperated and weary.

But I can't ask him to understand my feelings.

I can't. It would only be an unnecessary burden for him. He'd be between a rock and a hard place, as the humans say (where did that phrase come from? It makes no sense). And his devotion to Jennyanydots would win through eventually, as it always does. Jenny's personality matches Skimble's; no two cats were ever happier together. Both kind, both understanding, both patient ... I suppose that's what makes them such a good match. I truly am happy for Skimble that he has Jenny. The two of them really do deserve each other.

But at the same time, there is a part of me that wants Skimble for myself. Part of me that is insanely jealous of Jenny. I don't hate Jennyanydots and I never will, for she's too pure and good to despise. She's too ... Jenny. Cats become friends with her in mere seconds, for she's always willing to help and comfort, as Skimble is. No wonder they're so perfect together.

But still ... still I am jealous of her, still I want what she has. I want to be in her position when she and Skimble curl up together and fall asleep with their heads on each other's shoulders. I want to be her when Skimble laughs at a joke or mannerism of hers and pulls her into a loving embrace. I want ... I want to be in her position when ... whenever she and Skimbleshanks touch lips.

I want to kiss Skimble.

But alas, it is only in dreams that I find myself able to do this. For in dreams, even the most insane reality becomes the truth. In dreams, I can reach out for Skimbleshanks, calling his name, and he will respond. I can hold out a hand, which he will take, and we will fall into an embrace together, laughing and kissing each other lightly. We can roll over and over on the ground, as kittens would, and play together. We can sit up, panting and laughing, and look shyly at each other. I can gaze into Skimble's intense blue eyes and see the world in them, see happiness, see perfection. And our lips can meet and we can find bliss in each other's embrace.

In dreams, my love for Skimbleshanks is not a sin.

And it is one of these dreams that has brought me here, late in the middle of the night, several hours after Skimble has returned from his shift at the railway. He was obviously exhausted; it looks now as if he will be able to sleep for days. I wish I could be as tired as he, for then my sleep, too, would be uninterrupted and dreamless. But no ... instead I am constantly tortured with ideal scenarios with the Railway Cat. Taunted with perfect situations involving just me and Skimbleshanks. And our love for each other.

I posses this love; he does not. I know this. But my mind refuses to accept it. And so it awakens me in the middle of the night. I am always gasping, sweating, trying to bring my focus back to reality and accept the sad truth. For I know I must accept it; I will never be able to move on if I cannot. I may not be happy once I have, but I will stop dwelling on false realities. I just may go insane if I do not stop focusing on dreams.

If I cannot.

I've reached the car now; I gaze up at the trunk. Skimbleshanks is only a few feet above me; he has shifted so that his right paw is hanging slightly over the edge of the car. I gaze up at it and suppress an urge to bat at his paw as a kitten would. Instead I hop onto the edge of the bumper so that my face is level with the Railway Cat's.

Hmmm ... I kind of like sitting here. The thought repulses me and I turn away from Skimble's face. He sleeps on, peacefully unaware. I swallow a sob and try not to let my thoughts drift back to my dreams. I only came here tonight because Skimbleshanks was haunting me in my unconscious. Seeing the true Skimble was meant to be an affirmation of my reality and a rejection of any perfect scenario my mind may conjure up.

But for some reason, my mind wants to go back to these scenarios. Wants my dreams to become my reality. My eyes are glistening as I realize that my visiting Skimble has only made my visions of him more powerful. More intriguing. And I hate myself for it. Silent tears run down my face as I try so hard not to give in to that which I so desperately want.

I should never have come here. I should have waited it out in my den, torturing myself with the knowledge that any dream I may have is above and beyond my grasp. Where is Jennyanydots? I want her to be here so badly that I can't stand it, but it's not a longing like that I have for Skimbleshanks. For if Jenny were here, I would never have allowed myself to come so close to the Railway Cat. I would have never allowed my mind to run away with these visions of perfection —

And then suddenly I remember that Jenny is caring for Demeter. The queen had been badly scratched in her fight with Macavity and was still recovering from the ordeal half a moon ago. Jenny had journeyed to her den to use some ointment on her wounds and to help her sleep. And so Skimble is alone for the night.

In a way, I realize, it was cruel. To Skimble, that is. He spends so much time on the railway that he barely gets to see enough of Jenny as it is, and when he finally can see her, he can only receive a tender greeting and a light kiss before she must leave to tend to her duties. It is certainly not Jenny's fault that she has to take care of the tribe, but at the same time it must be hard on Skimble. He is only able to spend so much time at the junkyard ... though he clearly loves it here. And he had mentioned earlier in the week that after his coming shift, he would have some extensive time off. Time to be with Jenny and the rest of the tribe.

Skimble could have all the time off in the world, and it wouldn't be enough. As far as I'm concerned, I can never spend enough time with him.

The self-loathing rises in me once again and I have to swallow my rising bile. This is egotistical of me. It is a sin to think like this. And instinctively I put a paw to my mouth and bite it. The pain is a sort of punishment, I suppose; I don't really know what else to do. All I know is that it distracts me from the matter at hand and gives me something to focus on. My paw is trickling blood, but it's nothing serious. And I'll certainly never be a Cutter, drawing my claws across my own wrist, as Bombalurina admitted to have done before she met Demeter and the two of them escaped Macavity's grasp. When a cat is reduced to inflicting serious injury upon itself, then only a true friend can pull them away from that void.

And as I lean back on the car hood, my face almost touching Skimble's, I understand that even though I don't need saving, I want Skimble to pull me away from this void all the same. I want Skimble to be my savior, my protector. And I want to comfort him, to let him know that his time with the tribe is precious and something to be savored. I want to show him the appreciation he deserves whenever he comes back from the railway. I don't want to one-up Jenny, of course ... but then again, maybe I do. I want to love Skimble as no one else can.

Great Bast above, could I be any more self-centered?

Skimble snores lightly from beside me, interrupting my frustration with myself. His breath ruffles my fur a bit. It's a nice feeling ... but it's all I can ever hope for, I think sternly. It's all I'll ever let myself feel. I will not let my affection for Skimble get in the way of matters of the tribe, or indeed of anything.

And yet ... and yet I find that my mind has quieted. I feel an inner calm as I lean next to Skimbleshanks, a certain feeling of contentment. Slowly I raise a paw and lightly run it down Skimble's cheek. I am gentle, so as not to wake him up, and his fur ruffles slightly under my touch. A subtle smile has crept onto his features unconsciously, and looking at his expression I begin to smile as well.

And now I am leaning forward. I am unable to stop myself. My mind refuses to engage and feel the rightful guilt I should feel for thinking what I am thinking, for doing what I am doing. No, instead I can only find a desperate longing ... a craving so powerful it is almost a physical pain in my heart. My eyes are closing. The distance between my face and Skimble's is miniscule now. Almost nonexistent.

My lips brush those of Skimbleshanks.

The quick peck lasts only a couple of seconds, an innocent kiss. I separate myself from Skimble and gaze upon his calm, quiet features. The kiss has not awakened him, but his smile now is visible, no longer subtle. My breath catches in my throat as I see him stir, and mutter something inaudible in his sleep before coming to rest again, his paws curling under his chin once more. He lets out a quiet sigh, a sigh of contentment, and shifts slightly before continuing to snore gently.

And now the self-loathing rises in me again. The hurt, the shame, the pain in my chest. The tears break free from my eyes and I have to turn away. Silently I jump off of the car onto the cold ground of the junkyard, trying to see amid my blurry vision. Bitter saltwater drips down my face and pools before my paws as I bow my head. I am ashamed of myself. Ashamed of my lack of self-restraint. Of my feelings.

Of my dreams.

Silently I begin to pad away from the car, back to my den. I will cry myself to sleep there, as I have done before whenever I am encountered with images of Skimbleshanks. Only this time will be different. Because this time my own reality has converged with my fantasies. One brief instant, one fleeting moment was all I ever had in which I could fulfill my dreams. And it's all I ever will have.

Because I couldn't stop myself. I wanted my dreams to come true so badly that I pushed them into reality, only to be met with nothing. And I knew that that was how things would end, but I did it anyway — blindly, selfishly. I stifle another sob. My tears are leaving a trail behind me.

I have reached the edge of the clearing. Though I know I shouldn't, I turn around and gaze upon the Railway Cat one last time. He is still curled upon the car, that same blissful smile still upon his face. Could he be dreaming of Jennyanydots? Even if he isn't, he is still content. And it is a happiness that he deserves.

'I'm sorry, Skimble,' I whisper softly, before turning away.

Sorry for throwing this burden upon you. Sorry for acting so selfishly towards you when you have been so kind to me. Sorry for seeking something I don't deserve, and will never receive. Sorry for hoping you would wake up, even while hoping you didn't at the same time.

Sorry for kissing you, and wishing that such a fleeting moment would last an eternity.

I'm running now, away from the junkyard, eyes streaming. I want to run forever, flee from myself, from my actions, from my emotions. But the problem with running from your emotions is that no matter what, they always catch up. No matter what, your feelings will still overwhelm you. The shame will still last long after the action. It will smolder inside you, burn you as a fire would. Running only fans the fire and makes it stronger; it doesn't put it out.

But there is one good thing about running. For when I am running, I am not asleep.

And when I'm not asleep, I'm not haunted by dreams of Skimbleshanks.