Disclaimer and author's notes: I don't own Hot in Cleveland. I also refer to Wuthering Heights (Emily Brontë and Kate Bush), Self-Interrogation, also by Emily Brontë, and The Loving Spirit by Daphne du Maurier, none of which belong to me.

Victoria sat alone on the porch, the shimmer of the moon reflected in her glass of Moët, and tried, steadfastly, to ignore the draught, though she was shivering violently. It was a blighted winter's night, and although it had cleared now, it had pissed it down, as Joy would have put it, all day, and on any other occasion, she might have smiled at the irony. Today, though, she couldn't think of anything but the dull ache that seemed to have become a permanent fixture in her life. The others had long since gone to bed, but she couldn't bear to go up yet, she wasn't ready, it seemed too final, somehow. Oh, God. It was all so unfair. The organ's remorseful drone clung to her ears, and her fingers, clutching her drink, had begun to turn an unsightly shade of purple, as if they might freeze that way. Relenting, she put the glass to one side, not having taken so much as a sip, and placed her head in her hands, trying to block the rest of the world out; all the kind words and sympathetic glances, and well wishes and age-old clichés, and everything else, as well, everything of the here, and the now, and the future, too. Never before had she wanted so much to turn back the clock; to escape real life, heading into the past; into pretence, and never before had she known so well that it wouldn't work; it couldn't happen, and she was stuck where she was. Despite her best efforts, the tears she'd failed to check earlier began to surface once more.

"I think this is my favourite part of the house," Joy observed, her head on Victoria's shoulder, and the actress yawned, complacently. [Scene: a still midsummer's evening, the two of them curled happy into each other, the air charged with crickets and anticipation.] She was tired, but content. No, more than that. She slipped her fingers through Joy's, conceding, "It does have a certain charm."

The younger woman shifted against her, and when she spoke again, it was with an edge of trepidation.

"Do you think anyone's guessed yet?"

Slowly, Victoria turned to face her, and had to suppress a smile, so endearing was the concern written on Joy's face. Shaking her head, she held her gaze, firmly.

"Darling, I don't care."

When, at long last, Victoria opened her eyes, they were extraordinarily dry, as was her throat, as though her futile sobs had drained all the moisture from her body, and she supposed she'd better go and get some water, though it was hard to see the point, anymore. Sighing, she heaved herself to her feet, and into the house. What she hadn't anticipated, though, was how much of a challenge it would be to remain upright, and as she staggered into the kitchen, relying on the support of various items of furniture, she could almost hear Joy telling her to "get a bloody grip," over the rolling thunder outside. At the sink, her hands trembled, and the entire room seemed to be shaking, and then she was shaking all over, and the glass she'd pulled from the cupboard slipped from her grasp, shattering before her. Following Joy's imaginary advice, she gripped the edge of the counter, closed her eyes once more, and took a deep steadying breath.

Slender arms wrapped themselves around her, and she leaned into them, savouring the sound of the elegantly lengthened vowels that filled her ear, murmuring "Can I have this dance?"

[Scene: a very blurry New Year's Eve, the front room stuffed with revellers, their Bollinger-fuelled voices screeching passionately along to Bon Jovi's Livin' On a Prayer, all hopes of being in anywhere in the region of the correct tune long forgotten, and the pair of them joyfully entwined behind the heartily laden table.] She nodded her consent, and allowed herself to be spun around and waltzed extravagantly across the room. As the twisted and turned, keeping constant time, if a little off the beat, hips collided, arms tightened around waists, hands curled in hair, and the music segued smoothly into a slow, tender number, soulful piano chords chiming in tempo with frantically racing hearts, and it was happening, ten, nine, eight, the ball was dropping, and fireworks erupted, four, three, two, one, and lips met, and nothing else mattered.

"You," she whispered, aloud, the lyrics of that ill-fated ballad returning to her, "made me a woman tonight." It would be no use, she decided, trying to clean the glass up now. She'd only end up injuring herself, or making even more of a mess. Or both. For now, she settled for taking a couple of clumsy gulps straight out of the faucet ("tap!", Joy would have chided), and making her hapless way toward the stairs, still fighting to stay on her feet, and as she shut the door behind her, they didn't seem quite able to support her anymore, and she leaned heavily against it, sinking feebly to the floor, like a marionette whose strings had been cut, and it was pouring once more, the deluge spilling out over Cleveland, just as her pain seemed to spill over the living room.

"Victoria, don't you dare walk away from me!"

Joy's cheeks were flushed, as she burst in from the kitchen, and she groaned. [Scene: a thoroughly uninspiring afternoon, with the persistent drivel tapping doggedly away at strained nerves, and tensions overflowing.]

"I don't understand why you're getting so upset!" she repeated, for what felt like the thousandth time.

"No, well, you wouldn't, would you? You can't see why anyone would be upset when you act like they don't matter, because as far as you're concerned, they don't. That's the problem, Victoria. You throw me a few nice words and gentle touches behind closed doors, but as soon as you remember that your world revolves around you, you treat me like I'm…staff…rather than…"

She left the word unspoken, hanging ominously between them, before continuing.

"Worse than that, because at least staff are paid for their troubles."

Victoria turned away, recognising the truth in her words, but not wanting to admit it.

"Is that really all I mean to you?" she went on, in a very small voice, when the actress didn't respond. Victoria pressed her hands to her temples, the venom of Joy's accusations seeping through her veins, and she felt her throat constrict, and her heart begin to break, and she sensed her entire life hanging in the balance, and still she could not answer Joy.

"I'm sorry, Joy," she informed the empty room, as if that could somehow atone for it, so appalled by herself that she thought she might throw up, "I'm so sorry." By now, she was starting to thoroughly resent her own company, which was something she'd never thought possible, until now, and she made for the stairs, now yearning for unconsciousness; not to have to live with herself, if only for a brief respite.

She wasn't sure exactly when, or how, but the once simple task of climbing the stairs seemed to have become something akin to an Everest expedition of late, and as she clambered up the newly arduous steps, she couldn't help wondering why she was even bothering, when her being upstairs would make so little difference to anything. The further she climbed, the more she longed to give up, give in, and remain forever here, on the stairs, in this dreary limbo between what had been and what was to come. The eleventh stair creaked, it always had done, and nobody ever remembered, and today was no exception, and she cursed, as always, and some things, she remembered, never changed, and she had to keep going, she didn't have a choice, because before long, the sun would come up, and world would keep turning, around and around and around, and normal life would resume, and she couldn't fight it; not anymore. It was too late now to do anything but go right on with it, though she felt sure she never would.

In her bedroom, she fumbled with the buttons of her black Chanel cardigan, and it was like being a child again, she thought, frustratedly, needing to be helped out of her clothes, and the wind slammed the trees' branches furiously against the window, their gnarled ends like Cathy Earnshaw's spectral fingers, so cold; it was so cold, and her teeth chattered, and lightning struck, illuminating the wasted pallor of her skin, and she wondered if she wasn't dead already; just a tortured soul wandering the moors of yesterday, caught perpetually in purgatory, somewhere between life and death, because she'd failed to fulfil her destiny while she'd had the chance; she hadn't listened, she'd only ever thought of herself, and now her time had run out, and she was lost, alone, forever.

Joy's long fingers didn't seem nearly so manly now, as they undid the buttons standing between her and Victoria's skin, her mouth pressing the older woman's. Her own hands moved up Joy's back, pulling her closer, as she felt herself being manoeuvred towards the bed. [Scene: a sweltering evening, the heat between the two women giving a heady fervour to the heightened atmosphere, and overwhelming everything else.] As Victoria's head landed on the pillows, Joy pulled away, running her eyes over the woman beneath her, and she struggled to stifle the stirring somersaults her stomach was doing long enough to concentrate her own gaze.

"I love you," Joy breathed, before kissing her again, those overpoweringly female fingers tracing lines over stomach, and she gasped, and no, it was no good, she couldn't think of anything else; there was only Joy, there was nothing else.

"What are you crying for, you silly cow?" tutted an exasperated voice beside her, and she smiled, in spite of herself, a little ruefully. [Scene: that same, godforsaken day, the storm still raging outside, the entire world seeming to have descended into abject misery.] Victoria lay, defeated, on the bed wanting nothing more than to sleep forever, and regarded the long-haired, long-limbed woman next to her through half-closed eyes.

"I was wondering when you'd get here."

"Well, I have got other things to do than trail around after you all day, you know."

The actress frowned. She very much doubted that.

"Like what?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

Well, yes, she would, actually, but she let it pass, as her visitor continued.

"How was today, anyway?"

Her tone softened as she propped herself up on one shoulder. Victoria covered her face with her hand.

"It was hell."

An affectionate hand was laid on her arm, and "You could have come, you know," she choked, over the thickness in her throat, a little reproachfully.

"I didn't think it would be in very good taste."

Victoria spluttered, indicating her guest's almost non-existent outfit.

"Since when has that stopped you?"

She seemed embarrassed, then, and looked away, apologetically.

"That's different," she pointed out, and Victoria knew that, oh, God, how she knew it, and she squeezed her eyes shut tight, but it did nothing to quell the floods that insisted on pouring from them, and yes, she knew it was different, but that didn't mean she could accept it.

"You broke your promise," she wept, and turned over to face the window, despising herself for this pathetic display, half-blinded by her tears, "you left me."

The voice that answered her was heavy with emotion, the suffocating feeling of anguish clearly matched between them, and as, yet again, she uttered those famous last words, if it was possible, she meant them more than she ever done before:

"I could never leave you, Victoria."

But it wasn't true, she knew that now, and as she rolled over to face her once more, the bed was empty, and she was gone, as if she'd never really been there at all. She closed her eyes, finally giving herself up to sleep, simultaneously acknowledging that it was time to stop dreaming. Joy had gone, and she was never coming back; Victoria was the one still in limbo. Perhaps she never could have left by choice. But there had been no choice, in the end. The loving spirit had lingered long enough, and she lived on in loving memory, nothing more. Her story had concluded, and Victoria only wished that the same might happen to her. She longed for the end, and yet she felt quite sure that this was only its beginning.