Haven't posted anything on here in ages, although I'm writing more than ever. So I thought I'd take a moment to submit some of these oneshots I have lying around. This was written awhile ago, while listening to the track "Recessional" by Vienna Teng. And yes, I mean the old soap Dark Shadows, and yes, I ship these two in all seriousness. I may go back later and polish the ending, but for now, I would really enjoy some constructive criticism where I can get it. Thank you!

One night he finally found her alone; one night when he barged into the drawing room, hardly lit except by the lusty glow of a stained glass lamp, she was there on the couch. Nothing was changed about her now: her clothes were new, her hair washed and fixed, all that flowing cascade of chocolate brown; but her eyes, searching, gazing rather than staring, out of her pale face, remained the same.

He remembered the night they brought her in, Barnabas and Julia, with no explanations. Her dress soaked, her body shaking and a blanket around her shoulders. He had rushed down to see her, calling her name in premature excitement; and in one split second she had broken his heart with that look.

Now he paused in the doorway, unsure of what to do. How many nights when she first arrived had he entertained the idea of finding her here? Hoping for someone to talk to- or at – missing her warm smile and simple advice. She knew everything, Vicky did, in her own childish way. The complicated matters of his self-serving existence that had always plagued him were silly problems to her, for she knew how to live, and live right.

And now she sat on the drawing room sofa, gazing into the fire with her head on the armrest. And he was afraid of her. Because if all her strength was gone, he was nothing.

"Vicky?" It felt almost wrong to address her by that name now, as though he was using it with a stranger.

She turned to him, more slowly than one surprised, but still attentive. "Hello Roger."

There was hardly any emotion in her voice; never was anymore. It was like the pleasant tone he had become familiar with was an instrument being played in all the wrong pieces. He sat tepidly beside her.

"I just came down for a night cap. Can I get you anything? A brandy perhaps?" That was all there was in the drawing room anyway, but for her he would have driven to Massachusetts and back before morning.

She shook her head, the silken strands of her hair falling around her face. "No thank you Roger."

"Please Vicky," He was already pleading, as he knew he would. "Please let me get you something?"

She was quiet for a moment, those hollow brown eyes studying him. "All right. I would like some tea." It was slow and very quiet.

Roger didn't remember making tea, how he even remembered how to do it, only pacing back forth as it boiled, and the way she told him how many lumps of sugar without turning from the fire. "Traumatic shock" Julia had said, no longer like a doctor, but as someone who repeated the doctor's words to their family. "She'll recover...somewhat, everyone does..." But the entire household knew what the real diagnosis was. Collinwood had done it's work. Called her here; opened her eyes to so many of the world's new facets; and sucked her spirit, her will to love away. Vickys didn't survive here, and neither did Maggies or any number of the millions of other innocents, so ready to 'change' people. Only the Collins'; like Roger; empty, selfish, dark and unchangeable, belonged here.

He brought her the tea, and for a moment she smiled; almost really smiled; at him. Small and ghost like as it was.

"Vicky...I want to know...I want to talk to you...the way we used to you..." He stuttered out as she took her first sip. Awkward and unintelligent, fake and angry. That was the way she used to make him feel, and he had persecuted her for it. Now he mentally begged her to laugh at him...to grow angry...to say anything...

"Roger, I know you want to understand, and I wish I could be more grateful." She paused, indenting her words with a carefully contained sorrow. But it was there, close to the surface, and Roger was grateful. "But I can't talk about it. To you anymore than anyone else. There's nothing to talk about."

"But you don't blame yourself..."

"No, and I don't blame Barnabas and Julia. And I don't wish I were dead, Roger. I just feel...empty. I don't understand it, like I wasn't meant to keep on. My gravestone sits on eagle hill, but I'm here." Her voice had raised, gently up an octave, and Roger felt his heart rise to his mouth.

"Vicky..." He laid a hand on her shoulder, tenderly, his throat dry with how much he wanted to say. "I can't say what was meant to be. I've never been good at that...only accepting things...as they were...but I couldn't accept you being gone. It was the one thing that never seemed right. We brought you back Vicky, because we couldn't live without you." He paused. "After you left...everyone else tried to cope...but I just went on. I didn't know what I was living for. And didn't know until they brought you back through that door."

Her dark eyes were trained on his hand, tracing the lines painfully slowly, they followed his arm up until they stared into his face, glistening with tears.

"Roger Collins," Her voice shook, but a small smile turned up the ends of her mouth. "What are you saying to me?"

He reared, unable to form coherent thoughts, so lost in her voice. "Nothing..." He managed. "...you aren't prepared for...Miss Winters..."

And suddenly he kissed her, quickly and gently, just the sudden taste of her warm lips, and he was off the couch and halfway out the drawing room door.

"Roger..." She stopped him in the doorway. He breathed in, shaking his whole being.

"Yes Vicky?"

"I think I'll be up at six tomorrow, and I can be ready to go in ten minutes. Will we get coffee at the inn or the docks?"

"Miss Winters," He turned to face her, chin bared in all the snobbish glory he had intended to dazzle her with so long ago. "That is for me to know and you to find out."