A/N: Okay, I need to say it in advance - this is a bit of an experiment. In this 'story' I'll pack vignettes as they come to me - scenes I play out in my head that don't fit into bigger stories, but I don't want to stand alone is the first of them. It is a stand alone. I have no sequel to this particular one planned.

Thanks go again to ShadowSamurai83 for the beta and the praise. Thank you ever so much.

Title: The Road

Subtitle: The Fire, The Candle, The Wine

Rating: T (variable)

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I just play with them. But - BBC, if you ever use this scenario in WtD I'll hunt you down!

Summary: As the hours go by...

Enjoy!

The Fire, The Candle, The Wine

The bottle empties as the hours go. The fire slowly burns down and the light of the candles flicker into extinction.

They speak about regrets; a pointless undertaking as they already know those from the other. Or so they believe.

But the fire and the candles and the wine seem to demand that they pour their hearts out. It's easy - bare your soul and know that there's still something you can hide. They are both masters at hiding.

She wonders how it would feel to dig her fingers into his biceps as he moves heavily inside her. Even without the actual touch, she can feel the pressure in her fingertips, the heaviness of his body above her. The image is so strong that she has to swallow a moan and tamp down the shivers that rush through her.

She'd never tell him, of course, couldn't bear the disgust or worse, the gentle apology on his face. Thus she keeps quiet and just watches him.

He's aware of it, of course.

He's half-lying on the sofa, his head resting against the back of it, eyes closed. It's a relaxed state and allows his mind to drift.

Before his inner eye there is the image of him leaning over to kiss the exposed skin of her cleavage. He'd like to know where she sprays her perfume. He'd like to find the spot where scent mixes with skin; softness and warmth with fragrance. He can picture it so clearly, almost feel it; can only hope that she doesn't see what it does to him.

He'd never tell her, of course, couldn't take the recoiling in her posture or worse, the gentle shake of her head. Thus he keeps quiet and doesn't look at her.

They speak of the obvious - he of his son, she of the child that never was - and they ignore the atmosphere that is created by the fire and the candles and the wine.

The hours go by and the wine goes as well. They don't move from their positions and to an outsider it looks as if nothing changes except the fire, the candles and the wine. There are changes in the topics they discuss, nothing too heated, for neither is up to really defending a position.

At some point they decide - with a chuckle both - on a lighter topic and talk about the highlights of their lives. It's just as much a loaded question as the other was and they make jovial cracks, neither being entirely truthful.

This evening, he says once. But his tone is overly jolly for fear she'd disagree, and she doesn't dare take him serious.

So they sit - well, she sits, with her legs tucked underneath her and he still lying sprawled out - sip their wine and watch the flames. The evening is as perfect as it gets with the wine, the candles and the fire, and especially the company.

He thinks that he'd want this regularly, even though it's painfully domestic, every day if possible. Her thoughts are the same.

They don't speak of it, the silence between them comfortable and peaceful.

The candles burn down as the hours go by, so does the fire. The bottle has been empty for at least an hour. Conversation has lapsed; instead, they have both begun to drift and doze.

As physical relaxation set in, they have drifted closer together. Now, her head rests against his arm and her hand on the sofa is covered by his.

She dreams about this sofa, how he stretches out on it, how she stretches out on top of him. How slowly and sensually their clothes go. There are images where they are naked to begin with. He's strong and hard against her, smooth and yielding too. It's a daydream and she's entitled to doctor up a few truths to her liking. They move and they don't.

It's all flashes of imagination in her mind. It happens here on the sofa, amidst the light of the fire and the candles and with the wine in their blood. He dreams the same.

His thumb has worked its way under her hand and strokes and circles the tender flesh of her palm. The contact is like a rush of sensation, slamming his heart, his mind and his groin together. All that is left afterwards is want. He wants her. Almost more than he wants his next breath. She shivers next to him, obvious through their connected hands, and suddenly the room is ten degrees hotter.

He opens his eyes, heavy as they are, and meets hers. They are dark and burn intensely in this light.

"The sofa isn't comfortable enough," she says. "You should go home to sleep in a real bed." And, "I'll call you a cab." She doesn't really want to say any of this.

He gets up with a groan - as does she, because age is a bitch and then you die - and feels old, tired and bereft. In the hallway, with its bitingly bright artificial light, he also feels cold. Not even donning his heavy coat helps.

They say goodnight with an affectionate smile, but don't touch.

As they open the front door and it's wet and foggy outside, he thinks of asking to be allowed to stay. She thinks of offering. But that would be tempting fate.

He smiles and says goodnight one last time, and she smiles as she closes the door behind him.

She leans her back against the cool wood and sighs. Outside, he does the same.

There are major regrets between them, and they both know that at the end of their lives the biggest might be to have let chances like this pass them by. They both know that the number of chances dwindles every time they miss one. But there is always something that seems to be a viable argument against taking the plunge.

But why?

What can he lose? What would she gain?

He is not a coward. She was once a bit of a daredevil.

Why not now?

He turns back to the door and raises his fist to knock. Inside, she turns towards the door and grips the door handle.

Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.