Summary:         The unconscious musings of Bruce and Amy following their recent kiss.

Spoilers:           The term spoilers only apply to revelations about unaired episodes.  All aired episodes become part of the canon, and thus I allude to them without warning.  This piece is set early in the fourth season.

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Rêves a Deux

That night she dreamt of him.  He showed up at her chambers beaming, bearing a white envelope and a bottle of cabernet.

"Do you want to come in?"

"That's why I'm here." He grinned.  "I'm back." 

Lights out, they curled together on the cool black leather sofa, drinking the lush red wine, watching the Marx brothers—old black and white comedies—and laughing.  Eventually her eyelids drooped and she pillowed her head on his chest, his fingers tangled in her riotous curls, his palms cupping her cheeks.  Each callus formed from his work at the hardware store she felt within her like a wound, stigmata from his self-crucifixion. 

She drew her fingernails across the ribbing of his turtleneck then reached below his waistband, catching the shirt's smooth hem and drawing it upward.  The contrast of her cool white palm against the warm blackness of his belly intoxicated her.  Fever struck, blood boiled; they fought together on the sofa's narrow confines.  Bloodletting was once held to be curative; perhaps they could heal each other.  Mouths fused, lips bruised; with darkened eyes they strove in concert.  Out of a tangled mass of limbs and torsos, life-breath and loneliness they fashioned one body.  When she woke, she tasted blood, and the fingertips she pulled from her lips glistened darkly in the gray light of dawn.

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That night he dreamt of her.  She showed up at his front door, sorrowful, bedraggled, the autumn rain running like tears down her face.  Proud and proprietous, he didn't invite her in.

"I'm sorry.  I never meant to deny you a decision.  I just wanted you back and thought you wanted that, too." 

Angry, she held out the court injunction.  The words on the page ran together, dissolving in the downpour.  "Now it's your choice." 

Only then did he step aside to allow her within. 

She was warming herself by the fire when he returned, towel draped over his shoulder, two steaming cups in his hands.  They laughed as he tried—unsuccessfully—to hand her both coffee and cloth.  Fingers brushed as she took her mug, and she flushed when, as he draped the towel over her shoulder, his knuckle grazed her cheek.

They sat on the rug, sipping coffee in intimate silence.  Firelight gilded her features, shadowing the dark hollows under her eyes.   Hidden within those dim pools were countless wakeful hours spent waiting for the ring of the phone, the knock at the door, the threat whispered in the night.  Gently he ran his fingers into her damp hair and wrapped his hands around her face; slowly her eyes closed.  Callused thumb-pads skimmed over her translucent lids and across the bruised hollows below, easing their dark message.

They bathed in firelight, flickering flames sending shadows dancing over their naked forms.  Skin, burnished bronze and gleaming copper, glistened, moist from the heat.  Base desire was transmuted through a mysterious alchemy; like fine metals they were tempered and shaped. With the dying of the fire their ardor cooled; flames became ash.  When he woke the room was cold and his face damp with tears.

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Acknowledgements:      Special thanks and half the credit must go to Stacia, for spending countless hours with me on the phone and at the computer, discussing ideas and looking for that perfect word.  Her patience is especially commendable as she does not like or watch this show.

Disclaimer:                    Judging Amy and it characters are the property of Barbara Hall/Joseph Stern Productions, in association with CBS Productions and Twentieth Century Fox Television.  I wrote this story to exorcise a few demons and intend no copywrite infringement.

Archiving:                     Fanfiction.net only.

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