A/N: Set within the hallucinations/dreams in 2x05.
D - E - V - A
It was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes. Four letters, painted in varying shades of blue, propped up on the windowsill behind the crib. He had told her that wasn't a good place for the crib—too much sunlight; the baby would wake too early because of it—but she had laughed when they'd set it up, shaking her head. The baby will always wake too early, she'd said. Sunlight won't change that.
He had not argued; he liked the letters, and the crib, where they were. And he liked the sunshine.
And he loved her.
He watched her from the doorway as she moved about the room, surprisingly quick and graceful despite being in the late stages of pregnancy. She was folding linens: onesies, and sheets, and towels. Everything was in a different pastel shade: off-white and butter yellow and sky blue and moss green. When he felt a weight in his hands, he looked down. There was a baby's mobile in his hands now, made out of miniature model airplanes. From Granddad was painted across the underside of the supports. The words made him smile for some reason. He had not thought his father was still alive.
He stepped forward into the room, and she turned at the sound of him. Immediately, her face lit up, and as if on cue, the sun shone more brightly through the window behind her. The painted white wood of the crib glowed, like a holy place, and she glowed before it, like some sort of Madonna. He held up his offering—now the paint read From Dad and Granddad—and his smile widened. So did hers.
His mind recognized that none of this was real, that none of it made any sense, but for once, his mind was merciful and did not demand logic or sense. Instead, it reveled in the current moment, in the stolen peace of it. It danced in the white light inside their new home and on the soft green grass outside of it. It rejoiced in her, and their baby, and the warmth that the two of them—the three of them—brought to the world that had before been only cold and hellish and bloody.
He stepped on a stool to hang the mobile, and as he did so, he could suddenly see a ring on his hand: a simple gold band, clean, shining in the sun. When she rubbed a hand on his shoulder, he saw a matching ring on hers. He stepped down once the mobile was up, and stepped into her open arms.
"I feel like I'm dreaming."
The words were a soft sigh, smiled into his shoulder, followed by a kiss. He smiled back, and held her closer. Somehow, even with the baby, there was no space between them. They were close as can be. Fantasies were like that: they gave you everything you wanted, and they did not let something as meaningless as truth or logic get in the way.
"I feel like I'm dreaming."
He smiled into her hair, breathing her in. She smelled like lavender. "You said that already," he reminded her.
He ran his hands through her hair, down her back. He closed his eyes and the sun shone red through the film of his eyelids. He thought not of blood, but of roses.
"I feel like I'm dreaming," she said again, and he squeezed his eyes shut tighter, and held her closer. He wanted to tell her to be quiet, to simply enjoy the moment, but suddenly his voice was gone.
Logic was leaking back into his mind fast; truth was discoloring the fantasy. He could not smell the lavender anymore, could not feel the sun.
"I feel like I'm dreaming."
There was no roundness between them, no baby kicking, no D - E -V - A on the windowsill.
There was nothing.
"I feel like I'm..."
Even the last word disappeared, and then he opened his eyes. She was already up, standing, and cleaning up their makeshift bed on the floor from the night before.
"You were talking in your sleep," she said by way of hello.
He groaned softly, rolling onto his back. He did not ask what about, and she did not offer. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, then onto his feet, and then he helped her clean up what little they had disturbed in the house.
They stood in the middle of the room after they were finished, having run quickly out of chores, and with no other plan. She wandered over to the back door, and stood in the shaft of light from the early morning sun.
"It was a beautiful dream you had here," she whispered, looking out at the fields of wheat behind the house. When he stared at the view, and let his eyes unfocus, all he saw was burnished gold. Like the ring he'd imagined on his hand. Like the one that still rested on hers. "I'm sorry it can't be real."
He did not come up behind her; he did not draw her into his arms. He did not whisper that he loved her—regardless of what was real and what wasn't.
Instead, he just stood in the middle of the room, and watched her from afar, like usual.
"You know something?" she whispered finally.
Her voice was hoarse; it had caught on something. He did not ask what.
"She is something you can keep with you when you go, you know. Wherever you end up, whatever happens... Deva will always be yours. No matter if she knows or not. No matter if you're with her or not."
He said nothing.
They let the sun rise, let it come level with their eyes and burn their thoughts away. Finally, when it passed, he said, "We should go."
She did not argue. They packed their few things and headed to the car, and then drove out silently into the world that was, somehow, still filled with sunshine.
A/N: If you have thoughts, please let me know. I've never written for these two or this fandom before, but I just watched 2x05, and it was a real trip, and so I couldn't help taking one little stab at it. Thanks for reading, and feel free to let me know how I did. :)