Disclaimer: For entertainment only. These characters don't belong to me, but sprung from the mind of the insanely talented Glenn Gordon Caron.

Author's Note: Takes off from the end of "And the Flesh Was Made Word"; as I'm sure you ML fans will recognize, the beginning of the Prologue is a transcript of the final scene of that episode. Hope you enjoy…reviews welcomed and appreciated!

Breathing Lessons

Prologue

David stood in Maddie's office doorway. "You sign up for any Lamaze classes yet?" he asked.

She smiled and scrambled among the papers on her desk. "Oh—yeah—actually, there was one in here I was looking at"—she consulted a brochure—"Tuesdays at nine?"

"Eight central time?" he quipped.

"Yeah, something like that."

David flipped open his calendar. "OK, nine to ten, Tuesdays, you and me." He looked up at her. "You're probably gonna want to get some dinner or something beforehand, right?"

"That'd be nice," she assented.

He erased his previous entry. "OK, 7:30 to ten. You and me. Tuesdays…And you're probably gonna want to talk or something afterwards, right?"

"Well, if you can spare the time."

He erased again. "OK. So that's 7:30 to midnight, you and me, Tuesdays." He smiled. "I guess we can figure out when we're gonna get together and practice some other time, huh?"

She smiled back at him. "Yeah, we can work that out."

"It's getting late…you leaving soon?"

"Yeah, in a minute," she replied.

"Well, if you wanted me to walk you and the Little Dividend down to the parking structure, I'd be…honored." He stuck his pencil behind his ear and closed his calendar.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

* * *

From the office door all the way to Maddie's car, David kept up a stream of small talk: a tidbit about John Wicklow being released, a story about last night's bowling triumph, the latest battle in the MacGillicudy-Viola Conflict. Maddie chuckled appreciatively but both understood why he kept talking: their silences were still too fraught with tension and the possibility of anger.

She unlocked her door and turned to David. "Are you going straight home? Do you want me to drop you—" she broke off and stifled a huge yawn behind her hand. "I'm sorry—I just seem to get tired so early these days."

David started to decline the ride, but then took a closer look at her: she did, indeed, look exhausted. Putting an arm around her shoulders, he steered her over to the passenger side door and opened it.

"David, what are you doing?" she protested. "I'm perfectly capable of driving myself." Nonetheless, she slid into the passenger seat.

"Chauffeur service," he replied, taking the keys from her hand. He went around to the driver's side and got in. "Recently added to the Blue Moon Executive Package. I drop you off, and then pick you up in the morning…say, nineish?" He grinned across at her.

She seemed about to protest when another yawn overtook her. "OK, fine," she sighed, settling back into the leather seat. "Actually, this is…nice," she admitted as she closed her eyes.

"Ol' Driver Dave, at your service." He tipped an imaginary hat to her.

Moments later, she was asleep.

Stopped at a traffic light, he stole a glance at her. He thought of the hope that lit up her eyes when he asked her about the Lamaze classes, and his heart tightened. He remembered a few nights before, up on that bridge, trying to keep Mary Graves from killing herself. "You've got to get past your past…the future is the only thing that counts," he had said—and he had meant it, especially when Maddie kissed him.

But was it true? He had been angry, so angry, for months. Not just angry: devastated, disappointed, lonely, frustrated. After two and a half years, he had finally let himself love her, had risked her rejection and her ridicule. In the laundromat, he laid it out for her: Don't end it. Let's keep trying. I love you, Maddie. And still, she hopped the next flight to Chicago.

He could have forgiven her that, forgiven her the confusion, the fear, the uncertainty that drove her away and kept her there. What he couldn't forgive was that she cut him off, cut him out of her life so totally—no phone calls, no letters. The message, he thought, was clear: You were a mistake. I can live without you.

Never more so than when she came home married to somebody else. None of this makes sense…the baby's not mine, you're not mine, he had told her. He had been ready to get up and walk away, for good.

And then she changed her mind.

That had made him angry, too. She was still calling the shots, she was still in control—and his feelings, what he had gone through, came second. It was as though she expected him to come running back, as soon as the coast was clear; as though they could just pick up from…well, wherever it was they had left off.

So he let her have it: If a guy did what you did to me, I'd have knocked his teeth down his throat. You still have your incisors, so I guess that means I still must care. But I don't have to like it. She sat silent through it all and took it; she didn't protest, and she didn't cry. But the pain in her eyes was obvious.

He had felt a little cleansed after that, like he had let go of a small part of the constant ache inside him. And, God help him, he wanted to try—wanted to see if, maybe, they could start again—not from where they were before, but from where they were now. But it wasn't going to happen overnight.

Running a hand through his hair, he shook away his thoughts as they pulled up to the house. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty, we're home," he whispered as her eyes blinked open. He grabbed her briefcase from the back seat and came around to help her out.

"David," she said, obviously embarrassed, "This really isn't necessary."

"Part of the service," he replied. "Door-to-door delivery is included." He set her briefcase down by the front door.

"Well…" she said, as he put the key in the lock.

"Well," he answered.

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, then whispered, "Thanks for the ride." Her lips brushed his earlobe, and David could feel his pulse quicken. All his senses were suddenly on red alert.

She stayed there, close to him, and David's arms went around her, seemingly of their own accord. Her eyes met his and he could see the unmistakable invitation in them.

He was tempted…he was so tempted. God, it had been five months, but in that instant he remembered exactly the feel of her skin and the way she moved. He crushed her to him, burying his face in her hair. Then—

"Gotta go," he said softly, and stepped back.

"OK, go," she answered. But he could hear the disappointment in her voice.

He touched two fingers to his lips, and then walked quickly to the car. He heard the front door close behind her as he got into the BMW.

He loosened his tie and cranked up the tunes, trying to drive the feel of her out of his mind.

* * *

Maddie leaned against the door. What in the world was that? she thought. Had David just turned her down? She wondered briefly if Hell was freezing over.

She knew he was having a tough time getting past these last few months, and she couldn't blame him. He was holding back—had been since she signed the annulment papers—but she had hoped, after his declaration on the bridge, that they were moving on.

Not yet, apparently.

It occurred to Maddie as she climbed the stairs that perhaps he wanted to be chased. After all, he had been the pursuer for nearly three years, had not only learned what drove her crazy and what made her laugh, the garbage and the good stuff, but had played the game with a degree of patience and perseverance she never would've given him credit for.

Then finally, victory—of a sort. A month of holding her in thrall physically, while emotionally she fought to keep him at arm's length. It felt schizophrenic: at night, she surrendered, and they found each other amidst the whisperings and rustlings. But during the day, she walled herself off, from fear or shame or a need for control. By the end of the month, she was exhausted and worse, disappointed—in herself, in them, in the promise of the last three years of friendship and flirtation.

So she ran.

She ran, slamming door after door behind her: I'm in Chicago, don't call me, don't come here, I'm married, it's not yours.

Was it any wonder he wasn't eager to jump back in? Was it surprising if he was waiting for her to come to him this time, waiting to understand where she stood, waiting for her to "speak now, or forever hold her peace"?

She sat down in front of her mirror, brushing out her hair with long strokes. She had always liked a challenge: she, a 36-year-old woman, five months pregnant with another man's child, would have to seduce a man she had discarded like yesterday's newspaper. If she wanted David, she was going to have to go out and get him.

She smiled to herself for the first time that night. Climbing into bed, she snapped the lamp off with a definite 'click.'

He wouldn't know what hit him.