-1937-

"Marry me," he said.

She continued walking.

"Come on, marry me. You know you want to."

She waved a dainty hand in the air, as if to shoo him away.

"Oh, now you're just being smart, ain'tcha? Come on, Chane. Marry me." He caught her hand with his own, as gentle as he could be. He may strip the muscle from the arms of the unjust, but he could be sweet, polite and dashing should he have the chance to be. But nothing could stop him from being Felix Walken. Claire Stanfield. He would always be Vino. Chane knew this, and found it peculiar, and perhaps slightly insane that she still loved him anyway.

Chane turned to stare into his eyes. It was her only means of communication most of the time. Her ebony hair responded to the wind and swept back, brushing her neck. Claire's own red hair blew in his face, masking his dark eyes from her, and she reached and pushed it back. He took her hand in his, his cheek pressing into her touch. She watched him, and smiled. It was tiny smile, but it made her face so beautiful that Claire became entranced immediately.

"Beautiful," he told her, then leaned forward. His lips endeavored to descend upon hers, but her fingers pressed against them and he stopped, opened his eyes. She was not smiling, but she was not unhappy. She just wasn't ready. Claire was a patient man, but a man of certain thoughts and plans. This world was his own, and he had all the time in it to wait, but the sheer human in him, the mannish impulse to take her into his arms and kiss her until he couldn't breathe, was constantly eating at his mind. Chane knew it too, he would bet his money on it.

He let his forehead rest upon hers, closing his eyes again, his voice soft and close to her.

"All right, then," he said quietly, beginning to smile. Just being with her was wonderful. "If not now, then when?"

When I say so, Chane answered silently. Claire wasn't apt enough, wasn't exactly close enough to sense this soundless answer. When he could do this, when he could come to understand her more than he already did, maybe then she would be ready. Or maybe she just needed more time with him. She would know it when she was ready. There would be a feeling, or a sign. She would know.

Claire opened his eyes and looked into her own, searching for something. Chane speculated he was looking for her answer, but he couldn't find it. Not yet. She turned then, her white dress sweeping the street gently and his skin slipped from her own. Chane glanced back at him, and then held a hand for him to take.

Come, she thought to him. Come, and I'll take you away from this dreary street.

Claire didn't hear her but her hand was enough. He took it, and then took another. He twirled her down the street and she laughed a laugh of no sound. They danced across the sidewalk under the graying sky, speaking but not speaking, and enjoying every moment.