(I own nothing. This is a prologue to Wrong Impression, something I cooked up to commemorate my first year of publishing fanfic here.)

ALWAYS ALONE WHEN YOU'RE IN MY DREAMS

She turned her head to look at him, but some strands of her hair got stuck in his five-day stubble. Both of them swatted her locks from his face. She giggled, looking at her best friend's face affectionately.

"You know, I don't think I've ever seen you with a stubble," she mused and reached out to touch the short hairs.

"I haven't been able to shave it these past few days," he murmured.

Her eyes flitted to the sling that supported his left arm. One physical reminder of the hell they'd just been through.

"I know," she breathed out. They shared a look, grateful to have survived the madman. She pressed a gentle kiss on the side of his chin.

"Want me to shave it?" she asked, looking thoughtful, resuming her faint caress.

He bowed his head to look her in the eyes. "Already tired of being wrapped up in my arms?"

She shifted her fingers to take a hold of his jaw, then murmured: "No, never. It's just that I do a mean shave. At least, I like to think so," she smirked.

He considered her offer, then decided to accept. You have to try something new every day, after all. "Okay, let's see what you've got."

They were in the bathroom. She had dragged a chair in there from her bedroom, and she seated him on it.

Then, she set about improvising a shaving cream for him. He started to look like he regretted his promise, then tried to get out of it, feigning first utter terror and then sleepiness. She giggled and reminded him that a promise was a promise.

To prevent any further trepidations, she whetted a small towel with warm water, pressed on his head so he rested the back of his head on the sink and wrapped the warm towel around his face.

She then surprised him massaging his scalp, running her fingers across his head in a delicious friction. He let go of any pretence and just enjoyed the sensation.

"Still regretting this?" she whispered near his left ear.

"No! Don't stop now," he pleaded. She obliged him.

After a few short minutes, the massage was over, to his infinite disappointment. She dried his face, applied the make-shift cream to his face and neck and picked up the razor. She made a careful, long sweep with the razor, then surprised him by pressing a kiss on the clean skin. She pulled back a bit and remarked: "Perfect. No stubble left."

He gazed at her with a look of love and amazement.

She shifted between the waking world and the dreamland.

Her dream drifted away; she tried to hang onto it, attempted to form it into dreamscape, but it started to fade away quickly, ruthlessly.

She dreamed of him often.

Sometimes the dreams were full of laughter, uplifting; at times, they were mirthless, oppressive.

One thing never changed about the dreams. She was always alone when he was in them.

Curiously, even the happy dreams always left her with a sense of longing, aching with loneliness.

At least that much resembled real life, if nothing else.

The next day she got a call from Grace, informing her of the troubles the task force had run into.

For the next three nights, her dreams were in overdrive.

THE END