A/N – Don't own these characters or the book. Thank you for not suing me.

"Dreaming of You"

By The Bellman

December 2004

For months after the death-filled convention that so violently marked the end of Iselinism, Ben's eyes held an empty, distant sort of look. Rosie's heart trembled when she tried to comfort him and could not quite understand in mind; only in heart did she know. At times she feared that he had been lost, and his eyes seemed only to be glassy shells, no longer occupied by the man she knew and loved.

Apart from the emotional trauma that she could only assist with—he tried to keep her from sharing it, and failed, for Rosie had known Jocie, and had spoken to Raymond—there were the infernal press conferences, day in and day out. As Ben had figured it out, saved the American candidate, America itself, he had been given the task of overseeing the entire cleanup operation of the Communist conspiracy. He disliked this job; he was a family man! Yet there he was, day after day, in front of the cameras, just a person like the rest of them. The public clamoured for news of Army Intelligence's findings, and Ben found himself in the middle of it all, longing only for a comforting embrace and a good night's sleep. The public clamoured not only for information, but for a figure they could identify with; someone photogenic, and someone genuine. The natural choice was good ol' Ben Marco, tired and troubled. The cleanup of the tabloid rumours was, in itself, challenging, tiresome, and painfully necessary.

Sometimes he would awake in the night with a cry, bolting upright and breathing heavily. Every dream was just out of reach, and he could never truly recall the images as they played themselves in his mind, but he knew precisely what they were. How could they be anything but that blood-soaked suicide? He had never told anyone how it had seemed. Testimony had been brief, to the point, analytical. When he gave them that recording, he seemed to distance himself from his body as he spoke, floating away. A psychic might have called it an out-of-body experience, but he just called it his method of coping. Truly envisioning what had had happened to a man he regarded not only as one to be pitied, not only as a man he had been brainwashed to admire, but as a true friend. And it pained him to relive it every night.

Alone, he could not overcome such things; and out of duty and love, Rosie held him close in the stifling night and cured what she comprehended all too well. Raymond had had only one friend: Ben Marco, and Ben Marco had been the only one present for his final words. Rosie knew this; she saw it in the way Ben turned and twisted in his dreams, and heard it in the tortured words he spoke as he was trapped in his memories. As she leaned her head on his shoulder, and wrapped her arms around him, he would sometimes cry, for lack of words. How else was he to express such pent-up emotion? Tears are the only medium for such powerful feelings: tears, not clumsy, worn-out words, are what best express the inner depths of the human soul. Whether for sorrow or for joy, tears are what make everyone common.

Even through the ending days of December of that year, Ben felt the psychological echo of memories he wanted to suppress (yet somehow, he strangely wanted to retain) well up upon him at inopportune times. Whereas for weeks before he had met Rosie, he had been plagued with dreams of Raymond committing murder, he was plagued now with the dreams of Raymond committing suicide, which was worse, because he was taking the one life that he would never have been able to respect. Sometimes, his subconscious would gather itself into one, emotional attack, and he would be reduced to childish weeping in a matter of seconds. She was motherly, beautiful, but dark with her close proximity to an investigation into death. Even though Ben was the true sufferer, Rosie was the dark one, Ben was the light one. She was pale, she was the shadow-figure. He was more deeply tanned, and dressed darkly, but he was a creature of the light. Physical appearances meant nothing. What was inside counted, and only Ben's frantic cries and haunted thoughts meant anything to Rosie, who wanted only happiness for them both.

On the rare nights when he slept dreamlessly, she would sometimes stay awake, listening to the soft, even breathing which contained bare traces of his mellifluous voice she so loved. It comforted her as she sleepily gazed out at the New York skyline—sometimes the D.C. skyline, as they were shuffled between the two cities for Ben's hectic work. Like a lullaby, she would strain her ears for its serenity, and would be lulled into slow sleep herself.

And if he slept fitfully but could not wake, she would, as always, remain by his side in the darkness, not quite blending into the shadows. Her alert, almond eyes glittered in the scanty light from the streetlamps that seemed to float all the way up to their various apartments and hotel rooms. They glittered with determination, passion, love, and genuine concern. Her hand would rest on his cheek, cool, and his brow would lose some of its characteristic tension.

And even through the ending days of that December, he couldn't control his reaction to sudden memories that conjured themselves of their own volition. They were random, and just sprang upon his vulnerable soul in his most defenceless moments. In sleep, he had no protection but that of a woman who couldn't embed herself in his controlled mind. She could only watch and wait in her fretful silence.

When December finally came, they were dumped in D.C., in a rented apartment not their own. It was unfamiliar, and Ben was a little nervous at taking up residence in a place he didn't quite trust. Before he allowed Rosie to enter the place, he searched every corner, every shelf, every cabinet, every closet, perhaps looking for lost skeletons or false hope. She waited patiently in the hall, looking at the little ivy-print engraving around the room number (1832), studying each separate groove in the plastic imitation of gold. The metallic paint was chipping off, and she could see spots where it had already been painted over. She cast a glance around the hall: it had probably been there since the 50s. Since before the Korean War, since before Ben had been caught up in all of this. What would it have been like had he never experienced the horrors of captivity and the horrors of witnessing a suicide, helpless to stop it?

After he finally concluded his search and declared the apartment "safe, but still really strange, kiddo", Rosie entered, a bit turned off by the anti-cosiness of the entrance-room-kitchen. The furniture was comprised entirely of angles; of bony, awkward, modernist furniture that she thought was completely out of place in their time period. It suited some science fiction comic much better, and it hit her in an instant why Ben was sweating and looking around nervously. Each line, each harsh angle, had Raymond Shaw written all over it. That wasn't to say that Raymond would've liked the design (he would have hated it, of course), but it was so much like the doomed soldier that she felt nauseous for a split second. Mrs Iselin would have liked it, she pondered.

That night he slept fitfully, vexed by the room and by his memories, and perhaps it was only in Rosie's imagination, but even after four and a half months, he was worse than ever. With a nervousness eating at her insides, she made up her mind to do something about it, once and for all. She was a clever woman, much cleverer than she let on to the world. They saw her as a trophy wife, and Ben knew her as much more than that. She knew herself to be much more than that: she knew herself to be a woman of good judgement and faith. With stony resolution, she formed a plan.

Christmas was coming upon them quicker than Ben knew, and Rosie sickeningly knew that if it weren't for the announcement of the dates and recording numbers at each hearing for Army Intelligence, the FBI, and sometimes the Supreme Court hearings for the people the Iselins employed (who would dare to try them on anything less than a federal level?), Ben wouldn't know what day of the month it was, let alone the season. He did not wear his coat unless she reminded him, and he never wore gloves unless she put them on herself. The act of putting on his gloves was a sensual thing, and he responded well to that, but discordant fear still consumed his inner light.

And when Christmas finally did come, she had the perfect plan. At first she had wanted a party, with all of his friends to attend, but who did he have left? His only contacts were through the Army and the intelligence units stationed in New York and D.C.. He had also developed a strange fear of large gatherings of people (they reminded him of the convention, Rosie knew), and this plan was immediately scratched out. Dinner at a restaurant together wouldn't do it, no matter how romantic, so she put into effect her best plan yet.

Total redesign of the dining area branching from the kitchen would be the only method of cheering him up that she could really have complete confidence in. The first things to go were the plain, dark-blue curtains on the windows. They were immediately replaced by thick, creamy silken curtains with red floral print—poinsettia, she noted: the Christmas flower. Matching cushions were placed on the hard, wooden chairs at the dining table, and candles were set on the table in curved, brass holders. The wax was red, and the candles flickered prettily in the dim room. The table itself was exchanged for a circular one, more softly hewn and less rougher than the rest of the room. It was somehow more feminine. She couldn't do anything about the floor, but she did put up the Christmas tree all on her own as Ben toiled through the days and nights, sometimes fearing to sleep. He brought work home with him, shutting himself up in the bedroom for hours on end with a pen in hand and a lost aura surrounding him. She didn't invade his privacy, but kept on with her own work.

When it was finished, she allowed herself one glance at the entire décor, which was appropriate for the season, and much gentler than the ultra-modern styling from before. Christmas Eve came abruptly, and Ben barely knew the date as he came home that night. The presents were under the tree, but both of them had forgotten them in place of something far more important: something called love.

"Rosie," he breathed, stumbling towards her. He had regained some grace at seeing her dressed up so immaculately, in a pretty red dress with a white sash. Her feet were oddly bare, so he was a bit taller than her. As he bent down to kiss her, she noticed this fact with more than a little bit of pleasure.

Their kiss lasted too long to count, yet not long enough. It was passionate, and she felt a fire in him that she hadn't felt in weeks. The job was draining him, bit by bit, and she was there to catch him as he fell.

Physically, he almost slumped in her arms as they glided towards the newly decorated dining room. A gasp rose in his throat and died on his lips as he saw the twinkling lights on the tinsel-covered tree, and Rosie smiled proudly. "It's lovely," he said quietly, almost unable to speak. "You did his all on your own?"

"Well, I did get the doorman to help with the tree, but… mostly, yes." She kissed him again, this time on the cheek, as she wrapped an arm around his back. He gazed at the tree, almost transfixed, before finding her lips with his own. For a moment they knew nothing but each other. And then… they broke their blissful contact and Rosie half-skipped into the kitchen and brought out a steaming white pot that she clasped between her kitchen-mittened hands. "And I made this on my own."

(I want to marry you more than I want to go on eating . . . )

"Italian food?" he asked softly, smelling the fragrant spices that tickled at his nose. The pepper was strong, and he almost sneezed, but that would've been too awkward. Instead, his eyes watered with a mixture of elation and sensitivity to the spice.

"You bet," she replied, setting it on the table. "Spaghetti and meatballs. I had a feeling…"

"What kind of feeling?" he questioned, voice husky and low.

"I think you know well enough." As she leaned to kiss him again, she scooped some noodles onto his plate.

For the first time in a long time, she saw him smile, and a flutter of happiness and hope surged in her heart. "Ben…"

"Rosie…"

That not-so-silent night, he slept more soundly than he ever had, comforted by happier, fresher memories of a beautiful woman, and of a happy Christmas.