Disclaimer: Dorian Gray belongs to Oscar Wilde, who belongs to… eh, Oscar Wilde. Lucky him, he gets to keep both the things in my disclaimer!

Author's note: This is slightly alternate-universe in that it's as though Dorian didn't try to kill his conscience. :pets him: For those who don't know, I adore Dorian Gray and his inventor, Oscar Wilde, because they are both so fascinating…and because Oscar is very, very talented. The other thing about this is that it's written in a very Sarrin-ish style, even though I try and I try to emulate the Wildean eloquence… The point of this is…well, I wanted to see an inside look on how Dorian dragged down his admirers…and of course, a look at the women. The only thing that made me sad about Wilde was how he treated his women characters, although they weren't bad at all…

…;';…

New York City, Mid-1920's

The streets were her friend, and of course, her enemy. By day, she and her friends were outrageous, and the streets were like a sailboat that would carry them to wherever they were headed- the café, to gossip and to infuriate the others- and to dance clubs, to dance, of course. The street was paved with gold, and it would take her anywhere safely, humming jazz music as she went. But by night, the street was a menace, not paved at all, but a great black hole preparing to swallow her whole. She stepped out anyway, clutching her jacket closely to herself. It wasn't supposed to be that cold, but for some reason, it was cold out anyway. Her exposed knees were cold, she wished briefly that she wasn't in such a short cocktail skirt, but then again…no, she reminded herself firmly. We're women, not young girls. We fought for the freedom to dress like this…she giggled a bit, still feeling slightly dizzy from spinning around so much to the music. Taking a deep breath, she began to run. That was the best thing about those twenties' dresses; the running. They allowed for such freedom of movement.

She was running for a reason. She wanted to escape. Escape what, she didn't know. The things that, with powdered faces and rouged mouths and white, sharp teeth came after her when the moon was veiled and all was quite quiet. She knew she should really have been 'facing her fears', but courage was never one of her strongest points. She'd never felt any reason for it. There had been opportunities, but she wasted them on running as well. She'd wasted time on dancing like a dizzy little debutante in a cocktail dress and T-bar shoes. How her mother would have scolded…if she'd only been alive.

She ran so fast, her heels clopping like a horse and her cloche hat almost flying off her head, that it would have been impossible to stop…even if she had seen the stranger step out from the alleyway.

She gave a small gasp as she ran into him, catching a small glimpse of blue eyes widening in shock underneath the black hat he sported before they both toppled over with an "oof!" being the only noise she made.

She groaned as she sat up from the street, rubbing her head where it'd been hit, her hat on the ground. "Oh, my…" she breathed, looking about her. Her skirt was all rumpled and her pochette lay some few feet away from her. Pulling her fingers through her bobbed hair to free it from the flat, mess the hat had turned it into, she took a look at the stranger, who lay beside her. His head had obviously been hit much harder than hers, as he had been thrown to the ground more violently. She crawled over to him, her powdered knees skinned. Was he all right?

She looked at him, then bit her lower lip in anxiety. He had really hurt his head; there was a cut on his forehead and it was bleeding. His hat had fallen back and she reached past him to pick it up. His fine golden locks of hair spilled out onto the sidewalk around his head like a halo, and she guessed that, with his peculiar beauty, he could have been a half-god.

"Oh, great," she muttered under her breath. "I've killed him…" Of course, he wasn't really dead, but she worried. Sighing, she stood, picking up her pochette and cloche hat, sticking the latter onto her head. She glanced down at the young man. Oh, well. She'd just have to get him to her house until he wasn't feeling so out-of-things. She sat beside the curb to think about it. Maybe…she'd just take the bus?

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"S-Sir?"

He seemed to stir. She couldn't be certain of it. She shook him gently and looked at his fair, troubled face, still apprehensive as to what had happened to him. Would he have hit his head hard enough to get amnesia? She really hoped not…the girl put her knuckles to her mouth gravely, thinking, her pallid eyelids shutting as she thought. There would be something terrible about having run into a young man she did not even know, but there would be something even worse if she killed him, or something. Life has a way of punishing those who commit wrongs, and what could be more wrong than harming youth? The man was young. He could not have been terribly older than her. She began to grow sick with fright and turned her attention back to him, wondering how he was doing. She really had thought he'd stirred. Could she be sure? No…she really hoped he was all right.

"S-Sir?" she began again. He moaned and jerked his head, his eyes fluttering madly from beneath his eyelids. His lips parted slightly and she touched him on the shoulder. She'd removed his black jacket and his hat had fallen off on the trek upstairs. She sat in a chair with a particularly plain build; most everything she owned was rather plain. It was buy what you could afford and that was all; besides, the modern woman's belongings were straightforward and didn't bother with all that frilly stuff. That was for women who wore corsets and such back in the nineteenth century. She noticed he didn't seem to be stirring, and she worriedly dabbed warm water over the wound in his head- the only blemish, he was extraordinary beauty- with a washcloth, then dipped it back in the bowl of water. She moved back to him, pressing the cloth gently onto his skin. He stirred a bit…

"Hmmm?" he murmured, frowning. His eyes opened slightly and once again, the blue was breathtaking. Of course, she noticed her breathlessness was due to the astounding forget-me-not colour better when she wasn't having her breath knocked out by force, then tumbling onto the pavement. And forget-me-not they were; she'd always remember him, and hoped he'd remember her…

"Sir, you were knocked unconscious." She fretted with an edge of the blanket momentarily.

"By whom?" the piercing stare was just that. Absolutely piercing.

"By- by me, sir."

"The running girl? Oh, yes, of course. It all comes back to me now," he said listlessly. "You're a bit young to be wearing all that makeup," he said, eyes pausing on her face with a careless grace that made her feel even more nervous.

"Oh, well," she said carefully, looking down at her fidgeting hands, "I'm- well, me and my- friends, we…we sort of get along like that…"

"A flapper," he interjected. "Ah, I thought as much."

Her cheeks burned, red with more than just rouge. He observed it silently, not caring. There seemed a sort of vague interest shadowed behind his eyes.

"Your name, Miss?" he asked, eyebrows only slightly raised. She looked up at him, feeling a bit- righteously, in her opinion, whatever that was worth- angry. Her face flushed as she replied, a bit hot-temperedly, "You care?"

He adjusted the buttons of his starched, white shirt- she'd removed his jacket- and said with a small sigh- "You think I wouldn't?"

She frowned, then looked down at her hands again, still pulling at the fabric. "Madison…Madison Evelyn Adams."

"Pretty name," he remarked, his clear gaze capturing hers and holding it calmly.

"And what's yours?" she asked.

He chuckled and shook his head. "Americans, they just can't appreciate the beauty of a small silence between introductions. They think everything must be bought and sold, and that anything worth buying and selling must be gotten at that very moment." He exhaled slowly, clearing unruffled by her fierce glare. "Very well, then, my own name is Dorian Gray."

She nodded slowly, then dropped the blanket corner and thrust out her hand to him. It was larger and squarer than the hands of most girls her age. Or most girls at all. "Nice to meet you, Dorian, and how do you do?" He looked at her hand briefly, then took it and shook it firmly. His grip was stronger than her own. "I do what I can, thank you, Miss -."

She shook her head. "Madison, thank you."

He shrugged. "Madison it is, then." He looked around. "Am I to remain imprisoned in this madhouse?"

She glanced in his general direction, then stood abruptly. "My room? Until you are ready to go, yes."

He looked up at her, not even phased by her seemingly loss of temper. "And where shall I go?"

"Your home, perhaps?"

"My home is in England, or perhaps France; I forget which. Besides, at this point it hardly matters. I have no intention of returning to the Continent just yet."

Her knees nearly gave way. "Well, why not?"

He looked at her, now mildly surprised. "Silly girl…Why would I leave there in order to simply return? Nothing has happened to me, nothing to tell mes amies- aside from being run over by a dizzy flapper, of course." He smiled benignly. "If a place is worth staying at, then one must stay there until it's not worth staying at any longer…"

"So you're going to stay at my house until you've grown sick of the sight of me?" she asked, a frown decorating her features. She did not understand his logic. It escaped her as water does a net.

He laughed, and instead of waiting around to question the young man further, she turned on her high heels and stormed out of her room and down the stairs to take some aspirin. There was absolutely no point in speaking to him, none at all. She didn't feel comfortable trying to talk to him, anyway. As she walked down the stairs, pulling her cloche hat off her head and dropping it beside the railing, scrunched up as it was, she thought about the odd turns her life had taken. Maybe she hadn't been running in the first place, away from imaginary foes, but who's to say those foes might not become reality?

She paused, hand over the gilt doorknob, looking up the stairway she'd just come down and towards the door that concealed her new visitor, a Mister Dorian Gray. Could he be a foe? She shook her head the moment the thought entered her head. Of course not. He was too fine for that, wasn't that why his looks were so charming?

To be continued.