Chapter 2

Sarah could not remember stumbling from the room. But there she was, standing in the hallway, staring at Dr. Brown as she supervised an orderly loading Aaron onto a stretcher.

The boy's body twisted and arched above the restraints. Sarah winced, and turned away – and jumped as she faced Dr. Michaels.

"I do not know how such a thing could have occurred, Dr. Williams –" the older man's face was pinched in the hall's fluorescent light. "I will, of course, inquire into a possible security breach – it's not beyond reason that young Mr. Cohen may have taken a look through various charts while in my office –"

He continued talking, his hands holding tightly onto his cane. Sarah pretended to listen. Her mind felt dull, somehow – thick, like a stagnant pond. She made meaningless noises of agreement with her supervisor, and stared down the hallway, taking in the stretcher being wheeled away, the flashing lights of the elevator, the beeps and clicks of machinery, the round face of the clock above the door –

The clock. It was five-thirty – Sarah double-checked the time against her watch – which meant that she was late for her closing rounds.

"Dr. Michaels, I have to go look in on some additional patients before I leave for the day. No –" she forestalled his apology – "it's quite all right." She tried a smile. "Complications like this happen all the time, don't they?"

Although his eyes were hidden behind the tinted glasses, his gaze felt sharp, somehow.

"Is everything all right, Dr. Williams?"

No, Doctor – Sarah thought. I just had a vision from a dream, and if I'm not crazy, I'm sure as hell going to be if I see him again –

"I have a bit of a headache –" she watched, cynically, as his expression cleared. "And that session with Aaron was certainly … spectacular."

"Indeed." Dr. Michaels nodded at her. "I hope that nothing but good will come of your collaboration in his treatment, Dr. Williams. Good night."

It was with a sense of deep unreality that Sarah turned, and fumbled at the elevator buttons. Nothing but good. Nothing but good … Far from it.

We have unfinished business.

Sarah shivered as she watched the elevator doors slide shut.

Mrs. Johnston had gone to bed early – Sarah checked her off her mental list, and walked wearily up the stairs to her last patient. She swiped her hospital ID, donned a pair of sterile gloves, and passed through the double doors of the NICU.

Someone tapped her shoulder. Stifling a yelp, Sarah turned – and saw Ben – Benedict Romani, her old friend from college –

"Hello, Doctor!" He clapped one hand to his forehead in a theatrical gesture.

Sarah smiled, faintly. "Hello, Father." She reached out and flicked at his clerical collar.

The mutual greeting, at first a joke, had stayed with them for the year that they had worked at Mercy together. Sarah felt her smile soften as she looked at her friend. Ben, with the dark eyes and curly hair that had led Lyn to call him "Father What-a-Waste" – his familiar grin as broad as a billboard and twice as bright.

"What's going on in the wide world of psychiatry today?"

Sarah shrugged. "This and that." For some reason – you know the reason – she had no desire to discuss supernatural visitations with a friend who was a priest.

"Gotcha. We still on for Thursday?"

"Thursday?"

Ben laughed. "All this time, Lyn never rubbed off on you – but now here you are forgetting The Wedding of the Century!"

"That's right." Sarah sighed. "Correct me if I'm wrong – but aren't Catholics not supposed to get married during Lent?"

"Ah, we're a liturgical scholar, all of a sudden. Very good. The rules can be bent every now and then – especially if your dad's got pockets so deep they stretch down to Limbo. Thus it is, thus it ever shall be –" his words acquired a touch of grandeur. "The crowning event of the social year – even if it's Lent, and even if nobody drinks at the reception – the marriage of Mr. Joseph Reid and Ms. Lyn O'Connor – an occasion which will live on in the minds of all who see it –"

"And why is that?" Sarah asked, knowing the answer.

"Because I'm officiating, of course." Ben waggled his eyebrows. "First wedding! I need you there to hold my hand!"

She met his enthusiasm with a forced smile. "I'll be nowhere near the front, you know."

"Yeah –" He looked off into the distance. "I know you and Lyn fought, but that's still pretty harsh, not asking you to be a bridesmaid –"

"Leave it, Ben." Sarah cut him off.

"Whoa, whoa," He held up his hands. "Brrr. Is it me, or did it just get colder in here? Come on. I gotta give the whole reconciliation part of the job description a shot sooner or later, huh? Best friends for-evah through college, roomies for five years, and then it all goes south in the twinkling of an eye. I don't get it."

"It's easy enough." Sarah began walking down to the NICU desk; Ben walked with her. "I can't stand dear Joseph."

Ben grimaced. "Good ol' Joe – come on, Sarah, I know he comes across as a little – well, a lot like a caveman, but Lyn loves him –"

"Bad taste."

"- ouch – next stop, the burn unit – and she wanted you to like him, and instead you cut her off?"

Sarah gave him a level look. "Did she tell you that?"

Sensing that the conversation had taken a more serious turn, Ben tried to laugh. "Well, yeah. Sort of."

Can't wait to get to know that big, sexy brain of yours. Sarah swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. After all this time, and raging arguments, certain flashes of Lyn could still yank her heartstrings like nobody's business –

We have unfinished business.

Sarah shivered. "If it were your business, Ben – and it isn't – I'd tell you that she cut me off, and, while doing so, did everything but accuse me of tempting her away from God's purpose for her life. In fact, she might have done that." Sarah felt her lip curl. "She lost me at Beelzebub."

"Ah." Ben fell silent.

"So that's why I don't like good ol' Joe, as you put it. He knew a good catch when he saw it, and he plays on her insecurities about herself and her religious beliefs in order to ensure that she'll make him a proper wife. And here I thought the Middle Ages were long gone."

Sarah focused on checking paperwork as she heard Ben sigh. "Look – I can only apologize for Mother Church so many times."

"I know." Relenting, she turned and smiled at him. "Not your fault. You're one of the good guys."

Ben smiled back. "And this good guy'll owe you big, if you hold up a cue card or two, even from the way back."

"Sure thing."

They walked back to the middle of the NICU, and Sarah, blowing a strand of hair away from her forehead, felt a headache begin to pulse at the base of her skull. "I don't suppose you've seen –" she squinted at the chart – "Mrs. Duvall?"

"Oh." Ben tipped his head. "Right over there."

There was – Sarah checked the paperwork – Rachel Duvall. Dark hair matted, and bags under her eyes. The woman was hanging over the incubator, singing:

Go to sleep you little baby
Go to sleep you little baby
Everybody's gone in the cotton and the corn
Didn't leave nobody but the baby

Sarah sighed. "Great. How long has she been like this?"

"It's just a lullaby." Ben's face turned serious. "The baby's not doing well at all – but Sarah –" He reached out, and mock-punched her on the shoulder. "You look tired. I'll call up your shift relief, and they'll start out with Mrs. Duvall."

"Really?"

Her friend looked at her sympathetically. "Yeah. Go home and get some sleep. Or, on second thought –" and his grin returned – "Don't get any sleep. Not tonight, not Wednesday night. Thursday's my day to shine, and I don't want your pretty face taking up my spotlight."

Sarah smiled despite herself. "I think Lyn will say the same thing."

Ben waved a hand airily. "She may look nice, but I've got God on my side."

"Right." She handed over the chart, and made for the door, Ben at her side.

They walked through the double doors and stepped into the hallway. Sarah continued; Ben held back.

"Be there or be square!" he yodeled after her. "After my stellar performance, everyone in town will know my name!"

Call me by my name …

The memory made her skin prickle.

Call me by my name – tonight. We have things to discuss, you and I.

Sarah walked onto the elevator, and pressed the button for the ground floor. She waited until the door closed before she covered her face with her hands and shuddered.

She picked her way through an alley at the back of the hospital, holding her sleeve to her nose against the smell of refuse.

I know this is an urban pit, but God – Sarah winced away from a rat slithering behind a dumpster. The Health Department writes us up every year and nobody does anything –

Shivering in a cold breeze – still March, after all – she jerked her gaze away from a homeless man hunched over next to the same dumpster, and looked back over her shoulder to the alley's end, watching the setting sun peek between two buildings on the opposite side of the street.

Am I really going to do this?

She remembered his voice, snide and knowing.

Are you going to help poor little Aaron?

Perhaps she could. Sarah bit her lip. She had no idea why he wanted to speak to her – but maybe she could work something out with him, and get him to stay away, and become the breakthrough in Aaron's treatment –

Sucking in her breath, she thought of the possibilities. And since her mind was revolving visions of Aaron better, Aaron embracing her, and her colleagues looking on in approval, cheering – she hardly noticed her lips part and her breath shape the word: "Jareth …"

Something scrabbled in the alley behind her.

Sarah turned. And felt her lip curl back in shock, and disgust, as she saw the homeless man begin to rifle through a pile of bags that were clearly labeled "Biohazard" –

"Hey!" she snapped. "Get away from there!"

The figure turned, and grinned at her in the dimming light, and – God – is that – Jareth? It shifted where it crouched, and she had a sudden, sickening vision of a giant spider scuttling over the ground –

"Such a spoilsport." He tore open a bag, and rummaged through it. "Besides, nobody needs these anymore."

Sarah's skin felt clammy. She gazed at – the Goblin King? But why did he look like – how was it possible? If she were to step up to him and reach out one hand, she could trace the familiar sharp lines of cheekbone and jaw, and the dramatic, flaring eyebrows - but he looked sick, or starving - and so dirty ...

Jareth plucked something from the bag, laughed in pleasure, straightened up quickly and sidled towards her. She took in the ragged clothing, gaunt face, sunken and shining eyes – matted hair and gray, unhealthy teeth –

His smile widened. She saw a sore at the corner of his mouth split - a clear liquid began to seep from it – and she felt a lurch of nausea. "Why – why do you look so –"

"I always knew you were shallow, Sarah." He leaned back against the hospital wall. His skin practically blended in against the pebbly cement. "You'd do well to remember: pretty is as pretty does."

His beautiful voice sounded strangely repulsive, coming from a throat that hadn't seen a razor, or soap for that matter, in what looked like weeks. She swallowed back a gush of bile.

"What do you want?"

Jareth regarded her coolly. "I have what I want." He flipped up one hand – Sarah saw a dirty syringe in it and every medical instinct in her body revolted. Taking a vial out of one pocket and jabbing the syringe into it, Jareth continued as if he hadn't noticed her shudder. "The question is: what do you want, Sarah?"

She opened her mouth to protest. "I –"

"You called me here, after all." He drew back the syringe plunger, his eyes not leaving hers. "What do you want?"

"You told me to call you."

"And you have grown obedient in your old age. Such a time it's been –" he slipped the full syringe out of the vial, and flicked the needle with one finger. "Hasn't it, Sarah? Have you missed me?"

"No."

"Hmm. I should be insulted, I suppose, but I passed that threshold when you wouldn't take my birthday present."

The crystal. The feather. Her skin prickled at the memory.

"I didn't want it."

"Oh, I got that message." He threw the vial away into the alley; she heard splintering glass and took an instinctive step backwards. "But now you have called me to you, Sarah, and I ask once more: What – do you – want?"

Am I really going to do this?

Sarah took a deep breath. "I want you to stop tormenting Aaron."

"The boy?" Jareth tilted his head.

"I want you to stop."

"What is he to you, Sarah?" A feral smile. "He failed my Labyrinth. He is mine. Admittedly, he's just a plaything – but nonetheless, I so enjoy the game. I see no reason to stop ... tormenting him, as you so melodramatically put it."

Swallowing hard, Sarah kept her voice steady. "He failed the Labyrinth?"

Jareth flipped the syringe back and forth between his hands. "Oh, yes. He wished away his sister, and didn't return with her – and, alas, his dreams did not turn out to be as enjoyable as he anticipated."

Look what I'm offering you … "You gave him his – dreams?"

"He accepted them, in the forfeit. What few take into account is the fact that I create these dreams personally – and I like to see some return on the investment of a considerable amount of time and trouble."

"Dreams …" Sarah whispered to herself. "You … you create dreams …"

"Dreams, nightmares, hallucinations –" Jareth waved one bare and dirty hand in dismissal. "Which reminds me – I have several appointments –" he shook the syringe, and a drop of liquid fell from it to the ground "– so please do get to your point, won't you?"

"Fine." Sarah bit out. "I want you to stop torturing Aaron."

He looked at her, steadily, from where he stood, hunched, against the wall.

"What will you give me to stop?"

His voice was smooth, and low. Sarah's breath caught in her throat.

What will you give me –

Oh, God.

Memories flashed through her mind, one after the other. It had been a dream. She had long thought it had only been a dream. A dream of him dancing with her, singing to her, leaning over her and looking into her eyes – And you, Sarah ... How are you enjoying my Labyrinth? – and his plea to her – fear me, love me, do as I say and I will be your slave – and then – she shivered – the gift on her twenty-first birthday – his voice slithering from within the mirror – look what I'm offering you – alighting on her mind and her body as though it knew her, somehow – intimately – in the tones of a lover –

Am I really going to do this?

She spoke, slowly. "You wanted something from me – long ago. 'Fear me, love me' …"

Her voice dried up as she saw his eyes gleam, in the gathering darkness.

Then he flicked his gaze away from her, and sneered. "You think that still applies, do you?"

Sarah felt her face flush.

"Now, now, no need to get embarrassed …" Jareth drawled. He pushed himself off the wall, and walked towards her. Sarah held her ground. We're the same height, now – she thought, wildly – I've grown up –

From up close, she could practically smell the sores on his jaw, and neck.

"I suppose it could be entertaining enough." He stared into her eyes, his own assessing and cold. Then he looked at her lab coat, and then at her legs, leisurely; she felt her face turn even hotter.

"Ah." He smiled, and she caught a glimpse of rotting teeth, and her stomach turned over. "Don't feel ashamed, Sarah …" His voice was idle. "It is an age-old bargain – one I have made with countless others. Some wanted knowledge, some wanted the world – the stories I could tell you! – and others have more modest desires – like you, my dear. Such a modest woman, you have become."

"Name your price."

Jareth's eyebrows flew up, into his dirty hair. "Goodness – why so blunt? It is an age-old bargain, yes, but there's usually some attempt at courtesy, on both sides."

"Courtesy?" She felt as though she were choking.

He leaned forward, and she shuddered at the feeling of his breath – strangely hot – at her ear. "Sarah, dear … I am the very flower of courtesy."

"Well." Sarah forced herself to speak. "Well, you'll have to be more straightforward with me. I don't waste time with trivialities."

"Trivialities?" Jareth tsked. "You truly have changed. Why should everything be laid bare as bones in the light of day? Why not use your imagination, Sarah? You do still have an imagination, don't you?"

She turned away from him. "I do."

Sarah could practically hear his slow smile.

"Well then. All I ask … is for some of your time. Let me think."

She looked back, and saw him smiling at her, his head tipped to one side. "Why not hold to tradition? ... Yes." His eyes glittered beneath their lids. "Three … nights of your time, Sarah. Sunset to sunrise. In which you can persuade me to do your bidding, as best you see fit."

Sarah gritted her teeth. "I don't suppose you'll tell me how, exactly?"

Jareth's smile turned coy. "That's where your imagination will come in handy." He stepped closer, again. "Won't it?"

He was too close. She could hear the rasp of his breathing, and then she felt him touch a finger to her cheek.

Shit – his touch burned. Before Sarah could stop herself, she flinched backwards.

Jareth laughed.

Sarah shivered. "I need to think about this."

"Of course you do." He breezed past her, to the mouth of the alley. "You think entirely too much."

She watched him, silhouetted against the blood-red splash of sunset.

Jareth turned back to look at her. She could not see his face.

"Tomorrow, then?"

Wordlessly, she nodded.

"Very well. I will meet with you tomorrow, at this time –" he indicated the setting sun – "and you need not worry as to location. I will find you."

"Where –" Sarah licked her lips. They were dry. "Where are you going?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "To and fro upon the earth … walking up and down in it." His accented voice lilted. "Places to visit, people to see. I'm a busy man."

Her skin crawled. "You're not a man."

"No."

A breeze stirred the plastic bags and scraps of paper in the alley. Jareth was silent. Sarah gasped, and squinted against the darkness as she saw his shape flicker.

"Sweet dreams."

And then he was gone.

Thanks again to Imbrium and thistlebush for the beta. You read? Please respond!