A/N: Hey, peeps! Told ya you'd have long waits ahead. I don't have a Beta, so any mistakes you find, please let me know so I can correct them.

I'm amazed by the response I'm getting with this fic. And of course, I love writing this, so expect many cool chapters in the following weeks. I think I should write as much as I can in one sitting, because the alternative is what happened between the last update and this: I sort of lose my mojo and have to get it back by watching some episode of LG (I watched ConFaegion this morning, freaking hilarious!)

Anigen (hi there!) said that she "kind of loves this even though she doesn't like that he had feelings for her before". I'm trying to work around this, and I wouldn't say that it's 100% sure he did have romantic feelings for her, he's just always been this protective of Kenzi, and just now he's beginning to realise why and how profoundly his feelings for her go.

Enjoy the chappy and feed me reviews! I'm starving for them!

OH! And if someone is feeling the love and wants to whip me up a cover, I'll love you forever and ever.

Disclaimer: I don't own Lost Girl; I'm merely borrowing its world and changing it up to suit my fantasies.

3: First Sense: Sight – Part Two

Drenched in sweat and dirt, his heart hammering in his chest and not a thread of clothing covering his body, Dyson enters his loft. His first, immediate thought is to get rid of the bloody sheets still on his bed. He does not even think of washing them, his mind is already set on torching the set until there's not a trace of them any longer.

He crosses the length of his loft in a split second and finds himself quickly pulling the covers off the mattress, tearing them in the process. The sheets are cold to the touch, caked in fox blood and his own sweat from when his world was coming undone.

The things reek of death.

Suddenly, the need to scrub every surface it touched until they're clean is all he knows. And this includes him. Especially him. Dyson knew coming home so soon was a bad idea, he just didn't know how bad of an idea it was. Everything reminds him of the impostor, of his betrayal to Kenzi, and of his sense of loss, that feeling that is not bloody leaving him, even though he knows Kenzi's fine at her home.

Maybe a cold shower will clear his head, he thinks, making his way to the bathroom.

There's no need for him to undress, he's already stark naked, his clothes left forgotten who knows where. Icy water hits him as he steps under the shower head, every drop feeling like a needle on his sensitive skin. But it's what he needs: The cold is already breaking his fever, making steam come off his body. His head still feels woozy, no matter how hard he's tried to dissipate the fog clinging to it.

He will not be able to shake off the feeling, no matter what he tries, but he doesn't know this yet.

Hours of running, of overanalysing everything he's going through, and he's completely drained of energy. His legs are not able to keep him upright anymore. Every one of his muscles aches and, before long, he's sitting in the corner of his shower, his head against the cold tiles and his eyes drooping closed.

Even now, after having had hours to think it through, he is still mad at Bo for kicking him out of the club house after dropping Kenzi on the sofa. And he's furious at Lauren, too, for showing up and ganging up on him with Bo, and making him leave. He doesn't remember how it happened, but he knows that there's something off about him, if two females were able to throw him out against his wishes.

The blast of cold water on his face is helping him regain some of the composure he was not able to find in his run. A voice inside his head tells him how it would be so much better if Kenzi were here, taking care of him.

His response is instant and his wolf becomes alert: Dyson knows that Kenzi is the one that needs to be taken care of; he will never again be so consciously selfish when it comes to her. His suspicions rise yet again, but he can't put a finger on whatever is afflicting him. As soon as he starts thinking about it, his mind decides to take his thoughts elsewhere, to a place where she reigns over everything.

For the last five hours, it's the only thing his brain's been doing.

But, come to think of it, it is not such a bad place, is it? He sees it all very clear in his mind's eye: Her extended hand beckoning him to come closer, to be with her and not have another care in the world.

He would like that. It would be so easy.

So he goes to her. Very slowly, because he's afraid he might upset this daydream's precariousness. A halo shines all around her and nothing else exists in this dreamland they share. He takes notice of every single little thing about her and compares it to the images of her he stores in his brain.

Here, her hair is all ebony black, stripped of those funky colours she loves so much. There's not a trace of make-up on her, neither on her face nor anywhere else. It makes her pristine skin look all the more resplendent. A white, almost translucent nightgown falls over her shoulders, clinging to her body, whispering little secrets as she drifts towards him. Again, he's struck by the thought he shared with her a while ago.

He told her once that she was the bravest human he had ever met, and looking at her small frame now, he wonders once more how on earth she's capable of going through everything the Fae world throws at her and coming out (relatively) unscathed.

To protect her feels like a calling from above, because he's damn sure every Fae god will punish him for not taking care of this angel.

He knows he's still in his shower (his mind is not yet that far gone), but the feelings from his daydream are so very real, and he can't say that he's not enjoying them. Every aspect of his real life is one fucked up mess, but here… here he feels at home, guarded by her.

When he reaches her, her hand falls over his shoulder, her eyes wide and a smile on her face. The feeling translates to a real sensation; he's left wondering if maybe the water is playing tricks on him, of if by some off chance, Kenzi's really here next to him.

Of course she isn't, he knows that. But wouldn't it be nice if she were?

Answering his troubled expression, she gives him a carefree laugh, a tinkling sounding little giggle that makes his eyes fly open. Pressed up next to him, for his shower is a small thing, is Kenzi, looking exactly like in his daydream.

She's come to check on him, he thinks, she's here to make sure he's okay, just like what he so often does with her. His eyes fall to her hand still sitting on his skin. It's there, all right, he can see it and feel it. Her smile hasn't gone anywhere and he finds it's contagious, erasing his problems off his face.

He can't see, yet, how the water doesn't soak her hair or her clothes. He doesn't notice that the halo from his dream is still around her, even though in his haste to wash off his filth, he hadn't turned on the bathroom light. All he does see is that she is fine.

He struggles to pull himself together, get his body off the wall and sit straight. The cold doesn't affect him anymore; he's grown used to it. He's got to shake his arm a bit to get some feeling back into it, because it's been against the tiles for too long.

His brow furrows and he heaves a sigh, lifting his right hand to cup her cheek. In the moment he moves, she withdraws her hand, wagging her index finger at him, reprovingly. There's nowhere for her to run, trapped in here with him, and that knowledge steals another, louder, giggle from her. He's about to learn the truth about her and it amuses her.

His mind spins again, hearing her laughter, but his hand doesn't stray from its set course. When he's a hair away from touching her, a nail (or what feels like one) sticks on his hand as he moves it over the place where her face ought to be.

It is impossible, he thinks. Her image does not fade, smiling mischievously, waiting for him to realise that sometimes, impossible things do tend to happen. It takes him a full minute to get his bearings, to remember things that seem to have happened a lifetime ago at the cellar of the Dal.

As understanding comes to him, Kenzi's mirror image waves goodbye and is gone. His heart beats faster and his chest inflates and deflates as his lungs strain to get deeper breaths in. It looks like mirror-Kenzi took her nail with her; Dyson doesn't know what to think or do, but cover his face with both his hands.

His fingers feel like raisins; he had not realised he'd been under the water that long. A part of him is howling, wishing to see Kenzi, make sure she is real and not a figment of his imagination like the thing that was just here.

The better part of him is ordering him to get some sleep, and maybe get help to figure out what is wrong with him.

He feels worse than after spending a long night with Bo. His hand automatically fishes for his towel as he walks back into the main area of his loft. The heat perpetually coming off him works better to dry him than any piece of cloth he might brush over his skin, but it's a habit that dies hard.

His eyes are hurting, and he can't remember the last time he had to use his eye drops. Ages ago, for sure. Still, he remembers keeping them in one of the kitchenette's cabinets.

He doesn't bother with his hair; he just lets the water drip off it on its own, and walking to the kitchen area, he wraps the towel over his hipbone.

After his hands are free, he pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers. An aspirin will help with his headache, too, or three, maybe.

Even with his eyes closed, he has no need to see where he's going. His footsteps echo through the wide loft, helping him orient himself. He hears sirens blaring in the distance, outside. Shouting, and running, and glasses shattering. A nightly orchestra he knows well.

Then he gets to the kitchenette, his fingers leaving his face and his hand aiming for the cabinet where he believes his eye drops are. Jumping backwards, he nearly screams like a little girl. He contains the scream, but he is not taking any chances. He runs to take cover behind the wooden table he keeps in front of his stove, as if it could do something to ward her off.

Naturally, she wouldn't have made any sound. She is not real. Yet, she is here, sitting on the kitchen counter, her legs dangling in the air. And her smile is still there, for some reason. She does not move. He is not sure if she is waiting for him to trust her, to then bite him in the arse, or if she really is harmless.

They enter a staring competition. To her, it's a game: He realises it from the way she laughs and from her posture, so relaxed, as opposed to his taut stance.

After a long while, she appears to be getting bored. Her head lolls to the side and her eyebrows shoot up on her forehead, disappearing behind her fringe. She exhales and turns her back to him. Before he can decide what to do, if attacking her would work, she's reaching into the cabinets and searching (he's absolutely sure) for his damned eye drops.

As she drops to the floor, her non-existent feet bounce without making a sound. It's a marvel that he can hear the rustling of her nightgown but not the sounds her body should be making as she moves to stand beside him.

She puts her left hand on the table, resting the weight of her body on it, and lifts her right one. He's presented with the tiny bottle, which is actually suspended in the air in front of his face, but of course he doesn't register this. He still sees her, pouting at him, telling him to cut the crap with her expression.

He is not taking the drops from her. Unconsciously, he's taken a couple of steps backwards and away from this image his mind is so desperate to show him. At this, she actually rolls her eyes at him, a gesture he's seen in the real her one too many times.

Leaving the drops on the table, she turns around, her hand flying up into the air and making a "peace out" sign that is so her. He does not blink, waiting to see the second when she disappears. And just like that, she is reclaimed by the dreamland he was in not long ago.

There's a lump in his throat that he fights to swallow. Both his hands are splayed over the surface of the table, his eyes fixed on the impossible little bottle in front of him. If he took a look at himself in the mirror, he'd see the maroon in his eyes, the black under them looking like he's borrowed Kenzi's kohl pencil.

His hand ghosts over the place where the bottle waits for him. It looks safe enough. And mirror-Kenzi hasn't tried to hurt him. Yet. So there's no reason to think these aren't his regular eye drops, right?

Without a second thought, he's lifted the bottle and put two drops on each eye. Behind him, mirror-Kenzi huffs, almost like she's saying, "Took you long enough".

He turns to find her on his small sofa, her chest pressed against its back and her head resting on her folded arms as she looks up at him. She is trying to supress a grin, but failing miserably.

At this point, Dyson's convinced himself to ignore her. He's got most of his mind under his own control; the spell is not as strong without the real Kenzi around to fuel it.

He needs to sleep it off. Before he can do that, though, he has to make his bed again.

Kenzi immediately jumps up and runs to his side, looking like a five-year-old waiting to play with him. He's glad she's acting like this; it reminds him that she's not really here. For all of Kenzi's playfulness, she would never be caught dead looking as silly as this girl.

He doesn't know it, but he shouldn't have thought of that. For now the spell has another, very important, piece of information to mess with him.

Standing by his bed, Dyson sees that the blood has seeped into the mattress. He will have to buy a new one, but for now he turns it over, before grabbing new sheets to dress the bed. Mirror-Kenzi's anxious to help him, and he lets her, lest he make her angry or something of the sort.

Taking the last pillow off the floor, Dyson looks up, and finds that she's gone. Good. God, he needs rest. He plops down on the mattress, covering his naked body with the covers.

Just like in the shower, he feels something next to him. He refuses to open his eyes, but the spell is now stronger and it forces him to look to his right.

His every sense screams at him that this is the real her. At least it looks like her, which is what the spell is after. Her hair has gotten back its many colourful shades and her eyes are made up just like the actual Kenzi.

Poor Dyson is so tired, so exhausted, and his mind is burning and turning and pounding, that he can't fight it anymore.

He thinks this must be the real her. She is actually here. Or maybe she isn't, but right now he doesn't care. He can't stop looking at her face. They both lay on their sides, facing one another.

Dream, she tells him.

He does.

That is all he does, throughout the night. The dreamland invades his mind, and he's stuck there, without having the chance to shut it all out.

He doesn't get the opportunity the sleep all evening. His body is beginning to shut itself off. But of course he is unaware of all of this. That is how the spell works, after all.