TITLE:         And the City Sleeps
AUTHOR:        Thelma Wharton (email: thelmawharton@hotmail.com)
DISCLAIMER:    No, no.  Since no names are mentioned, I'd love to
               see you try and sue.
SPOILERS:      Not really, maybe a general post-Requiem thing
RATING:        PG
CLASSIFICATION: S A MSR
SUMMARY:       As dreams are the fancies of those that sleep,
               fancies are but the dreams of those awake.
LENGTH:        144

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~ And the City Sleeps ~

The moon disappears, with somnolent ease, behind a cloud, as the
early spring sun rises and casts delicate bands of colour across
the sky.  The earth awash with muted shades of vibrant colours,
as frozen caplets of water from a cold night's frost melt into
the earth under the languid gaze of the sun.  And the city
sleeps.

Blent air drifts through the open window, and shafts of light
filter through the drapes, casting subdued shadows on the room
and warming her face.  She feels a delicious warmth of
relaxation, her body stretched like a cat basking in the heat of
the fire, and she hums in quiet appreciation.  Her life, for so
long, ruled by clocks and order, has taught her to revel in these
rare moments.

Long moments pass, and the shadows move across the bed until she
is no longer in the line of sun-fire.  She stirs and feels warm
hands close around her waist, limiting her movement and demanding
her comfort.  Her lips curl into a smile as his mouth presses
into the back of her neck, his belligerent nose playing small
circles behind her ear.  She keeps her eyes closed against the
beauty of the morning, so enchanted is she with the night, but
she turns in his arms, facing him blindly.

His body is warm, like a Spanish peach ripe and unyielding under
the sun.  She feels his gaze on her, feels the depth of emotion
only he can convey without words.  Reluctantly she opens her
eyes, and finds him gazing at her with such love that her heart
would break and shatter into a thousand pieces, each dancing
about the room like a fallen star, were he not holding her so
tightly.

Her lips part to utter words she cannot fathom, and her mouth
quirks silently as her tongue moves independently of her smarting
brain.  Words are not enough.

Gently, he leans to kiss her, his lips moving almost
imperceptibly over hers.  For long, luxurious moments, they know
only this, feel only this.  They relearn the feel of one another
as though estranged for long months, their tongues sliding hotly
together.

She could do this forever, she thinks.  They have fallen into the
trap of so many new parents, and forgotten how to make love.  For
so long their lovemaking has been about reaching the summit of
the mountain.

Her eyes open suddenly as he moves away, his lips removed from
hers in a sudden pull.  His eyes are warm, hope pooled in
chocolate swirls.  When he speaks, his voice is dry and his tone
tugs at her on a visceral level.  "You're thinking."  He accuses
lightly.

She studies him, her eyes boring into his soul.  "Yes.  I'm
thinking this...is really nice."  Her words lack the eloquence of
the love with which she says them, and she searches his face for
a sign of his understanding.

He smiles.  "Yeah.  It is."

As his head dips to hers and they reconnect in their humble
dance, the shadows are banished from the room for another day.
And the city awakes.

Hunger and a baby's cries drive them from their warm cocoon, some
time later, but they rise with no reluctance.  It is Sunday, and
they are still new enough at enjoying life to relish the little
things.

They shower together, his shoulders, upon which so much has come
to rest, shield the baby from the persistent water, and their
laughter echoes in the cubicle.

Later, when they have dressed, with soft denim lapping at their
ankles, and sunglasses resting in their hair, they pull shoes
onto bare feet, luxuriating in the simple decadence of their
leisure.

He bears the baby against his chest in a carrier, the straps
pulling on strong shoulders, and she smiles at him with pride.
Contentment fills her, dripping from every pore like honey oozing
from honeycomb.

As they walk with unhurried deliberation along the streets,
passing the genteel, old-monied houses of her area, they talk of
inconsequential things.  They do not hold hands; they feel no
overwhelming need to make that kind of possession claim.  She
knows she will never loose him again.

He guides her, the barest touch to her elbow directing her
towards a small coffee shop where they order unpronounceable
concoctions with froth and nutmeg sprinkles.

They sit outside in the bright sunlight nursing their drinks in
froth stained mugs.  The melodic peel of her laughter resonating
in the busy street, he watches her with eager captivation.  She
smiles at him from beneath her wind-tousled hair when she leans
to check the baby, and he can't believe she belongs to him.  But
she does.

And when they play in the park with the baby, her smiles banish
the slight chill in the air, and later, when they eat dinner from
cartons on the sofa, and she prods him with a chopstick, all the
while he can't believe she's really his.

And when she wakes from her dream, with the taste of coffee and
nutmeg still clinging to her lips, with sweat beading her brow,
and his name choking from her throat in an unanswered
benediction, wherever he is, he can't believe she belongs to him.

But she does.

End.

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Those dreams are true which we have in the morning as the lamp
begins to flicker.
Ovid