Disclaimer: the following is a work of fan fiction. NE's characters are works of fiction based upon the real people of Cicely, AK. I didn't make any of them - they are the progeny of their parents, and are now owned by themselves.

Short Preface: This story originally was intended to be the story of Marilyn Whirlwind and the Flying Man -- it was the first form of my novella. It's now a Marilyn/Joel story, for various reasons. (for a long time, I didn't want to presage that directly, because it sort of spoils the twist.) I'm part NA, so it has (again, for various reasons) special meaning to me. If the concept of the story isn't to your liking, don't read it - I've stated it up front. I've now received two anonymous reviews by people who seem unwilling to accept that other visions of the series exists beyond their own - arguing canon is not a review. I don't like writing about the same old 'ships. There is plenty of fan fic for the usual suspects all over the net. Google and ye shall find. Sorry to the 99 of the good fen who read fanfic, but the trend was becoming annoying.

the voice of your eyes

The character of the evening was clear, without any shadows. Everything stood tall against the moon. Moon bathed the buildings white, the more obvious shapes most plainly seen. It made the town look younger. It made the world look new. The day had been dark and dreamy, haunted and cold. There had been the soft gray cloud mists everywhere. With the rising of the moon, the world seem bright and new.

She came out of KBHR, her new work finished for the day. She waved to her cousin Dave through the station window, as he took advantage of the light to sweep the darkened corners clean. A new syndicated show from Anchorage muttered murky echoes through the street. Noisy music, jarring voices. Jane's Addiction. Strange.

She crossed their street toward the Brick, its beacon bright, as any evening. The steps were new, since painted over. Gray cement, with crystal glitter. She believed she liked the worn old ones better. They reminded her of the cherished faces of spirits traveled on.

The door open, warm life blasting into quiet cold, as star-crossed lovers. Lights were flashing, music bouncing over walls to charm the room like happy children.

Somebody new tended bar: Holling and Shelley were travelling in Europe.

Somebody else ate at Minnifield's table: Maurice and the copy lady Barbara were with them.

Chris and Bernard played LIFE in a corner, looking up in tandem to shoot her smiles. Above them, a famous director's picture, signed Love from Ed to all my friends on shore. Another shot of Ruth-Anne and Walter, from their five acre ranch in Las Cruces. They stayed there winters, because of Walter's splints. It was new, so the woman mulled it a moment, feeling a sadness over her heart. Why did they wander, so far, these European people? Why did they leave the ones they loved? It was hard to love them, for those reasons. Even Indian white men, like Ed.

"Get you something?" said the new girl Tava, pouring her coffee.

She shrugged. "The special," she said.

Tava nodded, checking out a distant corner. Marilyn followed her stare. In a booth, in the corner watching, sat a faceless shape of a man.

"Who's he?" she asked, not perceiving.

Tava scrunched her mouth. "Beats me. Been there most the day."

When the new girl wandered on her duties, Marilyn could see fully across the room, toward the shadowed form.

She smiled.

The sadness pulled its shadow from her heart.

Walking toward her, his left hand held a red rose, his right sheltered it like a flame . He had pulled off the thorns, passing its soft smooth stem into her hands.

He slipped arms around her, holding tightly. He buried his face in the soft rainwater scent of hair. He pressed his lips to her face a moment. He then slipped into the chair across from hers.

He was smiling. The moonlight through the barport lit the tears that filled his eyes.

He passed his hand over his face, and pointed at her.

"I missed you, too," she said.

He brushed his face, gesturing toward hers also.

"You're not so bad yourself," she said.

He pointed at his temple, then planed his hand as a sign to mean nothing.

"It's okay," she whispered to the flower. Then she reached to take his hand. She told him, "Maggie died."

He nodded. His eyes squinted to evade tears that found him anyway. They dripped as tender revelations down his face.

She moved her chair to his. Leaned him close against her heart, feeling how good it was to touch him, cherishing the distant drumming of his noble heart. She realized her own tears by the touch of cold like Christmas gold against her skin. She hadn't teared up in one whole year. She'd not wept openly in ten. Not since the bridge was crossed, and the tide went out, and she whispered what she thought would be goodbye.

She noticed the clock again. "Five minutes, fifty seconds," she told him.

He tapped her face to find her eyes, and smiled brightness into them.

He gauged his watch, then finally said, "I toldja I could do it," smiling through his tears.

"Not too bad," she said.

"Not bad?" Still grinning.

"You could do better." Her dimples dawned in her cheeks. She leaned her long fine head of hair against his dark and curly head. "She was killed last winter, with her husband Paolo. He was flying. Their cobplane crashed - "

"I know," he said, shaking his head to forbid the thought...the vision.

"All the flowers for her were pretty."

He nodded, turning away from that. He checked out her hands. "So, what...? How long you married? How many kids? Boys or girls?"

"I never married."

"You're kidding. Why didn't you?"

She shrugged. "Why didn't you?"

"Divorced," he confessed, "Two standard schnauzers. I see 'em two weeks, every summer. But she likes to take long cruise vacations with the dogs."

"You could buy one," she said.

He shook his head, holding her gaze, refusing to let it move away. "I came back home to stay."

"I know."

He smiled, his eyes lit with wonder. "When did you know?"

"When you came your first day." She sipped her coffee for the first time. It was cold and bitter, but still tasted sweet. "When did you?"

"The day I went away." He rose up. "I wanna go out to O'Connell's monument. Plant some flowers. I'd like you to go with me."

"I ordered dinner," she said, standing, "but they can put it in the warmer."

"One reheated repast for our own Marilyn Whirlwind on the occasion of her sacred union with the other half of her sky," Chris' voice soared between them, as they moved toward the door. He reached out arms and gathered them toward him a moment. He scrunched some Fleischman hair and planted a kiss on his analytically furrowed forehead. He gripped his shoulder till he thought his arm might break. "Joel Fleischman."

"Chris Stevens," Joel replied.

"Joel Fleischman, my man," Chris said. "For no human heart is foreign to mine. To one mortal door we're all of us going. No hand cannot hold ours, no hearts can long hide. The combative tribes of man, given language, knew how deep the world was wide." He let them go. "Name that dead poet, my friends reborn."

"ee cummings?" Joel guessed.

"Close. Li Qon Tu, 4th Chinese dynasty. An early proto-Romantic. But thanks for playing." He gave high five to Marilyn, saying to Fleischman with a knowing wink, "Nothing, Joel. Not even the rain..."

"I know," he said.

He aimed both his fingers at Joel. "You'd better." Then he saluted his "weapon" to Marilyn, turning to return to his brother and game.

Fleischman opened the door for her, and followed after. He encircled her again, feeling her arm along his back. Joel watched their footfalls, carefully matching her short, flat stride.

Then he looked above them. This Cicely world was so long-armed and opened hearted, so deeply known to him. How had he resisted coming here, when all that he was, was always coming home? Anyone who came here, was coming home. And everyone else was on their way here.

"The stars you can see are beautiful," she said.

He looked toward her, smiling shyly. "You can see their reflection in your eyes."

"That's corny." She paused. "I like it."

He drew her along toward the open road. "So, you glad I'm back?"

"Yeah," she said, fighting another dimpled smile. "After you left, this place became too quiet."