Melted-chocolate dreams by planet p

Disclaimer I don't own Dressed To Slay, Vampaholic, or Dead Is the New Black, or any of their characters.

She dreamed of his eyes, of the past, and if the future had taken a different turn. If she'd gotten to him earlier, if they'd met when he'd still been in Los Angeles, before he'd come to Maplesburg.

She dreamed of saving him, and of the time when they'd be together.

But they were only dreams.

She could not forget.

She'd staked him.

She'd killed him.

But she'd loved him.

She still loved him.

And sometimes, in her dreams, she could pretend that things had turned out differently.

That he'd come to her, take her in his arms and twirl her about, and, as the world about them spun, their eyes would be locked, sky-on-a-sunny-day blue locked with melted-chocolate brown, the heavens and the earth, dreams and down-to-Earth grounded-reality.

But he was an angel, and he couldn't stay. She'd hear the familiar sound, leather beating in the wind – bat's wings – and he'd take flight on the wind, in the miniscule flecks of dust, tearing from her arms in the shape of a man, and becoming a dream, and angel of misery, as tears jerked from her eyes and flooded down her face, her custard-coloured hair lifting and reaching after him as her arms would have if she'd been able to lift them.

Don't, don't go. Oh don't.

But, like any angel, he had a grander cause, a grander scheme in which to co-operate, and he was ripped from her embrace again, and she from him. Night after night.

In her world, angels were not real, just as, from the very start, he'd been too good to be true.

Like kissing air, tears kissed her cheeks in sleep as they wet her face in dreams, tears that she did not feel, tears that would be dried by morning, by the heat of her body, and beating heart.

Tears that would wake Mikhail from sleep as they moved soundlessly down his own face.