Gale Force Winds
By Irene Dutch <sirenegold@yahoo.com>
Rated PG-13
Submitted April 2000

__________

This story is a sequel to 'Firestorm', 'Starfire and Sunstorm' and 
'Solar Eclipse'.  A next generation story, it focuses on Vicky Kent.

I have to thank Wendy Richards for her very valuable suggestions.  As 
always, she was a wonderful help.  Thanks to Nan Smith and Julie 
Gibson also, for their help with medical details and with details of 
the fire in the opening scene.  A big thank you goes to my 
beta-reader, Laurie and my archive editor, Emily Crawford.  And of 
course, thanks to the readers who frequent Zoom's message boards.

Please send feedback to sirenegold@yahoo.com

All standard disclaimers apply.

Gale Force Winds
By Irene Dutch

Prologue

In between verses, Michael Gale took a deep breath and instantly 
regretted it.  The tobacco smoke was already thick enough to cut with 
a proverbial knife, and he had barely started his first set. 
Somehow, all the smoke seemed to gather on the small stage.  It might 
have had something to do with the partly open skylight above his head 
that acted as a chimney for the smoke.  Unfortunately, before it 
could exit the room, the smoke had to pass right by his place on the 
stage, all of it stopping in his lungs first, from the feel of it.

It already looked like it would be a good night to perform in the 
coffeehouse.  He and the audience had connected with the energy 
surging back and forth between them.  This was the type of night he 
loved, the kind he lived for, when his listeners were more than 
responsive.

Michael let his fingers slow as he played the final chords on his 
twelve-string.  He bowed his head in response to the enthusiastic 
clapping of the audience.  It was a small group but a good one. 
Automatically, his eyes swept the room once more, verifying what he 
already knew.  He had them in the palm of his hand tonight!

As he looked around, acknowledging his audience, he saw a latecomer 
enter and sit down near the back of the small room.  Not just any 
latecomer, though.  She was slightly built, probably no more than 
five and a half feet tall, but even so she was very shapely.  A 
pocket Venus, he thought.  He had heard that expression before but 
had never understood it before this moment.

Her hair was dark, glossy and long, snaking sensuously down her back. 
Just looking at it made him dream about wrapping the thick coil of it 
around his hands, or of burying his face in it.  A man could drown in 
hair like that.

Her face was luminous in the dim light, lit from within by an inner 
glow.  Her cheekbones were high and exotic, her lips full and 
slightly pouting.  He caught a glimpse of a flashing, white smile as 
she placed an order with her waiter.  Then she turned to the stage 
and focused all her attention on him.  His eyes met hers, and an 
electric shock zinged between them, connecting them.  He had never 
felt anything like that in his life.

Michael came back to himself with a jolt and fumbled through his 
befuddled short-term memory, trying to figure out where he was in 
this set.  With a graceful sweep of his fingers, he was off and 
running, performing his next song on autopilot. He sang song after 
song after song, aware every second of the stranger watching from the 
farthest corner of the room.  In the back of his mind, in that 
cloistered section of his brain that was independent from his 
performance, he brooded and planned.  He had never tried to meet an 
audience member before, although he had had his fair share try to 
meet him, but he decided that he just had to meet her.  His first set 
would be over in about five more minutes.  He was going to meet her 
then.  He had to meet her then.

Having made this decision, it was a bitter shock to Michael's system 
to see the exotic stranger suddenly get up and make her way to the 
exit.  It was even more frustrating that he was in the middle of the 
final chorus of the final song of the set and was within seconds of a 
break.

The evening went flat after that.  The audience was still responsive, 
but it didn't seem to matter.  He sang his heart out in his next set, 
hoping that she would return, but she didn't.

Finally, it was the last song of the last set.  Michael was tired and 
was anticipating heading for the comfort of his small apartment when 
it happened.  It happened so quickly that no one had a chance to do 
anything but panic.

A loud crackling sound echoed through the small coffeehouse, and at 
the same time, the lights blinked out.  Michael's guitar, suddenly 
unamplified, twanged discordantly as his fingers fumbled to a stop. 
In the darkness, it was possible to see sparks shooting out of an 
electrical panel just off-stage.

"Fire!" screamed an audience member.  As one, the crowd turned and 
headed for the exit, pushing and shoving and screaming - above all 
screaming.  Michael was frozen on the stage, watching in disbelief, 
not able to see much, but able to see enough to know that having the 
details blurred by darkness was a blessing in itself.  He could hear 
people thudding against each other trying to get out, the smack of 
fists on flesh, as customers tried to push each other out of the way.

He turned his eyes up at the sound of breaking glass above him.  He 
saw the dark form of a woman, all in black, arrowing down through the 
skylight.  He saw her face, unearthly and beautiful, surrounded by 
the white snow of shattered glass.  He saw shock and horror fill her 
eyes, and then he saw nothing more.

***

ONE MONTH LATER

Vicky hovered above his apartment building, watching anxiously as 
Michael Gale prepared to make his first solo excursion around his 
neighbourhood.

'What am I doing?' she asked herself yet again.  'I'm spying on a 
blind man.  How low can I go?'  But Vicky couldn't bring herself to 
stop.  No, she felt an intense need to watch over him and protect 
him.  How much of that was directly attributable to guilt, she had no 
idea.  She just knew that this man was important to her for many, 
many reasons.

Thinking back, Vicky remembered how it had been one month earlier. 
She had been indulging herself, flying for pleasure, zipping through 
the night skies of Metropolis when she had heard him.  His song had 
drifted up to her, carried on the wind, and she had been mesmerized 
by the honey-sweet tones of his voice.  His fingers had played a 
lively counter-point to his words as they danced on the strings of 
his guitar. And his words... Vicky loved words, worked with words, 
played with words, and his words... his words had resonated in all 
the hidden, secret places in her soul.  She had landed, quickly 
discarded her secret identity and paid the modest cover charge in 
order to sit and do nothing but watch him sing.

His voice matched his looks.  He was beautiful, with broad shoulders 
narrowing to a taut waist, piercing steel-blue eyes - she had focused 
in on them to check the colour - and black hair sprinkled with 
strands turning prematurely white.  His sun-kissed face was sensitive 
and expressive.  She watched, fascinated by the play of expression 
across it as he sang.  How frustrating it had been when she had heard 
the unmistakable sounds of a mugging in process just down the street! 
Much as she had wanted to stay and wallow in the incredible sound of 
his voice, she had had no choice but to leave, abandoning her 
pleasure for her superhero duties.

And she had had no choice when she had returned.  The crowd had been 
frantic, screaming, clogging all the exits.  There had been one way 
clear into the coffeehouse, and Vicky had taken it.  But why, oh why, 
had he not moved from the stage?  And why, oh why, hadn't she checked 
to make sure no one was standing under the glass?  She shuddered as 
she remembered watching the light in his upturned eyes go out.  There 
had been so many wounded that night.  But his wounds were the ones 
that she obsessed about.  His wounds wounded her in her very soul.

And that was why she was here, spying on this man, infringing on his 
privacy.  Her guilt over his injury was all encompassing.

Nightwind had tried to see him in the hospital, but he had refused. 
She assumed he was bitter and blamed her for everything - as he 
should, she thought, harshly.  The doctors did hold out hope, though. 
Once his eyes had finished healing, it should be possible for him to 
receive a transplant, replacing his thickly scarred corneas.  He'd go 
on the transplant waiting list after his next check-up.  After that, 
well, it could take up to two years for a transplant.  There was 
approximately an eighteen-month wait; Vicky knew - she had checked.

It was ironic that the glass that had scarred his corneas so badly 
had left nary a mark on his face.  He had been covered with tiny, 
pinhole-sized cuts on his face, but they had all healed up completely.

Since he had left the hospital three weeks ago, Vicky had frantically 
tried to gather as much information about him as she could.  She had 
eavesdropped on his doctor's appointments.  She had watched from far 
overhead as his friends had taken turns driving him about on errands 
or to appointments.  Tuning in her hearing, she had listened to the 
therapist as he had helped Michael rearrange and mentally map out his 
furniture.  She knew she should be ashamed of herself - her father 
would have lectured her furiously if he had caught her - but she 
couldn't seem to help herself.  It was plain and simple.  She needed 
to watch him.

And so, here she was, hovering high above his small apartment 
building, racked with guilt, obsessed with a man she didn't know, 
watching as he tap, tap, tapped his way down the hall and into the 
elevator to the main floor.  She waited until he emerged into the 
sunshine, and then she focused in on his face.  He was pale, his lips 
set in a tight line, with his white cane shaking a little bit in his 
hand.  She was filled with admiration as he set off down the street, 
counting his steps in a low mutter as his cane swept methodically 
back and forth across the sidewalk.  Landing silently behind him in 
an alley, she spun quickly into comfortable jeans and a sweater, and 
set off on foot to follow him.

Three hours later, her admiration had not decreased.  He had set 
himself quite a complicated set of errands for his first solo 
excursion, but had, so far, pulled them off without a hitch.  His 
library visit had gone well, and he had exchanged one healthy stack 
of books on tape for another.  Vicky had been nonplussed to see him 
return one of her own books.  When her agent had asked her to read 
'Rainbows' aloud for posterity, she had never really thought about 
the user at the end of it all.

From the library, Michael had moved on to lunch.  Vicky had managed 
to seat herself at a good vantage point across the room.  She watched 
him surreptitiously throughout the meal.  He handled his food just 
fine, although she noted that he ordered an easy to handle sandwich 
with fries.

Lunch was over fairly quickly, and then he was off to an appointment 
with an eye surgeon to double-check his progress.  If it went well 
here, he would be on the transplant list.  She sat, thinking quietly 
in the small park across from the medical building, enjoying the warm 
sunshine on her face.  She closed her eyes for a moment. The inside 
of her eyelids was pink, lit up from without.  Could he even see 
that, she wondered?  Did he remember what colours looked like, or 
were they starting to fade in his memory?  What did he miss the most? 
What was the greatest loss that she had caused him?

The tap, tap, tapping of his cane brought her back to herself.  She 
set off to follow him once again, not letting herself think about 
what she was doing, about what in the world she hoped to accomplish 
by following him.

He was only a block from home when it happened.  It wasn't even 
anything malicious.  The kid on the skateboard didn't mean to knock 
him down, but she had obviously lost control of the board's actions. 
Vicky didn't know if the teenage girl didn't actually see the white 
cane or if she didn't understand its significance as she took off 
immediately with a cheery 'Sorry!' over her shoulder.  Vicky watched 
for a second as Michael, now kneeling on the pavement, fumbled for 
his cane and his scattered books on tape.  She glanced around only to 
see that the other pedestrians weren't offering to help, but were 
hurrying past, their eyes averted.  She was curiously reluctant to 
approach him herself, but what choice did she have?  She couldn't 
just leave him there.

She sighed and then ran quickly to his side.  "May I help?"

***

Michael stretched his hands out blindly, trying not to give into the 
panic.  He was lost without the solid feel of the cane in his hand. 
He was trying to methodically control the sweep of his hands, and not 
let them flail about searching aimlessly, when he heard a soft, 
melodious voice.

"May I help?"

The anonymous stranger's voice sent a rush of warmth flowing through 
his body.  Her voice was low and sensual, her tongue caressing every 
syllable.  It sounded strangely familiar.

"Please," he heard himself respond, fighting to keep from clutching 
at her in his panic.

"Here.  Here's your cane," she said, the way she formed her words 
giving him another feeling of déjà vu.  He could feel the heat 
radiating from her and smell the fresh, clean scent of her hair as 
she bent down and pressed it into his hand.

"Thanks."  He slowly pushed himself to his feet, careful not to use 
the cane for support.  It wasn't that kind of cane, and it would have 
never held up to his weight.  He had no complaints, though. It did 
hold up to the responsibilities he chose to load on it.

"And here are your books."  She took his hand in hers and looped the 
handle of his carry bag across his palm.  Her hand was small, 
delicate and soft.  He felt himself tremble at the light touch but 
told himself it was a delayed reaction to the shock of his fall. 
Even so, he felt a sense of loss when she slowly pulled her hand 
away.

"Are you all right now?" she asked, quietly.

He forced himself to smile, suddenly feeling an absurd desire to cry. 
"Yes, thanks, except..."

"Except?" she prompted.

"Except I have no idea what direction I'm facing," he confessed, his 
voice shaking a little, to his disconcertion.

"Where are you going?" she asked, hesitantly.

"I don't want to put you out," he protested lamely. "It would be 
great if you would just help me get oriented."

"It's all right."  She paused for a second before continuing, "I was 
heading in the same direction as you.  Why don't you tell me where 
you're going?  It's probably on my way, too."

Even though she didn't seem enthusiastic about helping him, Michael 
acquiesced, telling her his apartment address.  He was more shaken up 
than he cared to admit by his fall.

She politely insisted that it was no trouble to walk him home, and 
before he could think about it, Michael was strolling casually down 
the street, his hand tucked in her arm, with his bag of talking books 
and his cane dangling uselessly from the other arm.

She was silent.  He didn't know if it was because she was truly 
nonchalant about his handicap, or whether she was just pretending to 
be.  Grateful as he was for her help, she made him feel a little on 
edge.

She wasn't tall.  He would guess that she was about five feet, six 
inches - a nice height in comparison to his own six feet.  From the 
feel of the slender arm under his hand, she was slightly built.

They walked in an awkward silence for a moment.

"We're almost there," she said in a lovely musical voice.

He could swear that he had heard her voice before.  He stopped dead, 
pulling her to a stop.  "You're going to think this is a line, but 
have we ever met before?  You sound very familiar," he said, 
hesitantly.

She was silent for a few seconds.  "No."

He started walking again, shaking his head.  "I'm sorry. I could have 
sworn... Would you like to get a cup of coffee?" he blurted out, 
shocked at his audacity.

She froze, her arm rigid under his hand but didn't say anything.

"You know," he continued awkwardly. "A small thank you for your help."

She was silent for another long moment before answering.  "All 
right," she finally agreed, softly.  "Anywhere in particular?"

"There should be a coffee shop around here somewhere," he answered, 
trying to strain his hearing so he could get his bearings as to where 
exactly they were.

"Yes.  There's one just across the street."

She didn't say anything else until after they had crossed the busy 
street and been seated at a table for two.  The waiter took their 
order for coffee - his, black and hers, with extra cream - and then 
they were alone once again.

"I should introduce myself," he said, extending his hand blindly. 
"I'm Michael."

He hated trying to shake someone's hand since he had had his 
accident, not knowing if the other person was looking.  He had a 
horror of having his hand linger out there, unnoticed, making him 
look foolish, but at the same time, he knew it was expected so he 
forced himself to do it.

She gripped his hand lightly and gave it a tentative shake. 
"Victoria.  Vicky for short."

The way she had said her name rang a bell.  Where had he heard that 
name said in that way before?

"Victoria?  You're Victoria El, aren't you?" he exclaimed in astonishment.

"How did you know?" she asked, sounding surprised.

"Your voice. I listened to you read your first book on tape.  I just 
took it back to the library today," he explained, feeling very proud 
of having figured this minor mystery out.

"Oh," she said, sounding embarrassed.

"It was beautiful.  I loved it.  I must have listened to it at least 
three or four times over the past couple of weeks.  Life has been a 
bit... difficult the last little while since I lost my sight, and I 
have to say that your book really helped me keep sane."  He winced 
when his reference to his accident slipped out, knowing that she 
would pick up on it and ask him about it.

"Thank you," she replied, solemnly, "that's a wonderful compliment. 
I'm very touched."  She surprised him by not taking the opening he 
had given her.  He didn't know if she was being sensitive to his 
feelings and not asking him questions about something that he didn't 
want to talk about, or insensitive in totally ignoring his situation. 
She lapsed into silence once more.  He had to admit that he found her 
silences very intriguing, even though he feared that they meant she 
was uncomfortable around him.

The waiter arrived with their coffee.  Michael cupped his hands 
around the warm mug, waiting for it to cool down a little.  He heard 
Vicky rip a packet of sugar open, and then another, and then another 
before her spoon tinkled musically in her cup as she vigorously 
stirred the hot brew.

"How many sugars do you take?" he blurted out.

"Usually four," she said, sounding embarrassed, "but I only took 
three today. I'm, uh, trying to cut back."

Michael threw his head back and laughed heartily.  She joined in a 
moment later.  Her laugh was joyous and full-throated, with nothing 
held back, an interesting contrast to her reserved way of speaking.

After that, their conversation became less awkward and stilted, 
flowing more naturally.  Vicky talked about what it was like to be a 
writer, and he found himself telling her about being a singer and 
writing his own music.  He found her fascinating, both for what she 
said and how she said it.  With her, you had to listen to her 
silences as well as her words.  She asked very insightful questions 
about his music, and he found himself opening up to her.  He hadn't 
talked this much to anyone since the accident.  His friends had 
visited, but with them, he always had the feeling that they could 
only see what he had been, not how he was now.  With Vicky, he felt 
as if he were starting with a clean slate.  It was a surprisingly 
refreshing feeling.

They talked a long time and drank innumerable cups of coffee and 
talked some more about music.

"I'd like to hear you sing some time," she admitted, shyly.

"I've got a CD in my apartment that you can have.  That is, if you 
have time to come up with me and get it.  It's one I did myself, not 
released on a label."  He couldn't believe his audacity, inviting her 
up to his apartment.  But there was something about her that gave him 
more confidence than he had had since his accident had happened.

"Thank you, Michael.  I'd like that.  And I have lots of time. 
That's one of the best things about being a writer.  I can set my own 
hours and have a lot of time to do the things that are important to 
me."

He smiled.  "It's like that when you're a musician, too - at least it 
is if you don't mind working until two every morning."

Vicky offered to pay for the coffee, but Michael wouldn't let her. 
This was a good opportunity to practise the special folds he had made 
with his cash so he could tell one bill from the next.  He made a 
point of leaving a healthy tip, aware that they had monopolized the 
table for a long time.

Vicky tucked his hand into her arm again, and they strolled leisurely 
back across the street and headed for his apartment building.

***

As they entered Michael's apartment, Vicky wondered, yet again, 
exactly what she was doing.  She shouldn't be here.  She should never 
have agreed to have a coffee with him, and she shouldn't have talked 
to him, and she shouldn't have told him she wanted to hear him sing, 
and she very definitely shouldn't have come up to his apartment with 
him.  She had no explanation for her behaviour except that she must 
be insane.

The chance to hear his voice once more had been enough to weaken the 
tattered remnants of her self-control.  She hadn't wanted to admit 
that she had heard him sing before, because then he would have asked 
her when, and she would have had to tell him that she had been there 
that night... the night when it had all fallen apart.

She wondered what he had thought when she didn't ask him about the 
accident.  He had almost looked expectant after he had casually 
mentioned it, but she had no desire to hear directly from him how 
much he hated her alter ego.

She waited just inside the door and watched, feeling absurdly proud 
of him, as Michael confidently strode into his living room and found 
her the CD without having to fumble around and search for it.  All 
his practice with his therapist had really paid off.

"Here you go."  He held it out in her general direction.

As she reached for it, her hand brushed his.  She felt a definite 
electric shock rush through her system at the contact.

"Thank you, Michael," she said, formally.

"You're welcome. Uh, listen, Vicky, could I... would you consider 
going out for dinner with me?  Tonight?  Or tomorrow, if tonight's 
too soon?"

Vicky knew she should say no, but as she looked up into his earnest 
face, she couldn't.  She pushed her guilt deep inside.  "I'd love to, 
Michael," she replied, shyly.

"When?  Tonight?" he asked, eagerly.

"Tonight's fine," she answered with a giggle.  "What time should I come back?"

He thought for a second.  "How about five?"

Vicky giggled again.  "Um, Michael, did you know that it's four 
forty-five right now?"

"It is?  Do you mean we talked for three and a half hours in that coffee shop?"

"Uh huh!"

"I had no idea."

"I know.  Neither did I until I checked my watch."

After a short discussion, it was decided.  Michael made sandwiches, 
put a stack of CD's in the stereo, and then they put their feet up.

Quite a few hours later, and not coincidentally, quite a few glasses 
of wine later, Vicky reluctantly said goodnight.

"I'd like to see you again," Michael said as she got ready to leave. 
"I haven't enjoyed a night like this since... well, I've never 
enjoyed a night like this."

"I'd like that, Michael.  I've had a wonderful time, too," Vicky 
admitted, ruthlessly throttling the conscience that was screaming 
dire warnings at her.

"Is lunch tomorrow too soon?" Michael asked with an endearing smile.

Vicky felt her heart turn over in response to it.  She couldn't 
refuse him in the face of that smile.  "That would be great," she 
answered, softly.  "Where?"

"How about the café at the museum at noon?  Sound good?"

"That sounds great, Michael.  I'll see you tomorrow."

"Before you go, I want to tell you something," Michael said, 
earnestly.  "I've had a really hard time since I lost my sight a 
month ago.  You've really helped me just by... being you.  I want to 
thank you."

Vicky felt tears prick at the back of her eyelids.  "I'm glad I could 
help."  She squeezed his hand gently.  "Goodnight, Michael.  I'll see 
you tomorrow."

She walked slowly home, thinking about her evening with Michael.  He 
was wonderful, intelligent, sensitive, caring, handsome... and blind 
because of her.  She shouldn't spend time with him.  It wasn't right. 
She was with him under false pretences.  He had no idea that she was 
the cause of his blindness.

But he had said that she was helping him.  She was helping him feel 
better.  That was something, wasn't it?  But whatever amount of help 
she was providing him with now couldn't compare to the pain she had 
caused him.  Could it?  No, it couldn't.  She was going to have to 
phone him and tell him she couldn't make it.  It would be wrong to 
have lunch with him.  No, she should just walk away and let him live 
his life and stop spying on him.

<But I'm so lonely,> Vicky thought in desperation.  Ever since Jon 
had moved to Washington with Larissa, she hadn't had a friend to talk 
to.  It wasn't the distance, but he was so in tune with Larissa, she 
felt as if he didn't have time for her any more

She had never had many friends.   That was partly because of the need 
to guard the family secret but mostly because of her own inner 
reserve.  She had joked around with her roommates in university, but 
they hadn't been friends.  Mom and Dad were okay to talk to, but they 
were older with different priorities.  She loved Sam and Astrid, but 
they didn't really have a lot in common.  The same held true for 
Marty and Ben.  It was so tempting to cultivate a friendship with 
Michael.  He was so interesting and intelligent and sensitive and 
wonderful and here she was again, right back at the point where she 
had started.

Vicky resolutely stopped her thoughts from going around in yet 
another circle and made a final decision.  She would call Michael in 
the morning and cancel their lunch date.  That was final.

***

Nightwind restlessly paced back and forth on the roof of the 
Metropolis Museum of Fine Art.  She angled her head down and scanned. 
Yes, there he was, sitting at a table for two, waiting patiently.

She hadn't planned on his having an unlisted phone number when she 
had decided to cancel their lunch date.  This was very frustrating.

She paced and spied on him and paced some more and spied on him some 
more.  He was starting to look really worried, checking his special 
watch with his fingers every minute.  After a few moments, Vicky gave 
up her pacing and stood still, her eyes fixed on him.  Around 12:15, 
he sighed, a deep mournful sigh, and bowed his head.  He looked so 
defeated in that moment that Vicky knew she couldn't go through with 
this.  She gave up completely, surrendering her free will.  She had 
no choice but to keep seeing him.  He was the flame and she was the 
moth that couldn't stay away, no matter that her wings would be 
singed by his heat.

It only took her a moment to reach the small restaurant.

"Michael!  I'm so sorry I'm late!" Vicky exclaimed as she raced up to 
the table.

He jumped to his feet, a look of relief spreading across his face. 
"That's okay, Vicky.  I'm just glad that you're here."

At his look of sheer happiness, Vicky felt tears come to her eyes. 
She pushed her feelings of guilt deep inside her once more as she 
lightly placed her hand on his shoulder in greeting.

***

As he munched his sandwich, Michael reflected that he couldn't 
remember ever feeling happier in his life.  Just being with Vicky was 
enough to thrill him.  It was strange.  He had no idea what she 
looked like - he didn't know if she were black, white, or purple with 
green polka dots - but it didn't seem to matter.  She was beautiful 
to him.  She was so reserved, only allowing a little of her inner 
self to show, but that small amount she did share with him was 
wonderful beyond belief.

And it was such a relief that she hadn't asked him what had happened, 
or fussed over him, or offered to cut his food - although, the last 
would have been pretty redundant.  Since his accident, he had made a 
point of ordering food that wasn't messy - no soups, salads, 
stir-fries, that kind of thing.  He was getting pretty tired of 
sandwiches and burgers, but it was a small price to pay to not slop 
on himself.

Getting back to Vicky, he couldn't remember ever enjoying a woman's 
company as much as he enjoyed hers.  She was warm and sensitive in a 
very understated way, with hidden depths.  He had the sense that she 
was full of delightful secrets that he could have fun discovering one 
at a time.  He wanted to know everything about her.

Even though he enjoyed being with her, he shouldn't be this happy, he 
thought.  Here he was, newly blinded, unsure of himself, flustered 
and trying really hard not to be panicked by his new circumstances, 
and he was happy.  It made no sense.

He sighed happily.  Putting his sandwich down, he leaned forward to 
address her.  "So, do you have any dinner plans?"

***

Later that evening, Michael sighed contentedly once more as he sat 
across his dining table from Vicky.  He couldn't stop smiling, 
although, truth to tell, he didn't want to stop.  They had spent the 
afternoon together, strolling aimlessly through Metropolis Centennial 
Park, his hand resting lightly on her arm, talking animatedly one 
minute and then walking in a comfortable silence the next.

Part of him was so completely at ease around her, but another part 
was not.  He was extremely conscious of her every move, practically 
of her every breath.  He was completely attuned to her physically, in 
a way that he had never been connected to anyone before.  But he felt 
very shy around her.  He didn't know if it was because of his 
accident or not, but he was lacking in self-confidence.  At times, he 
felt very much less than a man, as if the loss of his eyes had 
destroyed his own sense of himself as a whole person.  But he wanted 
to touch her, and be touched by her.  His hand had burned earlier 
when it had rested on her slender arm as they strolled through the 
park, and all his remaining senses thrilled whenever she was near 
him.

And now, they sat at Michael's small dining table.  Vicky had bustled 
around in his tiny kitchen and had prepared a simple but tasty meal 
of grilled steak, baked potatoes and steamed vegetables.  He had 
happily set the table for two.  He was sure that he had probably 
mismatched the colours of his linen napkins and wondered whether he 
had done the same with his everyday dishes and his china, but he just 
didn't care.

"Michael, have you written any new music recently?" Vicky asked, her 
voice soft, caressing each syllable.  "I listened to your CD last 
night, and I just loved it.  I'd love to hear more."

"I have been working on a song.  It's a ballad.  I'll sing it for you 
later if you want."

"That would be great," Vicky said, her own voice sounding like music.

"But..."

"But?"

"Only if you read me some of your next book.  I loved 'Rainbows.'"

"I'd love to."  Vicky sounded very pleased.

Michael paused, set down his knife and fork and leaned forward. 
"Vicky, I have to tell you something.  You have the most beautiful 
voice I have ever heard."

He felt her hand grip his where it lay, palm up, resting on the 
table.  He quickly placed his other hand over hers, trapping it 
within the clasp of his two larger ones.

"I could say the same about you," she answered, quietly.  "When I 
listened to you sing I felt as if you were singing just for me.  Your 
songs touch me.  They fill a space in my heart that I didn't even 
know was empty."

"Oh, Vicky," he said, touched beyond words.  Suddenly feeling very 
courageous, he lifted her hand to his lips, brushing them not across 
the back of her hand, but intimately against her palm.

Her hand was so soft, so delicate, her fingers so long and graceful. 
He traced her fingers with his, stroking the tender skin in between 
each one and then her perfect, oval-shaped fingernails.

"Michael, don't. Please," she said with a gasp. But she didn't try to 
free her hand from his grasp.

"Why not, Vicky?" he asked softly, once more caressing her palm with 
his lips.  "What are you afraid of?"  Without letting go of her hand, 
he slid his chair around the table to sit beside her.  He wondered 
where his newfound bravery was coming from.  Could it be that she 
seemed to need his reassurance rather than the other way around?

"I'm not afraid," she said, her voice shaking a bit.  "But it's too soon..."

"Not soon enough for me," he muttered deep in his throat as he dared 
to lift his hand up to locate her face, his fingers coming to rest on 
her thick, glossy hair.  He slowly slid down to her chin and then 
over to find her lips with his fingers.  They were full and soft and 
trembled under his touch.  Carefully and slowly, feeling as if she 
would bolt if he moved too quickly, he lowered his lips to hers, 
wondering exactly where he was finding the courage.  He couldn't 
believe he had waited this long to touch her when all he had wanted 
to do from the moment he met her was wrap himself around her.  What 
had he been thinking?  How had he managed to resist for so long, when 
he had wanted to do this so much?

He had never imagined a kiss could be so magical.  He wondered in 
passing if it was his newly enhanced sense of touch that elevated 
this kiss to a higher level.  That and all other rational forms of 
thought fled as her lips heated under his, as she slid closer to him 
and wrapped her arms around him.  He broke the kiss, breathing hard 
only to hear her groan in her throat as she pulled him close once 
more to plant gentle, tender kisses on his forehead and cheeks.  He 
sighed happily as his hands stroked her hair back from her face.  Her 
hair was long and silky, crackling with a little static electricity 
under his fingers.   He pulled away from her slightly once more.  She 
started to protest, but he quickly hushed her.  "I want to feel what 
you look like.  Please let me," he begged.  He sensed more than felt 
her nodding her agreement.

With the sensitive pads of his fingers, he traced the outline of her 
face, from her forehead to her chin.  She remained still, but he 
heard her breathing pick up in response to his light touch. "What 
colour is your hair?" he asked softly as he buried his hands in it, 
letting the strands slip out of his grasp.

"Dark brown, almost black," she answered, her voice still shaking.

He laid the palms of his hands, fingers overlapping, on the smooth 
skin of her forehead.  Is this what they mean by an alabaster brow, 
he wondered?  He skimmed his fingers lightly over her eyes, feeling 
her eyelashes quiver under them. "And your eyes?"

"Brown again," she answered, softly.

He smiled. "So you're a brown-eyed girl, are you?  I always loved 
that song."  With his index finger, he traced the lines of her nose 
before smoothing his thumbs across her high cheekbones.  He saved her 
lips for last.  They were a little swollen from his kisses and 
quivered under his fingers.  "Vicky, you're beautiful," he said, 
reverently.

"Oh, Michael," she sighed, huskily, as she kissed each of his fingertips.

"I wish I could see you, really see you," he whispered, his throat 
tightening up, suddenly feeling frustrated beyond belief.

"I wish you could, too, Michael," she answered, so softly he could 
barely hear her.  "I wish you could, too."

To his chagrin, Michael felt his eyes start to water.  He tried to 
control it but then his shoulders started to shake.  He pushed 
himself up hastily, needing to flee to hide his shame and 
embarrassment at his hot tears.  Like a wounded animal seeking its 
den, he scurried towards his bedroom, only to cry out in chagrin as 
he tripped over an end table that had somehow been moved out of its 
proper place.

He flailed his arms helplessly, only to feel her catch him and break 
his fall.  His weight bore her down to the floor under him.  "Are you 
okay?" he gasped, his voice breaking.

"I'm fine," she assured him quickly.  "What about you?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm... I'm..." He couldn't answer.  His eyes burned with 
unshed tears, and his chest ached.  He rolled off her and sat up, his 
knees folded under him, facing away from her.  He squeezed his eyes 
shut as tight as he could, but even so felt a couple of tears escape. 
Sucking in air, he tried to maintain control and wrapped his arms 
around his own rib cage feeling as though he would fall to pieces if 
he let go.

Vicky moved to kneel in front of him.  She silently pulled him close 
and encircled his shaking shoulders firmly with her arms.  Michael 
felt the floodgates open.

Embarrassment and shame forgotten for the moment, deep, racking sobs 
tore at his vocal chords as he buried his face against Vicky's 
shoulder. He cried out his desolation and sorrow for the first time 
since his accident.  All those feelings of loss that he hadn't 
allowed himself to express came out in the animal sounds he made as 
he reluctantly gave himself over to a maelstrom of emotion.

Vicky stayed with him through the tempest, her arms holding him 
firmly, and her voice crooning tunelessly and comfortingly in his 
ear.  His tears slowed and stopped, leaving him sniffling and 
coughing in their aftermath.  As he got back into control, he felt 
foolish, emasculated once again.  He didn't want her to look at him. 
He knew his face must be blotchy and his nose running, and he was 
ashamed of himself for his outburst.  She shifted, and he clutched at 
her desperately, not wanting her to pull back and see his face.

"Oh, Michael, I'm so sorry.  It's been so hard for you, hasn't it?" 
Vicky's voice was choked with emotion.  She gathered him closer and 
rested her cheek on his head.  To his shock, he felt her begin to 
shiver.  Forgetting his own embarrassment, he pulled himself away and 
shifted to pull her into his arms.  It was his turn to rock and 
comfort her as she cried, his heavy sweater soaking up her tears.  He 
held her close, rubbing her back, almost pathetically grateful to her 
for her need of his arms, feeling like a man once more.

When she was quiet, he sat back against the side of his couch and 
pulled her to sit beside him.

"Better?" he asked.  He felt her nod.

"You?" she asked.

"Yes."

They sat side by side in silence for a long time.  Michael felt 
drained but at the same time relieved, the weight he had been 
carrying around for the last month dissipated into nothingness.

"Well, that was different," he finally said, his sense of the absurd 
kicking in.

Vicky giggled weakly in response.  "Oh, I don't know.  I thought it 
was a pretty typical second date."

A great explosion of laughter burst from his throat.  Vicky joined in 
a heartbeat later, and the two of them roared uproariously, which was 
just as cleansing in its own way.  Michael laughed so hard that he 
had to hold onto his ribs again, for a different reason this time. 
He laughed until he had no breath left in his body.  Finally, both of 
them gasping for air, their laughter slowed and then stopped.

Michael turned to Vicky and pulled her into a warm embrace.  "Thank 
you," he breathed into her ear.

"For what?" she asked, quietly.

"For being here with me.  You make me glad to be alive.  I haven't 
felt that way in a long time.  I haven't felt that way since... I had 
my accident."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Vicky asked, softly.

He laid his head back against the couch, closed his eyes, and thought 
about it for a minute.  Finally, he nodded. "Yes, I think I do."

The words poured out of him.  First, before he talked about the 
accident, he talked about what it was like to be blind.  He told her 
how scared he had been to wake up in perpetual darkness and how, 
every morning, it didn't get any easier.  He told her how he was 
worried he might look foolish - that his clothes might not match or 
he might end up with food stuck between his teeth.  He told her how 
tired he was of eating sandwiches and that he missed Chinese food so 
much he had dreams about it, but that he absolutely refused to take 
the chance of making a fool of himself in public.

He told her about praying for a cornea transplant and his guilt over 
his prayers, knowing that in reality he was praying for someone to 
die. He talked about how scared he was of having a transplant because 
if it didn't work, somehow it would have been better not to know 
that.  He told her of his frustration at the long waiting list ahead 
of him and how he didn't know how he was going to last waiting the 
year and a half to two years that would be necessary.

He talked about his hopes for the future, his hopes that he had had 
to shelve for the time being.  He told her how he wanted to make 
music, maybe get a recording contract, or failing that, write songs 
for others to sing.

And then he talked about the accident.  He talked about what it had 
been like to have the lights die, and his guitar fall silent - how 
puzzled he had been for a second until he figured out what was 
happening, how hard it had been to believe.  He told Vicky what it 
had been like to hear the crowd screaming, to hear them pushing and 
hitting each other in their panic to escape.  He talked about the 
crackle of the fire and the sparks erupting from the electrical 
panel.  And then he told her about hearing the glass break above his 
head.  "She swooped down towards me all in black like a dark angel. 
Her face was unearthly, almost silver in the dim light.  In that 
moment, when my world went dark, I hated her and I loved her.  I 
hated her for destroying my world, but I loved her too, because to 
hate her was to hate all that is good in the world, and I just 
couldn't bring myself to do that.  Do you know what I mean?"

"I... I'm not sure," Vicky answered, hesitantly.

"Oh, I knew that she had no choice.  Nightwind couldn't get into the 
coffeehouse any other way.  All the exits were crowded with people 
fighting to get out.  She would have had to claw her way through 
them.  Super-strength couldn't help her in that situation.  So, I 
know she had no choice.  But I suffered for that choice.  I lost my 
world in one second.  I couldn't help but hate her.  I didn't want to 
live like that.  If that were her only choice, I wanted her not to 
make it.  I wanted to die in the fire.  And now I have her image 
imprinted in my memory.  I'm starting to forget what my friends look 
like and my family, but I have a picture of her face burning inside 
me."  He shrugged, striving to be nonchalant about the most 
significant moment in his life.  "There are worse images to take into 
darkness.  She was truly the most starkly beautiful woman I have ever 
seen."

"Do you feel like that now?" Vicky asked in a still, small voice. "Do 
you wish that you had died in the fire?"

"No." He smiled warmly in her general direction.  "Not since I met 
you.  You've helped me a lot, Vicky.  You've helped me feel alive 
again."

"That's a big responsibility you're placing on me, Michael," Vicky 
said, solemnly.

"No, it's all right," he assured her.  "I'm not trying to make some 
bizarre 'you saved my life so you're stuck with me, forever' deal.  I 
know rotten things are going to happen to me still.  I know I'm going 
to have a hard time because I'm blind, but I feel like myself again. 
I feel like I'll be able to handle my problems myself because you 
brought me back to life.  Does that make sense?"

"I think so," Vicky said, hesitantly.  "But are you saying you don't 
want to be with me anymore?"

Michael reached over and tugged Vicky into his lap. "No. It means I 
want to be with you, not I need to be with you.  Do you see the 
distinction?"

"Yes.  I'm glad, because I want to be with you, too."

He felt Vicky's hand stroke his cheek and sensed her movement towards 
him.  He captured her mouth as it neared his, their kiss so 
passionate his toes curled.

"So, what now, Michael?" she whispered as the kiss ended.

He smiled. "Now, we can relax and get to know each other, really know 
each other, if that's okay."

She snuggled closer and sighed contentedly. "More than okay."

"Good."

They moved off the floor to the comfortable couch and talked and 
cuddled and talked some more, occasionally kissing and lightly 
caressing each other, needing to remain in close contact after their 
emotional upheaval.

Hours later, Michael reluctantly pulled away from Vicky.  "Oh, I'm 
stiff," he said, trying to stretch out his kinked neck and back. 
What time is it, anyway?"

"3:30 in the morning," Vicky announced, her voice astonished.

"Wow!" he exclaimed as he rolled his tense shoulders trying to get 
them to relax.

"Here, let me help," Vicky said as she turned Michael away from her. 
An instant later, he groaned involuntarily as her hands started to 
knead his sore muscles.  She rubbed and stroked and kneaded his neck 
and shoulders until he felt like purring.  It got harder and harder 
to keep his eyes open as she worked on his tight muscles.  <I'll just 
close them for a minute,> he thought drowsily.  <It's not like I 
actually need to keep them open.  They don't work, after all.>

***

Vicky kept working on Michael's muscles until he had slumped sideways 
on the couch.  His breathing was slow and even, and his whole body 
limp when she stopped.  She surveyed his recumbent form.  If she left 
him lying like that, he would be sore in the morning, she judged with 
a practised eye.  Sighing, she stooped and scooped him up before 
standing up again.  He mumbled sleepily but didn't wake up.  She 
caught sight of their reflection in a hall mirror and shook her head 
at the incongruous sight of the lanky musician in her arms.

Vicky gently carried Michael to his room and laid him carefully on 
his bed, shoving his sheet and blankets down first.  She slipped his 
shoes off his feet before propping him up against her and working his 
heavy sweater up and over his shoulders.  She laid him back down, his 
head on the pillow, and looked at his jeans.  No, she couldn't strip 
those off him, but she could get rid of his belt so it didn't dig 
into him, she thought as her hands deftly undid the buckle.

When she was done, she stood for a moment and studied his half-naked 
form.  His shoulders and chest were broad and his waist narrow.  His 
muscles weren't as defined as her father's or her brothers', she 
thought idly.  No, Michael's muscles were wiry, giving his torso a 
more angular look.  He had a sprinkling of black hair on his chest, 
further emphasizing the difference in looks between him and the 
masculine contingent of her family.  To her eyes, long accustomed to 
the smooth and hairless chests of her dad and her brothers, he looked 
exotic and intriguing.

As she watched, he suddenly shivered in the chill air.  Aghast that 
she had been spying on Michael once again, she quickly covered him 
with his sheet and blankets, smoothing them carefully around him. 
She bent and kissed him tenderly on the forehead and then forced 
herself out of his room, reluctant to leave him.

It took only a moment for Vicky to quickly speed around and put his 
messy kitchen and table to rights.  When she was done, she paused, 
her hand on the doorknob, wondering what else she could do.  Not able 
to think of anything, she sighed and reluctantly pulled the door open 
and left his apartment, the spring-lock clicking shut behind her.

She emerged on the street and took a deep breath before tipping her 
head up to survey the cloudless sky.  The stars were bright tonight, 
she observed.  Vicky quickly glanced around the deserted street.  She 
didn't see anyone outside, and she didn't see anyone looking out of 
any of the windows that faced the street.  Without bothering to look 
for the concealment of an alley, she launched herself up into the 
night sky, coming to rest high above the earth, cradled by the 
darkness.  Closing her eyes, she floated there, moved hither and yon 
by the thin streams of air as they pushed against her.  Her eyes 
burned and she urged her tears to flow, hoping that they would help 
to melt the huge block of ice in her middle.  One tear started its 
lonely path down her face, only to be joined by the next and the 
next, and soon she was sobbing, her face buried in her hands.  She 
wailed her desolation to the uncaring stars, heedless of the wisps of 
clouds that kissed her cheeks.

Two strong arms came around her and pulled her to a hard chest. 
Vicky didn't need to feel the 'S' crest against her cheek to know who 
held her so tenderly.  "Dad," she gasped, acknowledging his presence.

"Shhh," he whispered. "It's okay, Vic.  I've got you."

"Oh, Dad," she sobbed into his chest.  "It's not okay. It's not."

He didn't answer, instead holding her a little closer and patting her 
soothingly on the back.  He crooned tunelessly into her ear until her 
tears slowed and stopped.  Vicky was content to cling to her father, 
but he had other ideas.  He firmly grasped her shoulders and shifted 
so he could look her in the eyes.  "Can you tell your old dad what's 
wrong?"

Vicky felt the tears welling up once more.  "Oh, Dad, I made a mess 
of everything.  I screwed up, big time."

"What happened?  Did a rescue go bad on you?"

"It's a long story.  I met a man..."  She sighed and looked away, too 
embarrassed to look her father in the eyes.

"I thought we hadn't seen much of you in the last few days."

"I know.  And it's awful.  I did something I shouldn't have.  This 
thing happened between us tonight that..."

"Maybe I should take you to your mother?" he interrupted quickly, his 
cheeks flushing.

"Dad, nothing like that!" Vicky exclaimed.

"Oh.  Good."  He sighed with relief.  "But maybe I should still take 
you to your mother."

She nodded and buried her face against him once more.  "I think you 
should both hear about it," she told his chest.  He sighed 
mournfully, muttered his stock 'I'm too old for this' comment that he 
always said when she had a problem, and brought his arm under her to 
hold her the way he had when she had been a little girl and they had 
flown together.

***

"... and I can't believe you spied on him," Vicky's father finished 
indignantly.  He paced up and down in the kitchen made small by his 
presence, his cape majestically billowing out behind him. "What were 
you thinking, Vic?  I thought I taught you better than that."

"Honey," her mother admonished, softly.

He glanced at his wife quickly.  Whatever message she had tried to 
send him must have been received, because his expression was a lot 
gentler when he turned back to his daughter.  He crouched down in 
front of Vicky as she sat despondently on one of the kitchen chairs. 
"I'm sorry, sweetheart.  I should have let you talk instead of giving 
you a lecture, but I got kind of worked up when you told me you 
spied..."

"Clark!" Lois interrupted, forcefully.

Clark glanced at Lois guiltily before looking back at his daughter. 
"Go ahead, honey.  We're listening," he said as he tenderly clasped 
one of her hands.

Vicky's mother pulled her chair a little closer and grasped her 
daughter's other hand. "Dad's right, Vic. We're here for you, 
sweetheart."

Vicky desperately clung to them as she tried to form the words to 
tell them how badly she had messed things up with Michael.  She 
looked at them helplessly, not sure she knew what to say.

"Honey," her mom said, squeezing her hand gently, "just start at the 
beginning.  Tell us why you felt you had to keep an eye on this man. 
We'll listen.  We're here for you.  You know that."

Vicky looked into her mom's eyes and then her dad's.  Her mom was 
right.  She could tell she had their support just from the love she 
saw shining in their eyes.  They might tell her that she had messed 
up, that she had behaved badly, but they would never turn their backs 
on her.  She knew that.  It made it easier for her to start.

She took a deep breath. "Do you remember the coffeehouse that caught 
on fire last month?  Well, earlier in the evening, I was out doing my 
patrol, and I heard this voice, this magnificent voice..."

Quite a few minutes later Vicky fell silent.

Her mom and dad didn't say anything right away, making her very 
nervous.  Instead, they exchanged a couple of glances, fraught with 
meaning, before turning back to their errant daughter.

"How do you feel when you're with Michael?" her mom asked, gently.

Vicky stared off into space before answering.  "More alive than I've 
ever felt in my life.  Terrified.  Almost sick to my stomach.  Happy. 
I feel everything at once, all jumbled together.  I want to gather 
him into my arms and take him with me to a deserted island.  I want 
to look after him.  I want... I want to be with him, plain and 
simple."

Her dad shook his head.  "In other words, you think you love this man."

"Yes, but I feel so guilty, too.  I'm so confused," Vicky answered 
solemnly, tears coming to her eyes.  "But if I tell him about, you 
know, he'll hate me.  I cost him his eyes."

"That's ridiculous," Vicky's mom replied, acerbically.  "You gained 
him his life.  You had no choice at that coffeehouse.  If you had 
done anything differently, a lot more people would have been hurt, 
maybe even killed.  Vic, you're obsessing again, just like your 
father.  Clark, tell her," her mom finished, turning to her husband.

He smiled. "Your mom's right, Vic.  You are obsessing.  I would be, 
too, in your shoes.  I remember what it's like.  It was bad enough 
when your mom nearly got hurt.  It was really awful when your mom did 
get hurt."

"I never got hurt, Clark.  You were always there for me," he had 
pointed out to him by his wife.

"No?  How about the time Nigel and Mazik wanted me to kill you or 
they'd kill my parents?  How do you think I felt when I froze you 
and...?"

An open-mouthed Vicky interrupted their trip down memory lane.  "You 
know, you guys really should tell us more stories.  I have no idea 
what you're talking about but it sounds, it sounds really..."  She 
stopped at a loss for words and shook her head.

"Anyway," her mom said, with a quelling glance at her husband, "if 
you love this man and he loves you, really loves you, you'll be able 
to get through this.  I know.  I won't pretend that it will be easy, 
because it won't, but you will be able to deal with everything.  The 
first thing you need to do, though, is to make absolutely sure that 
you do love him.  From the sounds of things, you can't figure out if 
you do or if you just feel guilty.  And until you do, you need to 
play it safe.   Please, promise me that you'll slow things down a 
bit.  Telling someone our secret in the middle of a whirlwind romance 
while you're racked with guilt is not the best idea in the world. 
You should try really hard to slow things down."

"Maybe I should just walk away," Vicky said, sadly.

"Oh, sure, if you feel like retiring from the human race," Clark 
said, smiling slightly.  "And that's an option I hope you don't take. 
It took a lot of genetic engineering to make you even half-human. 
I'd hate to see you throw it away."

"Very funny, Dad," Vicky retorted sarcastically as she smiled weakly 
at him.  "I just don't know what to do.  It's so scary."

Clark laughed.  "How do you think I felt every minute of every day 
from the moment I met your mother until the moment when she finally 
married me?  And to be truthful, there are times when she still 
scares me."  He looked over at Lois with a wicked twinkle in his eye.

Lois laughed as she regarded her husband fondly.  "And how do you 
think I felt when I knew that I loved your father but I had your 
Grandma and Grandpa Lane's shining example of a not-so-loving 
marriage in front of me all the time?"

"I never thought about it.  I guess I always thought you guys were in 
love and never had this kind of problem," Vicky said, starting to 
feel a little calmer.

Lois and Clark looked at each other and then started to laugh. 
"Well, we never exactly had this specific type of problem, but I 
think we covered all the other bases," her dad said, with an amused 
look at her mother.

"Yeah, thoroughness has always been a Lane and Kent trademark," Lois 
responded, smugly.

"Feeling a bit better, sweetheart?" Clark asked, sliding his arm 
around his daughter's shoulders.

She looked up at him with a grateful smile. "Yeah, Dad - thanks to 
you two.  I appreciate it."

"So, any idea as to what you're going to do now?" Lois asked, leaning 
forward to rest a loving hand on Vicky's arm.

Vicky shook her head.  "You mean, other than eventually going home to 
get some sleep?  No.  I need to really think things through, to 
really know what I'm feeling.  Right now I'm pretty confused.  Do I 
just feel guilty or is there something more there?  Can I trust him? 
I think I can, but how do I know for sure?  What if I make a mistake? 
It won't just hurt me, but it'll hurt everyone else too."

Lois laughed.  "Just don't obsess too much, honey - although I'm glad 
that you're at least putting some thought into whether you can trust 
this man or not.  I mean, when I think about how your brother just 
blurted our secret out to Larissa..."

Clark wrapped his arms quickly around his petite wife's shoulders. 
"It's okay, Lois.  Don't get upset again.  I knew the moment I saw 
her that Larissa was perfect for Jon, but," he glanced up at his 
daughter, "honey, please promise us that you won't make a hasty 
decision.  I don't think your mom could survive if you told this man 
about us faster than your brother told Larissa. I think that 
everything's going to work out for you, too, Vic, if you give it 
enough time - which means somewhat longer than forty-eight hours.  We 
normally trust you and we trust your judgement but right now, it's 
very possible that you're being swayed by guilt.  Make your decision 
logically and calmly after you've figured out your feelings. Okay?"

"Okay," Vicky agreed with a grateful smile.

***

Vicky told her dad to take the rest of the morning off.  She found 
flying patrol was one of the best times to do a lot of uninterrupted 
thinking.

Normally, not a lot happened to disturb her whenever she flew patrol. 
Metropolis wasn't the crime-ridden city it used to be.  After all, it 
had three part-time superheroes looking after it.  Jon, too, was 
finding that the crime rates were starting to shift downwards in 
Washington since he had moved there.

Things had worked out quite fortuitously in his case. Shortly after 
Jon and Larissa had been married, various cities had started 
petitioning Superman and his family to spread out a bit and not 
concentrate all the superheroes in one place.  Jon had waited for 
about six months and then had announced that Sunstorm would be 
willing to move to Washington.  So far, no one had connected 
Sunstorm's very well publicized move with Jon Kent's previous 
marriage to an up and coming FBI agent.

Marty's case was a little different. Early in her crime-fighting 
career, she had announced that she had a special interest in the 
environment.  Therefore, when she showed up battling the 
after-effects of tornados and drought in Kansas and the other 
mid-west states, no one wondered why.  It had been pretty well 
accepted that Shadow was not a permanent fixture in Metropolis 
although she was known to show up there as well.

Starfire had announced that he had no desire to move.  After all, Sam 
was happy in Metropolis and happy at the Daily Planet.  Astrid's 
advertising business was well established.  Her commercials were some 
of the most innovative in the marketplace.  And Astrid was really 
close to her father, Dr. Klein.  She and Sam really counted on his 
help with Lee.  It was hard for them to spend the amount of time with 
their daughter that they wanted.  Uncle Bernie really took up the 
slack for them.

Nightwind had then been in the hot seat, receiving a great many 
requests from many different communities to relocate.  Vicky had felt 
intensely uncomfortable with the ensuing media attention and hadn't 
felt able to handle the increased demands on her.  Thankfully, Dad 
had stepped in and, in his very best 'Supermanish' way, had deflected 
the unwelcome spotlight from Vicky and had announced that he wouldn't 
consider letting her move until she had completed at least another 
year of 'Superhero' training with him.  She had been quite grateful 
to him.

Vicky wondered where she would go if and when she did move.  Maybe 
New York, she thought to herself.  New York was pretty much the hub 
of the literary world and she always enjoyed her time there.  She'd 
have to wait and see.

And then Vicky wondered why she was avoiding thinking about Michael. 
She still didn't know what she was going to do.  She wanted to be 
with him. She was pretty sure that she loved him; she didn't think 
that this intense feeling was just guilt, but what if he didn't love 
her?  Or, what if he did but couldn't handle knowing about her secret 
identity?  What if he ended up hating her?

She shook her head.  She couldn't stand it if he hated her.  And she 
couldn't stand being apart from him.  So, she couldn't take the 
chance of telling him.  She just couldn't!  Or could she? she 
wondered, her thoughts chasing themselves in circles.

Around two in the afternoon, when her patrol was over and Sam was now 
on call, Vicky flew slowly home, having made no firm decision as to 
what to do.  She was so tired after her emotionally exhausting night 
and busy day that she fell straight into bed, only pausing to turn 
the sound off on her phone.

She slept poorly for about three hours, tossing, turning and, judging 
from the fact that she woke herself once by banging her head on the 
ceiling, floating.  Finally, giving up on trying to rest, she dragged 
herself out of bed.  It was almost five o'clock in the afternoon. 
Vicky couldn't stop thinking about Michael.  She wanted to see him. 
She wondered how he was feeling today after his emotional upheaval of 
the previous night.

She thought about phoning Michael to see how he was only to smack 
herself on the forehead in exasperation.  <How could you forget to 
get his phone number again?> she asked herself, irritated beyond 
belief.  <It's been two days and you still don't have it!>  She 
glanced at her answering machine only to realise that, not only did 
she not have his phone number, he didn't have hers either.

She was just contemplating doing a quick flyby of his apartment when 
her phone rang.

"Hello?"

Her publisher's assistant, Belinda, greeted her.  She didn't 
particularly like Belinda, as the woman never let anyone else talk, 
but Vicky always listened politely to whatever she had to say.

"Vicky, darling, how are you?  Things are going wonderfully here. 
Sales couldn't be better!  But, sweetie, who is this Michael Gale who 
keeps calling us? He's driving the receptionist crazy by calling 
every hour on the hour.  He's very polite about it, but he insists 
that he knows Victoria El personally and that you would want to talk 
to him so could we have you call him. So, would you, darling - call 
him, I mean?  That is, if he's not some psycho nut bar, of course!"

"Oh, I'm so glad that he thought of calling the office!" Vicky 
exclaimed.  "I forgot to give him my number and he's unlisted."

"Well, here's his." Belinda recited a string of numbers, and Vicky 
hastily wrote them down.

"So, I gather he's not a psycho nut bar?"

"No, he's not," Vicky said, giggling. "He's a very talented musician, 
and a new friend, and I can't believe I didn't tell him my real name!"

"What the heck did you do, Vicky? Introduce yourself as Victoria El?" 
Belinda asked, incredulously. "Somehow you don't strike me as the 
type to have a secret identity."

Vicky rolled her eyes before answering.  "Actually, he recognised my 
voice from the audio version I did of 'Rainbows,' and my real name 
never came up."

"From your book on tape?  Can't he read?"

"Of course he can," Vicky answered, angrily.  "But he was blinded 
about a month ago, which put a bit of a crimp in his reading style," 
she finished sarcastically.

"Vicky, darling, I feel awful.  The poor man," Belinda cooed, 
insincerely.  "Well, sweetie, have to run.  You will let me know if 
there's anything you need, won't you, darling?"

"Wait," Vicky said, quickly, her mind suddenly veering off on a new tangent.

"What, darling?"

"Belinda, would you mind doing a little research for me?"

"For you, Vicky, anything," Belinda gushed, fatuously.

"I'd like names of some good, reputable music agents."

"For your 'new' friend?" Belinda asked, her voice hardening a little, 
surprising Vicky in her vehemence.  "Come on, Vicky.  If he expects 
you to help him, then he's just out for what he can get.  Dump him as 
fast as you can.  Darling, I hate to say this, but no one can be 
objective about someone they're romantically involved with.  I know 
that once you move on you'll be able to see that he's not a 
particularly good musician."

"Belinda, he didn't ask me for anything.  He has no idea that I'm 
doing this.  And he's a fantastic musician.  But right now, he could 
use a little help getting his foot in the door.  If I can use my name 
to do that, then I'll do it.  It will be up to him to take it from 
there.  Using my name will only get him a try; it won't make him a 
success.  You know that."

It took a bit more fast talking on Vicky's part, but Belinda finally 
agreed to do the requested research.

"All right, darling," the other woman said, with a resigned sigh. 
"Does he have a CD?  Good.  Send it to me, and I'll see what I can 
do."

After Vicky hung up the phone, she paused, hand resting on the 
receiver before picking it up again to phone Michael.  She felt as 
though she had no choice in the matter.   It wasn't possible for her 
to avoid him, or to stop seeing him.  To make a conscious decision 
not to call him?  It was impossible. She sighed heavily and then 
quickly dialled his number. The phone didn't even finish ringing once 
before it was answered.

"Hello?"

"Michael."

She heard him sigh in relief.  "Hi.  I missed you."

"I missed you, too.  Are you okay?"

"Yeah, thanks to you.  But you have to tell me something.  How in the 
world did you get me to my bedroom?  I don't remember getting there 
under my own steam."

Vicky flushed before quickly prevaricating, "Well, you did.  But I'm 
not surprised you don't remember. You were pretty out of it.  I had 
to, uh, steer you to make sure you didn't bounce off the walls."

He laughed.  "Well, let me just say, that was very considerate of 
you.  I'm very grateful.  Thanks."

She giggled, feeling almost giddy in her new happiness.  "You're 
welcome, Michael."  Turning serious, she continued, "I'm sorry that I 
forgot to give you my phone number.  And I feel stupid that I didn't 
get yours.  You'd think that one of us would have remembered to do 
that in the last couple of days.  It was very smart of you to call my 
publisher's office."

"It might have been smart, but I don't think they were too impressed 
with me.  I'm glad that they humoured me and phoned you anyway.  I 
really didn't think they were going to."

Vicky smiled. "I'm glad they did, too."

"So..." he said, after an awkward pause.

"So..." she answered.

There was silence for a long moment.

"Dinner tonight?" he asked with a nervous laugh.

"Absolutely," Vicky answered with conviction in her voice as she 
cheerfully strangled the pangs of conscience that arose at her 
decision.  "I'd love it.  Why don't you come here?  I'd love to cook 
for you."

Michael accepted her invitation and asked for the address.  Vicky 
offered to meet him at his place before they both came back to her 
apartment, but Michael demurred, telling her that he'd be perfectly 
happy taking a taxi.

"What time do you want me?" Michael asked.

<All the time,> Vicky very nearly answered.  "How does 6 sound?" she 
said, instead.

"Great!  See you then."

After she hung up the phone, Vicky glanced around her apartment.  It 
was pretty neat and tidy, with the exception of her bedroom.  She 
quickly showered, dressed and cleaned up before heading for the 
kitchen.  What was she going to make, she wondered?  She thought for 
a moment and then made a decision.  Smiling, she jotted down a quick 
shopping list and headed for the door.  She had her hand on the 
doorknob when she remembered one more thing she had to do.  She 
picked up the phone and called Michael once again.

"Hi, forgot to tell you.  Don't dress up.  In fact, wear something 
washable... Yeah, you heard me, and, no, I'm not going to tell you 
why.  See you in a bit."

Vicky hung up the phone, grinning from ear to ear.  She checked her 
watch, shook her head at the time, and spun into her alter ego.  This 
time, she headed for the window.

She was back less than a second later, shaking her head once more. 
She had forgotten to get Michael's CD ready to be couriered to 
Belinda.

***

"Mmmm, something sure smells great," Michael said as he entered her 
apartment.

"Thanks.  Here, let me hang up your jacket."

He felt Vicky tug his coat out of his hands and heard her rustling in 
the closet.  He stood completely still in the hallway, afraid to move 
in case he bumped into anything.  Getting used to new environments 
was so hard for him.  His own apartment had been difficult enough 
when he had to learn to map it out in his head; he was worried that 
he might not be able to do it here.

He wanted to kiss her but felt shy after their emotional exchanges of 
the night before.

"Let's go for a tour," Vicky suggested, cheerfully.  "I'll show you around."

"Great," he answered, hoping he didn't look as awkward as he felt. 
His spirits perked up a little as she grabbed his hand and tugged him 
after her.  Even that small amount of contact between them was enough 
to make him tingle all over.

"Okay, first we have the hallway.  It leads directly into the open 
concept living room/dining room..."

Five minutes later, Michael felt much more at home although he had 
only had a tour of the main floor.  He was comfortably ensconced on 
the welcoming couch with a cool drink in one hand.  The only thing 
that would make things better would be if she were sitting beside 
him.  Instead, she had opted to sit facing him.

Her apartment was large and, from what she had described, luxurious. 
He hadn't really thought about it much, but he guessed that her books 
had earned her a pretty piece of change.  They must have, if she 
could afford this type of luxury.

"This is a fantastic apartment, Vicky.  I really like the woodwork on 
the one wall.  I could tell just from the feel of it how gorgeous it 
must be."

"It is gorgeous.  My brother, Jon, installed the fireplace and 
designed and built the surrounding mantel and cupboards.  He did a 
good job."

"He sure did.  How in the world did you manage to snag this space?  I 
had a hard time even finding my little 'hole in the wall' place."

"It was a gift from Jon.  He moved to Washington after he got 
married, and he knew how much I liked his place so he offered it to 
me.  I grabbed it with both hands, and here I am."

"Wow!" Michael couldn't believe it.  Okay, he was an only child so he 
didn't know for sure, but somehow, he couldn't picture doing anything 
like that for a sister.  "Your brother must be rolling in dough," he 
blurted out.  A second later, he was blushing and stammering an 
apology, totally embarrassed by his slip of the tongue.  He felt much 
better when he heard Vicky laugh.

"Yeah, you could say that," she answered, much amused.  "I, uh, I 
never told you my real name, and I'm sorry.  I didn't even realise it 
until the office called.  My last name is Kent.  Jon Kent is my 
brother."

"Jon Kent?  THE Jon Kent?" he asked, incredulously.  He had heard of 
Jon Kent and had seen many of his paintings in the Metropolis Museum 
of Fine Art.

"Uh huh," she answered, sounding a little uncomfortable.

"Wow!"  Michael shook his head in amazement.  "You are full of 
surprises tonight, aren't you?"

Vicky laughed.  "I'm not done with surprises.  We haven't had dinner 
yet.  Keep me company while I cook?"

"I'd love to," he answered as he sniffed the fragrant aromas in 
appreciation.  "But it smells like everything's already prepared." 
He stood up, and Vicky moved over beside him and tucked his hand into 
her arm.

"I precooked part of dinner but the rest will only take a minute." 
She led him to the kitchen.

He perched himself on a chair and listened to her bustle about.

"So, if your last name is Kent, how come you're Victoria El?"

"Well, I don't really want the attention so I decided to use a pseudonym."

"I've figured that out about you already.  That you're a bit 
reserved, I mean.  But why Victoria El?  Is there some significance 
that I'm missing?"

Vicky laughed. "My middle name's Lucy.  You can figure it out from there."

"Vicky Lucy," he said, slowly.  "My God, weren't your parents 
thinking when they named you?"

"Obviously not," she retorted.  "Have you ever heard anything so dumb 
in your life?"

"Well, I have a cousin named Candice Kane - Candy for short."

"I went to school with a Mary Christmas."

"My best friend in Kindergarten was Garfield Hotrum."

"Garfield Hotrum?  Ouch.  That's the worst." Vicky giggled.  "Okay, I 
guess my name's not that bad.  Anyway, I refuse to use my full middle 
name.  I've always been Victoria L. Kent, so when I was looking for a 
pen name..."

"Victoria El was born."

"Exactly."

Michael laughed and shook his name.  "Parents don't always think 
about what they're doing to their kids, do they?"

"I can't complain," she said.  "Most of the time, my parents are 
pretty good.  Just once in a while, they don't think through their 
actions."

Michael listened to Vicky work for a moment before asking, "Can I set 
the table for you?"

"We're not eating at the table," she answered calmly.

"We're not?  Where are we eating?"  He could hear her stirring 
something.  It sizzled and crackled in the hot pan and smelled 
wonderful.

"We're eating on the floor tonight.  I hope that's okay."

"Huh?  Yeah, it's fine, but why?"  He listened as cupboard doors 
opened and closed.

"Well, here's the deal.  We're going to spread a large plastic 
tablecloth on the floor and sit on that because we're going to eat 
with our fingers, and it could get a little messy.  This is not 
traditional finger food."

"What is it?"  Michael's curiosity was aroused.  It wasn't the only 
thing that was aroused.  He liked being here with Vicky, listening to 
her cook, being joined with her in a domestic intimacy that was 
somehow much more satisfying than anything he had ever experienced 
before.  And much more exciting.

"Homemade Chinese," she answered, sounding a little embarrassed.  "I 
hope it's okay... You told me how much you missed it..."

"We're going to eat it with our fingers?"

"Uh huh. Every last, slippery bean sprout."

She disappeared for a moment.  He could hear the snap of the 
tablecloth as she shook it out.  She came back, took him by the hand 
and tugged him up out of his chair to lead him to the living room.

"Here we are."

The plastic crackled under him as he sat down on the floor.

"I'll be right back with the food."

He shook his head in bemusement as she moved back and forth from the 
kitchen to the living room.  His fingers tingled, still feeling the 
gentle pressure of her hand on his.

As she sat down beside him, she helpfully pointed out, "Your plate's 
right in front of you, as well as a stack of napkins."

He had to laugh as he slid his hand forward to find his meal.

The food was just as mucky and slippery as he had feared.  But he 
almost moaned in ecstasy at his first bite.  It was delicious.  Vicky 
was a wonderful cook.

"Open your mouth," she ordered, softly.

He smiled and leaned forward to accept the crunchy vegetable tidbit 
that she slipped between his lips.  He was quick to reciprocate with 
a tender and very slippery piece of meat.

Michael had no idea that that meal would turn out to be one of the 
most sensuous meals of his life.  The food was wonderful and just as 
messy as he had feared it would be.  But hearing Vicky exclaim out 
loud when she dropped food on herself and knowing that she was 
getting just as messy as he was made all the difference in the world. 
As the meal progressed, they continued taking turns feeding each 
other tidbits of meat and tender-crisp vegetables.  Finally, when 
they were both replete, Vicky quickly took the ravaged platters of 
food back to the kitchen and returned.

"Finger bowls," she announced triumphantly as she sat back down.  She 
took Michael's slippery hand in hers and guided it to a bowl of warm, 
lemon-scented water.  He carefully swished it around and lifted his 
hand out.  She gently patted his dripping fingers dry with a soft 
towel before giving all her attention to his other hand.  He could 
smell the fresh, clean scent of her hair and feel the heat of her 
body as she sat close to him.  Her hands were gentle and warm and his 
whole body thrilled at her touch.  The second she let go of his hand 
he reached out and gathered her into his arms.  "Thank you," he said, 
softly.  "That was the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. 
It was a wonderful meal."

"You're welcome."  She laid her head on his shoulder and snuggled closer.

He stroked her hair gently, his heart full of contentment.  His 
happiness increased when she tilted her face up to him and kissed him 
tenderly.  The heat between them flared to full life and their kiss 
intensified.  As one, they tumbled to the floor with Vicky stretched 
out on top of him.  He quickly rolled her over and pinned her down, 
frantically plastering her face and neck with kisses.  They kissed 
desperately, trying to get as close to each other as possible.

***

Vicky was swept away into a maelstrom of sensation and clung to 
Michael as if he were her life preserver in a tempestuous sea.  The 
sensations she felt as she pressed her body up into his were new to 
her, the force of them just about sweeping all conscious thought out 
of her head.  She ached for him, she hungered for him, and every kiss 
and caress only served to whet her appetite for more.

Her thoughts all awhirl, it took her a moment to realise that Michael 
was slowly pulling himself away from her.

She looked up at him, hovering over her, his breath catching in his 
throat.  "What's wrong?"

"Vicky," he gasped as he rested on his elbows above her, "I want you, 
oh, God, how I want you, but not like this, not rolling on the floor 
like a couple of randy teenagers.  That wouldn't be fair to you."  He 
reached up and stroked her hair so gently that the ever-ready tears 
sprang to her eyes.  "Vicky, I think I'm falling in love with you, 
and it scares the heck out of me how strong my feelings are."

"You think you love me?" she asked, hardly able to believe it. He 
slowly lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her.  Their hunger now 
under a rather shaky control, this kiss was warm and loving and 
passionate.

"Does that answer your question?" he asked with a slight smile on his face.

Vicky stared up at him in shock for a moment.  "Oh, Michael, I think 
I love you, too," she exclaimed as she tugged his mouth back to hers.

They exchanged many soft kisses as they lay there together on the 
floor.  Gradually, reality intruded on Vicky, though - all her fears 
and worries returning to plague her.  How could she have let 
everything get so complicated?  What kind of coward was she that she 
had to trick a blind man into loving her?  If he knew that she was 
also Nightwind, he would hate her.  She had to tell him, and yet she 
couldn't.  She was too afraid to take that chance.  She was too 
afraid to lose him.  <But he's going to find out eventually,> she 
told herself.  <Look at Mom and Dad.  She figured it out.  Look at 
Marty and Ben, and Jon and Larissa.  Things worked out for them.>

She knew now that she had no choice in the matter.  She had to tell 
Michael the truth before she hurt him more than she already had. 
But, oh, it was going to be hard to do.  She wanted to be with him 
more than anything, and it was going to be so hard if and when his 
love turned to hate at her trickery.

But Mom and Dad had asked her to wait.  What was she going to do? 
They were right; she should wait to make sure that it wasn't just her 
guilt that was working on her.  Or should she tell him?  Her thoughts 
kept circling around from one choice to the other.

<No more.  Not tonight,> she thought to herself.  <I just want to be 
a woman in love tonight.  There's time enough to decide what to do 
tomorrow.>  Vicky looked deep into Michael's unseeing eyes and then 
hooked her arm around his neck.  She pulled hard and rolled at the 
same time, ending up stretched out on top of him.  She shifted to lie 
by his side with her head nestled into his neck.  They fit so 
perfectly together.  He laughed a little and wrapped his arm around 
her, tugging her closer into his side.  She sighed contentedly.  At 
this moment in time, she knew she would give anything if she could be 
like this with him forever.

***

Vicky soared high above the taxi as it drove the love of her life 
home.  She was euphoric, drunk on the emotions of the night.  She 
watched, entranced by his every move as he got out of the cab, paid 
the driver and entered his apartment.  It gave her a thrill to see 
the small half-smile on his face and to know that she had been 
responsible for putting it there.

She watched him until he closed the door of his apartment behind him. 
Even then, she didn't leave but focused her hearing so she could hear 
him moving around getting ready for bed and sleep.  She found herself 
giggling and blushing like a giddy schoolgirl when he broke into a 
spontaneous chorus of 'Brown-eyed Girl.'  Finally, when all she could 
hear was the soft susurration of his breathing as he slept peacefully 
in his bed, she left, gliding effortlessly higher and higher until 
she darted in and out of the low-hanging wisps of cloud.

She floated there, a dark silhouette against the stars, wrapped in 
happiness.  For this one night, she refused - she positively refused 
- to brood about what might happen when she eventually told Michael 
the truth about herself.  Instead, she dwelt on every word he had 
said to her, relived every kiss and dreamed that maybe, just maybe, 
they could have a future together.

***

Far out at sea, Vicky faced the east and watched the sun rise over 
the Atlantic Ocean.  It was a glorious day, warm and cloudless. 
Every part of her wanted to go to him now and wake him up but she 
forced herself to be patient.  She could wait four or five hours to 
phone him if she absolutely had to.

What a wonderful day!  She raced a jet for a few minutes, waving 
cheerily at the pilots and passengers before leaving them far behind 
as she zipped across the continent.  Now flying over the Pacific 
Ocean, she visited with her favourite pod of killer whales, skimming 
the waves, diving into the water and swimming circles around them. 
Some of the females seemed to recognise her, not panicking when she 
got close to the youngsters.   From there, she did a quick tour of 
the California coastline, looking for forest fire signs.  Thanks to 
the recent rains, it was not quite as dry but the drought was still 
officially in effect creating a real need for vigilance on everyone's 
part.

A couple of hours later, still too wound up to sleep, Vicky had 
finished some of her not so favourite chores.  Her replies to her fan 
mail were all done and bundled up to be mailed.  She had gone over 
the galley proofs for her next book with a fine tooth-comb, only 
turning up three typos.  Now she sat and waited, watching the clock. 
She figured nine o'clock was a civilised time to call.  Eight was too 
early and by ten he may have gone out to do errands.  She didn't want 
to miss talking to him.

She watched anxiously, the minute hand moving incredibly slowly until 
it was 8:58, then 8:59, then ...

Her phone rang.

"Hello?"

"I missed you."

"Michael," Vicky exclaimed in relief.  "I missed you, too."

"Is this a good time to call?  I didn't want to phone too early..."

"This is perfect," Vicky reassured him quickly.  "I've been thinking 
about you."

"I've been thinking about you, too," he said, huskily.

Vicky felt herself get weak in the knees from his tone of voice.

***

Vicky and Michael tried an experiment that day.  Vicky brought her 
laptop with her to Michael's place and discovered that she had no 
problem concentrating on her writing while he worked on composing a 
new song.  Her fingers tapped a merry counterpoint on her keyboard to 
his short strummed phrases on the guitar.  They were delighted to 
discover that they both had similar work habits.  Vicky liked to work 
for a solid couple of hours in the late morning before taking a lunch 
break.  After lunch, she usually did her more routine work, like 
answering her fan mail, or other paperwork, before working on her 
writing once more.  Michael followed the same kind of daily routine 
as she did.  Their work habits meshed as if they had been planned 
that way.

Seeing as it was such a lovely day, Vicky made a picnic lunch for 
them, and they strolled to the closest park to eat it.  They basked 
in the spring sun for an hour before heading back to Michael's to 
work some more.

Vicky ran out of steam sooner than Michael, her sleepless night 
starting to catch up with her.  She took a break from her typing and 
listened to him work.

It was fascinating how he put a tune together.  He started out with a 
simple phrase and then fiddled with it, improvising around it and 
subtly changing one note at a time until he was happy with what he 
had.

And it was fascinating how he composed.  His keyboard was hooked up 
to his computer.  He could modulate a tune with the flip of a switch 
or could print his music out without having to transcribe it by hand. 
He had told her that this had caused him no problems when he had 
started using it after his accident.  He had used this program so 
much he knew it upside down and inside out and didn't need his eyes 
to run it.  Vicky enjoyed watching his fingers dance over the keys as 
he worked.  As the tune started to take shape, he put snippets of 
words together with various phrases, the song taking shape a little 
at a time.

As Vicky listened, though, she became a little worried as to where 
his song was going.   She heard phrases such as 'the dark angel 
afloat on an ocean of broken glass' and 'the heavenly host hidden in 
plain sight.'  When he sang, 'she walks among us, unbeknownst, hiding 
her nature from the light' she really started to worry.

"Michael, what's your song about?" she asked, nonchalantly.

"You were listening?" he asked.

"Yeah, I hope that was okay."

He nodded.  "I'm just not used to working with someone else in the 
room."  He paused.  "It's about...her," he finally answered.

"Her?" Vicky asked, her heart in her mouth.

He sighed. "Yeah.  Her.  You know, Nightwind. I can't stop thinking about her."

"Oh."

He was quick to reassure her. "Don't get me wrong.  I'm not obsessed 
with her or anything, but..."

"But you can't get her out of your head," Vicky finished glumly.

"I'm not in love with her or anything - you don't have to worry about 
that - okay?" he retorted, misinterpreting her mood.

"Okay.  But what do you mean 'she walks among us, unbeknownst?'"

Michael sighed.  "You're going to think I'm crazy, but I saw her."

"What do you mean?"

"I saw her - before my accident, I mean.  She came into the 
coffeehouse earlier in the night, wearing ordinary, everyday clothes. 
She looked like a regular person - okay, not like a regular person, 
because she was gorgeous - but not like a superhero.  I recognised 
her right away when she came back - at least, I think I did.  It's 
hard to tell because of the mask.  I'm not sure I would have, 
ordinarily.  But I've had her image seared into my brain ever since, 
and, well, maybe my memory's failed me, but I could swear that she's 
the same person that came and watched me during my first set."

"Oh."  Vicky was in shock.  She couldn't believe that he remembered 
her so vividly from both her incarnations that night.

"At first, after the accident, I thought maybe there was something 
kind of sinister about the whole thing, but now, I'm not sure.  I 
have a hard time thinking that she was stalking me.  That's just 
too... out there to be believed."

But what would he think if she told him that in reality she had been 
stalking him?  What was she going to do?

***

After Vicky arrived home to her comfortable apartment, she sat numbly 
on the couch, not noticing or appreciating her home the way she 
normally did.  She was in a panic.  What was she going to do?  It 
looked like she wouldn't ever be able to tell Michael about herself 
now.  How would he take the news that she, Vicky Kent, was really 
Nightwind who had cost him his eyes and ruined his life?  How would 
he feel knowing that he had a near invincible superhero stalking him? 
What could she say to him that would even come close to convincing 
him that she had no sinister motives in dating him?  How would he 
ever be able to believe that she really did love him?  And how would 
he be able to love her in return?

No, she could never tell him the truth, now.  It just wasn't 
possible.  What was she going to do?

***

Over the next few days, Michael couldn't help but wonder whether 
there was something bothering Vicky.  He couldn't quite put his 
finger on it, but there was something different, subtly different 
about her.  He asked her once, worried that she might be entertaining 
second thoughts about him and about their relationship, but the 
fervour of her response to that question had put all those doubts out 
of his head.

No, he was really beginning to get to know Vicky and he was sure that 
if there really were a problem, she wouldn't be able to hide it from 
him.  Would she?

***

Vicky lethargically dragged herself out of her bed.  She stumbled 
into her ensuite bathroom and splashed cold water on her face before 
regarding her drawn visage in the mirror over the sink. Blech!  For a 
fleeting moment, Vicky was grateful that Michael couldn't see.  She 
didn't want him looking at her when she looked so completely 
horrible.  She pushed that unworthy thought out of her head, ashamed 
of her lapse in sensitivity, even in the privacy of her own thoughts.

She did look awful.  Her complexion was paler than usual, and she had 
bags under her eyes, leaving her face looking somewhat gaunt.  She 
looked blah.

She gripped the sink, looked herself in the eyes and asked herself, 
once again, what the heck she was going to do.  As per usual, she had 
no answer.

No, she didn't know what she was going to do, but one thing she did 
know was that they couldn't go on like this.  She couldn't go on like 
this.  She loved Michael.  She couldn't keep lying to him.  It was 
killing her inside.

***

Michael strummed a few chords on his twelve-string.  He modulated one 
of them, changing it from a major to a minor key.  Yes, that was much 
better.  His thoughts were interrupted by a very audible sniff on 
Vicky's part.

"Vicky, are you crying?"

There was a long pause before she replied.  "No."  The bleak sound of 
her one word answer belied her denial.

He hurried to her and crouched at her side.  Lifting one hand up, he 
fumbled for her face to discover her cheeks were wet with tears.

"Honey, what's wrong?"

"Oh, I... I saw a bad accident on the news, and I can't stop thinking 
about it.  It was pretty bad."

"The school bus?"

"Uh huh.  Three superheroes in Metropolis and not one got there in 
time."  She choked on the last word.

"Vicky, honey, they can't be everywhere at once - you know that.  It 
doesn't matter if they have superpowers or not.  Accidents happen. 
And they can happen so quickly that there is no way that anyone - 
superhero or not - could prevent them."

"But it was awful!  I saw it... on the news.  A little girl died in 
Nightwind's arms.  It was awful seeing her so limp, like a rag doll."

He wrapped his arms around her and rocked her back and forth. She was 
so tender hearted.  It really had been a horrendous accident, and it 
would have upset anyone who saw the coverage of it.  But she couldn't 
have been more upset if she had been the one that hadn't got there in 
time.

***

Once more, Vicky was finding it difficult to drag herself out of bed. 
She lay on her back staring at the ceiling, her tears rolling down 
the sides of her face to soak her pillow.  It became a little easier 
to get up when she had the added incentive of her phone ringing.

"Hello?"

"Vicky, darling, it's Belinda, sweetheart," cooed her publisher's 
marketing assistant.  "I hope I'm not calling too early, but you know 
what they say about the early bird."

"No, you're not calling too early.  What can I do for you?"

"Actually, darling, you should be asking what I can do for you 
instead. I phoned around and managed to get in contact with Lukas 
Schmidt and Daphne Jones, only the two top music agents in the whole 
United States, don't you know?  They've both heard your friend's CD 
and they both liked it.  I've booked appointments for you and your 
boy-toy this afternoon.  Lukas can see you at one and Daphne at 
three."

"Belinda!  I just wanted the names; I didn't expect appointments. 
And he's not my boy-toy!"

"No need to thank me, sweetheart.  Once I told the powers that be 
that you had called looking for this info, they pulled some strings 
for you. Nothing's too good for our best selling author!  Anyway, 
darling, I've booked you two tickets on the 10:30 flight to New York 
- Gate 150 at Metropolis Terminal Two.  Be there at least 45 minutes 
early.  The tickets are being held in your name."

"But, Belinda, I haven't even talked to Michael about it..."

"No time like the present, darling.  Better give him a call.  Bye, 
bye, sweetheart.  Got to run, and so do you.  You have to be at the 
airport in forty-five minutes."

Vicky listened to the click of the phone as Belinda hung up in her 
ear. She regarded the receiver in a daze before hanging it back up. 
It took her a moment to catch her breath after her conversation with 
the rather dippy Belinda, but she managed it and then she picked up 
the phone and placed another call.

"Hi, Michael... I have something to tell you..."

***

Michael didn't quite feel awake yet.  He shook his head, still trying 
to adjust to the speed with which everything was happening.  He 
wasn't sure how he felt about this most recent upheaval in his life.

"So, do you turn all your friends' lives upside down, or is it just 
me?" Michael asked as he sat beside Vicky in first class.

"It seems to be just you," Vicky admitted, wryly.  "And flying to New 
York on the spur of the moment was not entirely my idea.  Are you 
sure you're okay with this?  I don't want you to think that I'm 
buying you an agent, because I'm not."

Michael smiled.  "I know, so would you please stop explaining? In the 
long run, Lukas Schmidt and Daphne Jones both don't care who you are. 
I know that."

And yet, at the same time, he couldn't help but reflect that plain 
old Michael Gale would never have been able to make this kind of 
contact.  He was very grateful, but at the same time, Vicky's help 
smacked of charity, making him feel a little wary.  Maybe it was 
chauvinistic on his part, but he wanted to be the one to do wonderful 
things for her.  He wanted to look after her rather than the other 
way around.  Why would she want to be with someone who needed her 
help all the time?

He shook his head again, still overwhelmed by how quickly everything 
had happened.  He had been fresh out of the shower, hadn't even 
finished getting dressed, when Vicky called.  It had only taken him a 
moment to think about all the implications.  He wouldn't need 
luggage; they were going to return later in the day.  Vicky had 
assured him that a suit wasn't necessary, and he had clean jeans and 
a decent t-shirt to wear. His hair wasn't too shaggy.  He had no 
appointments.  His only worry was what would happen if he got a call 
on his cell phone, but the chances of that happening were slim.  He 
had only got on the transplant list less than a week ago, and there 
was approximately an 18-month wait.  All the same, he had been told 
to rent a cell phone, not to hand the number out to anyone other than 
the transplant service, and keep it with him at all times, so he had.

The engines revved suddenly as the pilot got ready to take off.  He 
was surprised to feel Vicky clutch at him, her hands cold and clammy.

"Are you okay?" he asked in concern.

"I don't like flying... on planes," she admitted, her voice shaking. 
"I get a little claustrophobic."

Michael tugged her closer to him, grateful to be able to do something 
for her, instead of the other way around.  "Shhh," he murmured, 
soothingly.  "Just hold on to me, okay?"  He draped his arm around 
her shoulders.  She huddled into him, like a frightened kitten, her 
head snuggling into his chest.

"You don't mind?" she asked, in a small, plaintive voice.

"Of course not," he was quick to reassure her, all the while 
struggling with the resurgence of his feelings of inadequacy.

***

Lunch turned out to be a giant disappointment for Michael.  He hated 
airline food with a passion, but even so, he had been prepared to 
eat, as he knew they wouldn't have time when they landed.  However, 
he was disappointed to learn that lunch consisted of chicken cordon 
bleu with spaghetti.  He decided to decline his meal, not wanting to 
take a chance of getting a stain on his shirt.  Vicky offered to help 
him, but he prevaricated, telling her that he wasn't hungry.  He 
didn't want to be dependent on her all the time, and he didn't want 
her to feel that he couldn't look after himself.

As they came into New York on their approach pattern, Michael's 
thoughts turned to Vicky, sitting beside him.  He was still worried 
about her and was worried about where their relationship was going. 
In light of Vicky having made arrangements for agents to review his 
work, he couldn't help but wonder if she would be able to be happy 
with him.  She was a successful writer, and he was a handicapped, 
struggling musician.  What did he have to offer her?

*** Michael was pretty quiet during the disembarkation process, Vicky 
observed.  She wondered if he were nervous as the time for his 
appointments drew closer.  For her part, she wasn't nervous; she knew 
that Michael had a superior talent.  He not only had a fantastic 
voice, but he also wrote the most incredible lyrics and set them to 
wonderfully haunting tunes.  She knew that neither agent would have 
deigned to see him if they both weren't ready to sign him to a 
contract immediately.

She supposed that his nerves were keeping him from eating.  She 
sympathised.  She, too, had trouble eating when she was worried.

It was such a relief to have something different to think about than 
her rather depressing concerns of the last few days.  Travelling to a 
different locale helped to dissipate the gloomy cloud that had been 
hovering over her head.  She felt a bit reckless in her temporary 
respite from her worries.

Much to her surprise, Vicky and Michael were met by a limousine, the 
driver standing and waiting, holding up her name on a card.  Upon 
questioning, the driver informed Vicky that the limo was courtesy of 
her publisher.

"Would you and your friend care to follow me, Miss Kent?" he asked, 
with a grandiose flourish.

Vicky acquiesced, Michael took her arm and they set off following the 
ramrod straight back of the driver.  He deftly led them through the 
crush of people to a shiny black limo.  "Here we are."  The driver 
opened the door and watched as Vicky led Michael over.  Michael 
rested his one hand lightly on the shiny finish of the limo and 
fumbled for the opening with the other.

"Sir, you're going to have to watch your head," the driver bellowed 
in Michael's ear causing him to jump.  "Now, make sure you duck.  We 
don't want you to hurt yourself, do we?"  He enunciated clearly and 
spoke loudly as if to a small child.

Michael's lips tightened into a tight, thin line and his face 
flushed, but he didn't say anything as he carefully got into the 
limo.  Vicky followed him, flabbergasted by the driver's patronising 
attitude towards her friend and his handicap.

It only took a second before the limo started to move into traffic. 
Vicky looked around, located the button that ensured privacy and 
firmly pressed it.  "Do people talk like that to you a lot?" she 
asked in a low voice.

"Like what?" Michael hissed in response.  "Like my brains disappeared 
when my vision did?  Like I turned into a child again, the second I 
couldn't see?"  He paused a second, took a deep breath and blew it 
out slowly.  "Yeah, a few do.  Not many, thankfully, but enough to 
remind me that I'm not a man in the eyes of the world anymore," he 
finished bitterly.

Vicky laid her hand gently against the side of his face.  "That's not 
true, Michael.  Don't judge everyone by the same standards."  She 
dropped her voice, almost whispering.  "Just because this guy is an 
ignorant, uneducated boor doesn't mean that other people are.  Have I 
ever treated you that way?"

"Not exactly."  He pulled away from her and folded his arms across his chest.

She recoiled from his harsh tone as if she had been struck.  "What do 
you mean?"

"Offering to cut my food on the plane as if I were five years old. 
Need I go on?"

Vicky shook her head.  "But, I didn't do that because you're blind. 
Well, okay, I guess I did, but that's only because..." She paused, at 
a loss for words.  She had to force her words out past a lump in her 
throat.  "I'm sorry, Michael.  I didn't mean to be patronising.  I'm 
really sorry."

***

Michael was ashamed of his bitter outburst.  Vicky didn't deserve 
this. She didn't deserve to be snarled at for one thing when he was, 
in reality, feeling uncomfortable about something else.

"I'm sorry.  I didn't mean it," he said, softly.

To his dismay, he heard her sniffle a bit.  The unreasonably angry 
feelings he had been harbouring dissipated instantly at the sound.

"I'm sorry," he repeated helplessly.  "I feel so ungrateful and 
mean-spirited, but I can't help it.  I feel like some kind of... 
boy-toy," he blurted out.

He was surprised to hear Vicky giggle in response to his outburst.

"Okay, what did I say?" he asked, puzzled by her response.

"I'm sorry," she replied, still giggling.  "It's just that Belinda, 
the one who made all the arrangements for us, well, she called you 
exactly the same thing.  But Michael, she's the dippiest person I 
know.  She's wrong about everything.  There is no way that you could 
ever be a boy-toy!"

He smiled, his mood lightening a bit at the sound of her mirth.  "Why 
not?  Aren't I pretty enough?"  He turned to face her and batted his 
eyelashes in her general direction.

She giggled even louder, leaning into his side.  "Oh, sweetie, you 
are just the cutest thing.  When we walk down the street, all the 
construction workers turn and stare," she lisped in a simpering tone 
of voice. "They must think you're as cute and sexy," the lisp 
disappeared as her voice got throaty, "as I do."

He grinned and took her hand in his, happy that they were joking 
around once again.  But this wasn't dealing with the issue that still 
bothered him.  He started speaking once more, picking his words with 
great care, trying to organize his thoughts.

"I am sorry, Vicky.  It's just been really hard since my accident. 
I've had people helping me across the street, helping me with my 
banking, and helping me with my shopping.  When this first happened, 
I even had people helping me get dressed or find the washroom.  I was 
only in the hospital for a few days, but I was always afraid that 
someone might even try and help me GO to the washroom!  I feel so 
ungrateful, but it's really hard not to resent the fact that now 
you're helping me, too.  You set the wheels in motion.  If it weren't 
for you, we wouldn't be going to see the best two music agents in the 
whole country.  We wouldn't have been able to fly from Metropolis to 
New York, let alone first class; I wouldn't have been able to afford 
it.  We wouldn't be in a limo.  I'm sorry.  You must hate me for 
feeling this way."

"So, what you're saying," Vicky said, in a low, soft voice, "is that 
my having money and being able to do things for you is a threat to 
you?  It diminishes you in some way?"

Michael shook his head.  Obviously, he hadn't been able to explain 
himself very well.  "No, that's not it."

"So, what is it?"  She laid her hand gently on his arm.

"You have to understand.  It's not the money.  I understand the 
money.  And you know I think you deserve all your success - you're a 
fantastic writer!  But I want to do things for you.  Right now, our 
relationship is so one-sided.  You're doing everything for me.  I 
want to have a turn looking after you.  I want us to be equals.  I 
want to, oh God, I want to feel like a man, again."

"Oh, Michael," she sighed.   "I don't think of you as a child.  I am 
VERY aware of you as a man, and I love you."

"I love you, too.  But sometimes I just feel so weak and powerless. 
Maybe it's sexist of me, but it makes me feel totally..." he searched 
for the right word, "emasculated."

"How do you feel when I do this?" she purred as she pulled his head 
down and kissed him passionately.  Her hands roamed across his back 
and shoulders.

He wrapped his arms around her, his fingers immediately burying 
themselves in her hair.  He protested, a small sound deep in his 
throat, when she slowly pulled away from him.

She laid her head against his shoulder.  He turned his face to her, 
appreciating the clean, fresh scent of her hair.

"So, how did you feel?" she asked, again.

"Better," he admitted with a grin.  "Much better."

She snuggled closer to him.  "I'm glad.  But I should apologise to 
you, too.  I'm sorry.  I should have asked you, Michael.  I should 
have asked you if I could help, instead of taking over like I did. 
It wasn't very sensitive of me."

He brushed a kiss against the top of her head, her hair silky under 
his lips.  "No, it was wonderful.  I'm just being totally 
oversensitive and touchy.  I should be thanking you, instead of 
snarling at you.  I'm sorry.  It was wonderful," he repeated. "You're 
wonderful.  It's just that I don't see any reason for you to bother 
with me.  I can't DO anything for you.  I'm more trouble than I'm 
worth.  I can't help but wonder what you get out of our relationship."

"Michael!  There are loads of reasons why I should bother with you. 
You're the most talented musician I've heard in a long time.  You're 
intelligent, well-educated, interesting, great company, and, well, 
the kicker is that you are the," her voice dropped, becoming husky, 
"the sexiest man I have ever seen, and you make me feel things that 
no one has ever made me feel before."

"Oh, Vicky!"  He clasped her tightly.

"Michael, please don't ever think that we shouldn't be together," 
Vicky said with a catch in her voice.  "I don't have a lot of 
friends.    I've never wanted a lot of friends.  I was always happy 
with my own company, never feeling lonely.  But now, when I'm not 
with you, I do feel lonely.  I need to be with you.  You wondered 
what you do for me; you make me happy.  You make me feel like part of 
the human race.  You, you complete me.  And," she dropped her voice 
to a whisper, "you excite me.  More than I can say."

Michael swallowed a lump in his throat.  She meant what she was 
saying; he could tell.  Her words were heartfelt, sincere and very 
thought provoking.  He had never thought of Vicky needing emotional 
support.  She had a valid point.

"You excite me, too, Vicky," he whispered in response.  "It's funny; 
I know you've described yourself, but even so, I don't really know - 
I can't really know what you look like.  But even so, sight unseen, 
you excite me so much, I honestly don't know how I've managed to 
restrain myself from asking for more from you."

"Why haven't you asked for more?" she asked, her voice so low that he 
could barely hear her.

"I don't know."  He thought about it for a moment.  Why had he been 
so reticent with her?  He loved her, she loved him, so what was the 
problem?  "I guess I was afraid."

"Afraid of what, Michael?"

He turned his face away from her, closed his eyes tight and 
whispered, "I was afraid that I'd scare you, that I'd only end up 
pushing you away.  I was afraid that you wouldn't want me.  I don't 
have a lot to offer.  I'm the stereotypical starving artist.  And not 
only that, I'm disabled."

"Oh, Michael." Her voice caught in her throat.  She pulled him back 
to face her.  "I could never push you away, but I'm afraid that 
you..."

He had never felt so vulnerable, so naked, facing her and not being 
able to see any inkling of what she was thinking, of what she was 
feeling.  Was she looking at him with pity?  Or revulsion?  Or anger? 
"That I what?"

"Michael, let's spend the night," she blurted out, not answering his 
question.   "We can go out for a nice dinner, take a carriage ride 
through Central Park and then..." She took a deep breath before 
continuing, "... we can spend the night together."  Her hands 
clutched his, her fingers cold in his grasp.

"Are you sure?  I'm not pushing you into anything?"

"The only thing that's kept me from... seducing you was that I was 
afraid that you would think I was a cheap hussy.  I want you, 
Michael."

"Vicky!"

"Michael, I am sure.  I want to be with you.  I want to sleep with 
your arms around me and wake up with your head on the same pillow. 
And," she paused for a second, "I want to do a whole bunch of... 
other things, interesting things... exciting things before we do go 
to sleep."

"Vicky!"  He was shocked, pleased and more aroused than he could have 
believed possible at her brazen words.  And nervous.  Very, very 
nervous.  Vicky was too important to make a mistake with.  She meant 
too much to him.

"Am I embarrassing you, Michael?" she whispered.

He cleared his throat and coughed before finding his voice.  "No. 
Embarrassment is not what I'm feeling right now."  Unable to help 
himself, he self-consciously shifted in his seat.

The limo smoothly pulled to a stop, and a second later, Michael heard 
the passenger door open.

"Sir, ma'am, we're here."

Michael shook his head at the untimely interruption.  "At least I'm 
not nervous anymore."

***

Vicky sat waiting patiently in the reception area as Michael met with 
Daphne Jones.  His meeting with Lukas Schmidt had gone very well, 
with the man offering to represent him.  Michael had taken Vicky's 
advice that she had hastily imparted to him in the elevator, and he 
had told the man that he would think about it.  After all, Vicky 
assured him between appointments, he might like Daphne better.

Michael had asked Vicky to join him while he met with the two agents, 
but Vicky had declined, not wanting anything to detract from his 
moment of glory.  She sensed that he needed to do this on his own.

She shook her head, thinking about their conversation in the limo. 
He had seemed so self confident over the last few days.  She had 
forgotten his initial awkwardness when they had first met.  This 
attack of low self-esteem on his part had been a huge shock to her 
system.  She hoped that she had managed to convince him that it was 
who he was that mattered to her, not whether or not he could see, or 
look after her, or anything like that.

She sighed.  Here was another problem.  If she ever did manage to 
tell him her secret - which didn't look like it would ever be 
possible anyway - would it make him feel inadequate?

Ben didn't feel that way about Marty.  He seemed to enjoy her 
super-strength.  Vicky smiled.  She had seen them giggling and 
cavorting like two kids only once, but it had been memorable.

Shortly after they were married, she had visited them on the farm. 
Ben had been in a particularly good mood - actually, not just a good 
mood but an incredibly silly mood.  Ben and Marty had been standing 
side by side, talking and joking with Vicky, when Ben had casually 
reached behind his wife and, without even blinking an eye, had 
pinched her on a very personal part of her anatomy.  Marty turned and 
mock glared at her husband, who promptly looked up into the cloudless 
sky and observed, "I think it looks like rain. Don't you, dear?"

Marty looked at him suspiciously, but then turned back to Vicky.  Ben 
winked at his sister-in-law, a completely deadpan expression on his 
face, and pinched his wife again.  Marty issued a warning, her words 
completely at odds to the twinkle in her eye, and Ben asked, oh so 
innocently, what he had done wrong.  As soon as Marty turned back to 
Vicky, she jumped as her husband again pinched.  "That's it!" Marty 
announced as she pounced on Ben.  She then picked him up and tossed 
him about fifty feet in the air before catching him.  He laughed 
helplessly as he flew through the air, his arms and legs all akimbo. 
Marty threw him up and caught him a few more times with Ben chortling 
through the whole thing.  He had looked like an oversized kid being 
playfully tossed by a parent.  Finally, Marty threw him up in the air 
and instead of letting him fall back into her arms, had flown up to 
meet and catch him in mid-air.  They wrapped their arms around each 
other and promptly indulged in a kiss so passionate that Vicky had 
felt compelled to clear her throat and remind them that they had 
company.

That was the kind of acceptance that she could only hope and pray for 
from Michael, if and when she ever managed to tell him about herself.

Her thoughts turned to the night to come.  She frowned as her 
conscience reminded her that this was absolutely the worst thing she 
could do.  It wasn't right to get even more involved with Michael 
under these false pretences.  But, mistake or not, it was going to 
happen.  Vicky might be having second thoughts, but there was no way 
that she was going to reject Michael in this most personal of ways 
when he was feeling so completely insecure about his manhood.  And 
she selfishly wanted this to happen.  She loved Michael and she 
wanted to be with him.  She had never felt this way about anyone 
before and knew that she never would about anyone else in the future. 
She wanted to make love at least once in her life.  She wanted to 
know that she was loved, emotionally, physically and completely, even 
if it couldn't be permanent.  She was a woman in love and she wanted 
to indulge that love even if it cost her very soul.  She wanted to be 
selfish and reckless and abandoned.  She wanted to drown her pain in 
the pleasures of his flesh.  She wanted... she wanted Michael. 
Always and forever.

She had always planned on waiting for the right man and for marriage. 
She had seen up close and personal the damage that could be caused by 
making a wrong romantic decision.  Well, Michael was the right man 
and marriage didn't look like a possibility, did it?  One out of two 
wasn't bad, was it?

The door opened and Daphne Jones emerged, closely followed by 
Michael.  From the pleased expression on his face, Vicky could tell 
that Daphne had made an excellent impression on him.  She quickly 
moved to his side, grasped his hand and squeezed gently.  "So, how 
did it go?" she asked as she smiled at the two of them.

***

Vicky desperately clutched Michael's hand as she watched the numbers 
rise on the elevator display.  ...10...11...12...14...  Vicky 
reflected that the fourteenth floor was really the thirteenth floor. 
She looked down at her key card again.  1410.  Did their being on the 
fourteenth floor really mean that they were on the thirteenth floor 
and this whole thing was unlucky?  Not meant to be?  She didn't know.

The doors slid open.  Vicky took a deep breath and a tighter grip on 
Michael's hand before leading him from the elevator.  They walked 
side-by-side down the corridor, the sound of their steps muffled by 
the thick carpet.  They didn't talk but proceeded in a tense silence.

Vicky pulled Michael to a stop at the entrance to their room.  She 
extended the key card in a shaking hand, only to drop it before she 
could use it.  With a muffled curse, she dropped to her knees and 
scrabbled on the carpet for it.  Retrieving it, she extended it once 
more to the slot at the side of the door.  This time, she managed to 
insert it successfully.  A moment later, she opened the door with an 
audible click.

Michael silently followed her into the large, luxurious hotel room, 
stopping just inside the door.  Vicky took a few more steps and 
paused, looking around.  With her peripheral vision, she noticed the 
ubiquitous tasteful print on the wall, the small bar fridge, the low 
dresser complete with TV on top, and the heavy, lined floral drapes, 
but her main focus was the very large bed in the middle of the room, 
her eyes automatically locking on it.

"Uh, Vicky?"

The sound of Michael's voice broke her reverie.  She turned to see 
him standing awkwardly in the doorway, smiling nervously in her 
general direction.

"Would you mind, um, you know, describing the room to me?  I'd kind 
of like to get out of the hallway."

"Oh, Michael, I'm so sorry."  She rushed to his side and clasped his 
hand firmly once more.  "Okay, first, here in the hallway, there's a 
closet on the right.  On the left, there's the bathroom.  Then take 
about three steps forward and the room opens out..."  Only a moment 
later, Vicky was almost finished.  "And there's a fridge in the far 
left corner, and right here," she paused, took a deep breath and 
licked her dry lips, "right here is the bed."

Michael bent over and extended a tentative hand, snapping it back 
when it made contact with the bed.  "Oh.  Yes.  It is.  A bed, I 
mean.  Right here.  Just where you said it would be."  He took a deep 
breath and slowly straightened up.  "Thanks for the nickel tour.  You 
were very clear.  I should be fine now."

Vicky nervously looked around the room once again.  "I'm, uh, I'm 
going to put my toothbrush in the bathroom.  Do you want me to put 
yours in there, too?"

"Yeah, thanks," Michael replied, overly quickly.  "Great, thanks." 
He dug in his pants pocket and pulled out the new toothbrush, still 
in its package.

Vicky grabbed it and dashed into the bathroom.  Breathing hard, she 
gripped the sink before raising her eyes to the mirror.  It was like 
looking at a stranger.  She didn't know this woman in front of her, 
who was reckless and daring and in a strange hotel room with a man. 
This wasn't like her.  She never did crazy things.  She never, ever 
compromised her morals.  She never, ever lived on the edge.  Who was 
this woman looking back at her from inside the mirror?

She ran the cold water and splashed it on her face before quickly 
brushing her teeth.  When she was done, she looked herself in the eye 
once more.  "You just be quiet," she muttered to the conscience that 
was looking desperately at her.  "Stay out of this."  Defiantly, she 
turned her back on her mirror image and marched out of the bathroom.

Michael sat perched on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped in his 
lap.  She forced herself to walk over and sit down beside him.  "So," 
she said.

"So," he replied.

They sat in silence for a long moment.  Vicky looked around the room, 
not focusing on anything in particular, too nervous to look directly 
at Michael and feeling the tension mounting between them.

"I should go brush my teeth," Michael said, breaking the silence.

To her chagrin, Vicky burst into tears.

***

Listening to Vicky cry was an agonising experience for Michael. 
"Vicky, honey," he crooned as he quickly gathered her into his arms. 
"What is it?  Is it me?  Have you changed your mind about me?"

"No! No!" she protested, violently.  "Michael, it's not you.  It's... 
it's me.  I'm so scared."

"Scared of me?" Michael asked, aghast at the possibility.  "Vicky, 
sweetheart, I would never hurt you.  You have to know that.  Please," 
he begged.  "I love you."

He felt her hand on his face, cupping his cheek as she twisted in his 
arms.  "Oh, Michael," she said, tenderly.  "I love you, too, and I 
know you would never hurt me, and I haven't changed my mind."

"So, what is it?  You can tell me.  You can tell me anything, you know that."

He felt her jerk a bit in his arms.  She was frozen for a long, tense 
moment before she sighed heavily and muttered something into his 
shirt.

"Honey, I couldn't hear you," he prodded as he lifted her face away 
from his chest.

"I've never done this before," she blurted out before burrowing back 
into him once more.

"Never done what?" he asked as his mind came to a sudden, screeching 
halt.  Did she mean...?

"I've never been with a man, Michael," Vicky said, slowly and 
solemnly. "I've never wanted to, before, and I don't know what to do, 
and what if I'm awful, and you end up hating me and..." She burst 
into tears once again.

Michael wrapped his arms even tighter around Vicky.  He rocked her 
back and forth murmuring endearments, waiting for her to calm down. 
He was patient.  It took quite a few minutes, but eventually her sobs 
slowed and stopped, leaving her sniffling a bit.  He pulled away from 
her slightly to catch her head in his hands.  Using his thumbs, he 
dried her tears.  "Vicky, when you cry, I feel like someone is 
ripping my heart out."

She laughed softly.

"What?" he asked, puzzled by her inappropriate response to his words.

"That's what my dad always says when my mom cries."

"Oh."  He pulled her close once again, stroking her hair, and 
listened to her sigh as she snuggled in closer.  Her admission 
touched him, scared him and excited him all at once.  "You know, 
Vicky, we don't have to do anything tonight.  I'd never make you do 
something that you're uncomfortable with."

"I know, Michael.  And I'm not uncomfortable, exactly, but..."

"But I have the feeling that you're not quite ready to take this 
step," he said, bluntly.

She sighed heavily.  "I don't know.  I thought I was, but..."

"I would be just as happy if I could hold you in my arms and feel you 
sleeping next to me all night."

"I could do that," she exclaimed, sounding surprised.  "Are you sure?"

He smiled.  "Of course I am.  I love you.  I do want to make love 
with you, but I want it to be right for you.  Waiting till you're 
ready is a small price to pay."

As he cradled the love of his life close to his heart, he reflected 
that everything he had said was true.  He was willing to wait.  He'd 
wait forever and a day, as long as he had a chance to be with this 
wonderful, beautiful woman.

***

Vicky lay on her back staring up at the ceiling.  She could hear 
Michael breathing slowly and evenly beside her.  She turned her head 
and looked at him, a lump rising in her throat as she realised once 
again just how much she loved this man.

He had been so gallant and, at the same time, matter of fact about 
everything.  They had sorted themselves out with nightwear.  He wore 
his briefs, and she wore her panties and had borrowed his t-shirt. 
She had worried that sharing the bed might have been awkward, but it 
hadn't been in the slightest.  Somehow, Michael had been a perfect 
gentleman while simultaneously making it quite clear that he found 
her more than attractive.  She didn't know how he had managed it, but 
he had.

She was so grateful to him for his understanding and sensitivity.  He 
had prevented her from making a big mistake - because that's what it 
would have been if they had made love.  It would have been selfish on 
her part to get intimate with him under false pretences.  It would 
have been wrong - very, very wrong.

No, she knew what she had to do.  She had two choices.  She could 
break it off with him, or tell him the truth.  There was no way that 
she could ever choose the first option, so she was stuck with the 
second one.  If he then chose to break it off with her, well, then, 
so be it, but that was not and never would be by her choice.

It was a curious feeling, this sensation of relief now that her 
decision was final.  She had been dithering about this for too long 
now, asking herself whether she should or shouldn't tell him.  Now 
that her decision was made, she wondered why it had taken so long to 
make this choice.

She had been fooling herself.  There was no way that she could ever 
walk away from Michael of her own volition, and she had been 
indulging in a nightmarish fantasy, thinking that that was a 
possibility.  It wasn't possible, plain and simple.  It could never 
happen.  And now, everything rested in Michael's competent hands. 
She had to trust him.

She twisted to face Michael completely. She watched him for a long 
time, and then, resigned to the future, she closed her eyes and slept.

***

As Michael slowly woke up, he had a nagging feeling that something 
was different.  It took him a moment to realise that he wasn't in his 
own bed and that there was someone sleeping beside him.  He lay 
quietly listening to Vicky breathing softly.  It was a very 
comforting sound.  This was nice.  He liked waking up with her in his 
bed.

He finally, reluctantly, had to extricate himself from the bed linen 
to make his way to the bathroom to answer a call of nature.  He moved 
slowly, inching his feet out, one at a time, his hands out in front 
of him catching fistfuls of air.  Vicky had described the hotel room 
to him very well, but he didn't feel that confident or comfortable in 
here.  He was quiet, striving not to make any unnecessary noise.

He was pleased when he got back to bed.  From the unchanged sound of 
her breathing, he hadn't disturbed her at all.

He folded back the top sheet and the blanket, gingerly sat down and 
slowly inserted himself back under the covers.  Just as his head 
silently hit the pillow, she stirred and mumbled.  He could feel the 
moment when she woke up and realised where she was from the tiny 
little jump she made.

"Good morning," she greeted him, huskily.

"Good morning."  He slid over to find her.  She cuddled close, her 
semi-naked flesh warm on his, giving him a bit of a shock.  He wasn't 
complaining, but he was definitely not used to having an armful of 
beautiful, half-clad woman first thing in the morning.  She was quick 
to give him a kiss.

"Mmmm," she purred.  "You brushed your teeth."

"Uh huh."

"I better go do the same."  She kissed him quickly once more and then 
slid out of the bed.  He rolled over onto his back and nonchalantly 
put his hands under his head.  He could feel a sappy smile on his 
face that was impossible to control.

A moment later, he heard the rustle of her bare feet on the carpet; a 
split second after that he once again had an armful of woman.

"There.  That's better," she announced as she half lay on his chest 
and nibbled his neck.

"You're pretty lively this morning," he said, pleased at her playfulness.

"I can't help it," Vicky said with a giggle.  "It's just so wonderful 
to wake up with you beside me."  Her voice dropped to a throaty 
whisper.  "You're so wonderful."

With one smooth motion, he rolled her over and pinned her down, 
supporting his weight on his elbows.  "You're pretty wonderful 
yourself."  His head dipped down, his mouth finding hers easily. 
Their kiss was so passionate it left him almost gasping for air.  It 
was such a fantastic kiss that he found himself going back to her for 
another and another and another.

***

Vicky ruthlessly strangled her conscience as she rolled crazily 
across the large bed, holding onto Michael for dear life.  First he 
was on top pressing her down into the mattress, and then she was, his 
body moving under her, and then he was once more.  As her breathing 
sped up, she could feel the blood rushing through her veins as every 
part of her physical being urged her to join with him in a primal, 
frantic, desperate coupling.

But as much as Vicky wanted Michael, as much as her body was driving 
her forward to him, as much as she loved him and wanted to please him 
and excite him and revere him and ravish him, with one singular act 
of will, she forced herself away from him, almost flinging herself 
off the bed in the process.  "I'm sorry," she gasped.  "I'm so 
sorry."  She moved to sit on the edge of the bed, facing away from 
him.

She felt him shift to kneel behind her, his hands grasping and 
kneading her shoulders.

"What is it?" he asked as he pressed soft kisses onto the sensitive 
nape of her neck.

She closed her eyes as his mouth left a trail of fire down her neck. 
"Michael, we have to talk."  She sighed and fell silent, not sure how 
to say that which needed to be said.

"I guess we nearly got carried away," he said, apologetically.  "I'm 
the one who should be sorry.  I know that you're not ready for this." 
His words were reasonable and understanding, but he sounded hurt and 
rejected, desolate and alone.

Vicky was quick to respond to the unspoken pain in his voice.  "I am 
ready, but there's something I have to tell you first," she murmured, 
admitting to herself how much she wanted to be with him. She turned 
around and clasped his upper arms firmly in her small hands.

He froze, his expression startled.  "You mean that?  You're ready