Title: Early Purple Morning

A/N: A dream I had a couple nights ago, except for the ending. Don’t ‘member how it ended, really…

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“I’ve something to tell you,” he said from behind her, sitting up in bed. She turned her head towards his voice in the darkness, purple light spilling across her lap.

She didn’t say anything. Her eyes felt heavy. She wanted to fall asleep in her chair.

“I’ve got cancer. Like your grandmother. Like Patrick Swayze.” His voice was low, steady; calm & controlled & rational.

She felt weird. Heavy & tired & disbelieving & accepting. Contradictions & contractions & corrections.

“I’ve only three weeks to live.” He had a tinge of a British accent now, which sounded weird in his Southern mouth.

She started to cry. She stuffed her fist in her mouth, mewling quietly around it, staring out of the sliding glass door. Her eyes glazed over, keeping silent watch over the night; what was the early purple morning & what was real?

He walked towards her; she watched his progress, watching his form appear in the glass as he stepped into the faint light.

He stood behind her, warm from the bed, the heat flowing from his chest over her cold back; the transfer of cold to heat made goosebumps burst, wrapping her in an electric blanket filled with ice. He put his arms around her, clasing his hands over her stomach in a rare moment of intimacy.

She leaned back into him; he leant his head on her shoulder, his chin poking her collarbone. Their breathing regulated itself; hearts beating the same; she watched him as he watched her, in the glass.

“Don’t worry,” he hummed in her ear, musical & wonderful & terrible.

They stood there, him holding her, until the red sun came up; she didn’t bat an eye as he fell away, his heat leaving as overwhelmingly as it had come.