The afternoon passed uneventfully and would have been like any other day in which their time off from work had coincided. It would have been, except for Ellette's darkened mood. Normally they'd banter. She'd tease him about his eclectic tastes in everything from music to food, and he'd simply shrug it off and explain why she should try this or that. Today though, she was, understandably quiet.

Even when he'd brought out the squash shaped like ruffled flying saucers, she didn't bat an eye. No smart assed remark about his obsession with the farm stand down the street and their strange organic wears. He placed the little, off white, pattypan squash, as he'd called them, carefully along the countertop. Once they were in a neat line, he caught her eye before spinning each one so they looked like a bunch of tops carved by blind men. They wobbled and spun for a relatively short time before each one came to a tottering halt.

She couldn't help but crack a smile at the awkward little vegetable dance. Rand leaned down on the counter then, to her eye level. "I caught that smile." He said, smugly.

She laughed and sat up. "Yes, portly, spinning top squash are so very amusing. You're quite the comedian this afternoon. As lowly as prop comics are, I still give you kudos for the effort."

He gave her a mock bow before ruffling her short-cropped black hair and going about his business in the kitchen. She stared after him, her mind drifting back to the water that swallowed them both whole. First the boy, then Rand... granted, Rand was alive and well, but did it mean something?

Even with a full stomach, she found it hard to relax once Rand had shooed her back to the couch. She made an attempt to help with the dishes, as was their routine, but he was having none of it. With the clatter of dishes and the buzzing radio piping out oldies, she worked with a frustrated determination to crochet a scarf. Though she'd likely never wear the thing, she was sure she could find someone who would need the extra warmth it could provide despite all its flaws.

After a while, Rand settled down beside her on the couch and fiddled with his guitar, working through scales. It was little more than slightly melodic noise to Ellette, yet it set the mood and helped calm her nerves. She found herself drifting again, despite her determination to not sleep. She couldn't help but fear another repeat performance of the dream in the depths. Between blinks, she was gone before she knew it.

She was sitting, much like she had been in the waking world, beside Rand. Yet now, the guitar was gone. He sat, cross-legged, hands in his lap. He was still, frighteningly so. She found herself sitting stiffly in response to his tense posture.

"Rand?" she whispered, for fear of disturbing something.

He glanced up at her, his dark eyes vacant. He held his hands up, the network of scars that traced from his fingers up his arms began to glow. It was a warm, golden glow, yet despite the comforting golden hue, it seemed to eat at him. She stared in horror as his hands began to dissolve, pulled apart by the golden light.

With a gasp and a start, she awoke. Rand was there, but real, normal. He stared at her, setting his guitar on the ground beside him. "Ellette, are you okay?"

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

He furrowed his brow, giving her a hard look before turning away. He went to the shelf lined with books, retrieving the wooden case on the top shelf. "You're sure you're okay?" He asked again, cradling the simple, worn case.

She nodded again, a sad smile tracing her lips. Once the flute came out, his evening was pretty much over.

He returned to his place beside her on the couch, case across his knees, and flipped it open. It wasn't much to look at, this old wooden flute, but it meant the world to Rand. Playing it, though, was a practice in futility. His fingers no longer worked the way they once had, and it pained her to watch him. She'd never seen him play before -- before his hands had been so brutally crippled. She still caught glimpses of the skill his hands had once possessed.

The passion, that was undeniable. His love for music shown in so much of what he did; the obscure music shows he frequented, the fact that he knew ever busker on the street between his work and home, and the way his fingers always seemed to twitch to the rhythm of a melody only he could hear.

He put the flute to his lips, and the first flitting notes were pure heaven. Ellette sighed despite herself, enchanted. She listened, fighting back the images from the dream just moments before. His fingers danced across the long wooden flute, and she watched mesmerized until the notes began to falter and slow. She could never really tell if there was a notable improvement in the amount of time in which he could play before his hands would stiffen and cramp.

He stopped and sat staring at the flute. A Nay, he had told her it was called. He retrieved the case, settling the instrument in it with quick efficiency before returning it to the shelf. He stood, stiff and white-knuckled for a moment before turning back to where Ellette sat on the couch. A slightly forced, bittersweet smile traced his features.

"Longer each time." He told her. The slightest hint of a tremor in his voice let on the doubt about that statement, but it needed to be said. He would fight for that hope, as false as it might be. Each time he would play more nimbly, longer, without hesitation or fault, in his mind if not in reality.

He sat down lightly beside her, scooping up the remote. She only allowed him to fumbled with it for a few moments before she caught his hand. She scooted closer to him, gently massaging the hand she held. After her day, and this all too somber ritual of his, she had no words of comfort or encouragement for him.

Night was nearing, and it was likely she would be pulled into another walking dream. She had learned not to fight it, to embrace her gift. If she fought the dreams when they chose to come, she would suffer terrifying nightmares. Now, she had dreamwalked through a living nightmare, only to have two more nightmares. While less traumatic, each stole her peace of mind along with her sleep. The dreamwalk and the actual dreams, all of it, meant something. Exactly what, she was afraid to consider.

These thoughts and more consumed her as she worked on Rand's hands. She rubbed her fingertips in a slow circular motion over each scar tissue knotted finger. The silence between grew strained, uncomfortable. "You should," she started, fumbling for words "... see the doctors again."

He laughed low and softly. "This is the best therapy."

She paused momentarily, suddenly self-conscious. Her eyes flicked to his face, but his gaze was focused on the shelf and the instrument that rested there.

"Hmmm..." was her vague reply. She pulled away from him, grabbing for the remote. Flipping through the couple of free channels they picked up on on the bunny ears, she finally settled on an old action flick. The fight scenes were vaguely familiar, but she couldn't remember if she'd seen it before or if was simply such a generic film she was unable to tell it from the many others she'd watched over the years.

Rand cleared his throat, and she glanced up at him. "Thank you."

She shrugged. "Yeah, yeah. Nothing you wouldn't do for me," she muttered and focused on the TV again. It took an effort to keep from fidgeting as his proximity on the couch seemed to intrude on her attempts to lose herself in the mindlessness of television.

"Hmph." Was his grumbled response. Despite her dismissive comment, he found her hand and entwined his fingers in hers.

She took a deep breath resisting the urge to pull away. Instead, she willed herself to relax and draw the strength from this simple gesture of companionship was meant to provide. He had no intention of leaving her side, she realized, as the evening drew on and she began to nod off. No, if she walked tonight, if it went bad, he would be there to console her when she awoke. She smiled, letting herself slip, to sleep, to dream.