Remy didn't really try to analyze what brought him to this particular bedside. Just a feeling, really. A need. His or someone else's; did it really matter?

He looked over the figure in the bed. "Me'n you got a lot in common, chere. More'n you might ever know. Bet you wonderin' why I be campin' out in here, neh? Truth, chere, don' know myself. But I know 'bout bein' lonely, an' I know lonely when I feel it. Don' know if you can here me, chere, but I don' wan' anyone bein' so lonely as me. As I was, that is. I t'ink I found a new frien', yesterday.

Remy told her about his puppy, and went on to skip through his life, giving her story after story about what it was like to be him. This new Remy was more at ease simply talking than the old one could ever have dreamed of being. But there were still areas of his life that he kept sealed away from even his own memories. Demons that would shred his sanity if they ever got loose.

Dakota let his voice flow through her. It reminded her of how she felt as a child, cuddling a teddy bear, before her father found it had it destroyed. That close your eyes and snuggle feeling that you could only get at night, with everyone gone, and only your toys to hear your secrets.

After being disowned by her parents, she'd moved from town to town, never able to get a decent job because of her vocal handicap. She'd lived hand to mouth, never knowing what tomorrow would bring, so she learned not to rely on something unless she had it in her hands.

She listened to his stories, and the emotions behind them. She'd had an awful lot of practice at that. When you couldn't talk, people acted like you were stupid, or something. They'd say the most incredible things right in front of you, and act surprised when you understood. She'd had to learn to read people in self-defense, hoping she could avoid contact with those who she could tell were going to treat her like Forrest Gump, or something. She hoped this Remy wasn't like that. Of course, he didn't know she couldn't talk, so she'd have to see about that part. He also thought she was dying, and so anything he said couldn't ever be repeated. She'd learned to look past what was being said, and hear what voices would say without using words and she put that particular talent to use.

Remy needed love. **Pfff. Like I'm the most qualified person on the planet to recognize that one.** It was true though. The total lack of love in her life made her eminently able to recognize another person whose heart was dying.

There was a small hesitation in Remy's voice, but then it flowed on again.

She'd managed, though. She'd always been one of those people who you could never remember five minutes after you left there presence. She was ordinary from the top of her average brown hair, down an average female body, to her quietly moving feet. She had always been that way. It was far better to fade into the woodwork than attract her fathers attention, far better to keep to herself than to attract the attention of other children who would tease or torment her in school. As an adult, calling attention to herself meant calling attention to her handicap, and what was left of her pride wouldn't allow it, knowing others would pity her, or worse yet, would think she must be slow or something. So she kept her talent for mischief well in hand, and well hidden, deep inside.

Habits of a lifetime dictated that she not call attention to herself. If she wanted to continue having Remy talk to her like a real person, she needed to become part of the bed beneath her. Turn herself into her old teddy bear. Be a non-person.

Time was passing, how much she had no idea. But Remy's voice was getting huskier with each word. Soon he would stop speaking. She didn't want that to ever happen, but she had no claim on him. He was playing white knight, to her supposed damsel in distress. Had she known Remy Lebeau a year ago, she'd have broken into hysterical laughter at the thought of that, but it's as well she didn't. This Remy knew how to simply give, and not take.

She was taking a great deal of his time. It must have been a couple of hours, at least. **Why is he doing this for me?** she wondered.

"Don' know why I'm tellin' you all dis, petite." It was almost like he was answering her unspoken question. "Used to be, if I wanted to talk, I had Stormy. Tol' you 'bout her, didn' I? Or sometimes, most times, I jus' go up on de roof, and watch the worl' go by. Always does, whether I be dere, or not. Been hard, dis las' year or so. Stormy be gone, an' don' have nobody to talk to 'bout t'ings, an' ...well, I jus' can' get up on de roof no more. Used to be lots of t'ings I wouldn' tell Stormy 'bout, but I knew she was dere. But now, well, dere are jus' some t'ings you can' tell nobody, an' you can' let nobody know dey dere." Remy drifted into silence.

**Poor Remy.**

"Don' be feelin' sorry for me, petite. I do all right. I got Chat now, and t'ings be lookin' up. Did I tell you dey wan' do more sur-" He stopped for a moment. "Non. Not goin' dere. I don' t'ink you can hear me, but I don' wan'...I jus wan'..." He was silent once again.

**You just want to be you, and not have to explain what you are to anyone.**

"You're right. I just w-" There was a nine month and one week pregnant pause. "Did I jus' say what I t'ink I said?"

**He heard me?**

"Mon Dieu! I t'ink I wan' wake up now. Petite...you talkin to me."

Dakota reeled in shock. But being in a somewhat perverse mood after her rather trying day, she recovered quickly. **Well, if you're the satin and smoke voiced frenchman sitting next to me, I would think that yes, I'm talking to you. Not that I want to believe it either. But...well hell. Why not? There are worse things that could be happening to me. What's a little delusion among friends?**