A story inspired by the opening scene between Barbie and Julia in "Imperfect Circles". In truth, I thought it was too soon for them to be together given that in the world of Under the Dome it's only been a week since the dome came down, but I still love them as a couple and the way their relationship was built up. This story was a fun exploration into the mind and motives of Barbie and I hope you guys will enjoy reading it as much I enjoyed writing it.

Spoilers: Brief references to a handful of episodes up to the opening scenes in "Imperfect Circles" (1x07). Mostly centered around events at the end of "The Endless Thirst" (1x06) and "Imperfect Circles" (1x07).
Disclaimer: Under the Dome and characters owned by Stephen King and CBS. I just borrowed them to populate the playground of my imagination.

The Stranger and the Ghost

The morning sun paints the room golden as he blinks away the remnants of a not entirely restful slumber. As his surroundings come into focus, so too does a still sleeping Julia and with her, memories of last night. He traces the increasingly familiar contours of her face with his eyes, not wanting to wake her just yet. Not wanting the day to start. Not wanting to face him. Dale Barbara is not a superstitious man. Nor is he a man given to delusional fantasies. But of this he is sure: he is carrying the ghost of Peter Shumway and every moment he dances around the truth of what happened and of his own involvement, Peter clings tighter, ever present, ever threatening. Peter's own lies and bad choices and his less than stellar Dear John letter may have bought him more time and deflected Julia's questions, but Barbie knows it's only a matter of time before someone starts to question Peter's too perfect silence and Julia starts asking questions in earnest again.

Every time he and Julia are thrown together, every time he steps into this house, Peter's ghost crowds closer and closer. He can't forget what Peter was to Julia: her husband. But incongruously he is also more and more making a point of noting that Peter was Julia's husband. Was. He no longer is. And Barbie is not doing anything wrong by being here, in a house that is no longer his or theirs but solely hers. And it is by her invitation that he is here. And sometimes, thinking like this, he can separate them, Julia and the ghost. Sometimes they are just Dale Barbara, ex-military, and Julia Shumway, journalist. But inevitably, Peter always floats back into the picture. Because the reality is, he is Dale Barbara, Peter's killer, and she is Julia Shumway, Peter's wife.

Julia shucked her jacket and Barbie shook off the rivulets of water that had gathered in the dash from the car to the front door, puddles flecking the floor and other nearby surfaces with their every movement.

"Come on, towels are upstairs," Julia gestured, already moving swiftly towards the stairs.

As they passed the mantle, Barbie paused and angled his body back slightly, starting at the empty spot where the framed photo had been placed facedown and realizing that he had come to expect Peter and Julia to stare out at him from this perch, reproach and accusation hidden behind their smiles.

Julia, slowing with him, turned back. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Grimacing sheepishly, he tugged at the soaked fabric plastered to his body. "Just realizing how cold and wet I am."

Questions. So many questions. Questions aimed blindly. Questions unasked but waiting. Questions that unwittingly accuse him. And they have all homed in on whys and whats that he is determined not to discuss. His entire reason for being in Chester's Mill and for having been caught under the dome have to do with the answers to those questions. They are exactly the fuel Peter's ghost needs. In her eyes, he has seen the worry and determination and then the shock and anger and behind all of those, Peter. In her eyes, he sees the questions she has voiced and the ones she hasn't. Instinct has told him again and again that he should stay far away from her and her questions. And if the dome hadn't come down, if he had only met her in passing, if she hadn't surprised him with her offer of hospitality and the temptation of a warm bed and a roof over his head, he would have stayed away. Run away. Instead, her presence has become dangerously routine. And the lies and omissions have been rolling off his tongue more and more smoothly. He has been afraid to want her. And yet, unwilling to push her away.

She flipped a glossy page in the large bound book balanced atop her crossed legs, so engrossed in its contents that she didn't notice him watching from the doorway until he knocked. "Hey."

"Hey." She closed the book and set it beside her on the bed, smiling at him. "All dry?"

"Yup. All dry." He saw that the large bound volume was not a book at all but a photo album. He couldn't make out the words on the cover but he was fairly certain he could make a good guess about its contents.

Julia followed his gaze and ducked her head, making a sound that was between a sigh and a short laugh. "You caught me. I was just looking through some old photos."

"Oh."

"Whatever you're thinking, you can say it."

"And what am I thinking?"

"That I'm better off now, considering how deep Peter got himself. That I should just cut my losses and move on. Obviously Peter did."

Barbie didn't say anything.

"Well? Go on, Barbie. You don't have to try and be the nice guy."

"Me? A nice guy?" He snorted. "Trust me, I'm not."

"Fine then. Tell me what you're thinking. How right was I?"

Barbie hesitated.

She raised her eyes at him expectantly.

"Look, I don't know what history the two of you have," he said quietly, "but you do deserve better than unpaid debts and a foreclosed house."

"And don't forget leaving without a word." A moment later she sighed. "You know I would have been happy with the truth."

Barbie chuckled. "The whole world could be falling apart and you would happy as you long as you had the truth and you knew why."

She crossed her arms. "I wouldn't say that's all I need to be happy. But it's a start."

He smiled. "Good night, Julia."

"Barbie, wait."

"Yeah?"

"I was going to open up a bottle of wine and I could use the company. I promise it's better stuff than what I had down at the cement factory."

The air between them stilled, as if waiting to exhale and breathe, as Barbie let her words sink in, eyes coming to rest on the photo album once more. "Sure," he said quietly, "I'll meet you downstairs?"

"Yeah, you go ahead. I'll be down in a minute."

And now, here they are. And he does want her. Despite having never thought of her as available. Despite the alarm bells nagging distantly at him and his sense that this is the calm before a storm that must surely hit. And despite the fact that even now, watching her face move in slumber, his gaze is drawn to the thin band of gold on her finger, suffused in warm light. He remembers the press of it against his skin, remembers it burning hotter than the trails of her fingers. He looks away, the ring becoming a mere flash in his peripheral vision, but already he is falling into sun-dappled woods, Peter's pale face standing out garishly against the earth that has already half-swallowed him. Frantic heaps of dirt thrown over him, the occasional harsh tamping down of the loosened soil, slowly erase him. But even as the last of Peter disappears, Barbie is already seeing him again as he tumbles into the wrecked cabin, reliving that stomach-dropping moment when he held the gun and the empty cartridge in his hands and realized that Peter never intended the gun to be anything more than a scare tactic. And he had reacted by pulling out a live one. Barbie has long ago given up on hating himself and on believing that he is some kind of hero, but still, he has his own code of honor and suddenly, in that moment, seeing that empty cartridge, his understanding of that encounter with Peter had shifted. He couldn't have known about Peter's gun; if he had—if he only had—things could have so very easily ended differently.

In his mind, he has imagined and re-imagined telling Julia the truth. It is the only surefire way he can talk himself out of really telling her. In every single scenario that plays out that he can believe, she walks away, sparing him one last glance, hate and unforgiveable betrayal in her eyes.

"Peter's not coming back, Julia."

She laughs. "Doesn't seem like it does it?"

He winces because underneath the easy chuckle he can still hear the hurt and betrayal—he can hear that Peter still matters. And somehow he has the guts to go on anyway. "No, I mean… Peter is dead."

"What do you mean he's dead? You said he skipped town. How do you know he's dead?"

"Because I killed him."

She stares at him. Not questioning his confession or his capability to take a life. She just stares at him and demands more. "So you knew all along then. This whole time I've been looking for him, thinking he was on the other side of the dome, you knew he was dead."

"Julia…"

"Why?"

"What?"

"Why did you kill him? Is that what you do when people can't pay what they owe?"

"I never meant to kill him, I promise you that. But things got out of hand. He had a gun. And I—"

"You decided to kill him before he could kill you."

"No. It was an accident."

"Why should I believe you? You've been lying to me. And cozying up to me… so what? So you could make sure I didn't get too close to the truth? Well congratulations. I fell for it—"

"That's not what this was—"

"I don't want to hear any more of your explanations and I don't want to see you again."

"You're dead to me."

"I wish he had killed you first."

"I hope I never see you again."

" I will never forgive you."

"I hate you."

"I hate you."

"I hate you."

And it is with her brilliant blue eyes, hard and unyielding, in his mind that he watches as her eyelids flutter against the glow of the new day. He is momentarily stunned by the warmth that lights up in her eyes and the slow smile that curves on her lips when she sees him. For the moment at least, Peter flees. He dares to brush a stray strand of her hair back, drawing soft laughter from her. Then somewhere in the shifting of limbs, their gazes lock and a sudden shy uncertainty freezes both of them. The utter normalcy of the moment steals his breath. Then Julia twists away and the tension in his muscles drops away with a silent sigh. He forces his body to begin the motion to sit up.

"No." Quiet though her voice is, it has the power of fingers clasped on his elbow, tugging him back. "I'd like you to stay."

Damn it. He can't help the flare of hopefulness that rises up. And he can't help but wonder if it's he who didn't know what he was getting himself into or Julia who didn't know what she was getting herself into when they both made their choices last night. For he realizes that it is perfectly clear to him who Julia is—but who is he? And who is she to him if he can't even answer that question? And suddenly, more pressingly, what are her answers to those questions?

They both know she can't simply ignore the knock at her front door, but for the unhurried kiss they are able to steal and the momentary intimate press of their bodies, it is nice to pretend otherwise. He watches her shrug into a robe and toss him an easy smile before she hurries out of the bedroom.

He lets out a long breath. The tenderness of their stolen moments clings languidly, long after the quick patter of footsteps have faded on the stairs. He almost believes they could have defied the call of a new day and stayed in this bubble inside a bubble.

She traced her thumb lightly over the fading bruises on his knuckles. Outside, the rain fell in thinning sheets, plopping softly against the thick glass of the window. But under the dim pool of light cast by the single lamp that had been left on, the rain and the earlier insanity of the day were far away and unimportant. Lying on their sides, eyes locked on each other, the only sounds they heard were the gentle rhythms of their own breaths.

"Tell me the truth," Julia murmured, flicking her eyes up to meet his, "Why did you attack Junior Rennie?"

Barbie chuckled. "You really don't have an off switch, do you? Asking questions is like breathing for you."

"Come on, Barbie." Her eyes remained fixed on his, but there was a small smile playing on her features. "I've heard Junior's version; now I'm giving you a chance to tell your side of the story."

"He attacked me first. After I refused to respond to his provocations."

Her eyebrows lifted. "And why was he trying to provoke you?"

"That I'm not entirely sure about. Some sort of misunderstanding about a girl he called Angie. He was under the impression that I screwed her."

"Ah."

"I didn't."

There was mirth in her eyes. "I believe you." Then she leaned forward to kiss him and he obliged.

"Anything else?" he whispered as he shifted on the bed and pulled her into his arms, his face hovering millimeters above hers and his breath hot on her skin.

She stared up into his eyes, sliding her hands around his sides to circle his body in return. "No."

"Good." He kissed her.

It's exhausting having secrets and ghosts in a town this small that he can't leave. A town whose affairs and well-being he is swiftly becoming very involved in. This town and its people are having an effect on him and they are learning to recognize him. The secret of Peter and his whereabouts seems less and less his own alone. Even if he weren't Julia's husband, he has surely been missed as one of the town's doctors, who are in such short supply that Peter's absence is all the more glaring.

One dome, a meningitis outbreak, a missile strike, and a water crisis later, it seems a lifetime ago that the need to leave Chester's Mill had been deep in his bones, driving his body, chanting a frantic mantra in his mind. A lifetime ago when leaving Peter's ghost behind and as buried as his body had been that easy.

I'd like you to stay.

He pushes himself up, letting his fingers brush over the rumpled bedsheets and the still-warm pillow on Julia's side. For a moment his fingers still, drinking in the memory of Julia beside him—of her warmth, her unmistakable presence, her unhurried want. Of the addictive certainty in the way she kissed him and caressed him.

What do you want Barbie?

He realizes it has been a long time since he has asked himself that question and he doesn't know how to answer it. Maybe it is time for the change in career he mentioned to Phil. All he is sure of is that he is going to be here, in Chester's Mill, for awhile. Chester's Mill, where it is entirely possible that its residents might be driven into another mad panic. Where Big Jim and Junior Rennie, who he knows are not as innocuous as the town might believe, have got him in their sights. Where Peter's ghost lingers. Where Julia will continue to ask him her questions but will also offer her friendship and acceptance. Where he doesn't know what craziness each new day might bring. And he is growing more okay with all that.

The steady drumming of rain and the dull schwump schwump, schwump schwump of the windshield wipers filled the silence as the car whooshed down the wet and dark road. Since climbing in ten minutes earlier, neither of them had spoken.

"So where were you headed? When I found you?"

Barbie stared out into the rain, shrugging. "I don't know. I hadn't decided yet."

She glanced up at the rearview mirror. "Well for the record, you still have a bed at my place if you want it."

Silence stretched between them again.

Turning to look at her, Barbie finally said, "I am sorry about Peter."

"Like I said, Peter's bad choices weren't your fault and I'm not going to leave you out here looking for somewhere to go just because you were doing your job." The house came into view and the car slowed to a stop, engine puttering out. Hands still on the wheel, Julia turned to him, "Besides, after everything that's happened since the dome came down, you're one of us now." Seeing the dubious surprise creased across his forehead and around his eyes, she added, "Trust me, Barbie. I've been where you are. Not so long ago, I was the new girl in town."

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Now come on. Let's go inside."

Thoughts? I'm curious to know what people made of this, whether the back and forth between the present and the flashbacks made sense, and what worked and what didn't. Most of the writing process for this story involved agonizing over getting the vibe and tension and tone and pacing right so I'm dying to know how this came across to you all. Reviews and constructive criticism are very much welcome and appreciated. Thanks for reading!