A/N: Because I watched the film, needed more of these two, went looking for fic, came back empty-handed, and so set about to writing my own (be the change you want to see in the world, amirite?). I can only hope I've done them justice.

.

There Are Dreams I Must Gather

.

It was an average Friday night, coming up on eleven o'clock, when Ellen slipped from her dressing room into the club proper. Her set had ended about half an hour ago, and, as she often did, she'd changed out of her costume to inconspicuously join the audience. The formal program was done for the evening, and the band had taken over for the usual bout of couples dancing. Her act typically left her too tired to want to actively participate, but she liked to simply sit and enjoy the music, sometimes with Millie or one of the other girls. It was a good way to unwind, she'd found, and if she was lucky, she could get a seat right next to the piano. David, their old warhorse, was teaching her the instrument, and she got a kick out of watching him play, as if she might be able to pick up some tips or tricks through simple observation.

She nodded at Anthony, the doorman, and quietly stepped in. Les was leading the band in an instrumental version of "I'll Walk Alone," and Ellen smirked at its aptness as she picked her way along the perimeter of the room. The place was still busy, but the back tables had cleared out, the remaining patrons coalescing closer to the dance floor.

She paused, trying to squint through the throng of people to see if it was worth making her way over to the left, or if she should just give up and settle near the saxophone section. A moot concern, it turned out, as right then one of the new waiters came dashing by, a full drink order in hand and a harried countenance on his features. Hastily, she backed up, out of his way but into a chair, and she glanced behind her automatically. The chair was predictably empty, but the table it belonged to wasn't, but before Ellen could offer any sort of apology, the floor appeared to fall out from beneath her.

Because sitting there, drink in hand and hat on the table, was none other than Philip Raven. The man who—not more than four years prior—had nearly murdered her, then saved her life, then dragged her around the whole of Los Angeles before letting her go and vanishing in a blaze of vengeance.

He looked exactly as she remembered—tie slightly loosened, the collar of his coat turned up against the back of his neck, face firm and unreadable as stone. He didn't say anything, nor seemed surprised to see her, which meant he'd probably caught her act earlier. His drink, she noticed, was mostly gone, but there wasn't even the barest hint of intoxication about him, which similarly suggested he'd been there for a while, nursing it. Knowing him, it was possible he'd only ordered something because club policy said he had to.

The last she'd seen of him had been on a foggy May morning in a decommissioned train car. She'd kissed his cheek then acted as a decoy, and by the time the police broke down the door of the head office at Nitro Chemical, Alvin Brewster was dead from a heart attack and Willard Gates was dead from a bullet wound, and the only sign of the man who'd pulled the trigger was a suit they'd found stuffed in a janitor's closet, next to Gates' unclothed, unconscious chauffeur.

She'd been so angry at him, so angry at herself for trusting him, yet despite all of that there was still a part of her that was happy to see Gates dead after everything he'd done. Further complicating those feelings was the peculiar friendship she and Raven had developed the night prior—a mutual fondness that she knew couldn't entirely be a lie. She still remembered how he'd asked her if she was going to marry Michael—Michael, goodness, she hadn't thought about him in ages—and when she'd smiled and told him yes, he'd smiled back and said, "Okay." Like he somehow approved or else gave her his blessing.

And now there he was, sitting wordlessly in front of her.

Ellen didn't know how long she'd been standing there—it must have been at least a couple minutes, because the song had changed—but slowly she came back to her senses and, without bothering to ask if it was all right, lowered herself into the empty chair.

"Hello," she simply said.

"Hi."

Hearing his voice after all these years sent a shiver down her spine, and for not the first time, she found herself taking refuge in awkward pleasantries in an attempt to deal with him. "Fancy seeing you here tonight," she lightly quipped. "What brings you in?"

"You," he said, brusque and to-the-point as ever. It shouldn't have shocked her, but something about him had always thrown her off. "Saw the poster outside. Didn't expect you to still be in show-business. Figured you'd be settled down by now. You and that boyfriend of yours."

Michael again, and this time a pang of loss accompanied the memory. "No, we, uh…" She shook her head, as if to clear it. "We called it quits a long time ago. Not too long after…"—she gestured at him vaguely—"actually."

"Oh," Raven said. His brow furrowed, but there was something a little unnatural about the expression, like he wasn't sure if remorse was the proper response, or else was only affecting the emotion for her sake. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Ellen tilted her head at him curiously, a little amused despite herself. "Are you?"

Raven shifted in his seat, incidentally moving his shoulders in something that might have been a shrug. "He was a good guy, right?"

"Yes," she admitted, smiling a bit wistfully. "Yes, he was. But we, um… It turned out we wanted different things." He'd wanted her to stay at home and raise a family, and she'd thought she'd wanted that too, but after everything was said and done, she'd found she wasn't ready quite yet. She'd hoped she might be able to convince him otherwise, that they could come to some agreement that would let her keep performing, but in the end, Michael turned out to be as stubborn as she was. And so, the most sensible thing to do had been to mutually call it off and go their separate ways.

Raven didn't respond or ask for details, just nodded once and seemed to file the information away somewhere inside himself. A few seconds of silence passed, before she perked up and briskly broke it with, "And what about you? What have you been up to?"

He took a sip of his drink and shifted again, just slightly. "Changed my name. Enlisted in the army."

"The army?" she echoed, genuinely astonished. "I thought you weren't a patriot."

"I'm not. But I figured if I'm good at killin', might as well kill for a good cause, yeah?"

Ellen blinked. It wasn't exactly the redemption story she'd been hoping to hear, but she supposed it was better than nothing. Wasn't it? She swallowed. "And now that the war is over?"

He shrugged, and his eyes did a quick sweep of the room. Old habits he couldn't break, she suspected. "Odd jobs. Legit jobs," he clarified, "but odd jobs. Dock work here, meat-packin' there. Drove freight for a while. That was pretty nice. Don't have to deal with a lot of people in freight." Another shrug.

A tentative smile touched her lips. Maybe it had taken him a while, but maybe he'd kept his promise to her in his own strange way all the same. She hesitated, and then made herself ask the question, even though a part of her was dreading the answer, "Do you miss it? What you used to do?"

"I miss the money," he said, and she wanted to laugh at his blunt honesty. "But the rest of it?" He paused for a moment, almost as if he'd never thought about it until now. "No, I guess I don't."

Ellen smiled again, more fully this time, and her next breath came out like a sigh of relief. "I'm glad." It was his turn to tilt his head, and he proceeded to stare at her from across the table, like she was some puzzle he was trying to solve. Magic act notwithstanding, she didn't consider herself a particularly mysterious person, so the attention—and the strength of that attention—was somewhat unnerving. But then, Philip Raven had always had a certain intensity to him, buried under the flat tone of his voice and the short words he spoke, and it seemed four years hadn't changed that. Were they not in a still-crowded nightclub, she might have visibly squirmed in her seat. Instead, she laughed a little tremulously and asked, "What?"

"I'm just tryin' to figure it out, is all." He jerked his chin at her. "Why you?" Why was it she who had been able to get through to him, she realized—to get him to 'go soft' as he had phrased it—much as a man like him was even capable of softness. His eyes dropped to flick dispassionately over her. "I mean, sure, you're pretty, but lots of girls are pretty. Never did anything for me before."

Of course it just figured, that as someone who was used to men ogling her—who could brush off lustful male gazes like so much dust on her sleeve—that it would be his cool, clinical glance that would finally succeed in making her feel flustered. "Well," she said, swallowing anxiously, "there's more to a person than their looks, you know."

"Yeah," he agreed, with a thoughtful nod. "Yeah, I guess you're right." And he turned his head to focus on the dance floor.

Ellen breathed, and fidgeted her fingers together on the table. Absently, she noticed her nails would soon be in need of a relacquering. Another few seconds of silence passed between them, and she idly asked, "So how did you like the show?"

He looked back at her. " 'S all right. Your voice ain't bad," he conceded. "Not much one for music or singin', but"—he shrugged—"your voice ain't bad."

A slow smile spread across her features. She suspected that qualified as high praise, coming from him. He took another drink from his glass, and—noticing it was at long last empty—she teasingly asked, "Can I buy you another?"

"No," he said, voice harsh, and she didn't even have time to fully deflate before he caught himself. "No," he said again, "but…I'll have another if you wanna share somethin'." Her spirits rallied, and she turned around to flag down a waiter before he had time to reconsider. One of her favorites was relatively close, and she waved him over.

"Joey," she said. "Can I get two whiskeys?"

He nodded cheerfully. "Sure thing, Miss Graham. Oh," he added, "I didn't get a chance to tell you earlier, but Gloria made halibut for dinner last night. I saved a little and put it in the back refrigerator for you. A little treat to take home to Raven, you know?" He grinned and then was off, and Ellen was left to deal with a suddenly horrified blush. She'd never worried much about the name before, but then, she'd never dreamed the origin of it might come swanning back into her life one day.

Near-imperceptibly, her table companion quirked his eyebrow. " 'Raven'?"

Well, there was no going back now, she supposed. She took a breath, raised her chin, and looked him straight in the eye. "My cat," she explained. "I picked him up off the street a couple years ago. He hates being held, and most of the time won't even let me pet him. I'd think he was just using me for food if not for the fact that he inevitably ends up in whatever room I'm in." She held his gaze for a meaningful moment. "Suffice it to say, he reminded me of a certain someone I once knew. Convenient that he's black. People don't ask too many questions about the name."

Raven didn't respond, except to say, "They say black cats are bad luck, you know."

"I was told that cats were good luck. So perhaps the two qualities balance out in poor old Raven, eh?"

He was silent for a moment, and a tense uncertainty in his shoulders told her he found the topic of conversation uncomfortable. But then he turned his head to look around the room again and it was gone. "I wouldn't know," he curtly said. "I never met your cat."

She was about to speak, but it was then that Joey returned with their drinks—extra fast service on account of her being one of the star performers, most likely. She thanked him, and then the waiter was back to his rounds, and Ellen was left alone with her former kidnapper again.

Delicately, she ran a fingertip around the edge of her glass. "You could, you know. Meet him," she said, wondering if she was honestly suggesting what she thought she was suggesting. In for a dime, in for a dollar, she reasoned, and boldly went on. "I'm sure you'd like him. Who knows?" she laughed. "He might even like you."

He didn't reply, and there it was again—that tension in his frame. Except instead of dissipating this time, it came to a head. "I gotta go," he muttered, and in one swift movement, he had stood, thrown a bill down next to his drink, put his hat on his head, and was halfway out from around the table, angling for the exit.

Ellen clambered to her own feet, just barely managing to block his path. "Oh, no, you don't," she said, suddenly furious. "I don't see you for four years, and now you're going to leave after just fifteen minutes? I don't think so, buster. Sit down."

He wasn't a tall man, but she was an especially short woman, so even in heels, she still had to tilt her head back to glare up at him. He blinked down at her—the only sign that he might have been taken aback by her outburst—but then collected himself and coldly raked his eyes over her face. "Well, listen to you," he sneered. "When did you get so bossy?"

"I don't know," she shot back, lifting her chin even higher, "maybe I picked it up from you."

He blinked again, but didn't say anything more. He just stood there staring at her, and all of a sudden she wished they weren't tucked away in the back of the club. She knew he wouldn't hurt her, but he was too quiet, too close—the open front of his trench coat was brushing up against her dress—and like an idiot, she realized she wanted to kiss him. Maybe because it had been a good few months since she'd been out with a guy and she was getting a little lonely, despite herself. Maybe because she'd never had the chance to kiss him before, except on the cheek. Maybe because she didn't know what else to do with him, and kissing him made about as much sense as anything.

Maybe, she thought, maybe she simply wanted to flummox him the way he had so easily and thoroughly flummoxed her. Which meant that perhaps it wasn't just his bossiness that had rubbed off on her—perhaps his desire for revenge had, as well.

Eventually, he relented, and jerked his head in a small, sharp movement that she supposed was as close as he came to a nod of respect. He took a step back and smoothly slid down into his chair, once again removing his hat. Feeling a little removed from herself, Ellen stiffly followed suit, retaking the seat across from him.

She'd just made a former assassin back down through sheer force of will and maybe even a little bit of physical intimidation. Michael had said she'd changed—in those weeks following Raven's final escape, when they'd tried to go back to normal—and maybe this was what he had meant. Still upset (with him?—with herself?), she fiercely took a drink of her whiskey, letting it burn down the back of her throat. Raven was leaning back in his chair, watching the band with a bored passivity, and for all intents and purposes, seemed to be completely ignoring her now. Rather than be offended, Ellen took the opportunity to study him.

He was really quite handsome when it came down to it, one might even say tragically so. Combined with his slender—borderline slight—figure, he hardly fit the stereotype of a brutish, thuggish contract killer. Which didn't mean anything, she knew—looks could be deceiving, after all, and she'd experienced firsthand what he was capable of—but all the same, it made her wonder: In another life, with a kinder upbringing, where might he be right now? At home, with a wife and child? Or perhaps he'd still be in the nightclub, except sitting up front, vying for her attention during her act and sending her flowers afterward.

No, she decided. For some reason, she just couldn't picture it. Even more bizarrely, she found she didn't want to picture it. Imagining him playing out such base flirtations seemed somehow abhorrent. Maybe even more abhorrent than his actual personality was.

He'd saved her life, she reminded herself. He'd been a killer for hire and had taken her hostage, but he'd also saved her life, when it would have been just as easy—if not in fact easier—for him to simply let her die. To say nothing of the signed confession he'd managed to get out of Gates and Brewster—something he'd only done because she'd specifically asked him to. And even if neither man had lived long enough to see a trial, it still meant their treasonous crimes were posthumously brought to light. He'd done that. For her, if not for his country. Good luck and bad. The two qualities balanced out in Raven the cat, but did they balance out in Raven the man?

Suddenly tired, Ellen sighed and quietly asked, "Why did you really come here tonight?"

He blinked at her, as if he considered the question ridiculous. "I told you. I came to see you."

"But why?"

"You, uh…" He seemed at a loss, and dropped his eyes to his drink, picking it up and slowly swirling the alcohol around in the glass. If he were anyone else, she'd swear he was embarrassed. "You treated me okay back then, you know? And you sure as hell didn't have to." He cleared his throat and looked back up. "I, uh… I guess I just wanted to make sure you were doin' okay."

"And?" she prompted.

He blinked again, a little caught off guard. "And…you seem to be doin' fine," he answered, almost apologetically.

An hour ago, she wouldn't have hesitated to agree—probably would have gone one step further and said she was great, grand, absolutely peachy—but now… Now she wasn't so sure. His reemergence had stirred something inside her, some sort of longing, and she couldn't figure out what it was. Maybe she was merely missing her relationship with Michael—in truth, the last serious relationship she'd had—or maybe it was something else. Something more directly related to the man sitting across from her. Looking at him, she felt adrift, like she was some boat in the harbor, and he'd stolen her compass and anchor and wheel.

She shook it off and turned back to her whiskey. What utter nonsense. The fact of the matter was, she was doing fine. The war was still over, the Allies had still won, and even if she didn't have a steady boyfriend, she had a job she loved, that paid well, with coworkers she liked. Which was more than a lot of people—especially women—could say.

"I am," she finally said with a nod. "I am doing fine, thank you."

He peered at her a little skeptically. "Honest?"

"Yeah." She smiled and nodded again, more sure of herself. "Yeah, honest."

He didn't quite smile back, but nevertheless the lines around his mouth softened in something like satisfaction. "Good."

She took a sip of her drink. "And what about you?" she asked in return. He mirrored the action, and she watched as he licked his bottom lip, momentarily savoring the taste of the whiskey.

"I'm gettin' by," he said.

Ellen arched a knowing eyebrow. "Is 'getting by' the same as 'okay'?"

Admiration briefly tugged at one corner of his mouth. "Yeah," he admitted. "Yeah, I think it is."

"Good," she repeated with a smile, and with that, the air between them seemed to fully relax. She took another sip of her drink, and turned her head around to belatedly enjoy the music. A solid minute or so passed in amiable silence, and this time it was Raven who spoke.

"Hey, uh…" He crossed his arms, leaning toward her on the table. "Can I ask you somethin'?"

Ellen swallowed and simply nodded. That probing intensity was back in his gaze, and she wasn't sure she trusted her voice in the face of it.

"Back then, did you…?" He narrowed his eyes at her, but rather than being threatening, there was something searching—almost apprehensive—about the expression. "You didn't rat me out to the cops, did you?"

She blinked in bewilderment. Had that really been a fear of his, all this time? "No," she said, vehemently shaking her head. "No, they…figured it out all on their own." Miserably, she had cursed Michael's detective skills in that moment, and in hindsight, was it any real surprise that their relationship didn't last very long after that? How could it have, when that one little reaction had so perfectly foretold its doom?

She didn't have time to mull it over, because it was then that a lopsided grin broke out across Raven's face, and something in Ellen's chest leapt stupidly at the sight of it. God help her, but it was probably for the best that he didn't smile more often—he was dangerous enough without the ability to be charming. "I knew it," he said. "That fat fuck Gates tried to tell me you did, but nah." He shook his head, triumphant and certain. "Nah, I knew he was lyin'."

There was an uncharacteristic warmth and affection in his eyes that was doing awfully funny things to her, and she quickly looked down at her drink. "Well," she said carefully, her cheeks positively on fire, "don't go thinking I'm an angel or anything." That was all she needed right then, a former hired gun convinced she was some moral savior.

"Nah." Raven reassuringly brushed the idea off and leaned back. "Nah, I know you're not. Don't believe in angels anyhow."

No, she supposed a man like him wouldn't. Ellen sighed and traced tiny, alleviated circles on the table. After a moment, she looked at him a bit searchingly, herself. "Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot," he told her, and she wondered if that was his morbid crack at a joke.

No matter. She braced herself, then spit it out almost breathlessly: "Will you come to the club again?"

Raven sucked in a long breath, and spent an inordinate amount of time scanning the room. In the end, he simply said, "Ain't really my scene, you know?"

She did know. And of course it wasn't. How could it be, with its lush interiors, high-class clientele, and loud, lively atmosphere? She couldn't honestly think of any place that was further from his scene, save for perhaps a church. At the same time, that hadn't been an outright 'no,' and she hung on that detail, heart practically in mouth.

"…But if you want me to," he finished, "then yeah, I'll come."

Something inside her opened, and all of a sudden, Ellen felt like crying. She swallowed and gave him a faint smile. "I do," she said.

And Raven looked back like a man who'd found an oasis in a desert, and promised, "Then I will."

.

.

.

A/N: Suffice it to say, nothing can convince me that the events of the film wouldn't have fucked Ellen up at least a little bit, even if (especially if?) Raven died like he does in canon. But since this is the '40s and PTSD therapy had yet to be invented, girlfriend's just trying to do the best she can, you know, after being forced at gunpoint to help a guy, then almost murdered by him, then almost murdered again, then being saved from attempted murder #2 by attempted murderer #1, then being dragged all around L.A. by attempted murderer #1 before being forced to hole up with him for an entire night, during which she learns he loves cats and had a super shit childhood, and he develops enough affection towards her to not only give her his coat (presumably because she's cold), but to also agree to get attempted murderer #2 to sign a confession of his crimes against the country, rather than just gunning the motherfucker down in revenge. I mean, sure, some of it's probably Stockholm Syndrome, but some of it's probably more than that, too.

In other news, it wasn't necessary to include it in the actual fic, but a part of me likes to think that Raven might have changed his name to "Graham"—because, like, it's a nice common name, yeah? And as far as he knew, Ellen was going to get married soon (at which point her name would change, anyway), so, I mean, it wasn't like she was going to be using it anymore, right? When this information inevitably comes out, Ellen no doubt finds it extremely flattering, but also extremely amusing too, like, "And you gave me shit for merely naming my cat after you?" Pfft.

Anyway, thanks for reading!