I don't own anything that you might recognize, including but not limited to, Jareth and Sarah.

Also, I like hyphens. A lot. And the words rather and really. And commas hate me, and I hate them back.

***

Chapter 1: And So It Begins. Again.

It was oddly quiet for a Saturday night. The rain was probably to blame. A cold front had moved in earlier that morning, darkening the sky to a mockery of twilight by noon, and a pervasive, steady drizzle had begun to fall shortly thereafter. It was still at it nearly fifteen hours later as the girl made her way home. Finally turning down her own street, the furious pace she had previously set began to slacken. She allowed herself to be lulled by the comfort of familiar surroundings until she was wandering near aimlessly down the rain-soaked avenue.

Spruce was a curiously dubbed little one-way street lined with tiny, new apartment buildings and maple – not spruce – trees. The circles of light flooding the leaf-littered sidewalk were speckled with shadow as water droplets clung to the street lamps overhead. Everything was damp and dripping and cold. The only sounds to be heard above the unrelenting rain were the 'click-click-click' of heels on pavement, interspersed with jagged sobs or venomous mutterings from the owner of the aforementioned shoes.

Occasionally, this relative silence would be interrupted by a passing car, more likely than not filled with noisy revelers seeking that elusive after-hours club said to be between Twenty-Sixth and Hamlet. The headlights of these noble questers would illuminate the slight form of the young woman, momentarily blinding her, at times causing her to stumble. Despite the weather, many had their windows rolled down, whether due to the unbearable heat of so many bodies fresh off the dance floor or to vent the fumes of substances of a questionably legal nature, one could only guess. It is out of these windows that cat-calls and jeers would issue forth, inviting the girl to come 'party' with the vehicles' occupants. Upon noticing her bedraggled and tear-streaked appearance, the boys either shut up, or offered to consol her in the most vulgar ways imaginable to young drunks at three in the morning.

Graciously, the girl chose to ignore the idiots and pressed on toward her goal. It was, however, little wonder why she was receiving so much attention, unwanted though it might be. If she had been in possession of an umbrella earlier in the day, she was quite bereft of one now, and the rain had done a superb job of soaking her clean through. Her dark hair frizzed and curled around her shoulders and down her back while her bangs lay plastered against her forehead. She wore no coat despite the chilly October weather, exposing her slightly revealing black dress to the world. Also exposed for the world's benefit, as well as inebriated twenty-somethings on the way to get even more sloshed, was an exquisite pair of legs ending in a dangerously high set of black pumps. And though she appeared young enough to still be called girl, with the way her sodden garments clung to her body, there was no denying she was a woman-grown. Had she been in a different section of the city, she would have had much more to fear than a few stupid boys attempting to pad their egos. Or, perhaps not, with the way she was carrying on.

Her current gait could only be described as the weavings of a drunken bee, her feet carrying her from one edge of the sidewalk to the other with little to no rhyme or reason. The tears streaking down her face and clouding her vision could have been the culprits behind her rambling steps, as could the thoughts clouding her mind, but perhaps it was both these things coupled with the beginnings of hypothermia that caused the young woman to move so erratically across the rain-slicked pavement. Luckily, her heels had miraculously good traction and her neighborhood's walkways were relatively free of clutter so that a vicious scrape-and-bruise combo – obtained when inadvertently slamming her knee against the avenue's lone mailbox – was the worst of her injuries gained that night. Well, the worst of her physical injuries. It was growing increasingly more evident that the mental wounds she had sustained earlier were going to be the larger of her problems.

Where before her angry tirade had been mostly confined to her inner monologue, now her every other step was punctuated by an angry curse or gesture. At times, apparently both seemed appropriate. Bitter words, slurred and unrecognizable from the cold steadily seeping into her small frame, continued to pour forth as she revisited the night's events for what seemed the millionth time. She could not believe what had happened. Had it really only been a short hour ago that her entire world had come crashing down around her?

Sidestepping the newspaper stand that threatened to personally introduce her to some concrete, she began to fumble around in the slim, black leather handbag she had been clutching in a white-knuckled deathgrip since exiting Daniel's apartment. Yes, Daniel. Never Danny or Dan, but sometimes Ducky when he was too wasted to complain. God, she hated him. Couldn't even have a pet name without him flipping out. Stupid prick. And how in the hell had she remembered her purse and not her coat? Or umbrella? A few more unintelligible expletives escaped her lips before she finally reached the stoop of 521 Spruce Ave. Not quite the end of her journey, but near enough to breathe a hearty sigh of relief – promptly followed by a jag of hacking coughs.

Dragging herself up the necessary few steps, she leaned against the door of the apartment building and continued digging through her purse. It was impossible to lose a set of keys in the tiny bag, but never-the-less, it took her several minutes of fruitless searching before, nearly crowing with triumph, she produced a brightly colored keyring sporting an odd assortment of keys as well as a magnetic keycard. The keycard system was reminiscent of her not-so-long-ago college days, just like the rest of her tiny, cramped, dorm-like apartment, but never was she so glad to not have to punch in a pass code. It was bad enough trying to slide the little card through the reader as she shook and shivered. Had she needed to enter a code she likely would have been camping out on the steps until some kind, trusting soul let her in behind them. With her luck, she would be there until Monday morning.

Finally, the security light turned green, and she heard the lock give with a loud click. She wiped roughly at her eyes with the palms of her hands, pressing them briefly against her temples in a halfhearted attempt to compose herself before entering the building. After trudging up several flights of stairs, she eventually reached her door without major incident and without any nosy neighbors peering out and asking her if she had been hit by a bus or something equally unlikely – like being accosted by goblins. Ugh. Her brain was turning to pudding if she was thinking about hi-er.. them again.

Miraculously, she managed to insert the correct key into her door's lock on the first try, and, gratefully, she staggered into her apartment, tossing her purse and keys on the ottoman-cum-coffee table, kicking her shoes off in random directions, and flopping down on her neatly-made bed. The pillows and coverlet were going to be a mess come morning, but she didn't care. Wallowing in massive amounts of self-pity, she pulled a well-worn stuffed rooster to her chest and promptly fell asleep.

***

Waking the next morning, Sarah found herself half-frozen and intolerably stiff from her night trudging six city blocks through the rain. She had never quite managed to burrow under the covers while she slept. And while that meant she only had to wash dirt and grime from her bedspread and not her sheets or blankets, she was not overly thrilled by the prospect of a mid-autumn cold. Her allergies played enough havoc around this time of year, she did not need the added worry of coming down with a chill.

Grumbling and muttering to herself as she crawled out of bed, she decided the first sensible thing to do was to get a shower. After exiting the shower, towel wrapped snugly around her mane of hair and pink bathrobe tied tightly around her middle, she slipped into a pair of warm, fuzzy slippers before heading to the kitchen to make herself a cup of lemon tea.

Hopefully, the warmth of the tea would stave off any burgeoning sore throats, and the vitamin C from the lemon would bolster her immune system against any nasty germs that felt she would make a suitable host for them and their thousands of generations of grandchildren. Plus, Sarah had always loved to watch the color change as she squeezed fresh lemon into her tea.

Firmly ensconced at her little kitchen table, ready to hide from the miserable day she could see brewing outside her window, Sarah decided the next thing she needed to do was call Karen. Though in the past she and her step-mother had never gotten along, their relationship had become akin to one shared by sisters separated by a substantial gap in ages after Sarah went away to university. Karen would give her advice about demanding professors, idiotic boys, and life in general. And though Sarah would not always heed it, she did at least listen.

Sarah pressed Karen's speed-dial digit and waited for her stepmother to pick up the phone. It took five rings, but finally Karen's frazzled voice came over the line, "Hello?"

"Hi, Karen. It's me."

"Oh, Sarah! How did it go last night?"

"Bad. It went bad, Karen. Really, really, really bad."

Sarah proceeded to sob into the phone, telling her stepmother of how she had waited and waited and waited at her boyfriend's apartment dressed in her new sexy black dress and matching undergarments that she had so carefully picked out and how she had set out candles and put on some 'mood' music and ordered in from his favorite Indian restaurant and had everything just perfect because she had decided that tonight would be the night. The night that she'd finally say yes and they would make mad, passionate, yet gentle, love all night and into the morning because it was his birthday and she thought it would make him happy but the asshole just had to come home with that blonde bitch he worked with, Nancy or Nina or some other stupid name that started with an 'N', Sarah couldn't remember, and she quite frankly couldn't care. And they had started kissing before they'd even gotten all the way into the door, before they saw her sitting on his couch, waiting for him. And she had screamed and the bitch had yelled and Daniel had tried to apologize and Sarah had started to cry and ran out the door without her coat or umbrella and walked all the way home through the pouring rain.

"Oh, baby, I'm so sorry. Are you feeling alright? You aren't catching a cold, are you?" Karen's concerned voice echoing her thoughts from earlier made Sarah smile. She reached for the nearby tissue box and used several to wipe at her nose and eyes before responding.

"I'm feeling okay. I made myself some lemon tea. I think, if the weather lets up, I'll go down to the market and pick up some ginger, just in case. I have some casting calls next week, and I think I have finally got that audition I've been hoping for lined up, so I really can't afford to get sick."

"Are you ever going to tell me what this mysterious 'audition' is for?" her stepmother asked cajolingly.

"Not till I get the part. You know the drill. I just... I wish this hadn't happened right now. I really, really liked him, Karen. I thought we had something special, you know? Why are all the guys I pick morons?"

"I don't know, dear. It took me quite a while to find your father, and even then, it wasn't a walk in the park for me, you know."

"Yeah. I remember. I think I've said I'm sorry for my teenage angst about five million times now." She grinned, remembering what a horrible brat she had been just a few years before.

"Honey..." She could hear Karen rifling through the many papers inhabiting her 'filing' drawer. After several minutes of rustling and muffled grumbling, "Here. Do you have a pen and paper handy? I want you to write this number down." Obliging her stepmother, Sarah quickly retrieved a post-it pad and marker from the fridge.

"Alright, I'm ready." Slowly, Karen recited the numbers over the phone, and Sarah repeated them back to her for accuracy's sake. "Now, who is this person, and why am I calling them?" Eased by the normalcy of being bossed around by her stepmother, Sarah was beginning to sound like her old self, adopting the affectionate, if slightly defensive, tone Karen was accustomed to hearing.

"Do you remember Paul Reynolds? He's a friend of mine from college. Your father and I have had him over several times for dinner when he's been in town. Tall, sandy hair, gorgeous eyes..." Karen's voice trailed off into half-hearted chuckles. She was trying to mask her nervousness, Sarah knew. Wracking her brain for who this mysterious 'Mr. Reynolds' was, she finally struck upon the connection between herself, an old friend of her stepmother's, and why in God's name Karen would want her to speak with him.

"Karen, he's a shrink."

"Now, I know what you're going to say, but, Sarah, I do not think you are crazy. I just think you need someone to talk to," Karen hurried to explain.

"But... I talk to you," Sarah whispered, her voice containing no small amount of hurt.

"I know, sweetpea," Karen said soothingly, "But you've been under a lot of stress lately, and this thing with Daniel is only going to make it worse. Now, wouldn't it be nice to talk to someone who's really only there to get paid to smile and nod at you?"

"Karen, you make it sound like prostitution," Sarah admonished.

"Honey, we would all be so lucky if Paul decided to change professions," her stepmother said with a laugh.

Sarah shook her head. "You're terrible."

"I know, dear. I know. Now, promise me you'll call him. If he sounds phoney and not worth your time, then you don't have to go. But, if he sounds like someone you can unburden that kaleidoscopic little soul of yours to, then please, please make an appointment." Karen sounded genuinely worried for her well-being, and it wasn't as if it would hurt to just call the man.

"Alright, alright. I'll call tomorrow."

"Why not today?"

"Because, Karen, it's Sunday. He'll be closed."

"Ah. Yes. I suppose you win this round."

"Goodbye, Karen."

"Bye, sweets."

"Thank you."

"Any time."