A/N: This is my first time entering a Ficathon. I'm very excited about this story; the idea came to me several months ago and I jotted down some stuff in a notebook. However, I wanted to finish up my first fan fic before embarking on more stories. Which worked out perfectly when I saw the announcement for this Holiday Fanficathon.

Now, just to warn you: this is not fluffy. In fact, in the beginning there will be quite a bit of angst. Chapter 2 is going to be killer. However, I will not be killing anyone off and eventually….maybe…..probably there will be happiness and light. Just not for a bit. So, read on, please. But some patience for the journey will serve you well. I think it will be worth it.

She awoke with a start. The bed beside her was cold, the room still dark save for the soft glow of the light outside filtering in through the window as it reflected off of the steadily falling snow.

Glancing at the bedside clock she saw it was 2 a.m. The cold bed hadn't awakened her; she had been sleeping alone for months now; before his arrival in her life and now after as well. It was a sacrifice worth making.

Still, she knew without a doubt he was not in his bed. Knew where he almost certainly was: sitting in the living room, staring out the window at the dark landscape which would be devoid now of details by the mantle of fresh snow.

She'd been careful. No reminders of his past. She'd furnished the house with their story in mind. There was not a single keyboard in the entire place. Nothing that might trigger the unwelcome muscle memory of his fingers dancing across the keys, the feeling of recounting a story or creating a new universe. She was even careful with papers and pens, afraid of what even the mundane task of writing might bring forth. But she couldn't completely eliminate the risks. They were asking so much of him, of her.

She controlled his days. Used the time to reinforce the story, her belief in him. In them. She had despaired for a few dark days but recently felt that he was finally coming around; at least during the daytime that is. She thought she could now see the progress, was certain of it on their good days.

The biggest improvement was in his attitude toward her. He seemed to finally trust her, relied on her. Not that he'd had much of a choice. It was her or nothing. And nothing wasn't possible for him at this juncture.

Yet she had other markers that pointed to his acceptance of what his life was now. Verbally, it was in what he told her, how he spoke to her. He now finally referred to her as his wife. Called her some of the sweet nicknames that a couple has for each other.

However, in her more honest moments with herself, in the deep of night when she woke and knew he was sunk deep in his mind battling the dreams and trying to decide what was real and what was not, she knew there was a chance he was just parroting her daytime words to keep her from continuing to hammer at the shell he'd created to keep her out.

She didn't control his nights. Not without drastic measures. And those measures would destroy him, so they were no longer an option. She knew the struggles he had at night. A large part of her was frustrated he hadn't accepted everything yet, wouldn't touch her, wouldn't even sleep in the same bed where she could completely envelop him in the story of them. But she knew once he did, he would be completely hers.

Still, he resisted. She appreciated that this was a tremendous strain. Despite all the precautions they'd used from the beginning to make him question everything. It wasn't easy wiping everything he'd known and replacing it with their version of the story of his life. Despite the access to the medications and the training. The solitude. A lesser man would never have lasted this long. But Richard Castle was not a lesser man and she'd worried for a while it wasn't going to work.

However, it was imperative that this worked. There was no option for failure, no wiggle room. Failure to comply meant death. So she worked extra hard each and every day. Recent reports that she'd submitted were more positive, reflected the progress that she'd won at such great cost. She'd never considered lying. That would mean her death, certainly. His as well.

As she sighed and turned over in the bed, she hoped that the progress she'd seen was real, not him just telling her what she wanted to hear. She hoped he was starting to accept it all and that he'd soon be in her bed. Her husband in more than just name. As she drifted off to sleep again, she mentally promised herself she would try even harder again in the morning.

The little light that made it into the room barely illuminated anything, but if someone had been standing, watching, they might have appreciated the soft gleaming of the wedding ring on her left finger as she sank into slumber once again.

He sat in the dark. Really, sitting wasn't a choice he had to make anymore. But the dark was. A glass of water rested on the table next to him. He was in the living room, which faced the endless back of the property. There were no lights out back, so typically the only illumination was from the moon and the stars. It was a landscape he'd become familiar with over the last few weeks. Tonight, with the heavy snow, even the familiar scenes were obscured.

His eyes had long adjusted to the black of night, but he wasn't really looking at the landscape outside of the picture window he sat behind. It was just a place to hold his gaze while his mind tried to make sense out of the jumble his life had become. The reflection of the snow, glittering occasionally in what tiny light was available, was soothing. It helped calm him enough he could try and sort through the dreams and nightmares that visited him every night.

It was the same theme every night, though the details might change a bit. Every night since he'd first awakened into the hell that had become his life. Physically, he supposed he'd recovered fairly well. Considering. Mentally was an entirely different prospect.

Amnesia. That's what they called it. Such a simple word for the fact that he couldn't remember anything more than bits and pieces of his life before two months ago. Since before the accident. With everything else, he might have recovered and moved on with his life. It would have been difficult, but possible.

Without his memories though, even moving on was difficult. Things made more sense in the light of the day. He had her to explain things, why things were a certain way. What the plans were. What he needed to do. He had her to get him through the difficult rehab of the day. The draining physical demands that were made of his body.

The nights were when he was alone though. The night was when the dreams visited. Any semblance of control was lost in the dreams. They led to questions that he couldn't answer. He'd found out the hard way that she wouldn't answer them either. He wasn't sure why; he was told it was his confused brain making up stories to try and sort out the jumble of his brain that had resulted from the head injury, the crash.

Some of the dreams were clearly of his life before the crash. This should be a positive, a sign that maybe his memory was coming back. Yet some of these were the ones that disturbed him the most. He guessed that was why he kept them from her entirely. No sense in burdening both of them with his nonsense. The best were when he dreamt of their daughter. Sometimes they made him sadder, but mostly they were happy dreams when she was in them.

They always started out with simple joy just being in her presence. He had so many scenes of her through the years, though they were simple snapshots never long scenes. He remembered red hair, watching her grow. They had conversations in his dream, discussing wide ranging topics. At least he thought they did. The words always faded as soon as he awoke, but the feeling of happiness and contentment in being with her never faded. He wished he could talk to her now, let her know how much he missed her.

There were also ones he didn't understand. Ones where his daughter looked old enough to be an adult; well, she was one now so he supposed these were scenes he dreamt of her as he'd last seen her. Often in these dreams she seemed to be pleading with him to come back to her. She was sad because he wasn't with her. Which made no sense as she'd been the one to leave him.

He knew she was grown now, but couldn't remember the details of her life over the last year or two at all. Another part of the head trauma he'd been told. His wife had filled him in, shown him the pictures. Their Alexis was now living in Africa, working in a remote village that left her out of communication save for some brief letters.

He was so proud of her, working with those so unfortunate that clean water was a daily struggle. Unimaginable. Yet, part of him couldn't help but wonder why she hadn't come home after his accident, after his memory loss. Perhaps Alexis has been shielded from the worst of it; maybe his wife and family not wanting to worry her? But that would be unfair both to him and to Alexis. She should know the truth and he deserves to have her comforting presence at his side.

Instead he just had the dreams. He doesn't know why she would want him to come to Africa. It makes no sense and he's decided it's just a manifestation of his wanting her with him. It was an impossibility now no matter what. Her last letter had given absolutely no indication that there was a problem. No, he was sure these nightmares were a simply a result of his accident and his natural worry over his baby girl being so far away; in a place he couldn't protect her.

One thing that has been bothering him tremendously after he awakes trembling from the dreams is the lack of a very important person in the dream with his daughter, really in his dreams altogether. Alexis is a constant. Her appearance in his unconscious mind was always something that filled him with joy and excitement. Yet her mother is never there with her. He never has dreamt them together. Never has seen them acting as mother and daughter. It's like that part of their life has been completely cut out of his head. And this bothers him, bothers him a lot.

He's learned to not say anything to his wife about it; the hurt look on her face the first time he'd broached the subject, even as tangentially as he'd started, was enough to shut him up. She shouldn't have to be injured by his brain's lack of cooperation in remembering his life before the injury. She still had all of her memories intact; it was his that were faulty, absent.

The reality of it is that Alexis had left for Africa prior to his accident. He's sure this plays a role in his dreams as she's almost always alone. Sometimes he dreams of her with his mother, who's been dead for two years now. But in those dreams Alexis is always younger, which makes sense. He's just not sure how to explain the fact that his wife is still missing from them.

But these dreams of his daughter and not of his wife are really not the entire source of his disquiet. Sure, they play a role. Yet they are not the reason that when he awakens from yet another that he finds himself seeking out the solitude of a dark living room in front of a window looking out at a black night. Not the reason he fears to sleep. Not the reason he drags himself out of the bed without her help, afraid to sleep and dream again.

No, his dreams of his daughter are wonderful; she's not physically present in his life but he loves dreaming of her and the wondrous woman she has become. But the more disturbing dream that almost always follows dreams of Alexis is what wakes him every night desperate to leave his bed and to remain dreamless in general. These are the moments when his dreams of her fade and are replaced with the nightmares. Shadowy agents stalking him, stalking his daughter. He feels danger lurking around every corner, feels one wrong step could be his last. Which is a funny way to think about it. Considering.

But the very worst part, the part that makes him want to scream in fear is that he is not the true target. Neither is Alexis. He knows he is in danger, but it's because he is in the way, not the primary concern. The person most in danger is the woman he aches to dream of every night, the woman he can't stop thinking of. Even in the light of day. The woman he thinks isn't even real.

He first dreamt of her as a hazy, foggy figure. Nothing that had much certitude, more of a feeling about her. These were his dreams when he first woke up. He has them nearly every night. With time, with his recovery, she became clearer. He's not sure if that's because she truly exists (doubtful) or if his mind is just filling in cracks that it can't do for him in the rest of his memories.

In the last week her image in his dreams has become exquisitely detailed. She has long, wavy brown hair. Hazel eyes that sparkle at him. She is tall, with long legs that never end. He feels her love for him and embarrassingly thinks he might feel the same way. That's why he'll do anything to keep her safe. Even an imaginary woman.

Sometimes he dreams of them in a soft, warm bed. Making love all night. The wonder of her skin beneath his, his hands in her soft hair. Kissing him deeply, losing himself in her.

Other times he dreams of her death. Lying on green grass with him kneeling above her, cradling her body as her bright red blood leaks out onto his hands. Telling her he loves her. Hearing her whisper the same to him.

He hates these dreams. They're so real, so detailed. It seems like she's real, he aches for her. Yet he knows she's not. It's confusing. He is drawn to her like iron to a magnet. It's something he really doesn't understand. Staring at the dark landscape doesn't really help, but at least he's not in the middle of the dreams anymore.

He's learned to keep his worry to himself. His wife hates it when he tries to discuss the feeling of danger, the worry over their lives. Is Alexis safe? Are they safe? No matter how irritated she gets, reassuring him nothing, no one is looking for them. They live in the middle of nowhere after all. He's not stupid enough to mention the dream woman who is not her. It doesn't make any sense to him, how could he explain it to his wife who has done so much for him?

Still, that feeling of fear and danger is hard to shake, even in the light of day. It fades a bit; he can easily look out the windows and see they are surrounded by nothing but fields and mountains. No other houses, no other people. A vast emptiness that might make some feel safer but paradoxically makes him feel even more exposed. After all it's not like he could get away without help.

So the day brings some comfort, but it's all lost at night. As soon as he dreams of his mystery woman. Knows however the danger might manifest that it will never rest. That part really frightens him. What if it's coming right now?

The other reason he hates the dreams is because of his wife. No matter how hard he tries, each night that he dreams of the woman who haunts him turns into a night in which any feeling of closeness he has developed during the day with his wife is utterly destroyed. He despises himself for it, but he can't help himself. Each night he eagerly looks forward to seeing her again, at least until the danger starts. And each time he wakes up feeling like he's been cheated. Of her presence in his mind; on his wife in reality?

He shakes his head, unable to reconcile the conscious with the unconscious. Why does he feel closer to an imaginary woman than to his wife? He's not being fair to her at all until he resolves this issue.

Meredith claims she understands that he needs time. Knows that he's been through a lot and that the memory loss has included their entire marriage. Not to mention that his physical condition has been altered so dramatically.

She's been beyond patient with him. He doesn't deserve her. He wants to love her; wants to be more than he is. But he can't erase the feelings he has for his dream woman. The one with whom he feels he truly belongs with. And the fact of the matter is that he doesn't remember their marriage. Has no frame of reference to hang his feelings for her on. She is essentially a stranger to him, though he feels close to her as the last weeks have shown the depth of her love for him.

But he's never once dreamt of Meredith, doesn't know why that might be. When he looks at her during the day, looks at her beautiful blonde hair, her slight figure so short and petite he wonders why he doesn't feel any connection, why she doesn't seem familiar. She's the mother of his child and yet he doesn't remember her giving birth, her pregnancy, their happiness.

The lack of connection results in the dreams. The dreams make a connection more difficult. It's a catch 22 that loops through his head every night after he wakes up and slowly makes his way out to the living room to be alone with his thoughts. He doesn't know how to fix this and there are times he's not sure he wants to.

But that's not fair to her. He has no business being obsessed with a fictional woman when his wife of almost twenty years has so patiently waited for him, been through the hell of not knowing if he was going to be ok and now everyday lives the hell of knowing that he doesn't remember her. Good thing the vows apparently included 'for better or worse, in sickness and in health.'

He'd have been totally lost without her. He knows she wants more of him, wants things back to normal. He sighs. It's time to start trying harder to be the man he wants to be for her. Well, at least half the man. He's still not come to terms with all the sequelae from the crash.

He turns the wheelchair carefully around and starts to roll his way to the bedroom they've adapted for his needs. Getting in and out of bed is very difficult alone, but he can just manage it.

If he wants to be better he has to get more rest. Dreams or no, he needs to sleep. He decides that tonight he'll cave in to the sleeping pill Meredith had been encouraging him to take. It should allow sleep and hopefully prevent further dreams. He knows he's never been a coward; that was a part of his identity that could never be altered no matter what kind of trauma he experienced. But he didn't mind admitting to himself that he didn't like having the dreams. No, Richard Rodgers was not a fan of these dreams at all.

If he could control his nights so the dreams never came he was sure to feel better during the day. Perhaps then he'd start to make progress with the memories, with his relationship with Meredith. Maybe he'd feel less danger, feel safer with a good's night sleep. Yes, this was what he needed now.

As he wheels his way back to his room, the liquid black of the night settles back over the living room. Only the intermittent flash of light from his chair's spokes and the wedding ring on his left hand caught any light at all. Once he is back to his room even these flashes are gone and the pure darkness takes complete control once again.