Nothing made sense anymore.

The dream was real. Had been real. Will be real?
What was it? Glimpse of the future? Alternate reality? Mind games?
Gawain knew mind games. He had a PhD in mind games.
Well, being on the receiving end, anyway.

Talking about mind games: he was in Maxine's mirror.

Last time he saw her, she was dying. Maya, that is. Those bullets hurt like a bitch, but curiously only after Mirror woke up.

And now he was half dried from the cold shower, reeling from the wakeup, and painfully, embarrassingly stone cold sober.

Somewhere, somehow, in an alternate universe, in a pocket dimension, in the future, in the past, in someone's mind...
... there had to be more to this story.

Maxine woke up the same way she did every morning. Rain or shine, work day or weekend.

Cold paperclip tentacles. To the face.

When she was thirteen and this was a new sensation, there'd been screaming. When she'd hit her proper teenage years, there'd been swearing, cursing, and finally, ****** ******* profanity.

It did as much good as swearing at any alarm clock.

Shame. She'd been having such a good dream. It had been... been... something; it had ended in a bright light, that was all she knew. She yawned, rolled out of bed, and blindly groped her way over to the dresser. A pair of sweat pants were dug out; any old shirt was rustled out of her hamper.

It was five in the morning. Fashion hadn't woken up yet.

Outside, her shoes hit pavement, and she ran.

The city looked different that morning. Alive, somehow; new. Like it had just woken up from some long dream, too, and was ready to just be again. It was a clear morning, the sky still dark above her—and for a second, just a second, she could have sworn she saw stars up in the black voids between buildings.

Right. Stars, in New York City? Not until hell froze over, and the world ended.

...The world ended.

The apocalypse.

Now that had been a cool dream. It came back to her in pieces, scenes and colors, textures and smells:

Riding up rubble on the back of—ha!—the back of one of her paper dogs.

God, she was glad they weren't that big in real life. She had enough trouble with the stacks of paper that hounded her ankles; she'd need a swimming pool to take down one of those monsters.

Her and the girls talking about their new home, about what it would look like, down to the stupidest details: what kind of furniture they wanted to steal for their rooms, what kind of drapes they'd hang, whether the kitchen would have an island in the middle or not. They'd all been sitting around a fire, in a lean-to formed by the tilt of a shattered building's wall; they'd been laughing. It was Sveta and Isabel who'd do the main work, of course, but it would be everyone's: their very own fortress. They'd be safe there, and everyone else would steer clear.

In the dream, Miss Bone Bikini and her? BFFs. No wait, even better: Isabel, and all the Amazons, had taken orders from her. Maxine snerked, and turned the corner that took her off the hard pavement of the city sidewalks and into Central Park's broad paths. She'd admit it, if only to herself: even in dreams, she had to have her own way.

Don't forget the zeppelin. How could she forget the zeppelin?

Or the Zephylin, as more than one survivor called it. Usually not to his face. Unless a girl was drunk enough; then she could slur together words, and he could pretend he hadn't heard, if she was paying enough.

Apparently 'Dio' was too boring a name for her subconscious mind. That mercenary Brit she kept running into? De-dubbed. Maybe she'd use that, the next time she saw him. Heh, 'Zephyr.' So her subconscious thought he was a windbag. Really, who was she to argue?

She slowed down to a jog, then a cool down walk. She didn't usually stop on her way back to her apartment, but she'd earned a coffee, right? She'd survived the apocalypse, after all. Not just survived—been a real female entrepreneur. It was a good night's work.

She ducked into a little coffee shop. Ordinarily she didn't talk to strange men at counters, but she was in a good mood, and there was something about him; something familiar. He obviously thought the same about her; she saw the way his eyes kept ducking over, then away. Did she know him from college? Maybe from a calendar signing? Always nice to meet a fan; a little spontaneous PR never hurt a girl.

"Hey, do I—"

He turned to face her fully, then. He had brown curls, but his eyes were gray. Gray as dust that choked and blinded and blotted out the sun for months; gray as crumbled walls that had felt safe when they were both together.

She heard a coffee cup hit the ground, and felt hot drops hitting her legs. She thought it was hers, but hers was still in her hands, its styrofoam sides slowly buckling under her fingers. It was his cup that had dropped.

That was when her morning went to Hell.

"I'm so sorry," he said, and his voice was hoarse. "That's not who I am. I would never—"

"Shut up. Just shut up." She had to get out of there.

"Maxine, wait!"

He knew her name. She'd known his; she'd known his for months that had felt like a lifetime, as the world died around them and something new clawed its way from the corpse. She knew him better than he knew himself. She had to get out of there, before she killed him again.

Her shoes hit pavement, and she ran. She ran fast enough to leave his name behind her, but other things rushed in to fill their place.

The gang. The woman on the bridge, and all the others like her.

She hadn't said a thing. She'd just watched it happen, because she was safe.

Living on her own. Before she found Kate, and Isabel, and Kitra, and Andrea, and all the other Amazons—those days when all she had were herself and a few sheets of growling paper.

Their first raid.

Her second kill.

Her third, her fourth; the day she didn't even think to count anymore.

Her first. The very first person who had died to keep her alive.

She was back at her apartment. She took the stairs up; it wasn't a morning for riding an elevator, alone with her own thoughts. God, she needed a shower; she needed to be clean—

She stepped into her bathroom, and stopped short. Then she laughed; a short explosive hitch of breath.

Speak of the devil.

"Get out of my mirror," the redhead commanded, with all the fire of a future Amazon Queen, "so I can punch you."

Was he real? Or was he just there to haunt her, like the name at the back of her mind? Either way, the jerk needed to get what was coming to him.

Where did he get off, dying for her?

He did not even have to knock. Not that he was going to. At this point, his train of throught stood idle at a crossing, not even trying to figure out what was here to do. Really, clearly, that was not his job in this relationsh...

>>"Get out of my mirror, so I can punch you."

She looked like she had been running. Away from something. He did not even need to ask what. So many people seemed to have the same look this morning.
Post-apocalypse bedhead. Second degree.

Without a word or a blink or a fuss, Gawain stepped out of the mirror and stood right in front of her, balancing on the thin line between 'I see you' and 'please feel free to punch me'. Dark chocolate eyes met angry green ones. Now this felt familiar.
There was only one question left.

"Did you make it?"

He had that puppy-dog look on his face; that just kick me, I'm already down one. It didn't make this easier, but a girl had to do what a girl had to do. She'd learned that. She remembered learning that, even if she was trying her hardest to keep the details buried.

Maxine drew her fist back, and punched him with everything she had.

"****." She doubled over around her poor hand. That hurt. In the dream, in the vision, in the future, in whatever that had been—she didn't remember it hurting like that. But then, she'd had a lot more practice.

"Oh, I made it, all right. Right up until the end." The end. That's what it had been, right? The white light? It had been another explosion; someone had decided to finish the job.

"Now ask me how many people didn't make it, because someone decided to play hero and save me. Don't you ever die for me, Gawain, or I'll kill you. You're a better person than I'll ever be. You're the one—you're the one who should have lived. Not..."

It felt hard to talk; like her throat was closing up. Something hot was burning its way down her cheeks from her eyes. Was she really going to break down crying? Now? It had been years since she'd been that weak.

...It felt a little good, being that weak again.

>>"****."

His thoughts exactly. Damn the girl packed a punch. Gawain staggered back, the desperation was probably stronger than the muscles, but it hurt more than he expected, none the less.
One punch is worth a thousand words.

"Sh*t, Maxine, what the h..."

>>"Oh, I made it, all right. Right up until the end. Now ask me how many people didn't make it, because someone decided to play hero and save me. Don't you ever die for me, Gawain, or I'll kill you. You're a better person than I'll ever be. You're the one—you're the one who should have lived. Not..."

Bruised jaw forgotten, Gawain stared at her, mouth slightly open in surprise. Was she...?
No way. There was no way, in this world or the next, no way in heaven or hell at all that Maxine Ralls...
... was crying?

That staggered him harder than the punch.
Also, technically, if he died for her again, there was no way she could...
... not the point.

Gawain struggled with the ancient male urge to flee at the sight of female tears. It was infinitely more terrifying than two bullets to the back. At least he did not see those coming.

"Maxine...?"

Stepping in closer and risking another punch in the jaw, one hand in the tangled red hair, the young knight kissed the evil queen on the forehead.

"We are both alive."

Not your average fairy tale.

The redhead visibly bristled as Gawain stepped closer. She drew herself up; her fists balled at her side, her shoulders squared themselves into hard lines—

She crumpled just as quickly, when his lips touched her forehead. She buried her head in his shirt. It was dry and new, fresh from a drawer. He smelled like soap.

Boys in the present time weren't so gross. She was starting to remember why she liked them.

"What was that?" She asked, her voice somewhat muffled—his shirt was comfortable, and the hand in her hair had a nice, steady weight to it; she wasn't in a hurry to leave either of them behind. "It wasn't real, was it? But..."

But she already knew of at least three people who'd shared it, and the morning was still young.

But it couldn't have been real. She wasn't like that. She wouldn't—

"That's not who I am. I would never— Maxine, wait!"

Her hands balled tightly in his shirt. Yes, she was going to just stay right here, for now. Gawain was like a pillow and a safety blanket and a tissue box, all rolled up in one.

He could feel the tension leaving her shoulders as she leaned against him. That was so un-Maxine it reeled him more than the punch, or the crying. Last time she did that, she was thirteen years old. That was a long time ago.

>>"What was that? It wasn't real, was it? But..."

"It wasn't real." he murmured, wrapping his arms around her (before she could punch him again). "It wasn't real at all. Everyone's fine."

Well, as fine as they could be, given the examples he had seen so far, including himself.
He swayed a little, rubbing the rest of the tension out of her back. She was wound up like a bow.

"I don't... I don't know what it was. Some kind of a shared dream, I guess. Probably some mutant messin' with people's minds. I've been through that before. It doesn't suck any less the second time, believe me."

She was the first warm thing since the cold shower in the morning. And now he was in a bathroom again, except, this time, he was warm. And, once again, in the wrong place, with the wrong girl.
Time warping is funny that way.

It wasn't real.

But he'd had the same dream. So had... so had that other man. If it wasn't real, somehow, then how—

It wasn't real. Gawain said so. No one was dead because of her; not even him.

It wasn't real. Just this once, the reporter was willing to take his word for it.

Slowly, line by line, the redhead drew herself back together. With one last sniffle, she pushed herself away from his shirt, and got back to being Maxine Ralls, Wolf News reporter.

"So that's where your dream ended? When you—" She ran a quick sleeve over her face; just clearing up a little blurriness. "That's when you woke up? You... didn't see what happened next?"

Her voice was steady again; she was interviewing a witness, that was all.

>>"So that's where your dream ended? When you—"

"Caught the bullets?"

Ever so helpful.

>>"That's when you woke up? You... didn't see what happened next?"

She looked up at him, eyes dry and all down to business. It almost made him smile.
All right, so he might have smiled a little.

"Are ya sure you want to do this in the bathroom?" he reached out to wipe the last of the tears from her cheek so she can start pretending they never existed "I mean, I think we deserve a drink. You have anything for post-apocalyptic stress?"

Who if not Maxine Ralls.

"There's a liquor store a block from here," the redhead said, in her most businesslike tone. "Give me fifteen minutes to clean up."

It wasn't the first time she sent him to wait in couch purgatory while she got ready, and it wouldn't be the last. As long as he was alive, and she was alive, and modern comforts still existed, it would never be the last.

She took the world's quickest shower; she didn't do her hair, but she did devote a luxurious twenty seconds to just... letting the water run through it. Back in her bedroom, outfits were gone through and discarded in quick succession. She was in the mood for something a little more substantial than her usual. She finally settled on a pair of jeans, one of her long-sleeved dress shirts, and a short leather coat to go over it. And boots. Black boots, with a decent heel on them. She really, really felt the need to wear a good pair of boots.

When she emerged from the bedroom, she was just as soapy clean as Gawain, and her hair hung in damp flowing curls. She grabbed her purse off an end table, and slapped him on the back.

"Com'on; let's drink like there's no tomorrow."

>>"Com'on; let's drink like there's no tomorrow."

That sounded like quite a plan. On so many levels. Gawain pushed the thing-that-he-should-have-been-thinking-about-and-decided-not-to to the back of his mind and tucked it away till the inevitable happened. Right now, dealing sounded a lot less desirable than alcohol. Go figure.

The liquor store was close; it just added to the frustrations that needed a speedy and tragic drowning, because the young knight did not have an ID on him, fake or real, so he had to wait in front of the stoor like a puppy while Maxine spent a sinful sum of money on liquid comfort. When she finally appeared, carrying the spoils, he resisted the urge to drag her into the reflecting windows to get back to her place sooner.

Dear God, I am turning into Rupert.

Gawain was under aged. As in, law prohibited him from getting legally drunk. That was so cute: both the law, and the boy it applied to.

Maxine cared a little less about laws then when she'd gone to bed last night.

When she came out of the liquor store, it was with a dragging bag in each hand and another tucked under her arm. It had only cost her a little over a hundred. A little over a hundred! If the world ended, the liquor she had in these bags alone would be enough to set her up as the richest girl in town for years, or buy her a roundtrip flight on the Zephyrlin to anywhere in the world. She really needed to start a stockpile of hooch, just in case.

"Here, be a good boy, and use your manly muscles," the redhead said, shoving off two of the bags to Gawain. She kept the third to her chest, and fairly hummed her way back to the apartment. Money was great, wasn't it? Just paper bills, or metal coins, or a little slide of a plastic card, and people let you walk off with anything you wanted.

>>"Here, be a good boy, and use your manly muscles,"

Maxine seemed positively... cheerful? She acted as if the world had not jsut ended, which, strictly speaking, was exactly what happened... or, rather, did not happen.
...
Gah. Alcohol could not come soon enough.

Gawain, manly muscles in action, carried the booze back to her place, not even asking what it was. If she wanted to get him drunk on nail polish, he was all game. As long as it accomplished the primary goal.

Back in the apartment, Gawain dropped bags on the kitchen table and turned back to Maxine.

"This is a bad idea."

He wished he sounded more convincing.

She wasn't cheerfully acting as if the world hadn't ended; she was acting cheerful because it had. And not all of them got off easy with it, either: not all of them died a hero at the very start of society's end. Not all of them stayed the person they were, right up until the end. Some of them had to live. Not just live—survive.

Would Gawain have stayed a hero, with a few more years of apocalypse under his belt?

That was exactly the kind of question liquor was made to answer.

Maxine pulled bottle after bottle out of the bags, lining them up in no clear order on the table top. Rum, vodka, scotch, tequila... it was a regular party on her table, and just the two of them invited.

"If this is the worst thing I ever do, I'll be a happy woman." She said, pulling a dusty blender out of her cabinet. "Do you have any idea how to mix drinks?"

She certainly didn't. Up until ten minutes ago, the strongest thing in her apartment was a few stray beers in the fridge. It couldn't be that hard though, could it? She had frozen fruit and ice in the fridge for all things girlie, sprite and coke for all things not, and more booze than Zephyr's bar. Drinking: it was going to happen.

Honestly, in what way was this a bad idea?

>>"If this is the worst thing I ever do, I'll be a happy woman. Do you have any idea how to mix drinks?"

"I do, actually" Gawain smirked a bit, looking at the bottles "But I don't suppose you got anything to mix with."

This was not a cocktail party, anyway. This was real time drink-to-forget, and fruity drinks were just not going to cut it anyway.

Glasses were found and set on the table, and Gawain reached for the bottle of rum, pouring just enough for a shot.
Two shots.
Pun intended.

Leaning against he counter, he handed one to Maxine.

"So. What are we drinking to?"