The first time Emma comes to him, Brennan knows it’s a dream.

Knows it with an absolute certainty that allows him to enjoy it; to feel nothing but the way her fingers tangle in his hair and scrape lightly at the nape of his neck *just* like that, the sweet ice-cream cool of her mouth as it presses to his, the slick motion of her tongue, tracing patterns against his.

She pulls back and gives him that slightly shy, slightly wicked smile that reminds him, achingly, of the day they first met at the bar - all trust and sexy promise in that curve of lips, and he knew he’d protect her with his life if he had to. Not bad for a string-free street thief, he thinks, and then she slips her top off, and he can’t think of anything at all.

But he thinks of nothing else in the days it takes her to join him again, because Emma-

Emma burns within him like the first sharp, bracing breath of snow-chilled air - not blindingly hot, nor faintly tepid, but invigorating and beautiful and always, always there.

So he shouldn’t be all that surprised she’s taken to visiting him in his dreams - and yet, every time she appears in his bed, that same quick jolt of staggering joy flashes through him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, not really meaning it, but feeling he should say it all the same.

She doesn’t reply; merely places a finger on his lips to stopper the words, and begins unbuttoning his shirt.

Her hands brush over his chest, his nipples, and the cool touch of her flesh makes him shiver.

“You’re cold,” he murmurs, and takes her hands into the cradle of his own to blow his warmth into them.

She smiles her thanks, and her eyes glow, blue, blue as a flame trapped in ice.

After dinner one night, as he’s heading to bed - to *her* - Shalimar stops him with a hand on his sleeve. He can feel the heat of her through the cotton, and thinks that Emma’s hand would be fair and fresh as new snow against him; in contrast, Shalimar feels like a brightly lit fire on a summer day, and it’s almost too much to bear.

He forces himself not to step back, tries to withstand that tanned skin burning, burning into him, and is relieved when her hand drops to her side. She looks hurt, he notices, like a bright golden cat who’s only just noticed a thorn in its paw, and though he cares - of course, he cares - it isn’t enough to bring him back into that circle of fire.

“Stay with us,” she protests, with that quirk of a grin he once found so endearing, and he knows she’s really saying, Stay with me.

He brushes her off with a joke about being tired out, and slides beneath the crisp, chilled sheets of his bed with a calm he hasn’t felt since before Emma’s death.

When he opens his eyes, she trails a pale hand down his abdomen, nails scoring a faint line that makes his muscles clench in anticipation, and he lets out a groan of encouragement, of ecstasy.

Emma‘s winter-blue eyes are tracing over his body, and it sends a chill of exhilaration through the skin of him, to his very bones; her icy voice surrounds him, and she smiles when she says, softly, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

-end-