November 10, 1991

The soft afternoon gradually gave way to evening, dragging the reluctant sun along toward the west while darkness settled in across the garden. Bit by bit, shadows replaced the hazy swaths of color- the ones closest to the window, anyway, the ones he could still see.

Glancing at her watch, Mary slowly leaned over to pick up her purse off the floor. But her body, thanks to her advancing pregnancy, had foiled any and all attempts at subtlety lately.

"Have to scurry, darling?" he asked.

"I do, I'm sorry," she whispered back. "Have to go home and get dinner ready for the boys, otherwise I'd stay longer."

Freddie felt around for where he thought her hand would be; once he found it, he held on with an iron grip- one that totally belied his pale, weakening voice. "No need to say sorry, dear; I'm just glad that you came at all."

"Of course," Mary replied. "I'll always be here for you."

"Dear Old Faithful," he sighed. "Give my love to Richard."

She kissed his forehead. "I will."

"Were there a lot of press out there when you came?"

"A few, not as many as yesterday."

For Freddie, that was still a few too many. "Have Phoebe or Terry see you out, then- they'll get you past the vultures."

It floored her, really. Even in immeasurable suffering, Freddie was still so thoughtful, and so brave. Through the years no one would never have supposed how strong he was- and there were times when she herself had had her doubts- but for him to smile and tease now even though he of anyone deserved a reason to voice his misery, was more solid a testament of strength than anything else that had come before.

In silence he listened as Mary rustled around, collecting her things before rising from the chair and quietly padding toward the exit.

"Leave the door open, will you, darling?" Freddie called.

Mary clenched the door knob. "Is it all right if I just pull it to?"

"That's fine," he nodded. "See you tomorrow."

Well, not literally, anyway, he joked to himself, knowing better than to make light of his condition aloud, with Mary standing there to hear it. Honestly, though, a humorous, tongue-in-cheek lens was the only way he could look at it any longer, and not absolutely lose what little heart remained.

Some time toward the beginning of last year, Freddie's sight began to weaken. It started small, almost imperceptibly so, much like the sores on his leg had. But just as in recent days he had almost lost the ability to walk, so also his eyes had lately grown more and more blurry, to the point that the numerous faces watching there at his bedside throughout the day had become blank, indeterminate swirls. Having gone practically blind by now, he was growing increasingly dependent on his ears for communication. It seemed the disease had left his hearing untouched so far, even as it snatched away just about everything else.

In the hall outside, he heard Mary's footsteps fading while a lighter, more sprightly pair approached. If memory served (and it didn't always, certainly not lately), that was probably Joe Fanelli coming along to see if Freddie was awake and wanted anything special for supper, before he prepared his evening dose of medication.

There was a thump as someone's hand pushed the door further open. "Liza?" Freddie called.

A soft, inauthentic chuckle. "You are impossible to sneak up on."

"I guess you'll just have to wait to kill me later tonight, when I'm asleep," he joked, waving Joe closer so he could grab onto his hand while they talked. Touch, too, had become as indispensable as hearing; it was a solid validation of his own existence, as well as a way to prove the world around him was not just another fabrication of his slowly but surely unraveling mind.

"Did you have a nice visit with Mary?" Joe asked.

Freddie nodded, taking the man's hand and squeezing. "It was for me. But I don't think, um- I think I may have said- something that I shouldn't have said."

"Oh?"

"It was nothing moody or anything, just mentioned someone- I mean, something in a certain sort of way, and I think it - hit her wrong."

Joe's featureless head cocked to the side. "Well, what did you say?"

"Oh, like you don't know," Freddie popped back, "you- you were probably standing ear to the door the whole ti-" He stopped short, voice broken by a sudden coughing fit. That meant he was talking too much, and those damned lungs of his simply weren't having it.

At least let me whisper, you old ragged wreck of a body, he cursed himself silently. You've surrendered your looks, your voice, your legs, everything this fucking scourge has demanded of you; all I ask is the air to breathe a full sentence without trouble. Is that so tall an order?

When the episode had passed, Joe waited a beat, before asking, as though nothing had happened, "Have you any sort of appetite tonight?"

"Not- really," Freddie wheezed, reaching for the glass of water at his bedside. "But if you're cooking, I'll-" he hacked one more time- "make an exception. What's on the menu?"

"You've got a choice between taste, or texture."

Freddie pretended to mull it over. "Oh, fuck it. Taste."

"As you wish." Joe clapped his hands. "One heaping bowl of soup, coming up."

"Spoil me, will you, and put a little pepper in the stuff?"

"Not too much seasoning; you know what Atkinson said."

"Good Lord," Freddie groaned. "I'm not asking for red fucking pepper, I meant the black."

"I know, I know, but-"

"What's he think, a sprinkling more flavor is going to shut down whatever's left?"

Joe sighed. "Freddie, don't you remember what happened last time I helped you cheat?"

"Of course not, I'm too old," he replied teasingly. "My God, I'm lucky if I can remember my-" a pause as he filled his shallow lungs with breath- "my own fucking name."

This had become a fairly routine exchange between Freddie and his chef. No matter how much he might pretend to protest, both men knew exactly how strict Freddie's diet had to be, even if eating itself was increasingly becoming less enjoyable and more like a household chore. Most of that blame, however, could be pinned on the cocktail of drugs that were pumped into the man every morning and evening- a dreadfully unsavory process which also fell to poor Joe, since Freddie didn't trust anyone else to do it.

And so, like always, Joe fought the urge to address Freddie's last flippant remark, and simply said, "Well, I'll get that going, anything I can bring you first?"

The words came swift and glib from the reclining man's throat. "A time machine."

"A- time machine?" Joe repeated, puzzled.

"Mm."

Joe blinked- then decided he might as well play along. "No problem, just tell me where I can get one and you'll be turning back the years before you know it."

Freddie shook his head. "Oh, I don't want to go back."

"You don't?"

"Because I already would know what's going to happen, that would be so boring. No, I would move forward." Freddie shifted his limbs under the sheet, though slowly so as not to provoke them. "Maybe thirty, forty years or so."

"Isn't there anyone you'd want to go meet, though?" Joe asked. "Anyone special?"

The man's lips curved in a half-smile, eyelids drooping sleepily. "That's the idea, darling."

Joe didn't inquire any further; he could see Freddie was on the verge of nodding off, so he passed this strange train of thought off as just another bit of pre-nap rambling, or else another manifestation of the damage being dealt to his brain. Only after Freddie let go of his hand was he allowed to flutter out the door and get some supper ready. Soon one of the others, either Phoebe or Jim most likely, would come up to keep Freddie company like some funny kind of relay team- but for the moment, all was still.

The door creaked. Lifting his head, Freddie squinted toward the source- then relaxed when he saw his favorite four-legged blur slinking through the crack Joe had left.

"There she is," Freddie whispered. "Come here, my little love."

With a little squeak of a meow, Delilah hopped up at her daddy's word. On velvet paws she crept all around where Freddie lay, finally settling down against his hip, where she curled up into a warm, cozy ball and made him coo with delight. Very gently he played with her tail, kissed her nose, and ran his fingers through her tortoiseshell pelt until she began to purr.

From outside his room, Freddie heard Phoebe's and Joe's voices faintly intermingling. In a couple of minutes, one of the other men would soon be up and keeping Freddie company- or so he hoped. Lately he had noticed a subtle change in the way they interacted with him. Maybe it showed in their tones when they addressed him, maybe he felt it in the intervals he spent alone and unattended in his room that, to Freddie, seemed to grow longer and longer with the nights. But whatever the manifestation, it all seemed to point towards their growing disinterest, like he had become a burden unto them almost.

Maybe I have, he mused numbly. Or maybe I'm crazy.

In the drowse of his silent, dimming room, Freddie closed his eyes and let his mind wander. I think I'll ask one of them to bring in another tape tomorrow, whoever it is that comes to see me- Roger, Brian, Miami, whoever. I hope it's Roger, I miss that tea kettle voice of his. I'd like to think they're at least still making some sort of progress, even without me there to crack the whip. That way, when I beat this thing-

"Oh, stop being a fool," he scoffed aloud. "You're never going to beat this thing. Everyone knows that- and so do you."

So then why keep fighting? he asked himself. Why am I still acting like it's only another twenty-four hours before I'm magically able to spring out of bed and waltz right back into the studio and get to work, when I can barely walk on my own anymore without someone helping me?

Oh, right. Because I don't give up.

Most times, when Freddie would hit himself with that surefire dose of perseverance, it worked like a charm. But tonight the words rang especially hollow, even cynical. He wasn't the kind to surrender, he wasn't a man to throw up his hands and let the world roll over him. But deep down, in the depths of his heart, he knew this was a fight he couldn't win. No matter how long he held out, the enemy from within would always have the upper hand. Maybe he had resources, maybe he had support of medicinal and emotional natures both, but the disease possessed the greatest, most indefatigable power of all: time. And Freddie's was running out.

"Yet here I am," he murmured. "Still kicking, for whatever it's worth. Right, Lila?"

As he spoke, Freddie pried his lids apart to peer at the cat, only to find she had shrunk in size, and her fur had darkened to a solid black. In fact, this was an entirely different cat nestled against him now- but by no means an unfamiliar one. The little black cat turned its head, flashing a pair of large amber gems, before stretching its front legs and dropping gracefully off the bed.

The man's eyes, which had miraculously cleared the moment he opened them, widened with excitement. Freddie looked down at his hands, marveling at how swiftly they had been restored to their smooth, supple glory. The little cat blinked, meowed, and stalked out of the room, vanishing into the light now streaming behind it.

Freddie smiled. This was the sign: he had dozed off, and was now drifting pleasantly into the world of his subconscious.

With one fluid motion he threw back the blankets, slid his bare feet to the floor. Freddie dug his toes deeper into the carpet as slowly, gingerly, he shifted his weight off the bed until at last, he was standing fully upright. Or so it appeared; and only in dreams could he rely on sight anymore. Even now he could not "feel" the soft carpeting under his feet, or the fabric of the blankets he had just flung aside. So just to be sure, he waited a moment or two- but his knees did not buckle, nor did the flesh of his legs suddenly erupt with debilitating pain. Once he was convinced that this projection of his body would not fail him as willingly as the real one, Freddie followed in the kitten's footsteps- faster now, so that he would not lose a single precious moment to hesitance.

He hadn't even finished crossing the floor when the door, the frame, even the room itself, suddenly evaporated. Freddie now stood alone at the foot of a hill shrouded in tall green pines, every trace of his London mansion erased from view. There was a gentle breeze blowing down the mountainside, carrying the sound of classical piano music along for the ride. Up above, the sky glowed a suspiciously bright scarlet, belying the fact there was no sun rising or setting to give it such an extraordinary color. None of this came as any surprise to Freddie, though; in fact he scarcely took any notice whatever, and just plowed straight on toward the trees.

After all, he could gaze awestruck upon the landscape plenty once he had found her.

Funny, but she usually doesn't make me work nearly this hard, he said to himself after running straight ahead for a while. Usually it's just a matter of seconds after the black cat that looks like Baby shows up, that she appears.

By usually, of course, Freddie meant "almost every single night for the last three months." Truth be told, "she" had casually been wandering into his dreams since the day she walked out of his life fourteen years before. But ever since his steadily declining health took a dive so steep he could no longer so much as drag himself into the studio, it was as though she practically lived in his head, especially when the end of each day drew nigh and he could not as easily control where his thoughts and feelings led him.

The weaker he grew, however, the more he lived for the escape. For here, in his head, there was no one he had to fake a smile for, and no need to be strong like there was in the world on the other side of his eyelids. Here, his smiles were meant. Here, he was understood, inside and out. Here, with her, he was safe.

Assuming of course Freddie could even find her this time around.

"Darling?" he called once he had come upon a clearing. "Where are you?"

No answer.

With a frustrated twitch of the lips, Freddie looked all around him for any trace of her. So far, there was none. Off to his distant right, however, he caught sight of what appeared to be a gently flowing river.

Curiosity piqued, he almost took off running toward it when there was a snap behind him. Immediately he turned on his heel- and put his hand over his heart, sighing in relief.

"You almost had me there, you little minx," Freddie laughed.

She only smiled, quietly lifting her foot off the very conveniently placed twig she had broken just now. This was the only move she made as she watched Freddie trek the fifty uphill feet between them.

"Make me do all the work," he muttered playfully under his breath. "Some wife you are, I tell you."

At that, she seemed to wake up a little, and hustled on down to meet him. As was his habit, Freddie glanced at her left hand, nodding in satisfaction when he saw that flash of gold there on her finger. It was nice to know that there were still some things he could rely on.

Then again, sometimes it isn't, he remarked to himself when he reached to take her hand- and as he closed his fingers around her small, waiting palm, felt nothing. As always, Freddie's smile faltered.

But not for long. Promptly he let go, and stood with his hands open in front of him. This time it was she who took his, which made all the difference. Now he could feel those fingertips pressing gently into his flesh.

"That's better," Freddie nodded. "Is it still too much to hope that you'll say hello?"

It was her face's turn to fall this time, her cheeks paling almost to the same color as her long, lightning-white hair. This, too, did not last, for a second later her eyes brightened once more, and the color returned to her features. Then, with his hand in hers, she led him away from the river and further into the forest, where a soft, lavender mist was creeping in to hide everything the thickly crowded trees did not already obscure.

Truth be told, those were the only two things that he hated about these dreams. No matter how often she came to him, he could never quite get used to being unable to touch her- under his own steam, that is. Whenever she laid hands on his face, wrapped her arms around him, he could revel in the nearness and warmth of her body; but any time he tried to reciprocate, he might as well have been embracing a cloud.

At least that problem had a halfway solution, though. In all the fourteen years these dreams had haunted him, Freddie could remember just one where she spoke. For a while he believed there had been a second- a wild vision which had fallen squarely on the night of his birthday- but now he knew better. He could not understand, or remember, why this figment of his imagination kept such total silence, especially when all he wanted was to hear her voice, but no amount of Freddie's cajoling could make her break it.

That didn't mean he stopped trying, of course.

"So where are you taking me this time?" he asked.

Silence.

Freddie rolled his eyes. "It's another surprise, then?"

This time around, he did get a response- but only in the form of a mysterious look over her shoulder, as if to say, "You'll see."

"Well, wherever it is," he said, "I'd like to see the river first."

She stopped dead in her tracks. Very slowly, she turned to look at him again, brows knit in confusion.

So he pointed. "Over there. See it? In between the trees there?"

The woman squinted, peered off toward where he had gestured. Although not one face muscle shifted, Freddie couldn't help but notice how hard she swallowed after a moment.

But whatever her obvious misgivings, Freddie was intrigued. "Come on, dear, let's go."

She shook her head vehemently, tugged at him a little to keep moving.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Have you been over there?"

A quick nod.

"Then what is it?"

After a beat, she looked away and shrugged.

"If you won't so much as tell me what's frightened you, then it can't be that serious," Freddie declared.

Her lips pursed, eyes narrowing ever so slightly- but she made nary a sound.

Freddie lifted his chin in triumph. "I thought so," he declared. "Right, then, come on."

That's when she let go of his hand. Now he was spooked. As much as Freddie enjoyed this unpredictable world, he had no intention of traipsing anywhere in it by himself. Before he could dig himself an even deeper hole, he modified his approach.

"Darling," he murmured softly, "please don't make me go without you."

Her round feline eyes stared deep into his as if in unspoken supplication. Freddie could see all over her face she was torn between clinging to her convictions, or leaving him alone. But in the end, Freddie won out. With a heavy sigh, she took his outstretched hand once more and let him lead her to the river.

As the seconds passed, Freddie glanced over at the woman walking alongside him. Whatever petty victory he had relished a mere minute before seemed to shrink down to the size of a pinhead when he saw her downcast profile. There was no question she wasn't happy about this- and now he had to wonder what it was about this new place that terrified her so. Regardless, Freddie knew he had behaved like less than a gentleman.

"Angel, look," he whispered. "I didn't mean to be such a tart just now. Really. I just sort of- in real life, I can't- make any decisions about my life anymore. It's this horrid disease, it's changed all that, and I'm not in control. Where I go, what I do, how I spend my time- it's all decided by other people, by doctors, by- by people that are not me, you know?"

She lifted her eyes, which, though still sad, were sympathetic. Freddie continued, "So- that's probably why I get so obnoxious here, with you, because here, I have at least some say, and so I tend to make the most of it, and, uh- I mean, I know I've told you this before, but back there, I don't have- I mean, I can't go to work, I can't eat what I want, I can't go where I want, see people- my God, I can't see anything. They have to come see me, like I'm some old man in a care home who just sits there in his room staring at photographs and catalogs and the television- just waiting for death to come take him out of it. And all the while I just get older, and weaker, and really just more- helpless."

The words left his lips with a shudder. Her grip on his hand seemed to tighten.

"So please understand, my love," Freddie finished, his voice hushed. "This is as close to feeling good, feeling normal, as I can get now. I don't mean to be sort of difficult as well, but I guess- being difficult makes me feel like myself." Suddenly he laughed. "Says a lot about me, doesn't it?"

She smiled, her nose crinkling up, for his laughter even in dreams was wonderfully contagious.

"Yes, being difficult- and being with you," he mused, turning her hand over. "As long as I can do that, then I can bear it."

With that, Freddie, drew her hand to his lips and kissed it. Of course, his lips felt no warm flesh to caress- which made the man's heart sink a little further. What good is it to be touched if you can't return the affection, he asked himself dolefully, and what good is speaking, when there is never any reply?

His rhetorical questions were left unanswered, not just because the woman at his side was committed to an unbreakable vow of silence. They had emerged at last from the misty forest, and stood in quiet wonder by the river's edge.