He looked straight ahead, and like he was watching a still projector whir to life, the shadows circling him started to move. Started to dance.

Michael stepped back, surprised, realizing he had to be in a club of some sort. Mere arm-lengths away from him ghostly couples started to sway to a beat only they felt, and as if on cue, he heard it too. Softly. The pulsating, slow, sinuous melody of a sexy love song. Breathing, and he saw the pairs, that seemed half-familiar, drift in and out of focus as they moved together, hands clasped at palms, slim hips pressed against one another, eyes closed, and he shook his head, looking above, below, at all sides for a way out. He didn't belong there.

"Hey, you" came a teasing voice behind him.

He jumped, and as soon as his head turned there was a flash of movement. He whipped back around, and Liz stood in front of him.

"Michael" she said, one eyebrow raised inquisitively, although she didn't sound surprised.

He reddened, and bristled.

"You didn't have to jump out at me like that" he muttered.

She laughed.

"Gee, if I didn't know better, I'd say that's what you were doing. In *my* dream" she countered pointedly.

Michael shrugged.

"Don't flatter yourself" he said. "I didn't go searching, if that's what you think."

"I never insinuated that" she replied.

He was fast growing annoyed.

"How can you be doing this?" he wondered. "You're dreaming. You shouldn't be able to fight with me."

Liz smiled, just a bit.

"Isabel" she said, calmly. "She likes to drop in every now and then. After a few weeks of her hiding in the corner, I figured out that I could just go sit in the other one."

"So you're controlling all this?" he wondered, impressed in spite of himself. "Why here?"

She blushed a little.

"I like it" she defended herself.

He nodded appraisingly, looking around. Yes, definitely a room, he decided. The dance floor extended into darkness at all sides, bare save the constantly swaying figures. She looked ready for dancing, herself. Liz wore a knee-length, dark dress that had these weird lace-up things up the front, and no sleeves, with little, tiny midnight-blue embroidered flowers over the decidedly low neckline and hem. Her hair was long and brushed to a shiny wave down her back that floated in the static-y air.

"Whatever" he responded, finally. "Waiting for someone?"

"Kind of" she hedged.

He didn't need to ask who. Michael scanned the floor again, expecting to see Max pop through the door any second, looking big and doe-eyed and nauseously love-sick. He didn't.

*Maybe he's late* he thought.

Suddenly, Michael had an idea. A light went off in his head, not exactly an ominous one, but a jolt shot through him nonetheless. He didn't know what made him think of it, but he asked:
"Liz, what happened at your house tonight?"

She looked up at them, her wide brown eyes confused.

"Tonight? What happened tonight?"

He bit his lip.

*UhohUhohUhohUhoh...*

"Topolsky" he offered, helpfully. "Breaking in...?"

His voice drifted off, when he realized she didn't have a clue. *Aw, damn....*

Liz had never become aware of his dreamwalking, Michael realized, because *was* dreaming, of everything that had happened so far. Somewhere, in the inter-mind channels, he was watching. Not participating. He backed up, confused.

She looked offended.

"You haven't figured it out?" she asked, her voice sounding dismayed.

He wrinkled his forehead.

"Look, Liz, *you're* the one who hasn't figured it out" he mumbled, not caring if he blew his own cover. He felt like he had two minds in his head, the dream-Michael she was perpetrating as she slept, and his own, quite conscientious (unconscious) reasoning, which was getting more and more confused.

"I knew" she said, taking one small step towards him. "I just figured it out. Ever since you stole my journal..."

Michael looked down at her.

"I need to tell you a secret" she finished, breathlessly.

Too mystified and disoriented to wonder why and how anymore, he dipped his head, lowered his ear for her to whisper into. He felt her breath getting closer and closer...

Felt her lips brush his ear just faintly as they moved downward, south along his jawbone.

He was astounded, but not enough to move, right before she locked her mouth over his, and kissed him hotly, invasively, too quickly to get away.

Michael was trapped. He felt everything.

All he could think of, other than the very obvious predicament of *Liz Parker's* tongue running playfully over his lips, was:
Oh my God. This is her dream?

That, and the fact that he was kissing her back.

Her arm found his shoulder, her hand his chin as she pressed their faces together, not stopping to make idle conversation as she continued to probe him with her warm mouth. His own fingers made their way to her waist, half-pushing her away and half-bracing her so she couldn't move, and he tried to quickly pull together the assorted fragments of his brain, which had sort of shattered on impact.

She was making it hard.

Liz was a good kisser.

He couldn't tell when he started reciprocating, when he parted his lips, and pressed back against her, taking the jagged thoughts of Maria and Max and betrayal and confusion and balling them together in a sticky lump at the back of his mind.

*It's a dream* he thought. *No consequences. Her dream. Not mine.*

"Michael" she sighed, sending a bolt of pure lightening through his system. That was his name.

"Liz?" he answered dazedly, pulling back just enough to reply. He felt like he had been bitten. Literally.

"I wanna dance" she told him, tilting her head back, so she could see his face. "With you."

"All right" he whispered.

They didn't move (they were already on the dance floor- what the hell was this, the Twilight Zone)?, she just took a sizable step forward, though she could already feel him against her, igniting tiny patches of friction where their bodies touched. She wound her arms up around his neck, and he pulled her completely against him, cupping the swell her shapely bottom.

Yes.

The song was playing as if on a loop. Liz began to sway, so slightly, but he felt every move she made, every minute roll of her hips, every tap of her nail against the fine hairs on his neck as she kept up with the sultry, languid tempo of the song.

He was melting. Dying.

*Help me* he asked himself.

He couldn't make out the words, but he recognized the melody, over and over, as she ran her hands over his back, feeling his lean frame wrap around her own, and then down his chest, pushing her own self away from where she pressed, like a second skin. Hot. Good.

God.

They were the only pair on the floor.

She whispered something to him, and it was probably a good thing he woke up when he did, opening his bloodshot eyes into a world of cold light, because he heard the two, rasping syllables she practically fed into his ear, her mouth and lips and tongue telling him... "Boy, haven't you gotten your lazy ass in bed by now?"

Michael looked over at his foster father with leaden eyelids, and didn't say a word as he clicked off the TV, and eased off the armchair.