Jan. 30th, 2007

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"I finally figured it out," Connor tells her in his dream. It is the night after Harry told him about Kara, and he's sitting at her bedside. Not in Boston, though. Even sleeping, he knows he can't go to Boston. In California, where everything started. He can feel the sun, the long-missed sun with its warmth and utter lack of New England restraint, shining through the glass. They're not in a hospital room, though. They're in a hotel room in Monterey, and he can smell Harry there, though he's gone.

"Took you long enough," says Kara.

"You could have asked me."

"I did."

This makes perfect sense to him, and he nods. He's still happy he figured it out. Positively light-hearted. This is his role, this is what he does, this is what he's good at. He's so happy he could dance. "I shouldn't have left it to you," he says. "It's a mess, trying to do it alone. I know that. That's what family is for. My father taught me that."

"You have Kara envy," Kara says. "I don't want you to touch my dolls. You break them, every time."

She's blonde again, and there should be something wrong about that, though he can't quite figure out what. She's also dressed as in her pyjamas and wearing a shawl. He frowns. The shawl is wrong, too. Slowly he pulls it off, and Kara rolls her eyes because he isn't faster.

"Get on with it, know-it-all."

"I really do love you, you know," he says.

"So what are you gonna do about?" she asks, as she has to.

"Prove it," Connor says, and brings down the knife.

When he wakes up, he automatically checks the watch. It's 4.02. Third time for this particular dream tonight.

He won't go to Boston any time soon.

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