It wasn't a nightmare, or rather, not only a nightmare, but also an oil painting hanging opposite his bed. Only in his dream the woman had chestnut hair, seemed far more familiar, and was considerably slimmer than the Rubenesque beauty on the canvas. Still disorientated, he sat up, scanned the shadows in the moonlit room, and began to acclimate to his surroundings.

The drama of the painting was reflected in a room decorated with heavy antique furniture and rich tapestries. The fire long since burned out left a chill in the air causing him to shudder. Relaxing slightly as his heart rate slowed, he pulled the ornate bedclothes back up against his sweating chest and recalled the situation.

He was in a castle.

He'd found his father.

He had a name.

Sean James. Son of the Earl of Claridge.

He stared into the near-darkness. How could an abandoned street urchin end up as royalty? Utterly Dickensian, it seemed too far-fetched to be believed. Especially, he thought wryly, to an erstwhile confidence man and great detective.

His eyes traveled down his bare arm to the fading bruise on the inside of his left elbow. It could still be a mistake. Having welcomed him with open arms, the Earl had nevertheless insisted on the latest invention, DNA testing, to establish the truth. Perhaps it was just an odd set of circumstances that would soon prove false.

The testing would take weeks. Until the results came through, he was the Earl's guest, free to do whatever his heart desired, all expenses paid.

Sighing, Sean reclined back into the pillows, turned his head to the side, and stared at the empty space beside him. Unfortunately, his heart's desire was 6,000 miles away.

Laura had left almost immediately after he and the Earl had met. She'd seemed pleased he'd found what he'd been looking for, yet at the same time rather withdrawn.

She'd insisted she'd spent far too long away from the agency - naturally - and had to get back to work. She'd told him to call her if he needed anything and then refused his offer to take her to the airport saying it'd be better that way. Instead, she'd awkwardly kissed him good-bye and tore away from his embrace. She hadn't even looked back as he waved to her.

When he'd called her at home, she hadn't answered her phone. When he'd called the agency, Mildred had seemed happy to hear from him, asked how he'd been, and almost acted like she'd forgotten about his multiple passports she'd stumbled across. Laura, however, had been unavailable. Out on a case. Mildred would have her call back as soon as she got in.

But Laura hadn't called.

At one point he'd thought he'd send her a letter, but after staring at a blank sheet of paper for an hour, he'd given up. He hadn't known what to say. He hadn't known what she wanted to hear. And, frankly, he hadn't known how to sign the damn thing.

He crossed his hands behind his head. He was in a familiar state of limbo - a time between personas. He'd done it so many times it was once almost his true identity. But it'd been so long ago, and now it didn't seem the right state to be. This time, it was different. He'd changed identities when he'd become bored of them, when he hadn't needed them anymore, even when he'd been forced out of them by an unfortunate set of circumstances.

But he'd never been forced out of his identity when he hadn't been ready. No matter what had happened in the past, he'd always been ready to start a new life, always welcoming a change. He wasn't ready now. He liked who he'd been before, who he'd become. Yet he'd been forced out of his old identity, perversely by his own doing and a fortunate set of circumstances. He didn't seem to be Remington Steele anymore, yet he wasn't exactly Sean James, either.

Who was he now?

At that moment in time, he felt like nobody.

He called the agency again, forgetting the early hour. Then, on a whim, he called her number. It was three in the morning in L.A., and he was both pleased and ashamed when the phone was picked up.

"What is it, Mildred?" a groggy voice mumbled.

Normally, Laura's assumption at the source of intrusion would make him laugh, but at the moment it didn't seem even remotely funny. "Laura?"

There was a long pause. He could hear covers shifting as she repositioned herself, then nothing.

"Are you there?" he inquired, hoping she could hear him.

"Yes."

"Good."

Silence again.

"How have you been?" he asked.

"Good. Fine." She hesitated. "You?"

"I'm all right," he lied. He knew there was something nagging at him but hadn't been able to put his finger on it. Something was just wrong. He felt as though he was on the outside of his life, watching someone else live it.

When she didn't speak, he continued. "I thought you'd like to know the test results came back."

"Test results?"

"Paternity test," he clarified. "The Earl is my father."

"Oh," she responded, her voice hollow. "Congratulations."

"Thank you."

"I'm happy for you," she said.

The words fell from his mouth before he could catch them. "You are?"

"Yes," she said. He could hear the frown. "Of course I am. This is what you went looking for."

He had. He'd gone looking for his name to offer it to her but she didn't need it anymore; not the kind of name he'd found anyway. "I'm sorry, Laura, I didn't mean to sound boorish." He could visualize her nodding in understanding. His mouth dry, he licked his lips, then filled the silence. "I should go. Let you get some sleep."

Belatedly, she responded. "Okay."

"Good night, Laura," he said.

"Night, Mr. St..." She stopped; then restarted. "Good night."

"I miss you, Laura," he told her softly. And he honestly did. He'd been away for so long - over three months - and he'd barely seen her when she was in London. There was an enormous void in the center of his chest, one he wasn't familiar with. But just speaking with her only made it slightly less empty.

"I miss you, too," she responded, barely audible.

His void suddenly filled, and for the first time in days, he smiled. "Come back to London," he coaxed.

"I... no. I can't." Again, she paused. When she spoke again, he could hear the forced smile in her voice. "The agency... we're so busy right now. You understand."

He understood what she meant, understood it wasn't what she said. "Yes. Well... I'll talk with you again sometime."

"Yes. Certainly," she agreed. That, too, seemed forced. "Bye." She disconnected the call.

"Bye," he said to no one.

The Earl had explained to Katherine about Sean. She'd accepted the situation graciously, kissing his cheek, welcoming him back into the family. She was a lovely, proper, kind young woman.

But that was a sticking point. She was young, younger than him by several years, younger than the Earl by several decades. He found it uncomfortable. He was sure she did, too. Having for a stepson the man who'd just exposed her brother as a mass murderer made the situation even stickier. She hadn't let it show but his mere presence had to serve as a reminder to what she'd rather forget.

More so, he tried not to think of the Earl's past. He was all too familiar with shady pasts, but making one's living on the wrong side of the law was one thing, getting drunk and beating up women was another thing entirely, and one he'd always found repulsive. He only hoped the Earl's love for Katherine would keep him in check as far as she was concerned.

He looked just like her. Never before in his life had he seen his resemblance in another's face; it was eerie and disconcerting, making the following conversation seem almost unreal.

The Earl told him of the Irish girl who'd worked on the estate and became his lover. After the child was born, she'd gone back to Ireland and eventually disappeared. Only once did she allow him to see his son, just hours before leaving, and the Earl remembered his eyes, blue just like the mother's. He said he should've made sure they hadn't needed any help, even though she'd refused it, but Sean wished there was less sadness and more guilt in his voice. He could hear what the Earl wouldn't say - the young aristocrat wouldn't marry his mother, and she, offended, wouldn't allow him to support her. She'd probably been in love. He'd heard such stories, he'd known such women and their children, but as far as he knew he'd never encountered such men and he found the thought that his father was one of them unnerving.

The Earl concluded his story with details Sean wished he hadn't heard. Several years later, his mother, short on money, had turned to prostitution and died at the hands of one of her clients.

He became physically ill and excused himself.

His patience almost exhausted, she finally entered her office; the batch of files in her arms monopolizing her attention.

Remington smiled to himself, relieved and pleased she wasn't using his office as though she was saving it for him. Rising from the desk chair, he intruded, "Still battling paperwork, eh?"

Papers went flying as Laura stifled a scream. "You scared the hell out of me!" she charged trying to catch up breath.

"I'm sorry," he soothed, leaving his place behind her desk and approaching her.

She took a defensive step back, "What are you doing here?"

"I work here," he said simply.

"But you don't need to do this anymore," she reminded him.

He closed the space between them. "No, I don't." Wrapping his arms around her waist, he pulled her against his chest. "Nor did I ever need to."

Slowly, instinctively her arms traveled up to his neck, as if they acted of their own accord. She pursued, "You belong there."

He held her tighter, finding neither resistance nor acquiescence, and whispered into her ear, "I belong here."

"But you have a family. A name. A home," she insisted, and while her body was pressed tightly against his, he could visualize the crinkle on her forehead.

"Yes, I do. Right here." He started planting light kisses along her jaw line.

"But what about...?"

There were better ways to win arguments. He simply covered her mouth with his and she closed her eyes.

"I've been pardoned from this particular life sentence," he declared with a lopsided grin. "Besides, I'm not royalty."

"What?"

"I'm illegitimate. Unless the Earl legally acknowledges me, I can't even be called My Lordship," he bantered suggestively cocking an eyebrow.

Laura frowned. "So you just left?"

"It's better for everyone that way. I'll visit occasionally, of course. He is, after all, my father." He moved closer. "By the way, he said I was always welcome to use any of his residences, and he has a nice little house on a secluded island in the Caribbean that's just perfect for a romantic getaway."

Remington waggled his eyebrows but it only caused another frown on Laura's part. "Is anything wrong?" he inquired warily. "I didn't think the title or estate mattered to you."

"They don't," she assured him hastily. "Only... you didn't abandon it all just to come back here, did you?" She continued, fumbling for words and understanding. "I mean... there was really nothing for you there... was there?"

Lips twitching for control, Remington seriously intoned, "Yes, there was no there there." He dropped the papers he was holding and burst into laughter. He was laughing hard, harder than he'd laughed for months. The laughter was forming deep inside him in waves, swelling to the surface, breaking out in hoots, howls, and even a very undignified snort. Rubbing at the stitch in his side, he leant against a wall for support. Laura stared at him, lost, worried that her prodigal partner had finally gone round the bend. But he didn't care as long as she kept looking at him with that concerned expression on her face and that ever-so-appealing crinkle in her brow.

He was home.

The End