forthedog | Derailment

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Derailment

He's not sure what wakes him. It could be any number of things. It could be the light on his face, the air moving over him, the shift of cloth against skin where before it had just been the cool of the sheets and the heat of two bodies. It could be the hard ground under his back, which would also explain the aches in him as consciousness drifts closer. He's gone soft, he thinks sometimes, fallen out of the habit of sleeping well on the ground, lost in the embrace of Tom's big bed. But he still roughs it sometimes, so at first the fact that he's clearly outside doesn't sound any alarms.

But it's the kind of outside. It's not the light but the quality of that light; not warm and glowing but thin, pale, anemic. When he opens his eyes it's not the trees swaying over him in the morning breeze but what they're like, them and the other plant life, still thickly growing and untamed but bad. Unhealthy. Sparse where it shouldn't be and dense where it shouldn't be. No birds, no fucking birds at all. The hints of a world knocked out of balance and gone horribly wrong.

There's a cold wet nose pressed against his cheek, and a weight pressing into his arm, numbing it. He rolls, pulls it away and sits up, shoving Neil harder than he meant to. Dexter steps back, whining softly, and Mike stares around and then down, absorbing it in quick shocked bursts. The car. The campfire, smoking ashes. Dexter. The two figures, curled together on the ground. Tom's old and ragged sweater. His own pants. Camo. Boots. The itchy feel of clothes that haven't been washed for a while.

His gun.

There's no mistaking what this is.

He doesn't want to wake them. As long as they're still sleeping, this is his nightmare and his alone. Maybe they never have to wake up. And yet he has no idea what's really worse: being back here or being back here on his own.

"No," he breathes, barely above a whisper. No louder, because he's honestly afraid that he might scream. "No. No. Fuck."

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Tom nodded. Florence always found them. Florence always would.

Wringing a clean scrap of cloth in a bowl of clean water, he waved Neil over to him, gently dabbing at the cuts and his swollen eye, murmuring quietly as he did it. Dexter rested his head in Neil's lab, looking up at him soulfully.

Florence could do this better than him, she could make all the pain go away, but she'd had her hands full the past few hours and there was no telling how exhausted and her talents were by now.

"She always did have a way with kids." The girls had loved her instantly, but that was another place and time.

Hissing quietly when he probes at a particularly sore spot, I fold my hands behind my head and stare up at the darkened sky, gritting my teeth and trying to imagine I'm someplace else.

"'m fine," I mutter, glancing away from that smile and the wrongness of it. I know every single one of Mike's smiles, and that one... that one I'm not sure I've ever seen before and it looks innocent enough, but I know I don't ever wanna see it again.

Florence stops by the fire for a moment, warming herself before she crosses over to where the other three are, their friend lying on a bedroll. He looks sore and bruised and she nudges Mike gently, trying to get him to make room for her.

She's tired, but they're all tired and she still has more work to do here. Setting her gun and pack aside, she crouches by Neil's side and then looks at Tom, asking silently for an assessment of his injuries.

He moves aside for her, still looking at Neil, the smile gone. He can't fool Tom, and he never could fool Neil. And trying to put one over on Florence is out of the question. He feels weirdly naked, a primal kind of desire to get out of the light. But here is exactly where he needs to be.

"Coulda been worse," he mutters, and glances back at her. He's wished before now that she remembered them from the Island, but now he wishes most that she remembered Neil. He's not even sure quite why.

"They roughed him up pretty good," Tom said, looking up at Florence, wringing dingy, red tinted water out of the cloth and onto the ground.

"No broken bones. But..." He touched the wicked looking abrasion on Neil's temple where the bruises were already starting to form. "They knocked his head around pretty good. I'm a little worried about concussion."

"Said I'm okay," I mutter again, weakly pushing away Tom's hand and looking past Florence to where Mike's hovering, looking like he's not sure he belongs here with us at all.

Pushing myself up to sit, I draw my eyes back to Florence, lips tugging into the best smirk I can manage, and I say, "Anybody bother to tell you who the fuck I am, or we just pretendin' like it doesn't matter?"

Florence's head tips to the side, as if she doesn't quite understand the question and there's a part of it that she doesn't. There doesn't seem to be any reason to pretend and she glances back at Mike, as if looking for some kind of explanation.

Then she looks back to Neil and presses a hand against his chest, asking him to lie down again. Whatever he means, whoever he is, he's injured and this is her calling. Spreading her hands over the wound at the side of his head, her eyes close and she concentrates, warmth and light flowing through her until she can feel it reach the tips of her fingers and spread over Neil's temple.

He's always felt a little strange watching this, like he's seeing something powerfully intimate, not meant for the eyes of an observer. His breath catches as he watches the subtle change go through her, the linking of life force to life force.

Even seeing it so many times, part of him still almost doesn't believe it.

He looks up again and catches Tom's eyes. Whatever else is happening or might happen, Neil will be okay now. And that'll have to be enough for the present.

Tom was watching Mike when the other man looked up at him, grim and quiet, something deep and primeval making his eyes look centuries old. This old story, Tom thought, watching Florence work her miracle, fingers still wrapped around Neil's forearm and feeling a shimmer pass through the tips of his fingers.

"His name's Neil," he said, watching Neil's face as Florence concentrated beside him. "He talks like that a lot, don't let it get to you."

I've heard about it, sure. Before this thing with the three of us even started, Mike told me about his silent friend who could heal. But nothing I could've imagined comes anywhere close to it, and I understand immediately why she'd been so sad to see it go.

I gasp softly, feeling the pain recede to almost nothing, struck dumb and staring like a fool.

When it's done, she feels weak, but it hasn't drained her so much that she'll need to sleep. Leaning back, settling into a crouch, she smiles down at Neil, as if to ask him if it's better. There's no need to ask, she knows it is, so she ghosts a hand over his forehead and nods, as if confirming what they both know without needing to say it.

The bruises have faded. The scratches are healed. He wants to reach out and touch Neil's face, as if to confirm that it's true, but he doesn't. He only stares. After a few seconds he lifts a heavy hand and lays it on Florence's shoulder, squeezing. She's seen him at his absolute worst. It shouldn't be like this, but of all of them here, she's the only one he's not afraid to touch.

"Thank you," he says softly. "I'll get you some water."

Tom watched Mike go with an uneasy twist to his mouth, but ultimately he knew that it would have to keep. For now. Everything else was too fresh.

"Thank you," he echoed, reaching up to rub his knuckles from Neil's temple to his ear, almost thankful on some level that he could understand this now, what Florence could do, how it felt.

Suddenly conscious of how he was touching the other man, Tom looked up at Florence uncomfortably, but he didn't take his hand away.

"Guess we might have some explaining to do, huh?"

Giving her an awkward but genuine smile, I reach up and curl my hand around Tom's wrist, holding him there and trying to ignore the disappointment I feel when Mike insists on keeping his distance. Tom and Florence are the two strong ones now, steady and calm in a goddamn hurricane, while Mike and I try our bests to spin out of control. Only barely hiding it behind the weakest of masks.

"Stop actin' like it's some kind of goddamn revelation and just say it. Jesus."

Florence glances first at Tom, then down at Neil and she's waiting for an answer, but she isn't at the same time. What she needs right now isn't some explanation if they don't want to give it. As always, their lives will work out and they'll keep moving, keep fighting and when the time comes, she'll know what they need her to know. If Neil wants to explain, though, she isn't going to stop him.

He pauses with the canteen, dropping down to his knees and looking from Tom to Neil to Florence. He's not going to tell him to keep quiet. He meant to get to this anyway. Once again, it's Neil who kicks them all into motion.

"We're sleeping with him," he says simply, handing her the canteen. "And each other. Me and Hobbes." And the rest of it--the Island, the girls--he supposes that'll come in its own good time.

Tom gave Mike a poisonous look, fingers trailing lightly over Neil's arm.

"It's a lot more than that," Tom muttered, blushing furiously. "It's...it's not just about that."

Coughing out a laugh, I roll my eyes at the familiar blush lighting up Tom's cheeks. Looking past him to Florence, I arch a brow and give her a flat sorta look. What little I know of her, this much is obvious: She doesn't care.

Well, it's not that, but she doesn't have the same curiosity about people's personal lives that most seem to. Knowing about who we fuck and when isn't going to change whether or not we make it through this night.

So, like I said... it's not some big fuckin' revelation.

"Thanks," I say to her for the first time, "For helpin' 'em get me outta there."

Taking the canteen, Florence's eyebrows lift, like she's asking if that's supposed to matter. Since they've mentioned him the first time she's known there's something going on, although she'd been unable to place exactly what it was. She isn't surprised, though.

Looking back at Neil, she smiles gently and nods, then takes a swig from the canteen and offers it to him. He needs to have something to drink.

"He's right," he says softly, looking off into the fire. "It's not just that. There's a lot... look, there's a lot I gotta tell you." He swallows hard. "Later."

Finally, achingly slow, he reaches out and touches Neil's cheek, smooth, pale skin where there had been an ugly bruise. He returns Tom's look, but it's only tired and sad. That's not what I meant. I'm sorry.

Tom nodded shortly, nearly imperceptible, and gave Mike a slight smile. Worry lingered, however. They'd known each other a long time and there were some things he could see on the horizon from a long way off.

"We gotta get some sleep," Tom said, kneeling on Neil's other side close enough to feel the heat come off him.

"It's going to be a long day, tomorrow." Monday. Everything depended on Monday morning.

"Thanks," I murmur again, reaching for the canteen and taking as big a gulp as I dare. Water dribbles down the sides of my chin and I smear it away with the back of my hand, passing the canteen back with a cough and leaning into the warmth of Mike's hand. The urge to curl my fingers around his wrist and tug him closer is almost impossible to resist.

But I do it, anyway. It doesn't feel like the time or place.

As they settle in to sleep, Florence gets to her feet and looks off into the dark, then touches Mike's shoulder. I'll take first watch. Whatever else might be going on, however he might be feeling, she knows he should be with Neil and Tom right now. She's tired, but she can last a little longer.

He moves his hand only reluctantly. Touching Neil, it's almost scary how strongly he feels dragged back towards a world where everything is bright and hot and close to the surface. Hard to hide in a world like that. Florence is the same, but in this context she's more familiar.

But he wants it. He wants to be back there. He drops his hand back to his side and nods up at Florence, his face grave. He'll talk to her soon. Right now that heat and light is still beckoning.

"Let me," Tom said, understanding the look and rolling to his feet. He was restless and far beyond worried, and right now he needed to do something right, something simple, and it wasn't lying down by the fire. Not now. Not just yet.

"I'll do first watch," he murmured, squeezing Neil's side and rolling to his feet, exchanging a long look with Mike. He glanced up at Florence. "Really. I'm fine."

Derailment

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