Derailment

[forthedog]

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."

Comments

[m-pinocchio.livejournal.com]

He looks from Tom to Neil, unsure of what to say, of his place, of just about everything, but finally he lays a hand on Neil's forearm, though something in him wrenches when he does, and nods to Tom.

"I'll stay with him," he says quietly, and there's a lot unsaid in that sentence. He glances at Florence with a rueful smile. "I gotta talk to her anyway, before we turn in."

[out-of-realm.livejournal.com]

"Okay," Tom said, feeling his chest clench for no reason that he could articulate. He crouched beside them, one hand brushing over Mike's hand, lips brushing Neil's cheeks.

"I'll be back," he said, a promise. White nose, calm, just standing guard and waiting for dawn, waiting for a more familiar bed and less danger and pain.

[little_moons]

I manage a faint smile for Florence, the ache in my chest shifting into a kind of sadness that has nothing to do with what's happened in the last two days. I wish there'd be time to get to know her better, while she was on the island. And more than that, there's a part of me that wishes I could get to know her here, where she's whole. Because here, she's nothing short of amazing.

"Just go," I say to Tom with a cough of laughter, needing it to be quick. Needing to rip the fuckin' bandage off in one go. If he stretches it out much longer, I'm liable to grab on and refuse to let go.

[doesnt-speak.livejournal.com]

Florence glances at Mike when he says they have to talk, meeting his gaze, making it clear she knows that they need to have a few words, such as they can. But for now, she just waits for Tom to leave, hand still on Neil, giving comfort as much as taking it. She and Mike don't touch often and a Healer still requires some sort of physical contact now and then. Even one who has left the Sisters.

[m-pinocchio.livejournal.com]

"I'll take second," he says to Tom, but his eyes are on Neil now. He can't stop looking. Since they woke up, all of this has felt half real, but right now it's the realest thing he's ever experienced. The blood flowing over his hands had been real, and the blood thrumming through Neil's body is real, sped up and along by Florence's touch.

He smudges a thumb across where one of the bruises had been, feeling absurdly close to tears. You're okay. Right?

[out-of-realm.livejournal.com]

It's fall in Harsh Realm, or at least it feels like it should be. Tom looked back at the three of them, feeling a kind of longing that he can only identify with the World Tree, billowing bonfires, and those three and dozens of others gathered around the flames and drinking and laughing. Family, the kind of family you only realize you have when the world is narrowed down to pinpoints by strife and loss, the kind you never realized you had before.

He nodded quietly, exchanged a look with Florence and let his gaze slide over Mike and Neil one last time before he turned on his heel and moved out of the spill of firelight and into the roughness of the jungle. There were crawlers, half rotten trees, the ever present smell of sulfur and oil slicks. He kicked aside a pile of bird bones and feathers and, in the western lee of a tree, he sat down with his gun across his knees, looking out at the muddy ribbon of the river that cut its way through the valley below. This place was rotting from the inside out, but even the Sahara had mirages. Mike. Neil. Florence. Little bits of wonder that made a very personal hell more tolerable.

He was tired. They were all tired, and quite possibly they all had a long way to go tomorrow. Tom shoved himself back against the tree and squinted out at twilight. Tomorrow, which they had to believe in, since it was very hard to believe in today.

His eyes were heavy. He blinked once, twice, three times, and for a moment, just a second or two, Tom's eyes drifted shut and he...

...blinked.

They had to believe in tomorrow, because there was just no belief left in today.