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There's a point to all this dreaming
The metal clangs under his feet--he realizes after a few seconds of it that the floor isn't solid, it's grated, and under it there are hundreds of massive, turning gears.
They're standing over a giant meat grinder.
The little things with their long knives are swarming at them. He's firing, firing, emptying rounds into the room, but they keep coming, cutting at his legs, knocking him down. He hears a scream, high and wordless and terrified, and he sees Neil's twisted face in the dimness, sees them take him and lift him up, blood running over the metal grating as they carry him away. He's trying to crawl, dragging himself across the floor as beneath him that massive infernal machine grinds and grinds, and he sees another quick, moon-like flash of Neil's face as the knives go to work and Neil is screaming--
He's screaming. Sitting up in bed, the sheets soaked with sweat. Alone.
Quiet.
The window by the bed is open and breeze moves across his bare skin. For a few moments he just sits there in darkness mottled by city lights, trying to breathe normally again. And all he can think, with what little coherence he has at some ungodly hour of the fucking night, is that on a long enough timeframe all dreams might come true.
It takes him another five minutes to come to a decision.
He drags himself out of bed and pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, splashes some water on his face and spares himself a look in the bathroom mirror. He looks pale, hollow-eyed. He looks like what he is, which is a man who hasn't been sleeping well the last two nights. And that, coupled with the city's change before, means that he hasn't gotten decent sleep in about a week.
Fuck this.
He could just go, he thinks. Just head out the door. But that feels a little too much like a month ago, a little too much like something dark and crashing, so instead he heads back into the bedroom, sinks down onto the bed, picks up the cell phone and dials Neil's number.
They're standing over a giant meat grinder.
The little things with their long knives are swarming at them. He's firing, firing, emptying rounds into the room, but they keep coming, cutting at his legs, knocking him down. He hears a scream, high and wordless and terrified, and he sees Neil's twisted face in the dimness, sees them take him and lift him up, blood running over the metal grating as they carry him away. He's trying to crawl, dragging himself across the floor as beneath him that massive infernal machine grinds and grinds, and he sees another quick, moon-like flash of Neil's face as the knives go to work and Neil is screaming--
He's screaming. Sitting up in bed, the sheets soaked with sweat. Alone.
Quiet.
The window by the bed is open and breeze moves across his bare skin. For a few moments he just sits there in darkness mottled by city lights, trying to breathe normally again. And all he can think, with what little coherence he has at some ungodly hour of the fucking night, is that on a long enough timeframe all dreams might come true.
It takes him another five minutes to come to a decision.
He drags himself out of bed and pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, splashes some water on his face and spares himself a look in the bathroom mirror. He looks pale, hollow-eyed. He looks like what he is, which is a man who hasn't been sleeping well the last two nights. And that, coupled with the city's change before, means that he hasn't gotten decent sleep in about a week.
Fuck this.
He could just go, he thinks. Just head out the door. But that feels a little too much like a month ago, a little too much like something dark and crashing, so instead he heads back into the bedroom, sinks down onto the bed, picks up the cell phone and dials Neil's number.
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"Thank you," he says quietly, looking up at Neil's shape in the dimness, lines of him cast in soft gradients of shadow and light.
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"Can I ask you one more thing?"
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I can feel him breathing, feel the expand and contract of his ribs, and it's just about more than I can bear.
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But more than that, it feels like letting out a breath he's been holding for weeks.
He reaches up one hand and traces his fingers across Neil's cheekbone, feels the tears there and feels some of his own threatening, stinging the backs of his eyes. He still has no idea if this is a blessing or a curse. Maybe it's both.
"Do you forgive me?"
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There's a difference between forgiving him for it, and forgetting what happened. A difference between forgiveness and thinking it was okay, thinking I somehow deserved it. I trust him, I forgive him, but I also know I have to keep my guard up. I know that things aren't magically okay, now that he remembers our life together. I'm not fucking stupid.
Well, not completely.
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It's a start. And this is a start, this whole night, and the warm length of Neil's body pressed against his in a darkness that doesn't feel as dangerous now.