( she'd fallen asleep almost blissful, more at peace than she'd felt in some time. relaxed, looked after and for once not alone. it had been months since she'd been so close to anyone, wrapped in a lover's embrace as she sleeps.
maybe that's why it all goes wrong.
nightmares are nothing new to quill, the pain of war and the extinction of her species so fresh in her mind, dreamed of with a frightening frequency.
this time, though the events are vivid in her mind, some of the details are different -- wrong. people that weren't there quill is now watching as they're murdered, bodies of people she knew and loved falling to shadow in front of her, making her scream out in the dream, twitched motions of her body.
and then it ends just as the blade turns her direction, quill punching out in her head. it's as her fist connects that she jolts awake, sitting quickly up, quill forgetting where she is and, for those few seconds, who she's with.
as it comes back to her, reminding her that she was on earth, now in duplicity, she presses a hand to her face. in the dark she doesn't yet care that there are already tears on her face. she'll move soon, letting him sleep as she cleans herself up. there's no sleep left for her )
[ mostly, he'll choose not to say. it's less about the woman beside him, and more of his fleeing instincts, to keep a swell of distance despite all intimacy. because he knows the trouble he brings and all the wrong reasons for him to linger; ultimately, it's easier this way.
but when quill curves her body over him, chest trapped beneath the soft exploration of her fingers, trailing over his scars, he doesn't find the will to move. at least, not immediately, and he compromises with a middle line, letting his eyes rest for another hour or two before he'll inevitably slip away.
only he isn't the first to wake, and when he feels the jolt of movement against his body, the lift that drags away the long lasting warmth that had settled there, his eyes blink open, readjusting themselves through the darkness.
he's silent for a moment, carefully watching the shape of her from where he lays, her face out of sight from the angle. she seems to be lost in thought and as that stillness continues to be prolonged, he finally reaches out his fingers tentatively, the tips of them just barely caressing the curve of her shoulder, voice quiet and hardly above a whisper. ] Hey.
( she swears, phrasing that he won't understand, words muffled beneath her hands. there are more words, quill trying to pull herself together, mind torn between saying there now that he's caught her or still fleeing, cleaning herself up, getting out her frustration and pain in the privacy of the bathroom before facing him.
but she doesn't move. the hand on her shoulder is grounding in a way, keeping her rooted in place as she takes a few more seconds to shake off as much of the lingering memories as she can, bringing her mind back to now. to him.
there's a sniff as she moves, brushing her tears away, tipping her head an inch to look at him )
It's fine.
( her voice is low, also whispered. it isn't fine, they both know that but she's never had any witness a nightmare before. usually, quill deals with them alone. like everything else )
[ Whatever she mutters, it's in a language he doesn't even recognize by the sound, unable to even pinpoint the general location of where it might stem from, but he doesn't linger on it, his focus drifting more to the language of her body, the tenseness in her muscles that remain when he touches at her shoulder.
And he knows the signs, knows them because they're familiar in his own body, recognizable by the way her fingers drift to her face before she turns herself partially to address him.
He sighs softly, his own touch unmoving save for a soft caress of his thumb. ]
Yeah, I ... I get them too. [ The nightmares, those jolts in the night that keep him awake on every hour, routine in their familiarity, their persistence. ]
( it isn't really a question. he's a soldier. their battlefields may have been different but there were some things that couldn't be lost even across the stars. there's a hint of sympathy to her voice, not any sort of pity, she'd have rejected that herself, but the sorrow that he also experiences such a thing. the shared sympathy.
it isn't the war that keeps her awake, not the battlefields of rhodia or her own punishment but what had come after that, a battle that could never be finished. not by her )
What do you do?
( usually she gets up, makes coffee, angrily stalks about the house and wishes murder on the other person that resides there, hating him even more for her perceived expectancy that he's sleeping peacefully. sleep is never an option again, or at least quill doesn't even try to go back to sleep, images still in her mind. is it the same for him too? )
[ There's flickers of the war, of soldiers with their guns marching through his memories. But it's never out there on the field, never in the actual war zone. No, they always return to his home, the kitchen, the bedroom, sometimes along the fields where they'd laid out the blanket with homemade dishes, just within walking distance of the carousel.
It's his war, yes, but more of the one in his mind than any that required a gun and a uniform. ]
I ... I don't really know. [ Mostly because he never really found a worthy way to cope with it. Though that isn't what she asks, not looking for some solution to the nightmares, knowing there never really is one.
He looks at his own fingers, adjusting his focus to the life lines of his palm. ] I worked construction once. Would sneak out on the site in the middle of the night, grab a sledgehammer and just β just break apart the walls. [ And he'd scream and scream, no one ever around in those hours to be alert of it. ]
( at his expression quill knows that he's now thinking of his nightmares, thinking of the pain he revisits each night and she regrets asking the question. it had been a momentary deflection from herself, a hope of some better thing but instead--
she sighs, shifting on the bed before getting up from it )
I'll make coffee.
( and one for him. she doesn't bother for the moment with grabbing any clothes, just heading out towards the kitchen to start boiling the water, pulling two mugs down.
getting out of the room helps a little, as if she's closing the door to her memories by leaving them in the bedroom. they're not gone or forgotten, tension still in her shoulders as she makes the drinks, lingering emotion in her expression, but that and doing something at least distracts. temporarily )
[ He can't provide an answer for her, not one that can somehow resolve the tension that follows up the haunting wake of a nightmare, though he's sure that isn't what she's seeking.
When she rises, he watches her in stillness, mind momentarily distracted in his own thoughts even as she sways up and out of the bedroom.
He runs a palm over his eyes, subbing the sleep still there as he takes another minute of silence before rising himself from the mattress. Sliding boxer briefs back over his thighs, he makes the way out the door to meet her in the kitchen, sliding his hips against the counter. ]
( she doesn't speak until after sliding one of the mugs towards him, hands holding her own close to her, letting the warmth try to guard against the chill of the air against bare skin, the cold of the kitchen floor )
It's the only one I have.
( there was no end to the nightmares, no stopping of the guilt. quill wanted only one thing, one justice but it was impossible to her. she couldn't kill anyone anymore and the one particular weapon would be out of reach even if she was free )
I make coffee and spend the time hating my captor.
( thinking of the ways she'd love to kill him or take revenge, of the things that could happen if only she could let it )
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no subject
maybe that's why it all goes wrong.
nightmares are nothing new to quill, the pain of war and the extinction of her species so fresh in her mind, dreamed of with a frightening frequency.
this time, though the events are vivid in her mind, some of the details are different -- wrong. people that weren't there quill is now watching as they're murdered, bodies of people she knew and loved falling to shadow in front of her, making her scream out in the dream, twitched motions of her body.
and then it ends just as the blade turns her direction, quill punching out in her head. it's as her fist connects that she jolts awake, sitting quickly up, quill forgetting where she is and, for those few seconds, who she's with.
as it comes back to her, reminding her that she was on earth, now in duplicity, she presses a hand to her face. in the dark she doesn't yet care that there are already tears on her face. she'll move soon, letting him sleep as she cleans herself up. there's no sleep left for her )
no subject
but when quill curves her body over him, chest trapped beneath the soft exploration of her fingers, trailing over his scars, he doesn't find the will to move. at least, not immediately, and he compromises with a middle line, letting his eyes rest for another hour or two before he'll inevitably slip away.
only he isn't the first to wake, and when he feels the jolt of movement against his body, the lift that drags away the long lasting warmth that had settled there, his eyes blink open, readjusting themselves through the darkness.
he's silent for a moment, carefully watching the shape of her from where he lays, her face out of sight from the angle. she seems to be lost in thought and as that stillness continues to be prolonged, he finally reaches out his fingers tentatively, the tips of them just barely caressing the curve of her shoulder, voice quiet and hardly above a whisper. ] Hey.
no subject
but she doesn't move. the hand on her shoulder is grounding in a way, keeping her rooted in place as she takes a few more seconds to shake off as much of the lingering memories as she can, bringing her mind back to now. to him.
there's a sniff as she moves, brushing her tears away, tipping her head an inch to look at him )
It's fine.
( her voice is low, also whispered. it isn't fine, they both know that but she's never had any witness a nightmare before. usually, quill deals with them alone. like everything else )
no subject
And he knows the signs, knows them because they're familiar in his own body, recognizable by the way her fingers drift to her face before she turns herself partially to address him.
He sighs softly, his own touch unmoving save for a soft caress of his thumb. ]
Yeah, I ... I get them too. [ The nightmares, those jolts in the night that keep him awake on every hour, routine in their familiarity, their persistence. ]
no subject
( it isn't really a question. he's a soldier. their battlefields may have been different but there were some things that couldn't be lost even across the stars. there's a hint of sympathy to her voice, not any sort of pity, she'd have rejected that herself, but the sorrow that he also experiences such a thing. the shared sympathy.
it isn't the war that keeps her awake, not the battlefields of rhodia or her own punishment but what had come after that, a battle that could never be finished. not by her )
What do you do?
( usually she gets up, makes coffee, angrily stalks about the house and wishes murder on the other person that resides there, hating him even more for her perceived expectancy that he's sleeping peacefully. sleep is never an option again, or at least quill doesn't even try to go back to sleep, images still in her mind. is it the same for him too? )
no subject
[ There's flickers of the war, of soldiers with their guns marching through his memories. But it's never out there on the field, never in the actual war zone. No, they always return to his home, the kitchen, the bedroom, sometimes along the fields where they'd laid out the blanket with homemade dishes, just within walking distance of the carousel.
It's his war, yes, but more of the one in his mind than any that required a gun and a uniform. ]
I ... I don't really know. [ Mostly because he never really found a worthy way to cope with it. Though that isn't what she asks, not looking for some solution to the nightmares, knowing there never really is one.
He looks at his own fingers, adjusting his focus to the life lines of his palm. ] I worked construction once. Would sneak out on the site in the middle of the night, grab a sledgehammer and just β just break apart the walls. [ And he'd scream and scream, no one ever around in those hours to be alert of it. ]
no subject
she sighs, shifting on the bed before getting up from it )
I'll make coffee.
( and one for him. she doesn't bother for the moment with grabbing any clothes, just heading out towards the kitchen to start boiling the water, pulling two mugs down.
getting out of the room helps a little, as if she's closing the door to her memories by leaving them in the bedroom. they're not gone or forgotten, tension still in her shoulders as she makes the drinks, lingering emotion in her expression, but that and doing something at least distracts. temporarily )
no subject
When she rises, he watches her in stillness, mind momentarily distracted in his own thoughts even as she sways up and out of the bedroom.
He runs a palm over his eyes, subbing the sleep still there as he takes another minute of silence before rising himself from the mattress. Sliding boxer briefs back over his thighs, he makes the way out the door to meet her in the kitchen, sliding his hips against the counter. ]
Coffee's a good alternative.
no subject
It's the only one I have.
( there was no end to the nightmares, no stopping of the guilt. quill wanted only one thing, one justice but it was impossible to her. she couldn't kill anyone anymore and the one particular weapon would be out of reach even if she was free )
I make coffee and spend the time hating my captor.
( thinking of the ways she'd love to kill him or take revenge, of the things that could happen if only she could let it )