Chapter Text
It's pitch black, but he knows he's dreaming. There's an echo to the woman's terrified whimpers. A sharp smell of wet, of cold, of deep.
He can hear her, but he can't see her. Can't move closer, can't move at all. He can't see her. He wants to see her. He needs to See.
A flicker of green crawls up the walls. It wavers in the breeze that cannot exist this deep underground. It cannot exist, but it must do. Because not a breath stirs this hollow space in the Earth's bones, this warm quivering space between ribs of stalactites and stone.
The green swirls out of the spot where John stands frozen - he’s long learnt that it is futile to try and move. He’s long learnt that he doesn't need to. He isn't able to help, doesn't want to run, only needs to See. It slithers up the edges of rock long buried in English hills, it catches on the shivering hands on the woman huddled in the middle of the room, it slides into her hair like lover’s fingers, teasing it free of the hard yellow hat, leaving it to swing lazily in the soft breeze that cannot be.
“Take her. Not me.”
John sees it. The two images overlaid like movie film. Flickering between the two so quickly they blend into one. Because they are both true. To her they are both true. And so, to John, they are both here to be Seen.
Fighting to keep calm as her lungs burnt with oxygen denied. The clashing finality of the note the rock rang with as every attempt to surface ended with no space, more dark, more water. Further to go, to push, to cling to. As her limbs moved slower and slower, bound by cold, by water, by crushing guilt.
“Take her. Not me.”
John sees her break the surface with a frantic gasp, spewing out that toxic brackish breath and filling herself with the cold dark of the cave.
A baptism. A revival. A sacrifice made.
John sees her sobbing as the candles burn down, the life giving warmth being slowly gifted to the cave, the small pool of light fading and shrinking, a bare ember against the crushing weight of centuries. As the shadows slink ever closer, fingers reaching through the cracks of stone split by thousands of years of rain and the endless churn and tremor of the Earth. John sees the final spark fade as it catches on the glowing tracks of her tears, as the shadows rush up to wipe them from quivering cheeks.
“Take her. Not me.”
He sees a sister who never wanted to be here. Who wanted to be there for her sister, but not like this, in this place that takes and takes and takes.
He sees her until he sees her no more. Until she fades into shadow and the deep pits of this place. As she’s spun out, thinner and thinner by spindle fingers, as she's woven and stitched into the spaces between the stone that have no entrance, no exit. A thousand tiny jail cells across a thousand rolling hills. She was a gift well given, and she will be given well. She will be shared in all the dark places, she will know that she once Was, but all she will have left is the cold… the dark… the deep.
“Take her. Not me.”
“Thank you. Oh god. Thank you.”
“I'm sorry.”
John stopped talking with a long shaky sigh, knuckles white around the mug of rapidly cooling tea he still awkwardly held.
He stared down at that small island of weird scum that forms on forsaken cups of tea. Watching it rotate slowly from the miniscule motions of his muscles as he talks about his latest dream. The one that had woken him in the early hours of this morning, trembling and tear stained, groping for the light switch.
Dr Bouchard waited, looking at his patient with plenty of patience of his own. John saw him out of the edge of his vision. He didn't want to look up. Talking about his dreams hurt, the fear wrapping around his very bones in thick barbed vines. Retelling what happened was like reliving it. One endless tide of words rushing and pushing to be spoken, even as sweat prickled at his hairline, seeped into the fabric against his armpits. In the beginning he would rush through, describing nothing more than skulking figures asking for cigarettes and the steady thrumming fear of doors that weren’t there until they were, until John woke, his arm reaching out, his fingers curled into claws to grasp at knobs made of sand and sleep and fog. But every time Dr Bouchard had shaken his head and sighed, before prodding, pushing, and poking until John learnt it was easier just to tell the stories in full. If he was going to end up at the same place anyway, it was easier to take the direct route.
So every session started the same way. A brief exchange of pleasantries. Dr Bouchard was always well, thank you for asking. John’s tube ride at 10am on a work day was always too busy, too filthy, too warm, too close.
John’s sleep was always awful.
Johns dreams were always the same.
Dr Bouchard always smiled softly, kindly, never belittled or dismissed him.
John was so very greatful for that.
“There seems to be a lot happening in this one John, shall we work through it? I'd love to find out where all these dreams are coming from…”
-*-*-*-*-
Martin swilled the last half mouthful of tea in the bottom of his mug in time with the swirling thoughts in his head.
Firstly, the job seems to be going well. He’s processed two patients, answered 3 phone calls, and moved two appointments to available slots. It took a while between his stammering and the unfamiliar slight crackle of the landline connection, but he got it done. Eventually.
Secondly, he had immediately developed quiet a powerful ‘thing’ for one of the patients. Martin chewed on his lip and glanced at Dr Bouchard’s door, before tearing his eyes away sharply. This was ridiculous! John was in a therapy session, probably pouring his guts out over something traumatic or, or, or, something and here he was, making cow eyes at a locked door! With a huff he turned to the PC screen again and opened up the various onboarding videos, picking one at random and grabbing his notepad to write down anything he was likely to forget (so, all of it), and forcing thoughts of hot librarians out of his head.
He had no idea if John was a librarian, of course, just something about the look of him made Martin think of sharp pointed stares over the rims of his glasses and that trademark quietloud shush coming from those plush li–
With a small shake of his head Martin nipped that thought right in the bud and rewound the video - he'd completely blanked on the past 2 minutes.
-*-*-*-*-
John sighed, quickly sipping the tepid tea to cover the sound, but by the almost imperceptible twitch of Dr Bouchard’s lips he'd failed completely.
“I know you don't take much stock in the meaning of dreams, John, but I think there's value in unpacking–” He started patiently, before being cut off by John almost snapping at him.
“There is no symbolism in dreams - or are you about to suggest that the one with the teeth in the apple was about stress and my continued failure to eat enough fruit?” John groused, knowing the words were too heated, too harsh for a man who was just trying to do his job, but the anger was constant these days, constantly flickering just under his skin.
“John, please, I'm not about to get out a dream interpretation book. But sometimes our worries and traumas get tied up in the nonsense narratives of our minds trying to rest. And there's a clear theme to this one in particular that may be relevant.” Dr Bouchard’s voice was gentle, but sure. John always thought he was just one pointed inflection away from being unbearably condescending, but always knew how to toe the line. He found it reassuring, in a strange twisted way. He came here because he was at a loss of what else to do, not trained or experienced in the right ways to help himself. So to hear someone go through his problems as if they were straightforward, simple, mundane was almost comforting. He was sure many other people would just punch him in his smug jaw and change therapist, however.
Some days he was tempted to do exactly that himself.
Like now, for example.
“How would being trapped in a cave be relevant to me? I've barely ever been in caves… Well, I went to Cheddar Gorge on a school trip once, but that could hardly be called spelunking. We didn't even need the hard hats they gave us.” John scoffed, only the twitch of his fingers around the mug in his hands betraying his nerves. He looked away, eyes lingering on the window.
“John… remember I'm here to help you, but I can only do that if you're honest… and don't avoid my questions.” Again, calm, patient. Probing. “You continue to avoid the elephant in the room, which is why it keeps intruding into your subconscious dreams.”
John tensed, shoulders hunching up as he stared out the window, seeing nothing as the white noise built in his mind's eye. He knew exactly what Dr Bouchard wanted to talk about. It's why he needed these sessions in the first place. It's the fulcrum of his life, separating everything into before and after, but the pivot point which everything still revolved all the same. He knew this. But he still wanted to run from it all the same.
A moment of silence where the doctor stared at his patient. Waiting for the moment he–
John sighed, shoulders drooping. “Yes, of course, of… of course. Let's… how do you want to…?”
“’Take her, not me.’ That's what the woman in your dream said, correct?” A short nod from John, delivered with all the resigned reluctance as someone saying ‘the noose fits just fine, thanks for asking’ to the hangman as they reach for the lever. “What do you think the reason could be, for your mind to stick on that part in particular?” He asked quietly, like someone trying not to spook a skittish horse.
John paled in his chair, he knew exactly what Dr Bouchard was alluding to, but making him say it aloud was almost cruel.
“I… I guess… No. I know. I still feel the guilt over what happened… when… when I was eight. That it should… it should have been me. But. But it wasn't. And. And I'm not sure how to live with that.” John said quietly, eyes locked on the tea in his mug, now only warmed by his own palms. But the weight was reassuring, somehow.
He could still feel it. The biting cold of the rebar in his tiny trembling palms. The rush and howl of the wind.
The larger boy clinging next to him, eyes so wide with fear John could see the whites all the way around his irises.
The way the metal groaned and pulled away, unable to bear the weight of both of them.
The way he thought the words, so clear and firm. “He should fall. It's his fault. Not me, not me, he should, it's not fair if it's me.”
”Take her, not me.”
”He should fall, not me.”
The scream of metal as it fell a foot further out of the cliff face, the recent storm having eaten out the stone below. The overhang so much thinner, so much larger than it had been yesterday. The concrete that had held it firm for a decade suddenly suspended over air, and sea, and jagged rock.
The way the metal sprang and slithered under his palms. The way he only just manged to cling on.
The way the other boy didn't manage to.
The way the wind stole his scream, but not the wet thunk of him hitting the rocks below.
The way he was suddenly grabbed by a crowd of hands, the last thing he saw before he was pulled up, the bent and twisted black rebar sticking out of the white cliffs and pale concrete, quivering in the wind.
The way they had looked just like dozens of twitching spider legs.
“Take her. Not me.”
“Thank you. Oh god. Thank you.”
“I'm sorry.”
-*-*-*-*-
Martin's notebook sat empty. He wasn't really surprised by this. The video had been about patient confidentiality and had been painfully obvious. It could have been summed up as “Don't tell anyone anything about a patient. Don't give anyone access to anything about a patient. Don't leave any devices unlocked and don't give anyone the log in information.”
Which, you know, duh.
Dr Cane's next appointment came in with barely a minute to spare, so got sent through immediately. Martin barely had chance to say hello, let alone make them a tea. (Was that part of his job now? Making people in the waiting room tea? Was… was he allowed to do that, even? He made a mental note to ask… someone about that at some point.)
Or… He could just make tea for John. That might be nice. A subtle outlet for his silly little crush. The other man would never notice and he'd be able to indulge himself from a safe distance. Yeah, that sounded good. He didn't want to ruin whatever this was by asking for more. None of his relationships tended to go well, after all. And making a bitter ex of a patient in the first week of a year long contract seemed like a bad idea.
He sighed, leaning back in his chair and smiling at the ceiling. Maybe this little harmless crush is just what he needed to get him through another dead end short term contract. His CV was the size of a small novel with the number of odd jobs at this point. He was spinning, directionless, letting life sweep him through. He had to take the little joys where he could get them.
And John was so… sharp and daft and clever and kind and mean. Sure, he’d only met him for like 25 minutes, but Martin wasn't going to look too deeply for a silly crush.
As if summoned by Martin thinking of him (as if he’d thought of anything else for the past hour) John took that moment to stride through the doctor's door and back towards Martin's desk.
Martin felt his face split into a grin as he looked up, but froze, the smile dropping off of his face at the sight of John.
His face was stony with fury, eyes red rimmed, the dark bags even more prominent.
Martin gawped. The complete 180 from the shy mild mannered librarian to this shivering wreck almost gave Martin whiplash. Wasn't therapy supposed to be the opposite? People coming out better than when they went in, and all that?
Martin realised with a jolt that he must have been staring, open mouthed, because John was now glaring daggers at him and slammed the mug down on the desk, cold tea sloshing out over his fingers.
Martin didn't react to the sudden violence, long practised in weathering other people's moodswings, he just grabbed some tissues from the box on his desk and silently offered them to John. Focusing on fixing the mess, rather than confronting the person, just like he’d be taught.
John just stared at them, lips frozen in a sneer for a second before he closed his eyes and let out a long shuddering breath between his lips. Martin kept his eyes on the way it made the tissues quiver, the way the cool air blew over his fingertips etching itself into his brain unbidden. After a long tense moment where Martin barely dared to breathe, John reached out and took the tissues, carefully wiping his long fingers then turning to Martin's desk. He slowly wiped the desk, the base of the mug, and the couple of drips on the side without looking up. Finally he folded the tissues into a square and used it as a coaster for the mug.
Then he looked up, eyes sheepish. “Um, s-sorry about that. Rough session. Not your fault. I. Right. Um. Thanks for the tea. Sorry I didn't drink all of it before it got cold. It was good!”
“Oh, oh, no problem at all! Let me know if you want another one next time!” Martin said, keenly aware that his voice was too high, too bright, too false. Mainly from the way John winced. “You're back last Thursday of every month, right?” he rushed out in a more normal tone.
John looked confused for a second then glanced at the PC screen. “Oh, yes, yeah, um… I’ll be back then. Thanks again for the, ah, tea.” He finished awkwardly and turned to leave.
“I look forward to it!” Martin grinned, before realising he said that out loud and visibly cringing, face beet red.
“Great, now I get to stew on how awkward that was for a whole month… just… Fantastic.” He muttered to himself once John had left, letting his face drop into his hands.