Work Text:
Sam stared at the translucent figure hovering at the prison entrance, as he stood on the prime path, a good distance away. His hands unconsciously reached up and an ugly feeling twisted inside him, like a wet, cold rag choking and dragging on his insides.
He wanted to go closer. Wanted to run away. Stood still, instead, frozen and balanced on the threshold of a decision he wasn't quite sure he could make.
He doesn't have to, in the end.
The spirit of the child flickered and turned towards him, as if sensing his presence.
And his gaze... Dark, as if someone had syphoned the fires of his soul; all of his signature, stubborn will to live, all that heat and warmth and unbridled, raw, crackling energy, so essential in making Tommy, Tommy, stolen away from him, like so much else had been, gone and never to be returned.
This was wrong. It was all so very, very wrong, and when Tommy took a step in his direction, Sam found that he couldn't move an inch, his legs threatening to give out at the slightest movement.
He couldn't deal with this. Not yet, not now, not when guilt ravaged him, shredding his entire being, day in and day out, not when he had not slept in days, though he had tried, God he had tried, only to simply end up staring at his ceiling, where that last conversation replayed itself, along with those awful, screaming pleads and finally, Dream's awful laughs and bloodied mask, painting and carving themselves deeper into his memory.
The ghost of Tommyinnit stared at him from afar. Forlorn, sad and small, and how could a stare even feel small, and hold so much soul-crushing weight, at the same time? Quiet, and most unnerving of all, still, and nothing like what Tommy had been from when he was alive.
When the spirit simply floated away, quite literally fleeing his presence, Sam crumpled to the floor, in shambles.
His greatest masterpiece, the culmination of his entire career.
The prison hadn't been secure enough.
He had failed, and a child had paid the price.