Work Text:
They are there, in front of her, every single one of them.
They are looking at her with empty eyes and empty bodies. They are there, like artifacts in a display, like mummies in a museum.
They are looking at her, reminding her that she is guilty. That is her fault that they are like that, monsters that visit her in her dreams when she least wants them to.
They have horrible voices, they shout at her, they say the truth. That they died because of her, that she is a terrible person, that it was her fault that they were monsters.
They harm her and she lets them because they are right.
It’s her fault.
They are dead because of her. If she didn’t push them to those “adventures” they wouldn’t be dead.
And when they start kicking, punching, burning, and screaming at her, she decides to give up and simply stay there, receiving the pain she truly deserves; all the pain she has caused with her existence.
But then her eyes open and she finds the roof of her room, her heavy chest, her tight throat, a knife in her hand, and the cold of the night. She takes a few seconds to understand that they aren’t real, that she was just having a nightmare.
Shaking, she leaves the knife on her night table and tries to calm herself as her therapist told her to. But instead, she starts walking around the place, bad memories flooding her mind and dark thoughts passing by as cars outside.
She ends up sitting on the floor, making herself a ball of golf, trying to kill off the ghosts that appear in her dreams every single night.
She hides into herself in an attempt to escape, but the only thing she archives is crying and shaking much more.
Until he arrives.
She guesses that she yelled at some point or that her crying was too loud, and he heard it at the other side of the wall. She doesn’t know, she doesn’t care, she just knows that she feels ashamed.
He knocks on her door, he calls her name and when she doesn’t answer, he enters anyway. He is in pajamas, barefoot, with his hair pointing in every direction. He is tired, but more than tired, he is worried. She doesn’t see him know it; she simply knows it.
He walks to her slowly, calmly, as he understands; like she is a wild animal outside its cage. He doesn’t say anything while he sits beside her. He doesn’t do anything much besides staying there.
It’s strange for a few seconds.
Because he is always moving, he is always talking, he is always saying something stupid to get a reaction out of her. She even counts the seconds, the minutes then, that takes him to talk.
But he proves her wrong. Because for some reason, he thinks that silence will make her feel better.
He is wrong, horribly wrong. Silence is killing her; it fuels the ghosts, the memories, the tears.
“I hate the silence”, she suddenly whispers. She is still a ball, and he is still sitting beside her.
And is like a green light in terrible traffic, or a yes in a pleading dream or a go to a race car. Because he starts talking about random stuff, about weird things, about everything and nothing at all.
And that distracts her, that soothes her aching heart, licks her tears.
Slowly her muscles relax, and the ball of golf turns into a surfer board. And before she knows it, her head is on his lap, and he is still talking about something that makes her chuckle for some reason.
He created a bubble where the ghost can’t enter.
He created a safe space, where she was free of everything, especially herself.
He was talking about a joke he did on Sully once when a snore suddenly interrupts him. When he looks down, he smirks.
Carefully, he takes her back to her nest and after tucking her in, he says his goodbyes and leaves the bubble.
A bubble she is gonna be grateful for in the morning (just as ashamed), and one he will always create for her whenever she needs it (without judgment).