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He couldn’t move. No matter how much he screamed at himself, he couldn’t move. Something heavy pressed on his stomach, and his legs and arms were bound together by something strong and immobile. Filling his nose was the cloying stench of mud, but lying beneath that was the sharp smell of blood. Somehow, he knew it wasn’t his own.
Slowly, voices came into focus. Foggy was speaking, fast and relentless, like when he had too much coffee and got too excited about something. But the longer he spoke, the more distressed he sounded, like he was begging. Matt heard his name, but he could only turn his head towards the sound. Foggy’s voice broke, a sob slipping out, and Matt’s heart pounded in his chest. Something was terribly wrong.
“Please, no, I didn’t…” Foggy cried out in pain, and as hard as Matt moved, he couldn’t get to him. He could discern what was happening though. Someone had Foggy tied up, the blood was his, and this was about him. Matt’s actions had led to him and Foggy- and oh god, he heard a scream that sounded hideously like Karen - getting caught, and they were being hurt. They were bleeding and hurt and alone and there was nothing Matt could do about it.
“I didn’t know, please, please don’t hurt me, I’m not a part of this!” Foggy’s voice rang out, echoing around the room, and though Karen wasn’t saying anything, he could hear her crying, sobbing helplessly. There was someone else there, saying nothing, though his heart was pounding the loudest. He was closer than the others, tied to a chair, impeccable suit askew and his shirt ripped open.
“You will regret this,” Wesley hissed, and the smell of blood spiked again as he bit back a cry. And still, Matt couldn’t move, no matter how much he wanted to. His limbs were simply not his, frozen and useless. Heartbeats were failing, his friends were dying, and there was nothing he could do about it.
“Matt, help!” The scream was bloodcurdling, and he could no longer tell who it was, and then, there was silence. --
Matt jolted awake, sudden, jerking painfully enough to hurt. He couldn’t breathe, a heavy pressure on his chest, his throat tight, the bedcovers constricting and wrapped around him. His lungs felt like they were fighting their way out of his chest, and he wasn’t sure if he was going to throw up or not.
He fought his way upright, cool air washing over his sweat-wet clothing, his hands fisted in the bedcovers as it pooled around his waist. Goosebumps sprang up, and he would have shivered if he wasn’t already shaking uncontrollably. He was felt hot and cold at the same time, his shirt soaked and the air in the room chilling.
His ears were full of the ringing echoes of screaming and yelling, and he couldn’t get the sounds out of his head. Matt wasn’t even able to use the room around him to distract himself. He couldn’t ‘see’ anything. All he could see was the images of his friends, everyone who he cared about, battered and broken and destroyed, and he couldn’t get there in time, couldn’t save them. It was his fault. Guilt gnawed at him, even though he knew it wasn’t real. It felt real. Everything was closing in on him, his head spinning, and he fought for something to ground himself.
There was a soft noise beside him, and he startled, almost leaping from the bed. In his panic, he’d forgotten where he was, who he was sleeping next to.
“Matt?” Wesley mumbled. Matt felt the bed beside him shift, and a hand touch his shoulder. “Wha’s goin’ on?”
“Nothing, uh… nothing, it’s fine,” Matt lied, though even to himself it felt unconvincing and shaky, his voice gravelly and breathy.
“You’re shaking, what is wrong?” Wesley’s voice was stronger, he’d woken up more, and the hand on his shoulder moved to the back of his neck. Matt realised he’d been holding a breath, and he released it quickly, taking a few longer, slow breaths, trying to get out of his head.
“Just a bad dream…” he mumbled, turning his face away even though he knew Wesley couldn’t see him. Wesley slept in a completely dark room, couldn’t sleep otherwise. The man was so tightly wound, he needed to block the outside world out completely so he could relax. Matt understood that.
“Stay there,” Wesley said, and the reassuring hand on the back of his neck lifted as Wesley climbed out of the bed. Matt didn’t want him to go - everything still felt raw, vulnerable, he was still shaking and he couldn’t stop it. He could hear Wesley moving around in the room but he couldn’t concentrate on what he was doing. Thankfully, he didn’t leave, and he pressed a cold piece of fabric into his hands. “Change your top.”
Matt shook out the t-shirt, murmuring a thanks, and pulled his own off. Wesley took it from him, presumably to put in a washing basket, and Matt managed to pull the clean one on without getting tangled. His arms still felt numb and distant, like they were not his own, and it took him a little longer than usual to get it on. The t-shirt smelt clean, fresh, but apart from that, it barely smelt like anything. Wesley wasn’t one for strong aftershave, and preferred unscented washing powders. Matt was thankful for that, and if he spent a second with the t-shirt over his face, just allowing the scent of Wesley to ground him, well, neither of them commented on it.
Wesley climbed back into the bed, a soft click indicating he’d switched off a lamp, and he felt him lay down beside him. A hand fumbled through the bedcovers and slipped beneath the borrowed t-shirt, resting splayed against his stomach. Matt became acutely aware of how hard he was still breathing, like he had run a mile, and he tried to get a handle on it. He didn’t want to seem a mess.
“Better?” Wesley asked, and Matt nodded, exhaling slowly and laying back down. The covers were pulled back up over him, and the arm on his stomach wrapped around him, pulling him back against Wesley. “You know it was just a dream, right? Not real.” Wesley’s voice was right in his ear, his breath soft against his neck and shoulder. His hair felt damp with sweat and a shiver ran down his spine.
“I know,” he replied. But that didn’t stop it feeling real. That didn’t stop his chest seizing up every time he thought about it. He had stopped shaking at least, he wasn’t sure when. Wesley’s arm tightened around him, and he shut his eyes.
“Good boy,” Wesley murmured, sleep filling his voice again. Even those two words triggered something in Matt, something that made him feel calmer, more present, less lost in the haunting images. He was infinitely thankful Wesley hadn’t probed. He knew the other had bad dreams as well. Some nights, he’d disturb Matt getting up, and Matt could hear his heart racing, could smell the sweat and fear, could hear him running the tap for a glass of water in the kitchen. Wesley never asked for comfort, though, and while he obviously sensed Matt needed at least something, he knew he wouldn’t want to talk about it.
Matt never wanted to talk about it. He couldn’t
Wesley drifted off pretty quickly after that, his arm growing lax and heavy over his waist, but Matt remained awake a little while longer. The hangovers of adrenaline kept him up, his mind still racing, and he itched to get out. Venting his aggression, either into a punching bag or a douchebag, whichever he found first, sounded perfect, and were he alone, he would. But he couldn’t. Wesley didn’t know about that, and he would prefer to keep it that way. Instead, he stayed still, eyes shut, trying to think of anything but the blur of Wesley or Foggy’s face staring lifeless and bloody at him.
Eventually, Wesley moved. Matt realised he had drifted off to sleep some point between the dead of night and now. Wesley stretched, groaning, before pressing himself back against him. The arm around him was possessive, and Matt still felt adrift. He welcomed the anchor.
“It’s morning,” Wesley mumbled, low and slurring softly. “Do you want coffee?”
“Not yet. Stay here.” He felt a huff of air against his shoulder, Wesley making a small, amused noise in the back of his throat. He pressed a kiss behind his ear.
“I think I can manage that.”