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She screams.
She thinks she screams, but maybe she doesn't. Maybe she's dreamt it.
The room is dark, still and suffocating in its silence, and she has to make herself remember where she is. She makes herself remember that she's no longer home, and the sting of it nearly outweighs the relief that at least she's not dead just yet.
Her throat is raw, achingly scratchy, but no alarms have been sounded. No steps echo down the hall to check on her. No one seems to have been disturbed by the sound of the newcomer screaming out of her nightmare.
Finally, she considers that perhaps they're allowed thicker walls than the Ståljeger, or perhaps not and it doesn't matter, that either way she may whimper and thrash in privacy, and that gives her some small comfort among the unfamiliarity of these first few days in this new place. She can welcome the change, if only she could rest long enough to see past this dread.
Deadlock blinks up at nothing. She sighs, passes a hand through damp hair, pulls her sheets from the floor and tries again.
She closes her eyes, but sleep doesn't come.
"I recognize you."
The woman at the table blinks up at her, mid-sip. She doesn't seem surprised by her approach; only tilts her head, briefly eyeing the mug of coffee beside her. The empty seat before it.
She does not know her, and yet—
"You were in my dream," Deadlock continues, like it isn't a nonsensical thing to say to a stranger. That she's introducing herself to colleagues this way is perhaps not the best first impression, but that's never really been her strong suit.
"Good eye. Most people never notice me," she says, like it isn't a nonsensical response. "Usually I'm better at staying hidden, but something tells me you would have caught on eventually." She leans back in her chair, and Deadlock catches a glimpse of the clay red paw print on her chest. She wants to reach forward, test whether she's real. Surely she can't make this up. "How long has that been looping around in your head?"
Deadlock sits. She stares at the coffee, a deep dark brown that could be laced with anything or nothing, steaming hot and terribly welcoming. She's not sure if she's still dreaming, if Valorant is putting her through some strange sort of eval. Deadlock meets her two-color gaze, holding it like she'd be able to tell either way if she looked at her long enough. "What were you doing?"
"Just getting to know you." She empties her cup with a last, short sip, breaking eye contact as she shivers on a thought. "Is it always so cold in there? Like, fucking freezing, I thought I was going to have to bail before all the action."
"Most people knock before coming in. It is the polite thing to do."
The dream seer shrugs, which should put her off this whole exchange, but she doesn't mind the nonchalance. It's much preferable to the pity. The awkward, sorrowful quiet in the other introductions she's had the last few days.
The woman pushes the cup closer to her. She rests her chin on the back of her other hand, chewing on a thought. When she looks at Deadlock again, her expression has changed slightly. "Would you have opened up?"
Deadlock takes a careful sip, and then takes another, and it might be the best coffee she's ever had — at the very least it is the strongest, which is more or less the same thing. For a second she forgets how tired she is, how her bones ache and her brain hums discordant behind her eyes, and instead she focuses on the sharp, bitter taste in her mouth, the warmth in her chest. She presses both palms around the cup and keeps them there until her right hand gets uncomfortably hot. She holds the woman's gaze for a second too long. "Try again tonight and you'll find out."
It's always the same and that never matters. By now her mind knows the dance down to the very beat, front and back, but her body can never keep up and before she realizes, she's kneeling in a pool of blood again. Her arm is gone, again. She feels a scream in her chest, sprouting up her throat like it'll tear itself out of her if she doesn't open wide.
She does, but the sound doesn't come.
From darkness, Fade steps forward. She looks around, but doesn't dwell on any one thing, or on any one horror. She simply steps over the bodies of her closest companions until she's closed the distance, near enough for Deadlock to recognize the blue and the brown, the curiosity.
Like a stray cat, she thinks idly.
Deadlock wonders how she holds up to the other nightmares. She wonders if it's better or worse to be better or worse. Either way, regretfully she has not prepared a homey welcome. It's always cold, she wants to say. She used to enjoy that.
"There you are," she says instead. Her words get stuck in her mouth, but the sound travels where it needs to. Fade nods like she'd understand even if it didn't, and briefly Deadlock wants to ask her how this all works. She wants to know what Fade gains from being here.
Maybe in the morning. "Kept me waiting a while. I thought I was going to be stood up."
Fade shrugs, tilting her head. "Wasn't sure if that was an invite or a threat earlier."
"You don't strike me as someone easily deterred."
"Not deterred. Just..." Fade is quiet for a moment. She blinks, shaking her head. "I'll try not to miss the fun next time."
Deadlock hums. She keeps expecting to pass out, but she feels nothing. Always nothing. She's got to remember that one of these days. Maybe it'll ease the dread. "Help me up, will you?"
Fade nods. She offers her hand and pulls.
Deadlock opens her eyes.
"Can't sleep or don't wanna sleep?"
Deadlock doesn't flinch. The reaction was trained out of her years ago, but it if hadn't been — she does not want to admit that Fade has taken her by surprise.
She shrugs, if only to flush out the urge to shiver, and still she feels traces of it tingling at the nape of her neck. "Yes," she says, then turns around to find Fade leaned against the shooting range entryway and it's almost annoying how sharp she looks at an hour when even the moon's glow has dulled. She has not looked in a mirror lately but she feels haggard; is sure she looks it. "Both."
"I can help, if you'd like the company." She's smiling when she steps into the light, her eyes glinting with idea. Briefly, Deadlock wonders if she's already dreaming. If she invited Fade to whatever this is about to become. She tightens her grasp on the barrel of her rifle, bites the inside of her cheek and both sensations feel real enough. She would like the company, and the flush at the base of her neck when she admits this to herself feels quite real as well.
"I can tire you out out or keep you busy," Fade adds when Deadlock doesn't respond. Then, after a brief pause, her smile grows slightly. She presents a ball of shadow in the palm of her hand, smoky and elastic as she pulls at one of its tendrils. "Or both."
By now she's accepted that she doesn't dislike this woman, that she isn't entirely turned off by her brazen disregard for privacy.
She's trying to come to terms with liking it.
(Liking her.)
"Ok," Deadlock says. She releases the safety of her weapon. Lets herself think it's the fight she's going to get that sends a wave of heat up to her ears. "Show me what you can do."
As far as missions go, it isn't her best performance. She gets away with working arms and a wounded ego, with a bullet far enough from her heart for it to not matter too much, which all in all isn't the worst way to end an op. Not even in her top 5.
"Skye's on her way."
She leans back against the wall, sinking to the ground with stuttered breaths, in-out, in-in-out. Her heart knocks staccato against her chest and she tries to swallow, but her throat won't loosen. She shuts her eyes. Opens them.
Fade shifts on her feet, clearly uncomfortable. Like she doesn't know what to do with someone who was mostly useless for the better part of a gunfight. She wouldn't either, honestly.
"Are you alright?"
No. Her shoulder hasn't hurt this much since it was liberated from her arm, like it's belatedly registered the amputation and is suddenly desperate to catch up on weeks of agony. She can't focus on anything, can't even come down enough to feel embarrassed.
"Hey." Fade kneels down, pushing the hair out of Deadlock's eyes with the back of her fingers. She hovers over the wound, examining it without trying to touch her and Deadlock wishes she would just press her hand as hard as she could, sink her nails under her flesh to snap her out of this daze.
Fade is silent until Deadlock looks at her, and it's almost sweet how she can recognize concern in the space between her brows, in the tilt of her head and the slight tension in her jaw. Or perhaps it's irritation, sometimes it's hard to tell. Sometimes it's both. "Thought you were a better shot than that," she murmurs.
Finally, Deadlock laughs. It's a sudden, dry noise that startles her almost as much as it does Fade and it does the trick. "Your prowler," she says, then trails off. She notices that her ears are ringing. Her shoulder screams and screams. She takes in Fade's softening expression, the slight part of her mouth and the steady pressure of her attention and finally, she feels herself, and finally the embarrassment follows. Deadlock shoves her back and Fade gasps as she loses her balance. And then she laughs through her exhale, and the sound puts her at ease. "It scared the shit out of me."
"Explain it to me again."
Fade tilts her head, frowning. She squints at Deadlock like she's about to say something mean. They've been at this for too long, discussing and re-discussing the specifics of spike defusion for what seems like hours — how close do they need to be, how long does it take; is it always the same amount of time or does it vary depending on...well she doesn't know what it could depend on — but Deadlock will consider this fair trade for the nightmares she so readily supplies. What she drains from Fade with her questions she'll replenish with her dreams, with gratuity. She almost says so, except Fade inhales suddenly through her nose, rolling her eyes like she's already partway to yeah, yeah, ok.
She's thought about it long enough to admit that the company softens her grief more than it does anything else, but for now Deadlock can keep that one to herself. She needs the help, likes it best when it comes from her, when it's a product of this little quid pro quo they fall back on to lighten the mood between ops. That Fade seems more than happy to be cajoled into playing her part is more or less beside the point.
"Please," she adds belatedly, softening her expression for good measure. She wonders if it would be too much to pout.
"Fine," Fade says, turning around to, hopefully, start another batch of coffee. Over her shoulder, she tosses: "Only because you're so cute when you look at me like that."
This time she identifies the dream before she loses her arm. It's the lag in her step that gives it away, the staggered passage of time that holds her back, sinks her through the ground, and then thrusts her forward past the point of no return. She is surrounded by friends, then face-to-face with the creature that killed them.
It doesn't change the outcome, but now that she knows, she's far less upset when it happens. She doesn't even scream this time, and it's almost a victory, a tiny win in the face of tremendous loss.
"Are you here?"
On her knees, always on her knees. Deadlock looks around, searching for the inky telltale trail that always leads her to Fade, but she doesn't find it. It's just her.
"Seems I'm alone then," she says to no one, trying not to feel too disappointed in the solitude.
The coffee remains the best she's ever had. Every time, like she's never wanted to savor something so much before. Like she's just discovered it for the first time. Like a forgotten bell, and Fade, the first to sound it in a long while.
The company is good too.
For a woman so entrenched in the nightmares of others, Fade is perfectly agreeable. Dry in her humor, generous with her gaze. She's almost pleasant to be around. Her knee bumps against Deadlock's under the table and despite her usual discomfort with casual touch, Deadlock does not pull away. Does not want to pull away.
(Is pleasant to be around, she admits.)
And by now she knows she hasn't made her up. That she hasn't gone insane, and still, she has the urge to reach for the claws along Fade's chest. She wants to push the collar of her shirt off her shoulders, to see how far the prints trail. She wants to know what came first: the prowler or the mystic. Wants to ask if Fade wanted this, or if it was forced into her; she is suddenly desperate to know the answer.
"You can just tell me if there's something on my face."
Deadlock blinks, meeting Fade's pointed gaze. Her brow is raised, her lips curved behind her lifted cup. "You're staring," she says. She does not seem put off by the attention.
Deadlock shrugs. "Just thinking," she starts, and finally lets the feeling out before she can smother it. "I like you."
"So sweet," Fade says with a smile, exaggerating the feather-light lilt in her voice, a sound and a signal, a ringing bell that makes Deadlock ache.
She's looking for something.
Isn't sure what or for how long, but the more she searches, the more irritated she grows. The feeling sinks deeper and deeper until it doesn't matter why she needs it, and part of her knows she's dreaming but it doesn't matter.
It's not in her nightstand. Not in her rucksack, nor her go-bag. Not in her nightstand when she tries there again for some reason. Deadlock steps out of her bedroom and she's suddenly in her car, suddenly approaching a red light. The brakes don't work. Whatever she needs isn't in the glove box. She stares at the hands on her steering wheel, flesh and muscle and bone, and she's so annoyed she can't even appreciate this one vital thing her dream self has returned to her.
And then she's front and center in her university art history seminar, and the irritation morphs into dread.
"Oh this is a weird one."
Fade kicks her feet up onto the desk at the back of the classroom. Her desk. She's leaning back, her fingers laced behind her head and her mouth is curved crooked, amused. Maybe endeared, or maybe she's reading into things.
Deadlock looks down. She's dressed at least. Mostly.
"Didn't take you for an art nerd."
Her shoes are gone.
"You never asked."
"You're not very forthcoming."
Deadlock tilts her head, wondering how much power Fade has here. If she can manifest a pair of boots. If she can tell that she wants to crawl into her lap and kiss her.
"I'm working on it," she says. "For you," she does not add, though maybe that's obvious enough anyway. She walks to her, closes the distance but decides not to let her dream-self have this first, even if Fade watches her with an openness like she wouldn't mind either way.
She can start something, open up just slightly for when she tries it in earnest.
"Take me to breakfast and we can swap life stories."
Fade's smile grows. Endeared. "You're on."
She can't sleep. Isn't in the mood for another dream, and anyway she has a creeping feeling she wouldn't be able to try even if she wanted, and so she ends up in front of Fade's room at some odd hour of the night, half-asleep and half-wired. She knocks, and receives no response.
Deadlock counts to ten in her head. At fifteen, she'll go back. At twenty, she'll go back. At twenty-five, she'll start counting down and hope that she's sleepwalking, that she'll wake up in bed frustrated but not...this. Not in front of Fade's room at 2am because she doesn't want to be alone.
Eventually she hears muffled shuffling inside, somehow still a little startled when the door eventually opens to darkness, to Fade, blinking sleepily at her. Her hair is mussed, her eyes half-open and her mouth parted, and Deadlock has to swallow down the sudden and absurd affection blooming in her throat.
Deadlock huffs, trying not to sound like she's all that sorry for waking her. She is, perhaps a little, but it's only fair she gets to return the favor of a middle of the night intrusion. "I...did not think you slept, slept."
Fade opens her door wider, wincing at the light that seeps in from the hall. She doesn't answer, and so maybe she does start to feel bad for the disruption. She shifts on her feet, an apology brewing on her tongue.
Then, Fade takes her by the wrist and pulls her inside. "I kick in my sleep," she murmurs, closing the door.
Fade talks through a dream, a fretful humming of words that may or may not be English, and may or may not be meant for her. Fade hasn't ever expressed this sort of unease in front of others. Never in the many months they've been sent out to hunt together, and Deadlock wonders if she knows how much her sleep self gives away.
She twitches against Deadlock's back, then swings her arm out and whines. Deadlock sits partway up, looking over at her for signs of distress, of a plea for help. She considers whether Fade creates her own nightmares. If she outsources them. If this is simply how she rests.
When Fade shudders again, sighing through another wave of words she cannot make out, Deadlock wraps her palm around the curve of Fade's shoulder and squeezes. She reaches over to smooth Fade's hair from her face, cooling her sweat-slicked forehead with the back of her hand.
"You're dreaming," she says. "It does not seem pleasant. I don't know if I should wake you."
Fade reaches for her when she begins to pull away, and she isn't sure if it's sleep-Fade or awake-Fade who tugs, who swipes her thumb across the back of Deadlock's hand and says, s'okay.
It doesn't really matter; she likes them both. Deadlock eases herself onto her side, falling asleep with her arm hooked over Fade's waist, with her lips pressed against Fade's shoulder and for the first time in a long while, she doesn't dream.