Notes:

This is tumblr's fault.

Again.

I really need to stop that.

Someone was lamenting the lack of fics dealing with Sam and how he handled Venom, Carnage, etc. This fic is just a slice of life set a few days after Venom.

I couldn't decide if I wanted to set it in my dumb as hell OTP AU or not, so SpideyNova if you squint, I guess. Also unedited. Bleh.

Better summary to come at some point in the future, for now, have some Dr. Horrible lyrics.

Rated K+ but there is a bit of swearing, and disturbing themes (the symbiotes give me rapey vibes and creep me out) I didn't think it was enough to warrant a Teen rating though.

Sam is no stranger to nightmares.

He'd like to think they started since he'd put on the Nova helmet, but really nightmares and Sam had been old friends even then. The mocking laughter of his peers and fear of getting his dad fired changed instead into the screeching of cosmic horrors and the terror of getting his family killed. And while these nightmares weren't exactly pleasant, they at least were familiar. Ah, screaming horror from another dimension, gonna be one of those. Oh, the sight of his house in flames, time for this shit again.

Now though, he's waking up, shaking and nauseous. This one was new, and a hell of a time to dream about it, too. It'd been days ago, shouldn't this crap have happened sooner? He runs his hand over his face, then wipes the sweat off on his sheets.

He knows it's gone, but he can still feel the slick symbiote pressing against his skin beneath his suit. He sits up, drawing his knees to his chest as he tries to think about something, anything else, but the creeping sense-memories slither into his armpits. He closes his eyes and feels the blackness sliding down over his face, past his eyes, into his nose, filling his mouth. His breath hitches as he tries to find his center, like Danny had taught them, but now the oily filth is slipping inside him and he leaps out of bed to dry heave over the trash can at his desk.

Nothing comes up, despite his body's best efforts. After what feels like at least an hour, but really isn't even a full minute, he manages to stop heaving. Panting, he flops over on his side, too exhausted to do anything else. Laying there, shaking and sweating, his mind wanders. He misses Kae and his mom so much it hurts, he contemplates the metallic smell underlying all other scents in the helicarrier, he misses his dad and wonders if there's something wrong with him for being a little bit relieved he hasn't been found yet, he contemplates how the floor under his desk got so dirty, and is that where his Spider-Man pencil went? He'd thought Webs had stolen it, huh.

As his shaking stills and his breathing slows he can't decide if the aching after dry heaving is worse than the feeling of actually blowing chunks, but he finally has the energy to sit up again. He retrieves his formerly lost pencil, and pulls down his sketch book from his desk. He sits there, back against the wall, staring at the cover of his sketchbook.

In the faint red glow of his alarm clock, he can just barely make out the Nova star he had doodled on the cover. He knows it's his rank, but he doesn't know what his rank is called or where he would stand with other Novas.

He sighs and flips to a blank page and starts sketching in the dim light, letting his mind focus on the paper and graphite. He knows it's going to be crap in better lighting, but he sketches anyways. Bold, aggressive strokes, blocking in the outline, and he thinks he really should be using charcoal instead of a #2, but really it's too late now, he's committed. His hand sketches on as his mind remembers the crackle of electricity and stink of frying symbiote, of melting spandex, burning hair, and scorching skin.

The tip snaps and he looks down at the broken pencil in surprise. He huffs and brushes the broken lead away, smudging some of the lines. He glowers at the smudges, then energetically blends the graphite with his fingers.

He stares at his work for a moment, finished. He fights back a yawn and stands up, flipping the book closed. Shuffling to his desk he sharpens his pencil before putting back in his rocket themed pencil cup. A gift from Kaelynn, that, and he half smiles remembering her excitement as he opened it over video chat.

He tosses his sketch book onto his desk as he falls back into bed. Too tired now to fix his sheets, he glares at the alarm clock as turns from 0422 to 0423, then buries his head under his pillow and tries Danny's breathing exercises again. Listening to his blood rush in his ears, trying to empty his mind and find his center. Whether it works or not, soon enough his shoulders relax, controlled breathing becoming deeper.

His sketch book lies open to a smudged drawing of something (someone?) small and broken being swallowed by the inky dark.