He slides out of sleep when his blanket slips off, exposing him to the air, but he doesn't really wake up until he rolls over and finds the spot that he'd expected to be occupied empty after all. The dream pops, like a soap bubble, leaving him shivering. The cold's always there, inside and outside of him, and he feels he ought to be used to it. Somehow, though, there's something different about the faint chill of autumn night air than there is about frozen fists or sculpted ice. Maybe it's just that he can't control this, or maybe it's because his dream was so warm.
He's no stranger to nighttime walks through the school, padding lightly between beds and down the halls, skipping the sixth stair that always creaks. No one is, since the last mission, really, which is why he's not surprised to find the kitchen already occupied. Marie sits with her back to the door, staring into something between her hands that he can't quite see through the curtain of her hair. There's a bit of moonlight coming in through the slatted blinds of the window, and it strikes her white lock precisely.
Part of him wants to just stand there, staring, and lose himself in her. He thinks the beauty's enough to drive the dreams away, at least for a while. But that would be rude, and he's been raised all his life to be kind, polite, goodie-goodie two shoes, yes ma'am and no sir, please and thank you. He clears his throat and steps forward as she turns.
"Hi, Marie." She's only wearing a slip of a nightgown, and for a moment he marvels at far more flesh than he usually gets a chance to observe. It makes it hard to hug her safely, though. He's not really sure he wants to right now anyway, and settles for a kiss on her no longer moonlit hair, careful not to push through to skin.
"Hey, yourself." Dark circles rim her eyes; he'd worry more if he wasn't sure they were twin to his own. Everyone looks haunted these days, the teachers most of all.
He moves towards the fridge, where his usual late-night snack and dream killer awaits, but stops. There's a box of tea lounging on the counter, so he digs out a mug instead and sets the kettle on to boil. He wants something burning, to remind him of John, even if John would never have touched the tea. No, John would want something that would warm him inside but leave his skin cooler to the touch, and he'd probably have better luck than Logan finding it. But Bobby would never even look, so the tea will have to be enough.
She watches him silently while he works and gives a faint start as he finally turns around to pull up a chair across from her. He's got nothing to say that he wants her to hear, even if, if he's honest to himself, he realizes she already knows. Some couple, he thinks. The golden boy and girl of the school, and now they can't even talk, much less touch.
"Dreams?" she asks, fingers wrapped around her own mug. She's whispering, and he follows suit, though they're far from anyone else in the mansion.
"Yeah." They both sit quietly, thinking of their own night demons. They're probably the same.
When the kettle goes off, they both jump, chairs skittering against the floor. He gives her a guilty look that she returns, but neither can quite manage to smile at the absurdity of their overreaction. He takes it off the stove before its shrill whistle can awaken anyone and pours it over the leaves.
If she wasn't there, he thinks he might pour it over his hand as well, just for the memories. But she is, so he lets the last drop fall precisely into the cup and sets it aside. As screwed up as his emotions are right now, it's taking a lot of effort not to accidentally turn the liquid into a solid block of ice. He drinks it quickly, savoring the scalding touch on his tongue and lips.
"I should have made enough for two," he says apologetically, noticing the emptiness of her mug. She shrugs, and steals his cup for a sip. When he takes it back, he can almost imagine feeling the warming of her touch lingering on its cracked glaze. It's a pretend touch, like the pretend caress of his dream lover. He wishes something in his life were real.
"Do they ever stop?" he asks, tilting the dregs of the tea back and forth. If there's anything in the leaves, he doesn't have the talent to read it.
"What?" He's tired, and maybe he shouldn't be asking his girlfriend these things, but it hurts too much and he has to know.
"When Logan left," he says, and he has her attention now. If it weren't so dark, he guesses he'd see a blush. "You used to dream about him." Kitty told him, once, trying to be catty, trying to get him for herself. It wasn't like her, and she'd been too embarrassed for a week to talk to him after she'd stammered out that his girlfriend was always thinking of other men, and maybe he'd like to think of another girl? "Him coming back and saying it was all a mistake, maybe. Him never having left at all." Him saying he loved her, but he won't say that, it's a place that neither of them will go. Not yet. "Did they ever stop? Did you ever wake up one day and say, well, that's it, he's gone and I might as well stop wishing?" It's a longer speech than he intended to make.
"Oh." She sighs into her mug, maybe trying to read her own future, maybe just trying not to meet his eyes. It's a long sigh. "No," she says, looking up, and his heart gives a jump like it always does. They're beautiful eyes. "They never do."
He nods. Outside, a bird refuses to acknowledge the rules of their silent vigil and trills an ill-timed greeting to the absent sun.
"I dream about him too, you know," she says, still looking at him. It's not the same, though, and they both know it. She might dream, but she's never held John in her arms. Might miss him, but she's never felt his lips against hers. You can't lose what you've never had.
He feels guilty, though, for holding his feelings above hers, so he nods. He knows they were friends.
"He was something else," he says. It's not enough, when he wants to say that he loved him. "He was so alive. . . ." Fire metaphors are too easy. "I miss him," he says finally.
"He always knew what he wanted, and how to get it." If there's pain there for her, in the thought that what John wanted, in the end, was to change sides, then it's double that for him. John had always known. It was he who had been confused, and maybe it was his confusion that made it all go wrong.
"I'd better go back to bed," she says, "or Kitty will come looking." He grunts softly in unwilling agreement. The cups rattle faintly against each other as she scoops them up and places them in the sink. "Sometimes," she adds, not quite meeting his eyes as she heads for the door, "the dreams are better than nothing."
He's not sure, as he straightens the blankets on his empty bed, that she's right. When his eyelids flutter shut and John comes, though, he pulls him closer anyway.
He's no stranger to nighttime walks through the school, padding lightly between beds and down the halls, skipping the sixth stair that always creaks. No one is, since the last mission, really, which is why he's not surprised to find the kitchen already occupied. Marie sits with her back to the door, staring into something between her hands that he can't quite see through the curtain of her hair. There's a bit of moonlight coming in through the slatted blinds of the window, and it strikes her white lock precisely.
Part of him wants to just stand there, staring, and lose himself in her. He thinks the beauty's enough to drive the dreams away, at least for a while. But that would be rude, and he's been raised all his life to be kind, polite, goodie-goodie two shoes, yes ma'am and no sir, please and thank you. He clears his throat and steps forward as she turns.
"Hi, Marie." She's only wearing a slip of a nightgown, and for a moment he marvels at far more flesh than he usually gets a chance to observe. It makes it hard to hug her safely, though. He's not really sure he wants to right now anyway, and settles for a kiss on her no longer moonlit hair, careful not to push through to skin.
"Hey, yourself." Dark circles rim her eyes; he'd worry more if he wasn't sure they were twin to his own. Everyone looks haunted these days, the teachers most of all.
He moves towards the fridge, where his usual late-night snack and dream killer awaits, but stops. There's a box of tea lounging on the counter, so he digs out a mug instead and sets the kettle on to boil. He wants something burning, to remind him of John, even if John would never have touched the tea. No, John would want something that would warm him inside but leave his skin cooler to the touch, and he'd probably have better luck than Logan finding it. But Bobby would never even look, so the tea will have to be enough.
She watches him silently while he works and gives a faint start as he finally turns around to pull up a chair across from her. He's got nothing to say that he wants her to hear, even if, if he's honest to himself, he realizes she already knows. Some couple, he thinks. The golden boy and girl of the school, and now they can't even talk, much less touch.
"Dreams?" she asks, fingers wrapped around her own mug. She's whispering, and he follows suit, though they're far from anyone else in the mansion.
"Yeah." They both sit quietly, thinking of their own night demons. They're probably the same.
When the kettle goes off, they both jump, chairs skittering against the floor. He gives her a guilty look that she returns, but neither can quite manage to smile at the absurdity of their overreaction. He takes it off the stove before its shrill whistle can awaken anyone and pours it over the leaves.
If she wasn't there, he thinks he might pour it over his hand as well, just for the memories. But she is, so he lets the last drop fall precisely into the cup and sets it aside. As screwed up as his emotions are right now, it's taking a lot of effort not to accidentally turn the liquid into a solid block of ice. He drinks it quickly, savoring the scalding touch on his tongue and lips.
"I should have made enough for two," he says apologetically, noticing the emptiness of her mug. She shrugs, and steals his cup for a sip. When he takes it back, he can almost imagine feeling the warming of her touch lingering on its cracked glaze. It's a pretend touch, like the pretend caress of his dream lover. He wishes something in his life were real.
"Do they ever stop?" he asks, tilting the dregs of the tea back and forth. If there's anything in the leaves, he doesn't have the talent to read it.
"What?" He's tired, and maybe he shouldn't be asking his girlfriend these things, but it hurts too much and he has to know.
"When Logan left," he says, and he has her attention now. If it weren't so dark, he guesses he'd see a blush. "You used to dream about him." Kitty told him, once, trying to be catty, trying to get him for herself. It wasn't like her, and she'd been too embarrassed for a week to talk to him after she'd stammered out that his girlfriend was always thinking of other men, and maybe he'd like to think of another girl? "Him coming back and saying it was all a mistake, maybe. Him never having left at all." Him saying he loved her, but he won't say that, it's a place that neither of them will go. Not yet. "Did they ever stop? Did you ever wake up one day and say, well, that's it, he's gone and I might as well stop wishing?" It's a longer speech than he intended to make.
"Oh." She sighs into her mug, maybe trying to read her own future, maybe just trying not to meet his eyes. It's a long sigh. "No," she says, looking up, and his heart gives a jump like it always does. They're beautiful eyes. "They never do."
He nods. Outside, a bird refuses to acknowledge the rules of their silent vigil and trills an ill-timed greeting to the absent sun.
"I dream about him too, you know," she says, still looking at him. It's not the same, though, and they both know it. She might dream, but she's never held John in her arms. Might miss him, but she's never felt his lips against hers. You can't lose what you've never had.
He feels guilty, though, for holding his feelings above hers, so he nods. He knows they were friends.
"He was something else," he says. It's not enough, when he wants to say that he loved him. "He was so alive. . . ." Fire metaphors are too easy. "I miss him," he says finally.
"He always knew what he wanted, and how to get it." If there's pain there for her, in the thought that what John wanted, in the end, was to change sides, then it's double that for him. John had always known. It was he who had been confused, and maybe it was his confusion that made it all go wrong.
"I'd better go back to bed," she says, "or Kitty will come looking." He grunts softly in unwilling agreement. The cups rattle faintly against each other as she scoops them up and places them in the sink. "Sometimes," she adds, not quite meeting his eyes as she heads for the door, "the dreams are better than nothing."
He's not sure, as he straightens the blankets on his empty bed, that she's right. When his eyelids flutter shut and John comes, though, he pulls him closer anyway.