bigapplesauce | Sleep No More [closed]

Illyria would not classify herself in the realm of bored in the human conception of the term, because boredom would imply a significant degree of preexisting interest that has since depleted, and Illyria is yet to experience any sort of considerable, quantifiable interest. The books are old - relatively speaking; they are young and fragile things in comparison to the being in their midst - and they remind her of Wesley, and she does not examine them.

She opts instead to study the fabric of the world she now resides in, take note of its deviations and similarities, the interplay of conflicting auras perpetually at molecular war. The air itself is different, minutely, not in any form detectable to what is mortal and small.

Thus, the God-King has not been observing the passage of time. She considers it a poorly defined concept, fickle and subjective in its design, and so intrinsically human that she has no desire to understand it at any great length. Time progresses for her now in its incremental linear motion and she pays it no heed.

When the principality asks a question she looks at it with a vague disinterest.

"Sleep is a human design," she says, now observing the drifting trajectory of a pair of hydrogen molecules without much enthusiasm. "I do not require it. Not in the form most would understand it."

But in some form, he doesn't ask? He huffs out a sigh. "I don't require it either," he says, "but lately it keeps happening to me. You were in that shared dream, so it must have happened to you, right?"

It's rather eerie, how many times he's fallen asleep without meaning to. It isn't him. He doesn't get tired, not like that anyway. The occasions where he passed out after being hurt aside, he should be perfectly able to control his consciousness. And yet.

"I suspect it's the Rift's doing," he muses.

Illyria makes a faint, disgusted noise at the mention of it. The Rift. Something unnatural, indefinable, obstinately more powerful than she, and she is immediately predisposed to hate it. Nothing should be more powerful than she.

"An act of which I have no control," she spits out the words with quiet revulsion. The very notion of a God-King adhering to activities so indisputably human is simply not dignified. "Laws, foundations predesignated by this Rift. The things that do not sleep are made to succumb to it, and those which wield power are made weak."

She regards it to be a highly personal affront to her very being. The Rift, the thing that occupies intangible space, purposefully reducing her to a thing less than what she is. It is an act deliberate. A specific brand of attack upon her being. Illyria despises it, the Rift, and everything it represents because of it.

"I agree it is distressing," says Aziraphale placidly, going back to his book. He's in no mood to hear Illyria ranting about the Rift now. She gets locked into this single tracks and it can be very depressing to listen to. Fortunately, he's found she's also easily distracted.

"I suppose I just wondered what it is you do here," he says. "When I'm gone, I mean. What are you doing now, with all that... quiet staring about?"

"I observe this universe in its complexity," she answers curtly, "and I search my place in it. I am not human, nor will I be ever, but I am not what I once was. If there was an intention in sending me here, it has not revealed itself."

The concept of walls is the current ideology Illyria struggles most with. They exist everywhere and not all can be so easily torn away. She is walled into a universe, walled onto an island, walled into a bookshop, walled into her shell. Seemingly endless layers of walls upon walls. They are insurmountable to her, and she cannot bear it. She does not understand how the principality is able to exist in such relative contentment within its confined spaces, untroubled by the restrictions to its being.

Aziraphale can't help but bristle a little at her claim of not being human - Illyria may not be, but Fred is, and who knows what sorts of needs she still has? - but almost in the same moment he feels a strange, melancholy kinship with her. He is equally unused to living without a divine purpose, and while it had seemed almost freeing at first, it does start to make him itch now and again, wondering if he and Crowley will be returned, and when, and what will become of those in their care if it happens.

"I understand," he concedes only a little reluctantly. "Intent may yet be revealed. I choose not to give up hope on that particular point."

He closes the book and sets it aside. "Would you like to try a different drink?" he asks. "Non-alcoholic, this time. I'm going to have some cocoa."

"I do not like alcohol." Potentially irrelevant to the conversation, but well worth repeating. Illyria did not enjoy the sensation of sober up, nor did she appreciate being left alone to suffer through it in this tiny room full of books. She was not even able to destroy the establishment to alleviate some of the unworldly ache.

Her shell's head tips to one side. She does not recognize cocoa. Alcohol and blood are the only two mortal substances she has become acquainted with, and she finds the former to be tiresome enough.

"Explain its nature." She is not used to voicing demands in this way, as if it is less of a command and more of a request. She did not fully intend to voice it so. It does not come across as a tone a God-King would take, and this irks her.

"Yes, yes," mutters Aziraphale as he wanders over to the very cramped kitchenette he'd recently added to the back area. "Cocoa is not like alcohol. It's warm and thick and sweet. Humans drink it for pleasure and comfort."

He fusses about at the tiny stove, warming water and milk, then glances over his shoulder. "Would you like to try some?"

In Illyria's experience, pleasure comes from snapping a favored opponent's spine in half and comfort comes from knowing they will not rise again. She sincerely doubts anything of mortal construct could grant her the same sensation.

"I am uninterested," she says, but follows the principality regardless and watches it work with an expression that could most easily be classed as curious.

Aziraphale smiles to himself as Illyria enters his periphery, studying his movements with rapt attention. It reminds him of when Melanie wanted to learn how to make tea. He prepares the cocoa in casual silence, pours most of it into one mug and the rest into a second. He hands this to Illyria without a word and proceeds back to the couch.

"If you don't like it I'll gladly take it off your hands," he says, sipping his coffee calmly.

She accepts the object reflexively and then proceeds to spend an inordinate amount of time staring at its contents with what can most accurately be defined as a mixture of suspicion and bafflement. Illyria mentally probes the substance for any sign of subterfuge and alcohol and, sensing nothing potentially threatening, gives it a wary sip.

This is not alcohol.

Alcohol was mildly painful and unpleasant.

This is not unpleasant.

Illyria does not know what she should be reading from this.

"I find this acceptable," she states finally.

"Good," says Aziraphale, a little smugly. He sips his a little more, then sets it down beside his book. He leans back and stretches a little.

"You may find there are a number of human things worth sampling. They're wonderfully inventive, you-"

It's not like usual. Usually he's by himself, reading quietly, and later wakes up to find the book open on his chest. This time it's like flipping a switch. One second he's mid-sentence, the next, he's out, his chin dropping abruptly onto his chest.

Illyria pays minimal attention to the principality's words; things of human make do not particularly concern her, nor does she have undue interest in sampling them, however much the principality may find them inventive. When it falls abruptly silent, however, very unlike its ordinary ~~intriguing~~ aggravating self, the God-King looks at it sharply. The principality has simply stopped working.

She approaches it cautiously, suspecting it to perhaps be some form of ploy. When the thing does not move, she drops into a slow crouch in front of its - the word? - couch and stares at it.

(She will not become concerned over how easy it has become for her to summon inconsequential human terms for things. It means nothing.)

"Principality."

No response. Illyria reaches with one of her shell's fingers and brushes at its shoulder lightly.

"Principality."

Still nothing. It appears not to be in any great physical pain, however, so Illyria will wait until it rises again. It may have engaged in sleep or some equally, frustratingly mortal chore for the time being despite its nonhuman properties, and she finds this to be both bothersome and interesting.

For the time being, Illyria will remain here and wait for it to stir. And watch.

For several minutes, Aziraphale dreams.

Waking is painful. He lurches forward with a sharp gasp, hands slamming down onto the table. He takes a moment to stare around himself, bewildered and disoriented, as everything falls back into place. Illyria is still there, staring at him.

"I- I-" he says, breathless, then pulls himself up to his feet. "I have to go."

He does not wait for her response. He is gone in an instant.

Edited 2014-11-29 02:59 (UTC)

The sudden movement obtains Illyria's attention immediately, but the principality is acting disappointingly incoherent. She imagines the process of sleep must be irritatingly confusing for one not ordinarily engineered with a capacity for sleep.

The principality does not chatter on as it normally does. It appears winded and worn and is soon gone in an abrupt folding of spatial matter. Its reaction to whatever terrors or shifting dark things that may have lay in its dreams is marginally alarming, but unrelated to the God-King and thus irrelevant.

And thus, Illyria does not care.

She does not.

She will continue to care very little for the principality's somnolent woes. It is not of her concern. She does not need to continue to convince herself that it is not of her concern.

Long-suffering and silent, Illyria returns to her initial position and continues to wait. At least now she has the activity of this - liquid. It is less unfortunate compared to alcohol. And therefore acceptable. Even if she cannot remember the word.

Aziraphale appears in his flat in an instant. "-lanie!" he's crying, but she's already awake, out of the bed, running for the bathroom. He doesn't understand; is she going to be sick? Is she afraid of him? She has to have realized he's here.

"Melanie - Melanie, wait!" He scrambles toward her, reaching out just as the door slams in his face.

He reaches for the knob, but then stops himself abruptly. He shouldn't force it. He should find out what's wrong.

"Melanie?" His voice is weak and quavering. He rests his palm softly against the door. "Are you all right?"

Melanie wakes up hungry, a howling emptiness in her stomach and her jaw snapping mindlessly at the air. Oh no. Oh no. Even though the flat is empty, she bolts out of bed and toward the bathroom. Aziraphale's sudden arrival only spurns her to greater speed; she can't be near him, it's not safe, she's not safe. And she doesn't want him to see her like this.

She still feels a stab of guilt when she slams the door in his face, but what choice does she have? She sinks to the floor with her back against the door, trying to press her jaw shut with her hands. Her throat spasms painfully, and she lets out a quiet, involuntary whimper.

The whimper makes him tense up, but still he resists breaking in on her.

"Melanie, please," he says softly. "It's all right. I'm all right. It was just a dream."

He feels a pang of anxiety at that admission - he had a dream, a personal dream, a nightmare. And she had to get dragged into it. He's not sure if it was a random coincidence or if the Rift has done this by design, but there's no time to wonder about it now.

"Tell me what's wrong," he begs her. "Let me help you."

Oh, no.

She hadn't forgotten the nightmare - how could she? - but she hadn't realized it was his. He saw her. He saw what she did. He saw what she is. She's explained it to him, but that's not the same as him really knowing what a hungry child is capable of. A couple weeks ago, she would have called it a good thing - better for him to know just what he's dealing with - but now, the knowledge that he's seen what she's like when she lets the hunger out makes her curl in on herself.

"I…" she's coming down, shuddering as she tries to suppress the part of her that wants to find something warm and living and tear it to pieces. It's hard to speak, to make her jaw do human things. "Not safe," she manages to gasp out. "Yet." Ever.

Oh. Oh.

"You're still hungry," he breathes in realization, how could he not have considered- "Do you want - do you want to eat? I can give you something, I can send it in there, with you... if you want."

He feels so terrible, not having realized that this would happen, and that she would react this way, and that it would be so hard for her. He wants to open the door and put his arms around her, wants that so much it's alarming. Such an utterly foreign feeling, and so painful going unfulfilled. He can't do it now because it won't help. She thinks she isn't safe.

Yes.

"No!" she yelps. She doesn't know if it will help or make things worse, and she doesn't want to give the hunger what it wants, not even a little. Better to force it back into its box, bit by bit.

And it's working, slowly. Her jaw still aches, but it's no longer snapping at nothing. She swallows down the thick saliva that had built up in her mouth - no choice there, she's not spitting a contaminant down the sink - and focuses on the shower curtain, tracing the striped pattern up and down, up and down. Her breathing slows, and her legs stop twitching. She shivers once, a full-body gesture, and it's like the click of a proverbial latch.

The box is shut. She's Melanie again.

She rubs her hands over her face, which is free of blood. Of course it is, it was only a dream. Don't think about it. She gets to her feet, then eyes the door reluctantly. She's so afraid to face him. What must he think of her? If she stays in here, she won't have to find out right away. She can imagine that everything is fine, and he won't look at her the way Parks did, like she's a--a frigging abortion.

She can't hide in here forever.

Melanie reaches for the doorknob, then slowly pulls the door open, peeking out apprehensively.

Aziraphale waits helplessly, lowering himself to his knees and resting his forehead against the door. He waits, listening to her breathe. He has no other choice.

Then he hears the doorknob turn, and he pulls back just slightly, looking up and meeting her eyes as she peeks out. He tries not to look too relieved. They're not out of the woods yet. He holds a hand out to her encouragingly, pleading with her to come out.

"Come here," he murmurs. "It's all right. I trust you."

Melanie glances from his face to his hand and back. He's not looking at her as if she's a monster. Remembering the other man in the dream, it occurs to her that the competition might be stiffer than she'd thought. He must be the one who gave Aziraphale those burns. The one he told her she'd never have to worry about. So much for that.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly. She didn't land in his dream on purpose, but she knows she wasn't a welcome intrusion. After a moment's hesitation, she pulls the door open enough to edge out of the bathroom and into the faint, orange, ambient glow that is as close as the flat ever gets to 'dark.' "I didn't mean to." To see what she did, or to react the way she did. As she looks at the faded, near-vanished remains of those black burns across his face, she thinks with sudden fervor that she's not sorry at all, that she'd do it again if she had the chance. But that probably isn't what he'd like to hear.

She's apologizing? For what? He doesn't respond for a moment, just reaches out to her and pulls her gently but firmly forward, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight.

"You've nothing to be sorry for," he whispers. "I'm sorry you had to see that. I don't know what happened, I shouldn't have dreams like that, I..." He sighs heavily and lifts a hand to stroke her hair soothingly. "It's all right now. We're both all right."

He moves his hands back to her shoulders and inches back, looking her in the eye. "And it wasn't really him, it was just... my..." His... what? His imagination? He's pretty sure he isn't supposed to have that.

"He was just in my head," he finishes awkwardly. "He still doesn't... doesn't know about you. You're safe."

She's still half-expecting some sort of rejection, or at least a hesitation. He saw her sink her teeth into someone. Even if the man deserved it, even if it was just a dream, how can he reach for her and pull her close like she's a normal little girl? She can't even bring herself to return the gesture, too ashamed - and too clearly remembering how battered and broken he'd been in the nightmare. What if she hurts him?

No. She won't let herself.

When he pulls back a little, she meets his gaze, her expression drawn and solemn. If he's trying to comfort her, it's not working very well. "But he's real," she says. "He's the one who hurt you before." Lifting a hand, she brushes her fingertips over one of the fading burns (careful, controlled, not hurting, not hurting), a tight frown on her face. How safe can she be if her guardian is in danger? What is her safety even worth if something happens to Aziraphale?

Aziraphale's face falls at her visible concern. He hasn't comforted her at all. After a moment he lowers his head, looking down at the floor. He takes her hand in his, pulling it gently from his face, holding it and stroking his thumb over her skin.

"I..." How is he supposed to explain this to her? Even if she's not like any child he's ever met, she's still a child. He promised he'd protect her - how can he tell her the Devil is loose in this city and he can't stop it and still let her feel safe?

"I didn't want you to know about him," he admits, still avoiding eye contact. "He is very dangerous. If you were to truly meet him, you would not be able to hurt him or stop him. He would destroy you."

It's terrifying to even entertain the possibility. He doesn't want Lucifer to destroy anyone, but... but especially not Melanie.

He looks back up at her. "He has hurt me," he says, "but he... he won't do it again." He thinks. He's still not sure of the exact terms of the agreement Crowley made with him. Crowley, bless him (so to speak) is not the best negotiator even in the best of times.

And he really, really doesn't want to explain to Melanie that her other guardian, who he wants her to trust just as much as she trusts him (well, almost as much), is essentially the Devil's servant. He realizes he may have to, but for the moment he only offers her a weak smile.

"I should thank you for coming to my rescue," he says, and the moment he's said it regrets it. This is not the right moment for levity, and it's too horrible a thing to make light about anyway. He can just hear Crowley groaning at him: Well done, angel.

Melanie's frown twists into a grimace. She didn't rescue him from anything, and if he's telling her the truth, she couldn't rescue him even if that man (for lack of a better word) was actually here and hurting Aziraphale in reality. Which wouldn't stop her trying, and she feels an uncomfortable surge of resentment as the truth of the situation sinks in. There's someone here who has hurt Aziraphale, and might very well try to hurt him again (what's stopping him?), and there's nothing anyone can do. She's just supposed to accept it.

She's accepted worse. But this isn't fair. She made things work for Miss Justineau; why can't things be made to work for Aziraphale?

"How do you know he's not going to do it again?" she asks. "What's stopping him?"

There it is. He more or less walked into it.

He sighs, and as an afterthought turns on the lamp beside the bed, a warm little glow for them, more than just the ambient light coming through the windows.

"It's complicated," he says, which feels like a dodge, but it's also the truth. He rests back on his legs, kneeling a bit lower before her.

"That man is... well, he's not a man." Aziraphale draws a small, steadying breath. "He is the Devil. Not from my universe, but... that doesn't matter to him." He frowns tightly, remembering the horrific day Lucifer had arrived. There's no point in trying to hide details from her now, she's too smart and too inquisitive for that. "As soon as he knew of us, he... wanted to make Crowley his, and I couldn't let that happen, you see, I couldn't. I tried to fight him and it wasn't enough, and he... he made Crowley agree to go along with him. In exchange for my life."

He hates admitting this. He hasn't really talked about it extensively with anyone, and he suspects he needs to, but why does that person have to be Melanie?

"You mustn't think poorly of Crowley," he ~~begs~~ insists. "It was the only choice he could make. He was trapped into it. We'll... we're going to find a way out of it, but..."

His shoulders slump a little, feeling miserable and useless. What good is he, if he can't protect those he cares about?

"He may be the Devil but he keeps his word," he murmurs. "He won't come after me. It was only a bad dream."

Melanie furrows her brow as he slumps down before her. It's almost as if he's the one praying, but she's not sure how to answer him.

She's already accepted angels and demons; the Devil isn't such a big leap from there. Even the thought of the rift letting in someone so dangerous isn't difficult to believe. She's here, after all. She might not know much about the devil, but she guesses she could turn this island into a nightmare-scape about as quickly as he could.

The thought of Crowley being the Devil's servant is a bit harder to accept. Even if the Devil does keep his word (and would he, really?), their deal only covers Aziraphale's safety. What about everyone else on the island? And what about Crowley? If the Devil tells him to do something terrible, is he just going to do it?

From the looks of Aziraphale, he has the same questions she does, and no easy, comforting answers - for her or for himself. Maybe it's presumptuous of her to think she could comfort him, especially in the face of something as bad as this. But she leans forward and wraps her arms around him, anyway, because he's still hurting, and she can't just watch that and do nothing.

"It's going to be okay," she says firmly. "Maybe I can help. I'm good at remembering things, and you have so many books already. There must be a lot of information on the Devil that I could read."

He's grateful for the embrace, and her puts his arms back around her to hold on, but at her words of attempted comfort he only feels a stab of guilt. This is not her responsibility even in any small way, she should not know of it. There is nothing she can do, he knows, nothing she could read that would make any difference. He is silent for a moment, then he parts from her again, resting his hand against her cheek.

"The best thing you can do is stay safe," he says, though it feels bittersweet and unconvincing. This was a close call - what if Lucifer does meet Melanie in the dreaming?

He swallows and murmurs, "I wish there was something more you could do, but, my dear, I'm afraid that's all."

'Stay safe' isn't the most useful instruction, Melanie thinks. Knowing what the Devil looks like - and knowing to avoid him in dreams - is good information to have, but her safety in the waking world is entirely dependent on Aziraphale. If something happens to him, or to the magic keeping her in the flat, then what?

But it's worse than that, because her safety is dependent on Crowley, too. He could get in here as easily as Aziraphale could; she's already seen him do it. And he's scared enough of the Devil to let himself be commanded by him (something that Melanie finds difficult to imagine despite what she's already seen). Scared people do stupid things.

She knows Aziraphale won't like hearing it, but she has to ask. "What if Crowley tells the Devil about me? Or what if the Devil finds out about me some other way, and asks Crowley to fetch me?"

Aziraphale opens his mouth and closes it again. This, this is what he was afraid of, what he's always been afraid of when it comes to children, even really wonderfully intelligent and courteous ones, even the ones (the singular one, if we're being quite honest) that he's come to love. They ask questions. Really difficult unanswerable questions. It's like all humans, but worse, because children still expect answers. Most adults know better.

The question is awful because he doesn't know how to answer it, any answer might be a lie, and because it forces him to wonder as well, about that great hulking elephant in the corner that he's been so desperately trying to ignore. Crowley would never, he says to himself, he saw the way Crowley was with her the other day, when he'd been invisible, he knows Crowley cares about her even if he won't admit it to his silly demon self.

But Crowley's already been made to do things he would never have done under different circumstances. If it came down to it, if Lucifer learned about Melanie and forced Crowley to make some kind of grotesque choice - Melanie or Aziraphale - would he choose right?

Aziraphale swallows with difficulty. He must say something. The first question is easier, at least.

"Crowley would never tell Lucifer about you," he says. "He's much cleverer than that. He's very clever, really. He and I will find some way to get him out of this, this contract, you'll see."

He hasn't answered the second question, and he's smart enough to notice that.

"If..." He looks down for a moment, his hand still resting heavy on her shoulder. "I don't know what he would do," he admits finally, defeated. "I can only hope that he would resist. That this is where he'd draw the line."

He doesn't want to think about that. There's no way that would not end with Crowley dead, and he can't bear the thought of that.

"I have promised to protect you, and he... even if he doesn't show it, exactly, he does care about you, and... about me, what I want." There's an uncomfortable twist in his gut; saying this feels abhorrent, dissonant, unfair conjecture. Crowley doesn't care about things. That's not what demons do. There isn't really a word for what Crowley feels about Aziarphale, and Aziraphale doesn't want to think about it anyway, because then he'd have to think about what he feels for Crowley and it's all a big horrible mess. He tells himself, this is how he's phrasing it for Melanie. So she can understand.

"I have trusted him for many years," he says, which is... mostly true. "I have to keep trusting him, even now."

Edited 2014-12-04 19:36 (UTC)

She knew he wouldn't like it, she knew it would upset him, and she wishes she could just go back to bed and pretend everything is all right. It should be all right, because she trusts Aziraphale and she knows he'll do everything he can to keep her safe.

But that's not enough. There is a gap in the armor, and she can't pretend it isn't there or that nothing should be done about it... or that Aziraphale throwing himself between her and the combined forces of the Devil and Crowley (even a reluctant Crowley) is an acceptable solution. If that even could solve the problem, they wouldn't be in such a mess in the first place.

She can't bear the thought of hurting Aziraphale with her questions and doubts. But she can't bear the thought of the whole city - the whole world - falling to the cordyceps because it was easier to just trust that everything would be okay than it was to have a hard conversation about how to make sure that it would be.

For a few moments, all she can do is stand there and look tormented, torn between the desire to spare her angel's feelings and her need to be realistic because this is bigger than just him. Twisting her hands together, she finally forces herself to admit, "I'm not sure that's enough," her tone soft but strained.

Edited 2014-12-04 20:39 (UTC)

He stares at her for a moment, shocked. Not just that she's questioning his judgment - though that is startling, he'd grown accustomed to how much weight he carried with her just by being what he was, as has always seemed proper - but that she's right. His trust is enough for him, but not for Melanie, the danger she presents.

He doesn't know how to confront that. He doesn't want to.

"What would you have me do?" he says a bit desperately. "Keep him out? Turn my back on him? He's a prisoner, not a - whatever Lucifer thinks he is. He..."

He cuts himself off abruptly. This isn't helping. This mess isn't her fault, and she's right to want what he promised, absolute protection, against all threats, hypothetical or otherwise. As long as Crowley belongs to Lucifer, he's a danger to Melanie. Even in the abstract. No matter how much he does not want to accept it.

Miserably, he takes his hands from her, staring at the floor. He lifts one hand and makes a limp, half-hearted gesture. A pulse of energy moves through the walls, the floor, the ceiling, pools around the windows and the door. She won't be able to feel it, but he'll know it's there. And Crowley will know, if he tries to come here again.

"I've reinforced the wards," he says dully, "so they'll keep out Crowley in addition to Lucifer. I'll know if he tries to break through. You'll be safe here."

He can't look at her. He should. He knows she must feel terrible about this, that she doesn't want this so much as she needs it. But it feels too awful. He's never had to take a measure like this, not once in six thousand years.

"Will that do?" he asks softly.

Edited 2014-12-04 21:05 (UTC)

When he lets go of her, she steps back until the corner of the doorway presses into her shoulder blade. He looks like he did in the nightmare, broken and defeated. She did this to him, her doubts and fears as efficient as the nightmare-Devil's evil intentions and horrible weapons. And now he won't even look at her, because she's a monster and not the little girl she appears to be, and now he knows it. Because hurting an angel is something only a monster could do.

She's crying again, but this time she swipes the tears away before they can get very far. She won't make him comfort her, not after what he's already done for her.

"Yes," she says quietly. What else can she say? She presses her lips together, then makes herself turn away and climb back into bed. The impulse to hide beneath the covers is strong, but she resists, because that would be a little girl thing to do and she can't hide from this, anyway. "I'm sorry," she says, hating the way her voice cracks and staring fixedly down at her own lap. "You don't have to stay." She's certain he doesn't want to.

"Melanie..." He looks back up and watches her as she gets back into bed. She's refusing to meet his eyes now. After a moment he gets up and approaches her, not sure if he should sit down beside her or give her space.

"It's not your fault," he says. "You're right, this is... it's what we have to do."

He's not sure what else he can say. He does want to get out of there, horribly, but it's not because of her, it's because of what he's done, been forced to do by the circumstances, not by Melanie.

He sighs and shifts his weight awkwardly. "It's all right," he murmurs. He pats his pockets until he finds his phone, hesitating before sending a frustrated series of texts to the only person he can talk to about this. Wretchedly enough. He waits until he gets a response before he looks back at Melanie.

"I will be back," he says firmly. He wavers for a moment, then leans down and gives her a little kiss on the top of her head. "Sleep well, my dear."

He turns and leaves through the door, then stands in the hallway for a long, dismal moment before vanishing.

Edited 2014-12-04 23:41 (UTC)

Sleep No More [closed]

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