for better or for worse- open to andiwilldie
It's not unusual for Harry to have dreams about it. After it happened, they were fairly frequent- all entirely normal, the relevant people had assured him- but they've been less so since the Doctor moved in with him. Which makes sense, if he were to think about it; dreams are supposed to be the unconscious mind's way of processing the events of the day, the things the brain focussed on during the waking hours-- living with the Doctor, there's a hell of a lot more to occupy himself with during the day, and much more of it is, well, happy now.
But all that's logic, and logic has nothing to do with the dreaming mind.
He's not sweating, not tossing or turning, not making any sound, but in his mind, there's a bullet buried in his gut. Red hot lead, and it's taking apart his stomach lining in shreds as he sits across from Lucy in a table in a cafe. They're having tea, and her hair is pulled back into a French twist, the sunlight making a halo of the wisps that've escaped around her temples and ears, and her smiling lips are ruby red, and Harry's smiling back, smiling anyway, even though there's a bullet in his stomach, and she's got the gun right there, right there on the table next to the delicate china teacup, because she looks so happy, and he can't not smile in the face of that. She twists the wedding band on her finger and smiles at him, coy as the blushing bride she wasn't, and leans in to brush her lips over his cheek and smile against his ear. 'Blood is compulsory, you know, darling. It would hardly do for me to apologise when I'm not sorry.'
Bang.
The rim of her teacup is painted with delicate pink and gold roses. The tea inside ripples with the shockwaves of the gunshot as he staggers-- again.
'Shit!'
And then he's awake, bolt upright in bed the way people are only supposed to wake up in movies, a hard breath and a curse on his lips. Harry knows the Doctor is there next to him, but he doesn't look, just stares ahead for several long moments before closing his eyes, squeezing the lids shut. His stomach hurts.
But all that's logic, and logic has nothing to do with the dreaming mind.
He's not sweating, not tossing or turning, not making any sound, but in his mind, there's a bullet buried in his gut. Red hot lead, and it's taking apart his stomach lining in shreds as he sits across from Lucy in a table in a cafe. They're having tea, and her hair is pulled back into a French twist, the sunlight making a halo of the wisps that've escaped around her temples and ears, and her smiling lips are ruby red, and Harry's smiling back, smiling anyway, even though there's a bullet in his stomach, and she's got the gun right there, right there on the table next to the delicate china teacup, because she looks so happy, and he can't not smile in the face of that. She twists the wedding band on her finger and smiles at him, coy as the blushing bride she wasn't, and leans in to brush her lips over his cheek and smile against his ear. 'Blood is compulsory, you know, darling. It would hardly do for me to apologise when I'm not sorry.'
Bang.
The rim of her teacup is painted with delicate pink and gold roses. The tea inside ripples with the shockwaves of the gunshot as he staggers-- again.
'Shit!'
And then he's awake, bolt upright in bed the way people are only supposed to wake up in movies, a hard breath and a curse on his lips. Harry knows the Doctor is there next to him, but he doesn't look, just stares ahead for several long moments before closing his eyes, squeezing the lids shut. His stomach hurts.