I watched you disappear
Apparently I'm still focused on John-angst pre-series, I keep coming up with snippets all the time. I love writing them down, it's such a nice break from other things I should be working on. Once again my awesome cyber-twin has convinced me to keep writing and I'll be forever thankful for her love and support these days, even when she has already moved on and I selfishly keep bringing her back to the show . I'm sorry for that... even though, somehow I can't be since you're helping me stay whole. Love you, hun! *hugs*
The title and the lyrics are not mine, borrowed them from Rumer's album "Seasons of my soul".
***
Full of sorrow, I must have followed you here
Stood at the Gates of Heaven, I watched you disappear
Now I hear you say
“It’s time to walk away”
But how can I when I don’t know my way home from here?
Rumer, On my way home
***
Days are laughter, colors, movement, change.
As long as there is light-life around him, he is solid, he is there. He has a purpose, a reason to keep breathing, to live. Sometimes there is no past, no fire, no screams, no horror. Sometimes he can enjoy the sunshine or an ice-cream or a quiet moment on his own. Never for long, though. Too soon the warmth ebbs away, leaving his bones chilled, yearning for a moment of peace. Taste isn’t as rich as before, it often turns sour, making him gag. Too soon her voice is there, calling him, mixing with the sounds of reality until she is back again, never far away, just beneath the surface.
Days… their days are for living.
Nights, though, nights are different, they are… just there.
As soon as the real world becomes one with the night, he is lost. He puts the boys to bed, concentrating on staying with them, staying whole until they fall asleep. They need him and he is strong for them, is there with them. But once they drift off…
Most nights he doesn’t remember getting to the couch. He has a bed in their apartment but he never sleeps there. It’s too big. Empty. Devoid of life. The couch is small and uncomfortable and makes him move as stiffly as a man twice his age for the better part of the day, but he barely notices. Once he sits down with a glass of Jack it’s no longer really up to him what happens. His mind shuts down, dissolves into nothingness. Sometimes he just sits there and stares. Sometimes he falls asleep the moment he sits down, toppling headfirst into a dark, bottomless void that swallows him whole. Sometimes he dreams of her, nightmares that leave him shaking and drenched in sweat with the scent of fire so real he flinches off the couch to get away from it. The worst nights are when he dreams of her without the fire, pure and whole and his still, and he wakes with his heart …crushed. Lately, one glass tends to become two or more a night and he doesn’t fight it, doesn’t think he could even if he wanted to.
One thing always stays the same, however the night starts, he won’t regain a sense of self until the next morning.
This night is different, this night he is not alone.
The sounds of shuffling footsteps somehow find him in the dark corner his mind has fled to. It takes him a long time-too long-to crawl back to the surface and even longer to realize he has actually made it back.
He opens his eyes to the sight of two huge eyes watching him from across the room.
He doesn’t gasp, he doesn’t flinch, he simply looks back, studies the small, huddled form detachedly. The boy is clutching a stuffed toy in his arm and an old, worn blanket in the other hand. There are comic characters on his PJs, but the darkness hides their identities. Once, it had been so important to buy exactly this set, but now it’s just a piece of clothing he can’t remember ever having seen before. The kid doesn’t move and neither does he, both of them watching the other. It’s so quiet he can hear his son breathe, small, steady puffs for air, making the small chest move slowly beneath the cloth. He concentrates on that, using the familiar presence as an anchor to ground him in the here and now.
Random details slowly invade his senses. There’s a familiar, bitter taste on his tongue and when he takes the next breath he smells it on the air as well. His right hand is warm, tucked somewhere between his body and the back of the couch, but the left one feels chilly. The ground beneath it is different, rough, dirty, his arm hanging over the edge at an uncomfortable angle. The right side of his face is squished into cushions that feel damp on his skin. Cold air creeps across his body and he shivers, the sensation pulling him even more toward awareness. He meets a thought about halfway out of his stupor, a sense of worry mixed with a question that worms its way through his mind. What if something is wrong, what if something has happened, his kid wouldn’t be standing in the middle of the living-room if he was okay-
A flash of pure panic yanks his self back all the way and he focuses on the small body. The wide eyes are still locked on his face and his son hasn’t moved at all. He scans what he can see of the familiar face for signs of a fever or anything that would indicate his boy is in any kind of discomfort, but he only sees sleep-ruffled hair that sticks up in every direction and too-huge eyes that won’t leave his face.
He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Somehow it breaks the spell of the moment: His almost-sigh is echoed by a soft huff and the little boy moves closer, the too-long blanket trailing behind him. He approaches the couch and stops so close to him that he can smell the shampoo they’d used this evening, so close he can feel his body heat on his skin. Fear suddenly cuts of his air for a second, his mind diving into a panicked loop of too hot, I can feel him without even touching him, too hot, but then a small hand settles on his cheek and pats it softly. And the hand is warm, not hot to the touch. Not sick-
“Daddy hurt?”
The soft words hang in the darkness between them and he has to swallow against the sudden emotions welling up in his chest.
“No, Sammy, daddy’s fine…” he chokes out.
He moves, sits up, wants to pick up his kid and get him back into his bed. His son shouldn’t see him like this, he needs to be strong for him, he’s their father for God’s sake.
But before he can get up, something warm and breathing curls into his side and a blanket that smells of nothing but his little boy comes to rest partially across his chest. Sammy snuggles close to him, moving until he lies next to him on the couch, one arm curled around his father’s chest, hugging him. He freezes then, looks down at the dark head resting against his shoulder, the back that is moving in a slow rhythm, a small hand that is already relaxing on his chest as the child falls asleep almost instantly. Sammy is so warm against him, alive, moving, breathing, solid as any day he’s lived through ever since.
He moves before he ever makes a decision to do so, he carefully rolls onto his side and pulls his son closer, closing his arms around the small body and burying his face in soft hair that tickles his chin. Sammy gives a sleepy grunt but relaxes again, burrowing deeper into his side without ever waking up.
He holds him close, curls around him, listening into the night, listening to him sleep, feeling him breathe against his skin. He starts to drift again, but it’s different this time, he doesn’t lose himself, not like before, he stays whole, he doesn’t pass out, he actually falls asleep with his son tucked safely into his arms and the feeling of not being alone for this night.
***
When I was hiding from the storms, you heard me calling out
Where were you?
With every demon on the road, you had me crying out
Where were you?
You know I've searched the stars
I don't know where you are
***