(no subject)
It is a dream he's had before, time and again, and still it makes him whimper softly in his sleep, his arm tightening reflexively around the gentle swell of her waist. The dream, like always is full of blood, and smoke, and screams. There aren't any hands holding him down in the darkness though, not anymore. He shifts to his back, his hand coming up as if to ward off a blow, and he gasps at the sharp pain just below his ribs, and his eyes fly open.
For a moment, he can't breathe, until he remembers he's not there, he's not laying in that prison infirmary, sweating and struggling for breath; he's in bed with his beautiful wife in this home that they've made for themselves, in this place at the end of all things. He blinks up at the celing for a moment before turning back to her, smoothing her hair back and kissing her softly on the cheek. He sighs and slips out of bed, dressing as quietly as possible and heads out to the bar.
For a moment, he can't breathe, until he remembers he's not there, he's not laying in that prison infirmary, sweating and struggling for breath; he's in bed with his beautiful wife in this home that they've made for themselves, in this place at the end of all things. He blinks up at the celing for a moment before turning back to her, smoothing her hair back and kissing her softly on the cheek. He sighs and slips out of bed, dressing as quietly as possible and heads out to the bar.