Room 101 [Closed to Gene]

[southphillyboy]

after thisHe'd been doing well, so damn well. It had been weeks since he'd had one of those dreams - nightmares really. Weeks since he'd seen the camps, those hollow sunken cheeks and those eyes - it was the eyes that got him. The way they'd barely looked human, some of them

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[traiteur]

Gene comes to quickly, groggy from the sleep that clings to him as he wakes.

Babe is thrashing next to him, yelling, almost attacking him from the dream, and his first reaction is to catch his wrists, hold him steady. Christ, this was a bad one.

[traiteur]

"Fine," he says, voice just loud enough to be heard above the hum of the room at night. It's his knee-jerk response to the question - but Babe knows that by know.

[southphillyboy]

"Yeah? Fine?" He frowned, squeezing his hand at Gene's waist. It was the automatic response, and it bugged him, "Is that a good sort of fine, or a bad sort of fine?"

[traiteur]

"Sorta fine you ain't gotta worry about," he says, eyes still closed.

[southphillyboy]

"Not worried," he reassured, the other man, hand roaming over the jut of his hip and the small of his back. "Not much, anyway."

[traiteur]

"Okay." Gene rolls onto his back, head pillowed on his arm. He turns his head towards Babe, eyes questioning. "You okay?"

[southphillyboy]

"Better," in other words, not perfect, but as well as could be expected. "This helps," having Gene close, it helped chase away the memories.

"Had dinner with Captain Nixon. Talked about things, when we were both from." Babe needed to explain, "he's from right before, too." Right before they found that camp.

[traiteur]

Good, he thinks, but doesn't say it out loud.

"That's what he said," he affirms. "Met him on th'street. Thought he was dreamin.'"

[southphillyboy]

His thumb was drawing circles on Gene's hip - a distracted motion, trying to soothe himself. "We ended up talking about it. The camp we found."

[traiteur]

"Yeah?" The thumb is a tickling sort of distraction, but it keeps him present and he's glad Babe is telling him what happened. Better to tell a bad thing, his grandmother had said. Get it out and it can't eat at you so easy.

[southphillyboy]

It is better to get it out, and to get it out to Gene. "Got me thinking about here, the stuff that's happened." He lowers his eyes, thoughts dark, "there're sick people everywhere."

[traiteur]

"Sick." He sighs, a light, shallow sound. "Y'right." Just look at Toye - attacked by a madman, all for no reason but madness.

[southphillyboy]

There are so many things he wants to say. He wants to say that this helps keep him sane. That it helps to ground him and remind him that there's something good. He wants to tell Gene about how he feels - that it can't be wrong, not this. Babe wants to ask him to never go, and tell him if he does he would be lost. Hollow, somehow. But he isn't good at saying things like that, they always come out wrong.

It's only then he realises what his hand is doing, stilling it and looking down at it resting at Gene's side. "You help it make sense," he says finally, voice so soft it can barely be heard, "this place. The stuff in my head."

[traiteur]

He says it, now, after a moment. His voice is just as quiet as Babe's, and right near his ear. "Good."

[southphillyboy]

It is good, he thinks. Good to hear Gene say it too, letting his eyes drift closed. "Yeah. Yeah it is."

[traiteur]

He turns onto his side, chest to Babe's shoulder and arm sliding under Babe's neck. "You gonna be a'right, huh?" He's concerned, and it shows more in the way his body wraps around the man's than in his voice or his words.