(Back from my holiday: apologies for the slow devices!)

First, there is only darkness and sound.

Soft, his mother's voice singing, shimmering and tilting as if gliding across the crest of ocean waves as it comes to him. It is joined by Lisa's, the song gentle to him, and then by a million others, each half-recognisable, but further away. As if inside a seashell pressed to his ear, cupping the sea's incoherencies.

They sing like the dead –it has not been enough for them to lice, and they must sing about it. Down to the river...down to the river to pray...

At last, his vision comes to him, the golden light of his wedding day, pews upon pews filled with singers either side of him, blurring together in sunlight and beauty. He feels himself stepping forward, towards the gold silhouette of Lisa, her gown blending with the floor of the aisle so it looks as if she has been raised from the ground, pure as wheat and beautiful.

The soft hiss of a tide slips beneath the whisper of the song and Waylon looks down, finding the aisle filling with clear green water, bright as summer, wetting his shoes and socks and feet until he feels like a child again. At first, the whisper of the water is calming and it keeps him entranced, treading the water but getting no closer to Lisa, but then the colour of the water begins to run murkier and murkier –the green fading to blue and then at last to black.

Waylon looks up, and the singers are continuing, their song getting faster, their words flowing together until the song doesn't sound like anything. Now the water is licking higher, at his waist, plunging his lower body into numbness and ice. He tries to pull back, unable to see Lisa above the water's pall, but cannot. A great atlantic chain ties itself in cruel knots at his fingers in wrists until his hands are bound together and being pulled forward.

The water rises higher and higher until he is spitting out sour, inky water, thrust beneath the crest of the wave until he sees nothing and hears nothing but the dull shake of the song through the water.

Hearing comes to him in furious bursts –his own desperate cries dissonant against the notes of the song. Lisa! –to the river to –Lisa!—that good old way –Li-...

Eventually, the water begins to clear, it's blackness leaving him shaking, near the altar, staring out at the vast emptiness of a dark room. The pews are sparkling with drops of water, the dark wood still wet but empty. Waylon is shivering, dressed in a soaked gown that comes away from the pale of his chest immodestly.

He stands alone, his hands still bound by the rusty chain, secured to the altar, unable to move.

The lights flicker and fail until he is plunged into darkness again for not even a second. It's all it takes for the groom to appear.

Waylon can see the blue of his wild eyes as mere pinpricks, stood a small ways off, tugging desperately for some give in the great chain. It's no use. It's no use at all because Waylon is trapped and the chain is getting tighter and tighter, pulling him towards the groom and his shard of white, brilliant death.

One partially-gloved hand is beckoning him to come closer, as if he goes by choice, as if the rust isn't cutting into his skin and leaving lines of blood on his hands where he is fighting desperately –he doesn't want to be cut, he can't, he needs to get out and survive, and Lisa is nowhere to be seen and all that there is left is silence.

The chain drags him closer, his feet gaining no traction on the floor and he is so close to his death that he can smell the blood and humanity on the other man and his instinct is to close his eyes to it, and run in the other direction. Waylon is scared and helpless and he just wants to see her face as he dies, that's all –oh, God, he thought he was better than this.

A cry escapes his mouth, and he fights until he feels the large hand squeezing his bare shoulder, and the groom looks at him with such utter admiration, and says only one word.

"Waylon?"

All lights die –and Waylon is screaming.

The hand gripping him is frighteningly strong, and he throws himself away from it, finding nothing to grasp in the darkness, his face met with cool carpet, the sound of life scaring him into senselessness. He feels for some kind of space and jams himself into it desperately, curling up and making himself invisible. He wants to be invisible –non-existent. Gone.

Waylon stays like that in the darkness for a very long time, his knees brought up to his chest, the sound of his own breathing comforting him. Perhaps it isn't a long time at all –and it simply feels like an eternity until his pulse calms and he no longer feels afraid of his own shadow.

Eventually, he sees warm light illuminate the space, and he realises that he isn't tied –he's okay. He's okay and it's only the hotel and he's under the bed, still curled up on himself even though he's better. As his body relaxes, he sees two small feet drop over the side of the bed, and his oldest son drops onto his belly and crawls towards him.

Lisa's hand fixes on the boy's ankle and pauses on his progress. She pulls him back with a very quiet voice. "Let him be for a minute, sweetheart. Daddy's just had a bad dream, that's all."

Waylon looks his son right in the eyes and sees all of that fear and uncertainty where once there was pure idolatry. James gets to his feet slowly, and there is a small shift on the bed above him. She must have put him back to bed. It's only then that Waylon tunes in to the very faint whimpering.

How could he do that? How could he scare them like that?

After a while, he hears Lisa's voice above him, the most cautious he has ever heard her.

"Way, I'm coming under now. Are you –is that okay?"

Not a move is made. Honestly? Waylon is far from okay. But he's not dreaming anymore, and he won't let himself be in pain or tired right now, because there are larger matters to hand. He has to help Lisa believe that he's okay.

In a small voice, he says, "Alright."

He holds his breath when he sees her knees, and then she lays herself down on the floor so that she can see him. Her face is a picture of tension and concern –the taughtness of her expression making every freckle on her dark face visible. Waylon is glad to see her eyes –like two diamonds glistening in the jungle.

She reaches out with a very gentle hand and ghosts over his fingers. "It's okay." She tells him. "It's okay. We're okay. You were only dreaming."

"No!" It comes out of him like a bolt of sudden lightning. Waylon used to dream –of bizarre things, as a way to filter the mundane and unconscious. But what he just saw –the chain, the groom and his eyes and the feel of his enormous hand: that was too real to be merely a dream. "No, it was-"

Her hand goes tighter in his. "It was just a dream. You're here. You're here with us, and you're okay now." Her grip moves backwards like she's trying to pull him into the light. She's always been trying to pull him towards lucidity and goodness, and though Waylon still tastes fear at the back of his mouth, he follows her.

"I never-..." his voice is so tiny, even to himself. "I never meant to scare you...—you or the boys. I'm –I'm sorry. I never-..."

Lisa looks at him with real conviction –so true that he doesn't recognise her love, at first. "We're fine. We're –we're together now. That's all that matters."

Waylon crawls towards the light on his hands and his knees, trembling, unable to provide much comfort to anyone. He can still taste inky water and blood, and feel the cold on his skin. Words fail him. There's not a thing he can say –nor Lisa, to wash away any of it.

All he can do is comfort the boys –pulling them in close, and making sure they aren't afraid anymore.

Lisa is patient with him: stroking his back, giving him soft words to cling to. Lisa has seen the footage, but she will never understand. Good, he thinks –he hopes that Lisa never has to understand, and that the boys never want to.

There's only one other person in the universe who understands him. Not out of choice or wisdom or philosophy, but out of Waylon's own guilt.

And it's not Lisa. But she does all she can to help.

-

"I want your help."

It takes a very long time and the very last of his dignity, scraped from the soles of his feet, to get out those four words.

Miles grinds out the words, practically trembling with the difficulty of the phrase. This is not the person he wanted to come to. The help he needs is nothing so straightforward as just talking: Miles wants normalcy and things to do, and love and carnality.

Miles has decided, after many cigarettes, and after enough time to think, that he finally knows what he wants. Who he wants.

But for now, he has to settle on this.

Across from him, it appears to give the therapist great satisfaction to hear those words. He steeples his fingers and nods, "That's what I'm here for, Miles. Our sessions are completely at your disposal. What do you want help with?"

There are too many answers to that question. Miles needs a million things: he needs to fuck somebody and he needs answers and a lobotomy and he needs his fingers back. His life back.

Instead, he shrugs. It is never one single thing he wants: he wants the world.

"I just want to get back to how I used to be. I never –I never used to be so angry all the time."

The therapist nods, as if in sympathy. As if he knows. "Trauma can change a person. Emotional stability is a good goal to have." And then, a pause as the man tears out a page from his notepad and passes Miles it, with a pen. "I'd like you to write that down for me. A list of goals that you'd like these sessions to focus on."

The pen does not move in Miles' hand. He finds it difficult to write with just the stump of his finger –but that's not the reason he doesn't write. The suggestion embarrasses him.

"This is dumb." He says, blandly.

The therapist looks at him, disappointed. "It will help you with your recovery, Miles. Why don't you try it?"

Miles sighs heavily. With difficulty, he manages to write in very jumbled cursive 'emotional stability', and then he pauses, looking up as if searching for the answers to his problems in the eyes of someone else.

"I don't know." He mutters, "I guess it would be good to get back into writing again, but that's not gonna happen anytime soon."

The therapist seems genuinely surprised by that. "Why not, Miles? It can often be a cathartic exercise. Waylon seems to have taken to it very well."

"That's completely different."

Miles can feel the jealousy rise in him, even though it's not at Waylon and his wide, surprised eyes but at the beautiful form of the woman he only say illuminated by soft television life. How could he be jealous of Waylon when he could be jealous of Waylon's wife, who has seen nothing of horror?

The therapist studies him, and looks like he can see right through Miles and into his jealousy and lust and hate and the strange amalgamation of all three.

"Why is it different?"

Miles doesn't know how to speak, but he gets something out, eventually. "I can't –I can't do it. And even if I fucking could, what the hell would that achieve?" The ore he thinks about it, the angrier he gets. And all he ever does is get angrier thesedays and at this point he can barely control himself. "When he wakes up from a nightmare he can call his fucking wife and then everything'll be okay but I don't have anybody –I'm fucking alone! You-"

Practically spitting out his words, Miles throws up the paper and wants to laugh. "You want me to write that down? Put that in my fucking blog?"

The therapist seems –not shocked, but pleased. Like he's glad that this awful side of Miles is finally surfacing. And for a while he says nothing, watching Miles' aggravated breathing settle until he's just sitting there with nothing left.

"When was the last time you engaged in a close relationship with someone, Miles? A friendship, or a romantic relationship?" the therapist reviews his notes.

Miles swallows. "I don't want to talk about that."

"Because your emergency contact is a man called-"

"I said I don't want to talk about it!" Miles snaps. He throws down the pen and fiddles with the stump of his finger in an attempt to distract himself. "And I don't see how holding hands with somebody is going to make me feel any better."

The therapist doesn't ever flinch or bite at Miles' temper. It's actually sort of nice. It helps Miles to get out everything he's got in him without feeling guilty afterwards, and suddenly he can see the appeal of the therapy, even if he doubts that Waylon does any shouting ever.

After a while, when the atmosphere is safer, the therapist starts to talk again. "Trauma can often lead to social isolation, and that can make anxiety and depressive episodes worse. All I'm suggesting is that you try to create a support system. Try talking to your friends or parents."

Miles wants to criticise that suggestion –but when he goes to spout a witticism he finds none, and when he considers it, the idea of having someone to talk to: someone to grab onto in the midst of some terrible dream...it's something that sits on the right side of him, for once.

"That's-..." He begins, and then trails off. The alien suggestion of a smile starts on his face. "That's actually a good idea."

-

"You think so?"

The gloves make it difficult to squeeze Lisa's hand, but Waylon does anyway, staring at her and not the snowy street ahead. Her beauty is fantastic, especially given the smile on her face. There isn't a bit of fear on her face now, and it comforts him to no end.

"Yes! This is a wonderful idea." She says, pulling James out of the way of another pedestrian. "The boys are going to love this," she turns to Colin, at her husband's side, smiling at him. "You want to see the dinosaurs?"

The child nods, meekly, but there is zeal in his eyes, and James provides more than enough enthusiasm than would ever be necessary, practically vibrating on the spot. All of them are happy, and calm and it helps Waylon to believe they've forgotten all about last night.

He never wanted her to see him like that. Nevertheless –nevertheless, she came, and she saw.

They walk on a little, and something is pressing in Waylon's head that he wants to discuss. Truthfully, there are many things, and he can't stop thinking about Miles for the life of him. His kiss –his nose, and everything he babbled about remembering. The man is nowhere to be seen today, and Waylon doesn't want his fever to worsen if the man sits, out in the cold, all alone.

But the more pressing matter, even heavier in his mind than his nightmares and more binding than that great atlantic cable. He has to talk about it sometime.

"Leese." He starts, and his tone is different than before: less entertained and more solemn. Enough to indicate a change of pace. "How long have you known about the baby?"

His eyes meet hers, and there is nothing to fear in the gaze: not a single ounce of mendacity or nastiness, and he knows that she hasn't sprung this on him out of disloyalty or fear, but out of some more human, forgivable reason. She isn't afraid of him –she couldn't be.

"I'm not sure." She says, quietly. "Maybe three weeks ago, I went to my OB and that's when I knew for certain, but I guess I suspected it for a little while." Lisa's hand tightens in his. "I couldn't be sure –I thought it was just the stress of what had happened."

Waylon swallows. His next question is the hardest to speak, and to stomach. "Were you afraid of telling me?"

For some slanderous reason, Lisa laughs at that. She laughs with her mouth open and smiles so nicely that Waylon could forget the world. "God, no. I could definitely squash you, stringbean." Waylon shoves her gently, embarrassed. He wants her to see him as he sees her: just like in the family pictures, healthy and happy and normal, and not like he is now; sunken-eyed, emaciated. "I wanted to call you the moment I found out –but I didn't know if you were ready to hear it. You were still in hospital. I thought-..."

"It's okay." He says, gently. And then, after a short pause. "How far along are you?"

"Thirteen weeks on Tuesday." She turns her face away and sighs. "James, honey, stay close to me."

In the moments they have been distracted by conversation, Waylon hasn't noticed how dense and busy the sidewalk has been getting until they can barely move, the path blocked by an enormous wall of people. They pull together, by instinct: keeping the boys as close as they can.

James is the first to question, tugging on his mother's sleeve insistingly. "The dinosaurs, mom!"

Gently, she strokes the top of his head. "We're nearly there, honey. It just looks there are some roadworks ahead."

It isn't even remotely of interest to Waylon so long as they get there eventually. And people are starting to shirt into a small line to get around the construction. It's noisy already on the street –the insane mix of car horns and traffic and conversations all mixing together, but Waylon lets them serve as a semi-pleasant backdrop.

Until the sound of the buzzsaw starts up.

Waylon freezes –he feels himself go taught and panic rises in him, the sound drawing closer and closer and the heat rising in his body –the smell of the street overwhelming him –the flesh, the flesh and meat and fire...

He falls back, and all of that fear returns to Lisa's eyes when she turns around. Already too late.

"Waylon!"

-

"Park?"

What do you say to the married man that you kissed, the very last time you spoke?

"Jesus Christ, Park, what the hell happened to you?"

Looking the sorriest Miles has ever seen another human being outside of Mount Massive, Waylon slumps through the door to 103, half-dragged by his wife who is supporting them, proceeded by their children. All of them look so bright-eyes with terror, but Waylon seems barely conscious, his nose bloody and his eyes purple.

He isn't even walking and he's trembling violently.

His wife sets him down in the nearest chair and fetches him a glass of water, stroking the nape of Waylon's neck. His head is bowed, but he makes a small noise of appreciation. It's really not much of a sight, but the children are staring, the oldest in utter confusion, the youngest in fear.

The smaller one grips hard to his father's leg and whimpers in a voice even smaller than Waylon's usually is. "Daddy..?"

Waylon's wife leads the boys away, towards the sink as a graceful distraction, pulling a chair in front of the sink. "Come wash up for dinner, boys. Then we can order some takeout, yeah?"

"But the dinosaurs-!"

She turns and hoists the taller boy onto the chair so he can reach the sink. "They're still going to be there next time. We'll go another day."

"But-"

"Wash your hands, James."

It continues like this for a little while –Miles tunes out, and moves from the sofa, his head swimming when he gets up suddenly as the fever hasn't completely dissipated. He wants to get a better look at Waylon, but the man's face hasn't lifted up. For a moment, he suspects that maybe he's tired, or just drunk, until he notices Waylon's breathing.

He's practically crying.

Maybe Miles doesn't remember everything in stunning clarity, but he recognises this strong, familiar feeling when it overwhelms him as it has done before, shaking every fibre of his being into attentiveness and tenderness, for once. His every instinct thrills at the noise, and he wants to protect Waylon from whatever it is that's making him feel this way.

He wants –for some bizarre, embarrassing reason, to see the man survive.

But, of course, it has been years since Miles has had to pull a soft voice for anybody, and the timing is all wrong. What place does Miles have there, in between his kids and his wife? And what the hell does Miles know about comforting people anyway? He doesn't know Waylon –not really, and he doesn't even know how to control his own temper.

Uselessly, he shrinks back, and lets them be in the kitchen. He stays in his room for the rest of the evening, emailing old friends, and trying to establish himself somehow. The door goes at some point –likely room service, but otherwise the sound is minimal. Not once does Miles hear Waylon's voice.

Eventually, they vacate the sitting area, and Miles moves into the empty space. He is glad to be left alone with the static of the television, condemned to silence where he doesn't have to hear the sounds of dull lovemaking or conversation.

Even surrounded by family, it sounds as if Waylon is just as lonely as he is, and despite the ugliness of the notion, it makes Miles feel better.

Around midnight, he's sitting by the open window in the corner, smoking again while he thinks of nothing in particular when the door down the hall creaks very softly and a slender shadow lays itself down on the hall floor.

Waylon doesn't see him at first, skirting past the open window in nothing but his shirt and underwear. His limp is very noticeable when he gets towards the sink and pours himself a glass of water. It has been some hours since Miles saw him last, but the man is still a shock of white, and he's still shaking. Miles puts out the cigarette and stands up, coming around the sofa.

"Jesus, Park." He says. Waylon must not have heard him approach, and turns with a squeak of fright, the glass slipping out his hand and shattering on the floor, his mother hand flying to his mouth to silence his breathing.

When he sees Miles, he goes slack against the counter, cutting his feet on the shards of glass but remaining inert to what must be excruciating pain. Waylon doesn't fight a bit, and Miles has to drag him –most literally, towards a chair to sit him in it. Waylon doesn't fight that, either, and starts to sniff pathetically.

His feet are bloody as hell, but that's not the scariest part. It's that he's just sitting there, crying, not doing or saying anything. What should Miles do to make this better? How can he fix this?

Kneeling before him, Miles looks up at Waylon with his eyes wide. He finds no words that feel helpful or relevant –not a single, friendly drop of courage at his own reflection in the silver mirror. There is nothing between them: they are the standing in the same place, as the same person, and a thousand miles in opposite directions.

They have not been this close since-

"I'll get your wife." He says, helplessly, rising and making a start for the hall, only to feel a desperate hand clutch his sleeve frighteningly tightly. When he turns, Waylon's eyes are imploring him –begging him as if his life depended on it, and Miles is bound by something deeper than morality when he pauses.

Useless, he comes to kneel in front of Waylon again, his voice all stricken with grief. He despises being put in this situation.

"What should I do?" Giving Waylon a good hard shake, he feels the volume of his voice incline sharply. "C'mon, Park, for Christ's sake, what do you want?!"

"I want to die!" For the first time in all the time he has known an imagined Waylon, the whistleblower and human being alike, the man raises his voice. Not loudly, but it is such a sharp contrast from his usual whisper that it frightens Miles.

And then he realises what has been said, and fear burns white-hot in the bottom of his stomach. He doesn't know what to do –it scares him so much that all he can think to do is smack the other man hard until his cries are even more vicious.

"I can't –I can't do it anymore..." Shaking his head, Waylon exhales shakily, his misery making him unable to breathe. "I'll never get better, will I? I'm always going to be like this...a-aren't I?"

Miles has only considered him like this a few times. He has always assumed that the soft bandaid of Waylon's wife and children and stability make it easier for him –he never thought that their expectations may be the cause of so much unhappiness, and desperation and frankly he thinks he is glad to be alone.

"Like what?" But, knowing it will do no good. "Waylon, c'mon..." the name sounds strange in his mouth. It does not belong to him."There is nothing wrong with us. We already made it –we fucking survived..."

At that, Waylon coughs angrily, and lets out a derisive laugh. "Why?" He looks Miles right in the eyes. "What did I survive for? If I –If I was smart, I would have...would have died there instead of doing this to Lisa-"

Miles hits him again. "Park, listen to yourself!" His hand throbs from the force of the hit and Waylon's face is all red and bowed with subordinate. He hates himself for the violence, but knows that if Waylon really is hysterical, it's the only way to get through to him. Then, when he's certain that Waylon has calmed down a little, he takes his shoulder. "What happened to you, today? You were –you were fine yesterday."

Making vague gestures with his hands, Waylon whimpers. "I thought he was coming for me –to kill me, and I didn't know what to do and I woke up but it still felt so real-..." After a few very big, shallow breaths, he looks down at Miles. "I think I'm going c-crazy."

"You're not crazy." He says, rising. "We both seen things that nobody should ever have to see –and what'd be crazy is just forgetting about it; y'know? It'd be crazy to just snap back into things."

That seems to give Waylon pause, He tries to push himself off of the chair, nodding, sniffing quietly, but he can't put a foot on the ground without pushing the splinters of glass further in. Miles has practically forgotten about them.

Wincing, he holds up a hand as if to command Waylon to stay. "Sit. I'll get some tweezers or something."

Miles is only gone for about a minute, and returns with tweezes, and a washcloth and a glass of water. Truth be told, it all seems like an awful fuss, and Waylon thinks that he'd just like a dreamless, paralysing sleep, but he knows that it's necessity. Even if it feels oddly intimate to have Miles grasping his ankle.

"This doesn't look so bad." He says, quietly. "Well, you look like shit, Park, but there isn't all that much glass in your foot."

A bold finger traces a tender section of skin and Waylon's leg jerks out in pain. Heating up with shame, he tries to pull away from the other man. His breathing still imitates crying when he tries to speak. "I sent you—to that pl-place. Why do you care about me?"

That's when Miles pulls the first piece of glass, expecting some great cry from Waylon, but hearing only a small hiss. He thinks about the colour of Waylon's soul: the colour of his lips and veins and voice. Blue, the most human colour.

He pulls another piece of glass thinking about it. He had felt everything that every version of his form had ever felt: he could feel Billy's spite and want for blood, but what overwhelms all of it, and what Miles takes from his mess of memories is the sight of the sunrise, painting the man gold.

It isn't just Waylon's life, or his story. It's Miles', too, and it doesn't end here.

When he looks up at Waylon, the man leans towards him and swallows. "Your nose is bleeding again."

"I know."

This time, Miles moves forward until he is eye-level with Waylon and they are mere inches apart: close enough for Miles to see all of the fear and nightmares and uncertainty down in the lines of the other man's face. With his right hand, he reaches out and takes it. Nervously, his eyes go from Waylon's eyes, to his mouth, and then up again.

His eyes close, but before he can move a tremulous murmur shakes out of Waylon, in a whisper once more.

"I can't do this, Miles. Not to Lisa."

Miles opens his eyes, and sees that Waylon's gaze is shining with grief and worry and something else: something warmer. Without letting go of Waylon's cheek, he nods.

"I know."

For some obscene reason, it makes Waylon laugh, a strange little noise bubbling up from his throat. Miles has to laugh with him, at the ridiculousness of it all. Of what they've become.

They stay like that for some amount of time. It feels unfairly short, but any amount of time would. And then Waylon is gone just as quietly as he came, tracking blood up the hall and into his bed.

Neither of them dream that night.