*
He wondered, not for the first time, if he'd ever get used to it.
Darkness.
Like a leech, it clung to him, dwelled in him, attached itself and never let go. She had returned to him. He would've regarded this as nothing less than a miracle were it not for the simple fact that he had failed her before she had even disappeared.
Not in the way a parent forgets their child's dance recital; or in the way a clumsy husband forgets an anniversary. Not in the way you shrink away from obstacles or even in the way you brush aside that night to study before finals, nonchalanty bidding your good grade goodbye.
No. He had failed her more deeply, more profoundly.
He failed her because he couldn't save her. Not then, not when it mattered. He couldn't forestall a wound that would bleed her dry and leave her half-empty, a mere shadow of Samantha Spade. There's a light on, a dim one; a tiny lamp in the corner splashing a miniscule beam across the room. Not enough to matter. He pulled the key out of his pocket, jingling it between his fingers. It was a familiar weight, a welcome weight. He feared he wouldn't see it again, would have no need for it.
It slipped into the tiny lock easily, turning with little resistance or wear and he pushed open the wooden door gently, hoping she had allowed herself a break from consciousness. A few dirty dishes lay deliberately in the sink. A smell hung in the room; chicken, he thought, or an old frozen dinner. Remnants of her half-hearted attempt at laundry lay in a neat pile in the hallway, waiting to be cleaned or moved or thrown in with the rest of the dirty clothes.
An old song played softly from her bedroom. Springsteen.
Her quiet form rested against the back of her couch. There was a fatigue in her features, a need to escape.
"I'm awake, Jack."
Faint, though it was, he heard it above the dim music and approached her with a hesitancy he couldn't yet comprehend. He was afraid to be near her. Afraid he brought a string of misfortune in his wake that he only wished he could shield her from forever; that he could erase the last week from memory, dismiss it as a bad dream. But it wasn't going away, and for the moment, neither was he.
Positioning himself next to her, he settled an arm across her shoulders.
"How are you feeling?"
She stared ahead at the wall before her, studying the pictures framed against the solid interior like a watercolor of memories and old ghosts.
"I have trouble sleeping."
She wrapped her arms within herself, protecting her fragile sanity against the nightmares.
"He uh, he's there. In my dreams. I forget sometimes that he's really dead, you know? Like I'm gonna wake up any minute and still be there."
A sting rose through him, a painful reminder of his failure.
"But it's getting better, Jack. It is."
This eased his guilt for the moment. A tiny part of him, he supposed, would always blame himself, would always reprimand his inability to find her sooner, to have let her disappear in the first place. Time perhaps didn't heal all wounds, but it did provide a soft cushion between the rawness of his mistakes and the dull scar they became.
"You sure you're ready to go back tomorrow?"
"I always have been."
She leaned closer to him. She knew, instinctively, what he wanted to say; to apologize, to ask forgiveness for letting this happen. Reassurances, she knew, would fall on deaf ears. His heart was heavy and closed off and simply aching for a release. His breath was hot upon her skin as she leaned ever more closely into his face, finally resting her lips on his as she drew her eyes shut and allowed herself this release; allowed herself to fall into him.
The nightmares would still come, painful, fresh. But then, like all things, they would fade away to a single thought. Tonight Jack was here. He would stay. He had come as she knew he would and he would again a thousand times over.
It kept the nightmares at bay for now; the knowledge that he was hers and would remain so and tonight, the darkness didn't scare her.
Tonight, they were one.
*
FIN
...for real, this time
