Later, John would remember the two happy weeks they'd shared, the thirteen days of peace before everything started to go down hill. He would remember late night conversations, practical jokes shared with Dante and Nisse, days on the town with Rogue and Bobby, sitting together on the couch and mocking television shows – two weeks of just being together without thought or care for the outside world. He would remember, and for a while his heart would lift; but memories of the nightmares inevitably followed on the heels of those happy images, and he would sink back into bitterness and resentment.

It had begun after one of those late conversations; the pair of them, having talked themselves hoarse, had settled for watching a movie in the student lounge, and Rhiannon had fallen asleep curled up in his arms. For a long while John ignored the movie and simply watched her sleep. She wasn't as pretty when she slept; much of what made her attractive, at least to John, was in the personality her face expressed, and sleep erased all traces of that. But there was something strange and haunting about her still, something old but innocent, something that hinted at a great and mysterious potential locked behind those fragile eyelashes.

He was so involved in his thoughts that he nearly toppled off the couch in shock when she suddenly shot straight out of his arms, a scream rising and breaking in her throat.

"What the—?!" John reacted more out of instinct than thought – grabbing her shoulders, he jerked her around to face him and stared into her wide, horrified eyes. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded.

With a great gasp, Rhiannon shuddered and relaxed again, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks. Her hands clutched futilely at the slippery leather of the couch, as if she were trying to find something solid and real to hold on to. Somehow John sensed the need and took her hands in his, wincing only slightly as her fingernails bit into the backs of his hands. "What is it?" he asked her, slightly more calmly now that she had stopped screaming.

"Nothing," she gulped, "it's nothing." Which, between the terrified expression on her face and the way she was shaking like a leaf in a windstorm, was clearly horseshit.

John cocked one eyebrow at her. "Right," he said sarcastically. "And I'm Medda Larkson." She dropped her eyes, suddenly unwilling to look at him; he sighed and shook his head. "Fine. Don't tell me. Whatever."

"I think I need to go to bed," she said in a small voice.

He wanted to be angry with her, wanted to glare and snarl until she explained what was going on, but the hollow, dead look on her face drained the fury out of him. Something was seriously wrong, that much was obvious – but it was equally obvious that any explanation would have to wait at least until morning. "Alright," he said quietly. He slid off the couch and helped her to her feet, surprised to find she was leaning on him as if she genuinely needed his support. He added it to his mental list of questions to ask tomorrow.

At last they made it up the stairs to the older girls' dormitory; he bade her goodnight with a kiss on the cheek and a hug, which she returned tightly. He watched her until the door closed behind her, and then wandered back to his own room… but he lay awake for several long hours, hearing the echo of her screams.

He caught her just outside the breakfast hall and surprised her with a daffodil – picked from the school gardens, but she didn't need to know that. The weary smile she gave him as he kissed her good morning told him she hadn't slept any better than he had, and suddenly he felt awkward. He wanted to ask her about last night, but part of him suddenly wasn't sure he wanted to know. If she told him, would she expect him to make it better? Would he have the burden of trying to solve her problems? He'd spent his whole life running from responsibility; could he really choose to take it now?

"Feel like talkin' about it?" he asked before he could stop himself.

Well. That answered that question.

"Not really," she said, her smile vanishing and her eyes growing distant.

John blinked. He hadn't anticipated a no. "Why not?" he demanded. "Don't you trust me?"

"I trust you," she said, so seriously he knew he couldn't argue with it. "But this doesn't concern you. It's my problem. It's my fight."

"Okay, I hate to break it to you," John snapped, "but anything that makes my girlfriend wake up screaming in the middle of the night damn well concerns me!" She smiled at him sadly and moved to hug him, but he pushed her away. "No!" he cried, beginning to get angry. "I'm not dropping this that easily. I want to know what's wrong, Rhiannon."

She gave him one long, searching look, and then turned on her heel and strode away from him without a single word. John, infuriated, slammed a fist into the wall. Leaning his forehead against the cool wood paneling, he willed himself to calm down.

"What was that all about?"

John looked up to find that Nisse and Dante had arrived with the last of the students turning up for breakfast – just in time to see Rhiannon stalk off. "I don't know," he snarled bitterly. "She won't tell me."

Nisse looked unexpectedly sympathetic. "One of her nightmares, huh?" she asked.

"Yeah," John said slowly. "Look, do you know what—"

A shake of her head cut him off. "No," she told him. "She never would tell me, either."

"Or me," put in Dante, and his eyes were sad.

John was surprised. These two were Rhiannon's very best friends, and she hadn't told them what was wrong? "So how do you deal with it?" he asked.

The girl shrugged. "We had to learn to trust that she knows when she can handle it," she said softly, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Now come on. Let's get breakfast."