I have to apologise. I really do. This took me longer than expected and it's a lot shorter than I had planned. And it probably sucks. Also, my deep, sincere apologies to otherhawk and InSilva who are so great with all their constructive criticism and who haven't gotten a review by me for two weeks or so. I had some stuff going on but that's no excuse.
Oh, and fanfiction formatting is a bitch. ...

Disclaimer: I don't own anything you'd recognise. Oh, and I hope you all know that the bit about "It" is giving me nightmares already. I am absolutely afraid of that book.

dreaming I'm alive

Two hours ago, his mind had switched to autopilot. Two hours since he had been left standing in the corridor, deaf and blind and screaming without making a sound. Somehow, his heart hadn't stopped beating, the world hadn't stopped turning, somehow, his feet had carried him outside, his hands had stretched out to call a cab.

One hour since he had found himself breaking into their own hotel room, because the key hadn't been at the reception, which could only mean that Rus-

He had existed, breathed, functioned, because there were always options.

We'll contact you.

Going through the next actions, he noticed that he couldn't feel his own body. His thoughts were automated, the actions were following a strict pattern.

Get the clothes, don't look at them.

They weren't his, those shirts weren't his shirts, the malachite coloured tie wasn't and nor was the mauve one.

They were only clothes. The white silk trousers, the Oxford shoes, the toothbrush and the shampoo. Two bags of toffee, the maps and plans on the table, the tattered copy of Stephen King's "It".

He had never been able to read further than "They all float down here. When you're down here with us, you'll float too!" in the second chapter, but from the other bed there'd only come a muffled laugh and then the repetition of these lines over and over again and it had felt like holiday camp.

Picking up socks and frowning at the Tylenol, he had to keep himself from staring at the laptop screen. In his shiny silver shirt, he had been sitting there when he had entered after answering Reuben's seventeen calls, assuring him that things were safe. And he'd looked up from the screen where some ridiculous internet test result ("Are you a dog or a cat person?") had revealed that-

"Danny, I'm a mouse person. A mouse."

The bags were packed. His eyes travelled through the room, his right hand gripped the doorknob.

And then the Mission Impossible theme started to play and his whole body jerked. God. His cell phone. He couldn't remember choosing that ring tone.

Frantically, his hands searched his pockets and produced the small black phone.

Caller ID: Rusty.

His mind stopped. His feet lost the ground. He knew it wasn't- but what if-

He'd had worse nightmares.

"Hello?"

Another voice. "Daniel Ocean."

It wasn't a question, but he felt he'd disappear if he didn't answer. "Yes."

"Panicking already?"

The voice was calm and a bit too high and he recognised it, he knew the cold grey eyes and the callousness. Because there had been Cemetery Road in Belize and the marble apartment and they had been obliged to help and they had won.

They had won.

"What do you want?", he asked and felt like a thirteen-year-old.

"Oh, I already got it."

The walls fell, the thunderstorm inside him erupted and he knew it was a mistake, but closing his eyes he pressed the phone against his face and his lips formed the words Please and Not Him.

"Take me, I'll do whatever-"

"No. I can see that I have to make myself a little clearer. Mr. Ocean, I understand you were the person in charge twelve years ago?"

There was no way denying it. He didn't want an answer, he wanted affirmation.

"It's called 'eye for an eye'. You surely understand that."

He didn't, but he said yes. He couldn't think. He couldn't sense.

Rusty.

"You destroyed my life."

"We didn't-"

"You, Mr. Ocean, destroyed my life", repeated the voice. "See, this is really becoming very easy. You take something from me and I take something from you. We're even."

"But he… he is…"

"This is not about him."

This is just between us. Private affairs.

There were yellow spots before his eyes. The veins behind his temples dared to explode and all he could force out through his teeth was: "Can I talk to him?" and he hated himself.

"No, I don't think so." After a small pause, the voice laughed. "But I can assure you that the first thing he said after waking up was your name." Silence. "Quite often, actually. Most charming, both of you. You're making this far easier than I had imagined."

He kept his eyes closed, silently choking.

"I will keep you updated, Mr. Ocean."

And the line went dead.

He didn't remember kneeling down, he didn't remember leaning against the cold mirror. The world shook and his heart burst and there was nothing he could do.

And somehow he was still alive.