Lots of cuddling ahead – I may have accidentally projected my own current loneliness on these poor babies and given them a lot snuggle time as a result. Sorry, that got intense. But if you think I'm not sitting at my computer waiting for someone to review or talk to me in some way, think again . . .

So yay! :)

On that note, standard disclaimers apply.

Not for the first time, she's woken by the screams.

It's so dark she can barely see, the blackness pressing in on all sides. There's a biting chill in the air, but that's not the only reason she shivers. Apprehension – her own – sparks through the air, almost tangible, definitely suffocating.

Footsteps. She can hear the footsteps, slow and heavy, getting closer and closer by the second. And all the while, the screaming in the distance continues, from the girls who were already visited and the ones who know it is coming yet. She wants to scream too, but she's so tired.

She knows it's coming, the icy water and prying fingers and harsh words. Their presence is all around her, their condescending stares weighing her down as she lies on the hard bed. She wants to move, to run, but she can't. She's literally restrained, she can't get away no matter how hard she struggles, the grip on her arms is too tight–

"Calm down, Ace. It's me. It's just me. I ain't gonna let anyone hurt ya."

Of course – none of it was real. His voice is soft, and his hands are gentle as they keep her from falling off the bed. His face is close to hers; she can feel his breath against her cheek, takes comfort in the smell of ink and paint that she's come to associate with him now.

"Jack?" Her breath is ragged and rough, her eyes stinging as she forces them open. The room is lit by pale blue moonlight filtering through the curtains. She's dry and wrapped securely in his arms; she's safe.

Rolling away from him anyway, she crawls to the edge of her bed and hunches over, trying to regain her breath. Jack makes a sympathetic face but doesn't reach out. She's grateful for that – she doesn't want him to touch her, and it's nice that he understands – until she realizes that that kind of awareness only comes from personal experience and cringes. Now she feels even worse – he's had too much exposure to nightmares already.

"I was just about to wake you up," he says apologetically once she's calmed down. "Sorry. That was a bad one."

"What do you mean?" she rasps, looking at him questioningly. Now he does extend his arms to her, letting her crawl into his lap and curl up against his chest.

He sighs. "You've been tossing and turning all night. I'm surprised you haven't scared yourself awake till now, honestly."

"Sorry," she gulps into his shirt. "Just when you started sleeping through the night, too."

"It ain't your fault, Ace."

But it is. She's sleeping when she should be helping those girls. Maybe it's their tormented spirits that are stopping her from resting easy.

"This'll stop as soon as the article's done," she promises him. "I just need to–"

"You just need to sleep."

She glowers up at him, though she's still leaning against him heavily. "I need to write. Like, right now. Jack Kelly, stop making that face at me!"

"Then quit deserving the face," he mutters, rolling his eyes. But his hands are rubbing soothing patterns on her back and his heartbeat is constant in her ear, so she quiets, letting out a little sigh.

"I don't think I can sleep again," she says finally, burying her nose in his chest at the admission. Living through it once was bad enough, and if anyone's going to understand that it's him. "But that doesn't mean you shouldn't."

"I haven't seen you for ten days, Ace," he says. "Sleep ain't that important right now."

She wants to let him know how sweet that is, or maybe swat at him and tell him he's an idiot and should rest while he can, but she just ends up coughing instead. She groans – she hadn't counted on getting sick, too.

"You really should sleep," he tells her worriedly. "I don't want you to get typhoid or somethin'. I hear that's a problem in those places."

"Just one of many." She sighs, shakes her head. "I had it when I was little, and I didn't catch it again when my mother and sister were sick. I think I'm safe."

He frowns a little at her admission – she realizes she's never talked about their deaths before – but only hugs her tighter. "Yeah, well, you could still get pneumonia. You're shivering again."

"I promise, I'm fine," she says, more to reassure him than because she actually feels healthy. "Just a little cold."

"Maybe the shower would warm you up?" he suggests hopefully. She smiles slightly – the boys are all still convinced that her shower is the cure for everything: Crutchie's sore leg, Albert's seemingly incurable hunger, Specs's irritable moods. They even tried to drag Spot to her door once, claiming they knew how to make him a nicer person. As he got away before they arrived, she doubts they'll ever know.

She lets him lead her out of the room, absently running her fingers across the wall paper in the hall to remind herself she's home. But it doesn't really matter. Sure what was in the asylum isn't here now, but that doesn't mean it isn't real.

She knows how real it is more than anyone else outside.

Jack was right, as always. Just the steam from the bath clears her nose and makes it easier to breathe, and with the door shut, the air is warm and humid. She can feel herself start to relax immediately, and she almost – almost – forgets. But as he takes her hand and begins to pull it toward the water, to test the temperature, she jerks away.

She knows it's irrational, but she finds she really doesn't want to go near it.

The haunted look in his eyes as they meet hers says he understands all too well.

"I promise you it's warm," he says softly, and she nods, swallowing. She's home, it's over, everything is fine. But she still can't force herself any closer. Not with the nightmares lingering at the periphery of her mind. Not when the memory of the icy torture still makes goosebumps rise on her arms.

He sighs, pulls off his shirt and throws it over the sink, then sits with her at the edge while she slowly lowers her feet into the water. His nose is buried in her neck, and though she can't hear what he's whispering, his tone distracts her enough that she can do it. Her hands are squeezing his with enough force to leave marks, but he still doesn't pull away. They slide down little by little until finally they're sitting in the tub, his pants and her chemise quickly absorbing the water and weighing them down. She leans back against him, cradled in his arms, her hair a web of tendrils fanned out across his chest and shoulders. More steam rises around them. She lets herself go limp.

"See?" he murmurs, lips inches from the top of her head. "Ain't so bad."

She smiles, afraid her voice will shake if she responds. His body forms a sort of protective barrier around her, one hand flat on her stomach and the other clutched in her own hands. She focuses on his breathing until their chests rise and fall together, one steady movement in an unsteady world.

They lay there, two scared, lonely kids neck deep in the water, until their skin is shriveled and the steam is long gone from the air. They don't move until the chill is almost unbearable, though. After all, it's easier to face than the darkness of her room.

I may have mentioned this already, but reviews are confidence boosters . . . ;) Was the ending too much? I don't even necessarily know what I'm doing anymore; I'm just rambling. I'm tired. Sorry!

Much love,
KnightNight