Chapter Warnings: Hallucinations (creepy and potentially disturbing ones), mentions of death/dead bodies, suicidal thoughts, gore, mild swearing

"I'll hear you laugh, I'll see you smile,
I'll be with you... just for a while.
But when the morning comes
And the sun begins to rise,
I will lose you...
Because it's just a dream
When I open up my eyes
I will lose you."

Wherever You Are (Pooh's Grand Adventure)

It had been dark when he'd woken the first time. Murdock could remember that much. He'd woken up, cold and hurting, to find Face's body gone. He'd put himself between them, pulling their arms around him so he'd feel if they were taken, so he'd be able to stay with them and keep the Inklings away. The creatures had been everywhere by then. They'd already devoured the guard's body and moved on to Bosco, and Murdock had wept and screamed at them and tried to move but they were too quick and too devastatingly hungry. Bosco was gone…

My fault. My fault they're dead.

… he'd been swallowed up by the darkness and Murdock couldn't let them take Hannibal and Face too. He must've slept, though… that or died for a little while but when he came back, Face was gone and the Gargoyles were taking Hannibal. They'd looked worse than before, the Gargoyles. Instead of looking like warped images of men, they'd become so grotesquely twisted that their human forms had been consumed by leering, misshapen, ghoulish grey. They'd come in and started pulling Hannibal away before Murdock could stop them.

He remembered getting to his feet, he didn't know how, and fighting his way into the hall. It hadn't hurt as much as he'd expected. He was numb now. He'd wanted to stay with the team. Maybe, just maybe, if he was with them, it wouldn't hurt so much. They were cold, too, and he could help with that. He could rub their hands and talk to them and maybe they'd wake up.

But the dead couldn't wake… and the Gargoyles had spirited them away too quickly for Murdock to follow. There had been so many of them out in the hall, thousands of them, all grotesque and twisted and snarling. He'd run, run and stumbled until he found a place he recognized. It wasn't home, but it was close and it was a place to hide from the monsters that roamed the halls.

He'd been cold for a long while after that… lying somewhere almost soft and dreaming dreams that were both wonderful and tragic.

One dream stood out in particular as a bright splash of memory in the graying haze of grief. Someone's hand had been on his shoulder, a head bent down and resting warmth against his temple. Fingers had tangled in his dirty hair and for a moment he'd been reminded of the Devil's fingers touching him with claws and pain, but this had been different. These fingers had trembled and were gentle and somehow emanated tenderness and light and Murdock had wanted that touch. Wanted it more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life because it was good and safe and right and it made his heart ache so badly he thought it might crack, just splinter down the middle like a tree weighed down with snow and ice.

"I'm sorry…. I'm so, so sorry, buddy." The voice that had spoken had only jabbed the ache deeper, widening the fissures, and bringing fresh tears to his eyes. Murdock wished then that he'd wake up because even if being awake meant slowly waiting for death, it would be better than this. Better than feeling and hearing and maybe even seeing what wasn't and would never again be there.

The warm, stuttered breaths breathed on his cheek moved to his neck, the fingers in his hair had left as the person's hand moved to hold his cold, still fingers with a desperate sort of hold. And the hand had been warm… so warm and alive that it hurt him worse than any shock or beating. It hurt because it hadn't been real. It hadn't been Face hugging him, holding him and crying into his neck because Face was dead. His brother was dead and cold and gone and if he moved, if he looked or even breathed, this phantom Face would disappear and he'd be alone and cold again.

Es mi culpa. My fault. Mi culpa.

But the pain had built in his chest. Why couldn't this Face be real? Why couldn't he have stayed quiet just a few more minutes? They were dead because of him and he had been trapped in this false reality, both wanting and hating the dream that held him prisoner. The part of his mind that had known it wasn't real had screamed at him to stop, to hold back, to not move, and let this last as long as it could, but he couldn't stay still, not when Face was crying and calling his name and squeezing his hand so hard it hurt.

He'd squeezed back, just a little, just enough to feel the warmth and the strength in that hand and remember even though it hurt. Then the hand had pulled away and there'd been only darkness again.

…..

Murdock wondered if he really was dead.

But if he was dead then death was cruel because he was still in agony and now he could see them. All three of them were standing around him, watching with concern and fear in their eyes but the touch hadn't been theirs. Someone had taken his arm, tried to inject him again. They might look like home, but they weren't, not really.
They were Gargoyles in disguise.

Inklings explored the shadowed hotel walls as he stayed still, listening to home's voices. Hannibal fell just like before… only this time there was no blood, no deafening gunshot, and no look of pained shock in his blue eyes. He just fell… but rose up again seconds later. Yes, death was cruel. It could take them again and again and force him to watch. It took Hannibal and Bosco into the darkness through an Inkling swarmed doorway and for a moment Murdock thought Face might follow. The terror of that thought pushed him forward, to do what he didn't know but he couldn't let Face go too. But Face stayed, sat and watched and spoke softly. Murdock's mind finally began to understand words again and he heard Face's voice, so real it was agony to hear.

"You know it's us, don't you? It's just the team here… and you know we wouldn't hurt you, right?"

Of course he knew. They'd never hurt him… but he wished they would. He wished they'd beat him, yell at him, curse him, even kill him if it meant he could make up for what he'd done. They had never hurt him… but he'd killed them.

My fault they're dead. Es ist meine Störung.

Their blood was still on his hands, dark and sick, looking like the old blood that made up the Inkling's bodies, and suddenly he had to get away, struggle and twist and run away from those stains because they shouldn't be there, couldn't be there. That blood was supposed to be in his friends' bodies, not all over his hands and arms and shirt, not soaking his hair and drying on his face….

Face.

Face was too close. Murdock had had this sort of hallucination before, the kind that was visual, auditory, even smelled real but there was always one sense that stayed trapped in reality. It could change from one hallucination to another, first sight being real, then smell, then taste. This time, he could see them, his home. He could hear their voices, smell the cigar smoke that hung in the air, and taste that same scent if he breathed through his mouth but no matter where he was, when he woke, he lay on padded cloth, felt cold and was touched by rough hands reaching for his wrist.

This time it was touch that was real… and a touch, even the lightest brush of fingers on skin could break the illusion. If the touch didn't mesh seamlessly with the façade, if a touch was seen where none was felt, if a gentle caress held the pain of a Gargoyle's claws, it could drag him back to the reality of his prison and Murdock didn't want that, not yet, not when he could still see Face in front of him, alive and worried about him.

Murdock felt dried blood crack around his lips and remembered the taste of Face's blood in his mouth, of air exchanged for liquid. He should've tried harder, should've kept trying until Face had breathed and his heart started pumping and then maybe things wouldn't be so dark, so cold, so empty and aching.

He was crying again, Murdock knew he was, but he didn't care. The Gargoyles had seen him cry already and there was nothing he had left that was worth being strong for. It hurt to cry, the sobs shook his abused ribs, tightened his chest like leather straps and made his throat ache all the more.

He didn't care. What use was caring? What use was fighting when there was nowhere to go, nothing to do to ease the ache, no purpose, and no home. Just another homeless, faceless being to walk the streets until death finally grew a heart and ended it.

Face's voice pulled Murdock from his thoughts and the words drew an anguished sob from his lips.

"Why won't you just say something, Murdock?"

It was happening again. All of it happening again. Hannibal falling, Face asking him why he didn't speak, why he was doing this as if they weren't worth every bit of the pain and humiliation he'd suffered… but they were. They were worth everything, worth the sun and the moon and his life and by all that was good in the world he would've gladly given it for them, had tried to give his life for them… but he'd failed. No… no, he'd lost them then, but he couldn't lose them now.

If it was happening again, he wouldn't speak, couldn't speak, not this time.

He moved to choke off his own voice, fighting the hands that tried to stop him. Maybe if he squeezed just a little harder, he could sink into darkness again and he wouldn't have to feel all this, all this pain and the dragging, longing ache that filled his chest. Light faded, blood pounded in his ears and he was so close to falling away…

His body was working against him, though. At the first taste of fresh air, his lungs dragged it in, leaving him faint and paralyzed by the pain in his chest. Face had left soon after that, traded for Bosco and taken who knew where by the darkness. He'd shifted slowly, lying down so he could see Bosco, too weak to sit up but not ready for sleep.

For a long time, Murdock lay still, drifting from thought to thought as the room dimmed and the rain began. It patted down on the softness beneath him, seen but not felt. The rain wasn't real but it looked real as it slid down the arms of the chair Bosco sat in, formed little waterfalls off the side table and gave the lampshade a dripping, shimmering water-drop fringe. It was blue and murky and endlessly, infinitely sad. It rained tears and he tried to keep his eyes open, blinking past the heavy sorrow in an effort to see Bosco where he sat not too far away, his voice the gentle rumble of thunder behind the weeping clouds. The rain shone like stars, tiny sparks of light plummeting from the sky to splash on the floor, memories reflected in their shattered forms. They fell in slow motion, allowing him one last glimpse of the precious past before breaking and spreading silver-blue light across the floor to fade and dry and vanish.

Every now and then the darkness would sneak up on him and he'd have to move, bend his leg or shake his head to keep it at bay. He was tired… so tired, but he didn't dare fall asleep, not yet. If you slept in a dream, you woke to reality and this was still better than reality, even if his chest hurt just as much and his leg throbbed in time with his heart. If he held his hands to his chest, he could almost feel Hannibal's hand and focusing on the memory of that hand, of not being alone, helped.

Then Hannibal returned, shadowed and blurred past the rain. Murdock watched Hannibal and Bosco talk, then Hannibal moved closer and said something. Murdock couldn't hear him past the rain but he was too close and getting closer. He tried to move away but the words that reached him over the patter of fallen lights made him freeze in place.

"I'll make it an order if I have to, Captain."

An order.

Comply completely and fully with whatever Hayes asks of you….

Orders had been given and followed and it had resulted in death. He no longer had any reason to obey orders. Murdock shook his head, glaring up at the Hannibal-mask the Gargoyle wore and keeping his gaze firm. He refused, did everything but scream 'No!' at the one shouting orders. He only refrained from doing that because just breathing was enough to make his chest feel like it was on fire.

And maybe it was.

This was Hell after all and falling memories couldn't put out hellfire.

Face came back and Murdock had watched as the image of his friend, his little brother, pulled a chair close and looked at him. Face's voice was gentle and apologetic but the tone didn't change the pang of anguish the words thrust through Murdock's heart.

"Hey, man… Look, I… I need you to know something, okay?" He reached out and Murdock somehow found the strength to pull away from that hand against the tugging of his heart that longed for a touch, for real, warm, living contact. "Sorry… just… I need you to know that… that I know what happened… back there. And I swear to you, I'm gonna do everything I can to make this right, okay? But we can't stay here. We have to get going and-"

"D-Don't." He'd spoken, and maybe it would break the illusion or please the Gargoyles who taunted him with these masks of the dead but he had to speak. They were leaving and maybe they weren't masks, maybe they really had been here for a little while, to say goodbye. He'd known they would have to leave sometime. The dead couldn't linger too long and it was wrong to want them to stay when they could go up into the clouds and be free from this hell on earth. But the thought of them leaving for good brought tears to his eyes and he gasped out the words between growing sobs. "Pl-lease, don-n't."

Maybe if he begged, pleaded, apologized a thousand times, maybe they'd stay for just a little while longer. Just a few more minutes… just enough time for him to swallow the pain rising in his throat and chest and pretend for however many minutes they gave him that they were alive… that he hadn't killed them by his weakness.

My skuld. My skuld. My fault they're dead.

"I'm- m'sorry… jus' pl-lease don' go?" he pleaded. Face looked like he'd just been punched in the gut and managed a choked, "No- Hell, no" that had Murdock's heart plummeting before Face's voice continued, adding words that slowly changed the fear and pain in the pilot's chest to confused hope.

"Murdock, you're coming with us. We're not… we're not leaving you here." Face said it like it was the craziest thing he'd ever heard. Murdock wondered if that meant he'd die too. Maybe they were taking him with them now that it was time to leave. That would be okay, he supposed… if they were really here and really leaving and not just a demon's trick. "We're all going somewhere safe, okay? All of us. So… So I need you to let one of us help you get to the van." Murdock shook his head. If they were really there and taking him with them, he'd be able to walk on his own and it wouldn't hurt because he'd be dead. If they weren't….

"No." No way would he risk ending this, this friendship and caring and safety, by letting touch break the illusion. He could make it on his own. In reality he'd probably just be stumbling around the padded cell while his mind drew images of hallways and car doors, the taste of fresh air and the smell of B.A.'s van. Everything would be real to him except touch. He'd have to be careful of that. Face was speaking again and Murdock tried to listen as he started moving, biting back a groan when his ribs protested violently.

"Murdock, please? You need help, man. You can't get there on your own." Murdock shook his head.

"I c-… I can. I jus'-" He moved to sit up and a shock of white-hot pain seared across his side. He didn't remember what happened after that. The rest was inky blackness.

The next time Murdock opened his eyes, he was in the room again. It was dark and he could feel the padding against his back.

Maybe this was reality.

Yes, this had to be reality. Reality was dark and deceptively soft and smelled of blood. The dream was the one with the rain, the kind faces and familiar voices. He was back in Hell and he couldn't help but let out a whimpered moan at the thought. Something moved to his left, something black that blended in with the darkness like the Devil's smoky body. It rose on dark robed legs and turned a blurry, featureless white face on him for a moment before slipping out through a door Murdock could hear but not see. He sat up with a trembling effort, gasping as the darkness fastened a fist around his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. He brought a hand to his aching ribs but his fingers met soft fabric over stiff… something. Something was wound around his ribs under a new, white shirt and he couldn't breathe right. He wanted it off but the simple movement of sitting up had drained him completely and left him dizzy and nauseous.

A second shadow caught his eye, this one across the room. He waited for his eyes to adjust, watching the shadow closely for any signs of movement. Murdock wasn't sure if he was dreaming, hallucinating or dead, because the second shadow was Hannibal.

Not reality then. This was still a dream… only it had grown darker. The colonel was lying on a bed across the room, his back to Murdock but the shape of his shoulders was unmistakable, as was the glimpse of silver hair in the wane light.

He wasn't moving.

Dead. Always dead, forever dead.

And it's your fault.

Murdock startled at the sound, the hissing, squeaking voice that had whispered in his ear. Tinking footsteps brought the Inkling down the wall to stand by his side and it looked across at Hannibal, its black crystal face bisected by a wide, clear-fanged grin. This one had the same long needle arms but this time there was a claw at each tip, like the talon at the end of a bat's wing.

It's your fault, it said again and the words hurt.

No, it's not, he thought back and the Inkling laughed a chirping, insect-like laugh.

Liar. You killed them. You could've stopped it but you didn't. You wanted them dead.

"No… No, I- I tried…"

Not hard enough. Could've tried harder. Could've saved them. You watched them die instead.

"No…" He covered his ears but the Inkling's words somehow entered his mind, speaking, hissing, taunting in its breathy voice.

They're dead because you were too weak to keep quiet. Coward… failure… weakling… waste of space and waste of time. Stupid Murdock killed his family. Shot them in the head and watched them die.

Murdock let out a short, hoarse cry at the words, closing his eyes and clutching at his hair. But the pain of his fingers tugging at the locks wasn't enough to stop the tears from breaking loose again. The Inkling moved away from him and Murdock pulled his right leg up to his chest, resting his forehead on soft fabric at his knee and sobbing brokenly. And as if that wasn't Hell enough, the Inkling drew his attention again with a rattling purr.

Murdock looked up and his eyes found the creature's tiny glass body where it crouched on Hannibal's shoulder, looking down at the man's face. His heart leapt to his throat, panic taking its place as the Inkling leaned down, fangs bared.

"S-Stop!" The creature turned to look at him, still grinning widely. It slipped down to stand on the bed, resting one hooked claw on Hannibal's head, the other on his shoulder, and eyeing the colonel's neck with a sickening hunger. Murdock struggled to get up but his leg was heavy, clumsy and blindingly painful to move. His lungs strained against whatever restraint was wound around his chest as he panted, "Get away from him! Get the hell away!" The creature ignored him… and bit. It sank its teeth into Hannibal's neck, needle-finger slicing easily through the fabric at the colonel's shoulder and causing blood to blossom in its wake. Suddenly there were more Inklings, crawling down the walls, across the floor, all swarming over the colonel's body like ants.

Murdock called Hannibal's name, screamed it in desperate pain, but instantly regretted doing so because as soon as he'd called out, Hannibal moved. He thrashed and flailed as he woke up to hundreds of bites and scratches and Murdock felt a horror-struck cry escape his lips as he pushed himself back, curling into the corner as best he could with his hurt leg still stretched out. He closed his eyes tightly as the room suddenly became blinding, fire burning away the darkness and searing his eyes.

He had to wake up. Murdock knew he had to get out of this nightmare, even if he went back to the padded room; he just had to get away from here. Uncovering his ears and struggling to ignore the muffled chaos of voices and screams and high-pitched laughter, Murdock moved to grip his hair in both fists, and then did the only thing he could think of to wake himself up. He slammed his own head against the wall… hard.