2goodarms | [flashback] uneasy sleep

[flashback] uneasy sleep

Edgar outgrew his oil drum crib a while ago. Long enough that he's spent more time sleeping in Curtis's bed than he did in the crib; long enough that Curtis is used to squishing awkwardly to one side to make room for the warm weight on his other. It's not like anybody can get real breathing room back here anyway. What's losing a little more of it?

Because consensus moved through the Tail a while ago, unspoken but clear, that the full-sized cots and hammocks would only be given to people who couldn't fit anywhere else. That doesn't include Edgar yet -- and Edgar is Curtis's responsibility.

He drifted off to the usual sounds of the train rattling and Edgar breathing. The kid's not wheezing, he thought just before succumbing to sleep. Good. Don't want him catching whatever's going around the Tail lately.

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"Sure," says Curtis. "You can bring anything you want."

The smile returns, more surefooted this time.

"It's your space now."

His own space. That means he's not a little kid anymore, even if he won't be a teenager for ages and ages yet.

Edgar bounces on his heels a little. "When?"

"Whenever you want." He grins. "Wanna do it now?"

"Yeah!"

And he takes off, heading for their bunk. Their bunks.

Calling for him to wait up isn't gonna do a damn thing. Whatever; let him have his fun.

Fun's as rare a commodity back here as anything else.

Laughing a little, Curtis takes off after him -- not nearly as fast, owing to how much more difficult it is for a twenty-three-year-old to dodge around people than an eight-year-old.

Transferring his possessions to the lower bunk takes pretty much no time at all. A few articles of spare bedding have turned up, with the understanding that they're on loan until Harry's old blankets come back cleaned and disinfected. (It's more or less safe to assume they'll come back; things that shabby never go missing.)

Edgar spends most of the rest of the afternoon making the rounds of the tail, sharing the news with the other kids. Maybe bragging a little bit, but who could blame him? He's got his own bunk now, that's got to be worth a little bragging.

As a result, more than once, Curtis overhears a child asking their mildly exasperated caretaker, but why can't I get my own bunk? Every so often, he intervenes to distract, giving the kid in question a bit of his protein block or pretending to pull a scrap of paper from behind their ear. One or two have tiny drawings he asked Painter to sketch; a few more are folded into equally tiny animals.

By the time night rolls around, everyone who's not Edgar is about as mollified as they're gonna get. And Edgar, of course, is still a ball of excitement.

And then, of course, it's lights-out and time for bed.

Edgar's worked out that he can perch on the edge of his bunk and hang on to the edge of Curtis's, enough to stick his head up level with Curtis's face. "G'night," he says cheerfully.

Curtis grins. "Night, kid," he says, and ruffles Edgar's hair. "Sleep well in your new digs."

Edgar grins back, and ducks down into his bunk -- his bunk -- and spends a few minutes getting the blanket and the extra half-blanket arranged just so.

He's got all the space he could ever want down here. He could sleep spread-eagled if he wanted to, and not worry about kicking Curtis. Or he could stay awake sitting up. He could do anything.

Except, it seems, fall asleep.

Above him, Curtis doesn't seem to have any such difficulty.

Well...that's not entirely true. His bunk creaks a little more than usual as he rolls from side to side, trying to get comfortable; trying
to remind himself, every time he jerks back awake right before drifting off, that the bunk's not half-empty because Edgar is hurt.

But it definitely doesn't take a huge amount of time before a soft snore drifts down.

The sound of Curtis breathing -- and eventually snoring -- is somehow comforting.

Edgar blinks sleepily up at the bottom of Curtis's bunk, yawns a jaw-cracking yawn, blinks some more.

He'll be right there when you wake up, he tells himself, and closes his eyes.

Unless he dies like Harry did, says a perfectly reasonable-sounding voice in his head.

Not helping to contradict that thought: the snoring abruptly cuts off five seconds later.

It seems like a very, very long time before it starts up again.

And is it wheezier than before, or is that just Edgar's imagination?

It's his imagination. It has to be. Curtis isn't sick.

He lies there, refusing to open his eyes, pulling the blanket close.

Go to sleep, Edgar.

The next time the snoring stops, it flips into a hacking cough a beat later -- from either Curtis' bunk, or the one just above it.

Curtis isn't moving.

No.

He holds his own breath, waiting for Curtis to inhale, to twitch, something. His hands are clenched tight in his borrowed blanket.

Another cough, this one quieter.

Silence.

The cot above him finally shifts an inch.

Edgar goes limp with relief, and almost immediately scoffs at himself. See? Nothing was wrong. Go to sleep.

He shuts his eyes again, snugs the blanket tight around his shoulders, and yawns deliberately in an attempt to convince his body that he's tired.

In the dream it's cold and dark, and the wind is shrieking overhead, and the monster is roaring somewhere very near.

"Edgar!"

It's hard to tell who's screaming his name: Curtis, Jenny, Bell. Harry. The shriek of metal on metal nearly drowns it out, as if the monster has scraped enormous nails along the side of the train. Any minute now, it'll tear away the rest of the wall and leave them all to die in the snow.

He struggles to run but he can't, something's pinning his legs, squeezing him tight, he can't move and somebody's screaming --

It's Grey -- Grey, who never makes a noise, Grey who's doubled up on himself with pain and howling in terror as the monster gets closer. Curtis is right next to him, trying to get Grey on his feet. Just behind them, shadows bloom as the monster approaches.

Edgar could save them if he could just get there in time.

He wrenches at the implacable grip holding him, but it's too strong, and the monster's claws gleam like ice as they come sweeping down at Curtis.

And he's gone, everything's gone, spinning away into the darkness and the cold.

Edgar sucks in a breath that freezes his insides into splintering ice, and screams.

"Edgar!"

Curtis' voice echoes in the dark, starts to resolve into something solid: starts to cut through the fabric of the dream.

"Edgar, hey, wake up -- "

He thrashes desperately, trying to get to where Curtis is.

There's a hand, and an arm, and he clutches at it before he's entirely awake.

"Hey, easy, easy -- "

In the bunk above, Curtis braces himself so Edgar won't drag him off the whole stack of beds.

"Easy," he repeats. "I've got you. You're dreaming."

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