[flashback] uneasy sleep

[2goodarms]

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.

Comments

[2goodarms]

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.

[hate_gettin_older]

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.

[2goodarms]

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?

[hate_gettin_older]

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.

[2goodarms]

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.

[hate_gettin_older]

No.

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

[2goodarms]

Another cough, this one quieter.

Silence.

The cot above him finally shifts an inch.

[hate_gettin_older]

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.

[2goodarms]

"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.

[hate_gettin_older]

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

[2goodarms]

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.

[hate_gettin_older]

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.

[2goodarms]

"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 -- "

[hate_gettin_older]

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.

[2goodarms]

"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."

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar blinks, staring up at Curtis's face.



"Oh." His voice is small and shaky, thick with suppressed tears.

[2goodarms]

"It's okay," says Curtis, gentler now. He doesn't let go of Edgar. "You wanna come up here?"

[hate_gettin_older]

He hesitates for a long moment.

And then nods, kicking free of the blanket and making for the ladder, not caring how the cold metal bites at his feet through his socks.

[2goodarms]

Curtis lets go, and scoots over to make more room for Edgar. As he does, he untangles his own blanket from the edges of the cot.

Once Edgar's safely on Curtis' bunk, he shakes out the blanket to wrap around the kid's shoulders. "Here," he murmurs.

[hate_gettin_older]

The terror of the dream is still too fresh to allow for embarrassment. Edgar burrows in against Curtis's side, shivering, and buries his face in Curtis's shoulder.

[2goodarms]

He draws Edgar into a sideways hug, arm steady and secure around his shoulders.

"It's okay," he keeps murmuring. "It's okay."

[hate_gettin_older]

He's trying hard not to cry. And he doesn't, not really: he sniffles a little and his eyes are hot and damp but that's not really crying, not like a little kid.

It's over. It was just a dream and it's over.

[2goodarms]

"Hey," he whispers. "I've still got some of my water and protein block. You want any?"

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar shakes his head. "'M okay."

[2goodarms]

"Okay."

He rubs Edgar's shoulder.

"Wanna talk about it at all?"