They didn't come, at first. He barely made it through his shower before collapsing onto his bed, ears ringing and body shaking with low blood sugar and absolute exhaustion-physical, mental, emotional. Sleep swallowed him up in oblivion for six hours, then spat him back out to rehydrate himself. He gulped down three glasses of water and staggered back to bed, barely conscious enough to remember Catherine's threats of dire harm should he show up any time before the shift after next.
And the dreams came. Boiling up out of the underside of his mind, they invaded his sleep with gleeful enthusiasm, exacting the payment he'd put off for too long. They weren't all horrifying; some were merely the normal, illogical jumble of images and actions, while others were laden with anxiety and urgency, and he never seemed to be able to accomplish what he needed to do. But the horror came in its turn, soaking his hands with blood, filling his arms with brokenness, leaving him standing over something that had once been beautiful and vibrant. The glassed-in butterflies on his walls came alive again and flitted through his sleep, sending him signals of danger and terror. They landed on her, and became colorful patterns on her skin and hair. Sara was crying, and he couldn't help her. Sara was dying, and his hand on hers could not keep her. Sara was dead, and his fingers gripped the blade.
When he finally made it back to consciousness, poetry was running through his head.
Yep, I actually wrote this for HVWU before dumping it and then using it for To Open, Break Here.
My first "long" CSI fic; you went way back! :P It does not fit well with even older canon, but at the time I'd only seen less than half the episodes, and was still dubious about the 'ship being canon. It took Butterflied to make me believe that it was true for both of them.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
no subject
Date: 2011-07-12 04:30 am (UTC)They didn't come, at first. He barely made it through his shower before collapsing onto his bed, ears ringing and body shaking with low blood sugar and absolute exhaustion-physical, mental, emotional. Sleep swallowed him up in oblivion for six hours, then spat him back out to rehydrate himself. He gulped down three glasses of water and staggered back to bed, barely conscious enough to remember Catherine's threats of dire harm should he show up any time before the shift after next.
And the dreams came. Boiling up out of the underside of his mind, they invaded his sleep with gleeful enthusiasm, exacting the payment he'd put off for too long. They weren't all horrifying; some were merely the normal, illogical jumble of images and actions, while others were laden with anxiety and urgency, and he never seemed to be able to accomplish what he needed to do. But the horror came in its turn, soaking his hands with blood, filling his arms with brokenness, leaving him standing over something that had once been beautiful and vibrant. The glassed-in butterflies on his walls came alive again and flitted through his sleep, sending him signals of danger and terror. They landed on her, and became colorful patterns on her skin and hair. Sara was crying, and he couldn't help her. Sara was dying, and his hand on hers could not keep her. Sara was dead, and his fingers gripped the blade.
When he finally made it back to consciousness, poetry was running through his head.
Yep, I actually wrote this for HVWU before dumping it and then using it for To Open, Break Here.
My first "long" CSI fic; you went way back! :P It does not fit well with even older canon, but at the time I'd only seen less than half the episodes, and was still dubious about the 'ship being canon. It took Butterflied to make me believe that it was true for both of them.