Tomorrow. Not tonight, not something to worry about yet.
"Let's go to bed," Neal says softly. He's not even sure he's up for anything particularly active. He just wants the world to stay away for a little while.
"That's what I was hoping you would say," Malcolm tells him with a sweet smile. He shrugs off his coat and drapes it over one of the dining chairs and heads towards the bedroom with a look over his shoulder to ensure Neal is following.
Neal sheds his own clothes except for his boxers as he follows, feeling worn to the bone and prepared to sink into the softness of the bed. As soon as Malcolm is settled, Neal joins him, sliding down enough that he can rest his head on Malcolm's chest.
Yeah, Malcolm might be the smaller of the two of them, but that doesn't mean Neal can't fake being the little spoon now and then.
Neal blinks, sleepily surprised at how nice Malcolm's voice is. He closes his eyes, lets himself listen, and it's minutes before he's asleep.
The dream starts the same way it did before. Mathias, a summer sky, a feeling of emptiness so profound that it makes Neal feel sick to his stomach. The worst part is, he remembers the other dream. He turns to see Raylan walking toward him again, shadows flickering over his body like little flames, dissolving the skin underneath and burrowing inward. Every once in a while a shadow, fat with god know what, drops off of Raylan and oozes away toward the houses.
"Raylan?" Neal can barely make himself whisper the name. The other man doesn't react. Keeps walking toward him. Neal backs up, not wanting those shadows anywhere close. "Raylan, say something. Please say something. Please tell me this isn't real."
Malcolm hasn’t fallen asleep. He’s thinking about the case. Alessa. Christine. A chance to steal the baby not taken. There’s a piece missing. He’s missing something.
He realizes Neal is stirring. He rubs his hand on Neal’s arm.
He gives a sharp little exhale in his sleep, a panicked un-noise. Raylan isn't the only one in the dream any more. Others, some half-eaten by shadows, some practically untouched, have started to walk out from between the houses. Doc, Daisy, Athena. Neal keeps backing away. Calls their names. Begs them to stop, or go away, or say something.
Finally he turns to run.
Malcolm stands in arm's reach of him, face practically eaten away, but Neal would know that voice in any world.
"They were sick, or... I don't know. I don't know." He doesn't feel okay. He feels like he's going to throw up. "It was like they weren't there, almost, but they were."
Neal nods silently, closing his eyes again and shifting to rest his head against Malcolm’s chest. Listen to his heartbeat, his very alive heartbeat. Neal breathes along with him without really meaning to.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “That hasn’t happened in a while.”
Neal half-laughs, though it sounds more like crying. He turns his head to press his face against Malcolm's chest, kissing him there. "I didn't wake you up, did I?"
Malcolm huffs a laugh. "No, no. If I'm not screaming, I'm probably not sleeping," he says, carding his fingers through Neal's hair. "But, no. Really. I wasn't asleep; I was thinking about the case."
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"Let's go to bed," Neal says softly. He's not even sure he's up for anything particularly active. He just wants the world to stay away for a little while.
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Yeah, Malcolm might be the smaller of the two of them, but that doesn't mean Neal can't fake being the little spoon now and then.
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The dream starts the same way it did before. Mathias, a summer sky, a feeling of emptiness so profound that it makes Neal feel sick to his stomach. The worst part is, he remembers the other dream. He turns to see Raylan walking toward him again, shadows flickering over his body like little flames, dissolving the skin underneath and burrowing inward. Every once in a while a shadow, fat with god know what, drops off of Raylan and oozes away toward the houses.
"Raylan?" Neal can barely make himself whisper the name. The other man doesn't react. Keeps walking toward him. Neal backs up, not wanting those shadows anywhere close. "Raylan, say something. Please say something. Please tell me this isn't real."
The cowboy just keeps walking.
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He realizes Neal is stirring. He rubs his hand on Neal’s arm.
“Neal? Neal, wake up.”
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Finally he turns to run.
Malcolm stands in arm's reach of him, face practically eaten away, but Neal would know that voice in any world.
"What's wrong? We missed you."
Neal screams himself awake.
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Then he starts to realize where he is. He looks around the room like he's never seen it before, and then his focus falls on Malcolm. Whole, healthy.
This one, at least.
Neal shudders and wraps his arms around the other man, pressing his face into the curve of Malcolm's neck. He's still crying.
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“It’s okay,” he says, because it is, now that Neal is back. “It’s okay now. You’re home.”
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“Right,” Neal whispers, “you’re right. It just. Felt… real.”
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“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “That hasn’t happened in a while.”
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“I love you,” he mumbles. “I love you.”
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