DISCLAIMER: The Sleep
Hollow characters are the property of Sketch Films, K/O Paper Products, and
20th Century Fox Television. The story contents are the creation and property of
Djinn and are copyright (c) 2016 by Djinn. This story is Rated PG-13.
Awake
by
Djinn
You're
up. Again. Pacing the house like you did your cave. Moving chess pieces at
random and contemplating what possible combination of booze and the various
painkillers you've collected over the course of on-the-job injuries might make
you go to sleep.
"Lieutenant?"
Crane's
voice is soft, and you can hear the worry in it. You've tried to laugh off the
not sleeping, but he's watching you now and you can feel it whenever you wake
him.
You
can feel it. Feel him. The change
when slumber moves to consciousness. When his fuzzy "What time is
it?" state changes to "Is she awake still?"
You've
been able to feel him go to sleep and wake ever since you pulled him back by
will alone from being untethered by that bitch Pandora.
"Language,"
you mutter to yourself, the way you used to in the cave, imagining every
caregiver you've ever had saying that to you. Crane wasn't the only person you
conjured to keep you company; he was just your favorite and the most reliable.
And
the most welcome.
"Abbie?"
His voice holds a note of worry. That slight little hitch you think sounds so
perceptible because of his accent. There is a note of dismay in it, too. Like
you're disappointing him.
But
no. He'd never. He's on your side.
"I'm
fine," you say, and even to you your voice sounds more than a little
crazy.
"I'm
not sure that's true." He's moving slowly behind you, and you don't turn,
but you chart the sound of his footsteps.
Hearing
other people is the biggest luxury of being back. Seeing them—well, you won't
tell him this, but there were times you saw
him and Jenny and all the other people who kept you company during your
"time away" as everyone is calling it to avoid saying what it really
was.
Prison.
Death,
only without the dying.
Nothing.
Everything. Too much.
Not
enough.
The
floorboard creaks, and you smile. That sound. Lovely in its simplicity: Crane
steps and the board reacts.
In
the wasteland, you only heard the wind blowing sand, and it was a gentle sound
that you had to strain to hear. It became white noise, leaving you longing for
stronger sounds: the ping of a microwave, the whirr of your phone vibrating,
Crane's soft breathing as he worked beside you in the archives.
Crane.
He's right behind you. You can hear him lift his arm, can almost feel the
resolve in him to this time get to the bottom of this.
"Don't,"
you say before he can touch you.
His
movement stops. You imagine his confusion.
"I'm
sorry," he says and you can hear it in his voice, a hopelessness. He's no
doubt wondering why he can't fix you? You've wondered that yourself.
"I'm
broken, Crane." The words sit before you realize you've said them out
loud. "I mean—"
"Don't.
Don't try to make it better." He moves closer but doesn't touch you, and
you can swear you feel the electricity between you, whatever makes you both
witnesses, whatever allowed you to call his soul home when he should have been
lost. "I want to help you. I can't if you won't admit anything is
wrong."
"Learned
that from daytime television?" You manage to say it in your old voice, the
one of long ago when kidding was easy and being alone for a year was something
you'd never contemplated.
"Yes."
He sounds sheepish, as he always does. But then he touches you and murmurs,
"And from you, Lieutenant."
The
way he says your title. It's better than when old boyfriends called you
"sweetheart" or "honey." He caresses it, turns it into
something more than just a word.
He slides his hands down your arms and pulls you back so you're resting against
him. "Tell me how to help."
"Danny
loves me." You don't know why you've blurted that out. You think Crane will
pull away.
But he doesn't. He murmurs, "And you? Do you love him?"
"I
think I thought I did." Until Crane came back. Until you were lost and he
was your Wilson. Until you heard his voice again. Until you touched his hand.
Until now, with him pressed against your back. Until his lips touch your neck,
and you wonder if he even realizes he's doing that. "But I don't think I
can."
He
stops. "You don't think you can love? Or you don't think you can love
him?"
It's
a crucial difference, and he's wise to ask. You think of the symbol you drew on
the table with your blood. There's something inside you, and it may be
dangerous or it may just be batshit crazy-town coming to claim you even though
you got away.
But
despite that, despite everything, you know one thing. You can love because you
love Crane. "The last one," you whisper so he doesn't have to hear if
he doesn't want to, if this truth is inconvenient or unwelcome right now. He's
barely said goodbye to Zoe. He might have loved her but for you.
You
might have loved Danny but for him.
His
breath is ragged and warm where it hits your neck. He says nothing, just
somehow pulls you closer, and you stand that way until you take his hands and
pull his arms around you so he's holding you in a way less like a fellow
witness and more like a lover.
Until
you relax, for the first time since you got back. And when you finally let go,
you start to tremble.
He
turns you, seems to be studying you, and you imagine how you look with your
eyes finally drooping. You feel as though you can sleep a hundred years, just
like Sleeping Beauty, and he'll be your prince only he won't have to slice
through thorns to get to you because you know he won't leave you.
"I'm
sleepy," you say.
"That's
a very good thing." He kisses you on the forehead, and it feels good, but
it's not what you want, so you pull him back to you and kiss him on the lips
the way you imagined when things were at their worst in the cave. Loving him
was what kept you sane. It's a truth you weren't sure you'd ever share with
anyone, but now you think you'll tell him someday, because he isn't pulling
away but deepening the kiss.
When you finally draw away from each other, he gives you the smile that is your
favorite, the one that says he's surprised, but in a good way. That he's moved.
That he's happy. "I missed you so, Abbie. I would have looked
forever."
"I
know." And you do. It was one of your core truths during that stark year.
For
a moment, you just let yourself look at him, really look, and you know the
smile on your face is one part crazy to two parts sheer relief. But it's also
full of love and you can see it on his face, too.
You
would make love to him right now, right here, if you weren't so damned tired.
You yawn for the first time since you got back, and it's the most amazing
feeling, this sinking, this impending blackness after a year of daylight
wakefulness.
"To
bed," he says, urging you to your room.
You
think he means to tuck you in and leave, so you don't let go of his hand and
ask, "Stay with me?"
"Of
course." He sounds relieved that you've asked, and he settles under the
covers with you, murmuring, "Is this all right?" as if you would ever
tell him that it's not.
Your
bed feels warm and soft again, like you remember it being before the wasteland
offered only sharp angles and grit. He's pressed against you, and you can tell
that he wants you and you know he's aware that you can tell, because he
murmurs, "I'm sorry," until you shush him. Until you tell him you
like it. Until you hear the smile in his voice as he says, "Then I shall
not apologize for it again." And it's a promise that means so much more
than just what the words convey.
And
that's the most wondrous thing. Because when you were at your most desperate,
when you felt that he was the only thing that could keep you tethered to
anything remotely normal, you touched yourself and pretended it was him,
conjured up his voice and his eyes and his hair and knew it was a mirage, but
it was the only one that would do.
And
seeing him again, in the flesh, there were moments where you were embarrassed,
that if he knew... But it's okay. Now, it's okay and you know eventually you'll
be doing it again, only for real, with him, in this bed or his or maybe on the
table with the chessboard swept away.
"I
love you, Crane." You feel sleep dragging you away from him. "Don't
leave me."
"I
won't. Not ever." He kisses your neck again, and there's a difference in
how he's doing it. A certainty. "I love you, too, Abbie."
You
smile and let his voice and the way his lips feel on your skin be the last
thing you know before you surrender—finally—to sleep.
FIN