Once upon a time, not so very long ago, I had nightmares. For two years, I used to wake up with my breath caught in my throat, a scream building in my chest, and my whole body soaked in sweat. After awhile, I honestly never expected that they would stop.

The first six months were the worst, alone in the hospital and rehab, no one to curl up against or to seek comfort from. Even if there had been, I hated to be touched, there was too much fear associated with being vulnerable and open with anyone. So, I'd shiver, toss in my bed, so angry that I cried snotty-nosed tears, because I just wanted to fucking sleep through the night.

But the second six months were different. I'd wake up with my breath caught, sitting bolt-upright in bed, terrified out of my mind; but he was right there with me, voice soothing and calm, talking me down. "It's a dream, you're here with me. Shh. You're all right." His huge hands settled me next to him, his breath felt soft against my cheek as he whispered mindless hushing words. It didn't make the dreams stop, but the panic would dissipate in mere moments, my breath slowing gradually until we were both sound asleep again, arms and legs twisted together.

I don't know how he put up with it; it was like that every night, and he never once complained. Never made a big deal of it, and I wondered if he was used to waking up in the middle of the night to terror. There were things that I felt intuitively, although I didn't know the facts then, and don't know most of them now.

The third set of six months left me feeling more alone than any experience in my life. I'd wake up, heart in my throat and scared shitless, images of Chris Hobbes filling my mind, along with the helplessness left by those dreams where you just can't seem to run, even though you know you'll die if you don't. Ethan would rouse slightly, if at all, and say, "It was just a dream, Jus. You're okay, go back to sleep." And I'd murmur my agreement, sliding out of bed on the pretense of getting some water. I'd smoke a cigarette or two, and stare out the window across the city, not allowing myself to think about what direction I was facing, where my gaze was directed, whom I was instinctively seeking.

Sometimes Ethan would try to soothe me, especially if he hadn't been in deep sleep when I woke him. He'd offer to play beautiful music to chase the bad dreams away; or he'd crack open a book of fairytales to read me back to sleep. Those were some fucking terrifying fairytales. They were full of girls with blood smeared on their face, or the flesh of babies in their stomachs. The stories spoke of young women who cut off their fingers, then fashioned the bones into keys, unlocking doors where death lurked gory and bloody on the floor. Ethan would talk about the allegory and symbolism in his most soft, gentle voice, and I'd lay there and wonder what kind of family had raised a man to fight nightmare imagery with more nightmare imagery, resigned to the fact that any hope for a good night's rest was long gone.

The next set of months was a hodge-podge. Many nights I'd wake alone in my persimmon colored room, wrung out with the dreams, sweaty and thirsty. I'd tip-toe out to the refrigerator, careful not to wake Daphne, drink some water, and light up a cigarette by the window, smoking listlessly.

And then sometimes, I'd wake up in Brian's bed, but he'd already be right there, talking me down from the heights of fear, cradling me to him and kissing my forehead. Those were good nights.

There were other nights, too, that fell somewhere in the middle. Nights when I'd wake up alone in my room, pad out to get a drink, sit on the open window ledge with my cigarette and the phone. I'd press a few buttons and his voice, possibly sleep-ragged, would be whispering, "Another dream?"

"Yeah," I'd say.

"Smoking?"

"Yeah."

I'd hear the shift of the covers, sometimes a sneered comment to someone in his bed, usually along the lines of, "Fun's over get out," and then the flick of his own lighter. "I thought about buying a condo in South Carolina today."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mmhmm." A long drag on his cigarette would lend breathlessness to the rest of his answer. "Then I realized I was smoking crack, so I didn't."

"Why South Carolina?"

"I dunno. I guess I thought this obnoxious artist I know might like to see someplace besides the Pitts, so I might have been checking out vacation sites, and maybe got a little sidetracked. But have no fear, Sunshine, I managed to get focused and completely on course once again."

"Oh?"

"Yep. So, you free the second week of May for a trip to the marvelous city of Charleston, South Carolina?" He'd probably affected a humorous southern accent and I'd laugh a little.

"Sure."

"Good." He'd pause, continuing with, "Wanna come over here? Or do you think you can settle into some lovely dreams of southern men with southern manners?"

"I'm okay."

"All right, then. Dream sweetly."

"You, too."

Or something similar. It was always different, but always the same. He never complained about the time of the calls, and he always knew what to say to get my mind away from my fears.

But, recently, the nightmares have stopped. It was the night after I'd confronted Chris Hobbes. I came back to his loft, and fell asleep exhausted on the bed with my clothes on. Some time in the night he must have taken them off, because I woke up in just my underwear, the sun glinting in my eyes, and his arms around my waist.

He was the one who noticed it, over breakfast at the diner the next morning. I noticed him looking at me speculatively and I couldn't help but chuckle and ask, "What?"

I was expecting some kind of sexual request, like maybe a blow job in the alley before my shift, but instead he just shrugged and said, "You didn't have any nightmares last night."

I bit my lip, a surge of strange joy flooding me at those words. He was right. I hadn't had a nightmare for the first time in nearly two years. I shrugged, grinning. "Yeah, well, huh. How about that?"

We ate our breakfast, and we didn't mention it again. That was our way.

But there was a time, not so long ago, when I woke up every night with nightmares, and Brian always knew just what to do.


THE END