Sometimes he dreams.
Sometimes he dreams in sharp, cutting colours and bright-edged focus, seeing the roots of the world and how they can be tugged and broken and changed to be better, more efficient, more useful, more powerful. In his dreams his mind dances and swirls with possibilities, so many possibilities, so- so much vagueness, nothing holding firm, ideas slipping away as he grabs for them, the details gone as soon as he looks too hard, this isn't right, he knows how this should go, he's a Spark-
He is not a Spark. The recognition intrudes into the dreaming and brings with it the memory of pain, pain that turns up the brightness to searing and the focus to nails against his skull and transforms the dancing possibilities into screaming faces, begging, all at once, make me, make me, make me make me make memakememakemeMAKEME-
-and then different pain, pain of the body and not the mind, pain far worse, if he knew he was dying before then he is certain of it now, but the colours are no longer burning and the focus is no longer stabbing and the ideas are fading, one by one, that's okay, maybe the best ones can stay, they'll distract him from the pain...
...They are not staying. They fade, more and more, faster, and the colours fade and the focus fades and the pain is worse it feels as though he is being turned inside out but he cannot gather strength to fight it, thoughts to question it, there is nothing to do except to ride it-
He wakes up.
He wakes up just as he did so many years ago, bolt upright, breath a rasp in his chest, soaked with sweat, disorientated and furious. He wants to kill something. He wants to kill something now. He flexes claws, baring sharp, triangular teeth... and pauses.
This is not years ago. This is now. The primal rage of a newly created Jaeger no longer flows through his veins, and nor does the divine inspiration of a Spark; he is far too old, now, for either. And there is nothing here to kill.
Well.
There is a lump under the blankets beside him, soft snoring indicating a life that could, indeed, be snuffed out. But it would not be easy or wise to attempt, and he has no intention of doing so.
He lies down again, resigned. The body next to him is warm and invitingly furred. He ignores it, or tries to.
His thoughts are pacing familiar ground. It is not fair. This is not how it is meant to be. He has been cheated... he feels the bitterness lodge in his belly, and sighs. He is too tired for this, but knows what will happen if he sleeps again.
Next to him, the snoring cuts off briefly in favour of a grunt, a half-yawn and a shift in position, before resuming. He makes a face; his tail, previously arranged decorously between them, is now trapped beneath a leg. It is not painful, or even really uncomfortable, but he is not in the mood to allow it to pass.
He elbows his bedmate in the nearest body part that does not sport spikes.
“Dragos.”
“Mmf...”
“Dragos.”
“Mp.”
“Dragomir.”
It is very hard to tell, in the dark, whether Dragos has actually opened his eyes; but the snoring has ceased, at least. There is a short pause.
“Hyu are on my tail.”
The pause extends, and then there is a snort.
“Shot op, Merin,” says Dragos, and the amount of sleepy affection in his voice never ceases to send a jolt of shivering surprise through Merin's gut. It is enough of an antidote to the bitterness already there that he does not even object when an arm unfolds, wraps about him and draws him to press against a solid, furry chest.
When he slides back into sleep, he does not dream.
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