loved by spark

It's worse with people in the room. He always has these dreams when there are other people in the room. Not Alexei - Alexei's somehow escaped it - but strangers, people he does not trust the way he trusts Alexei (not with his life - he's aware that's not on the table - but at least with his health). If they're there he dreams like this without fail. He always jerks awake, a gasp in, silent in everything except maybe the very final edge of the gasp where he tries to swallow his own distress.

"Fuck," is always the first word, breathy and upset. He wants it to be annoyed. The -ck on the end sharpens in the space of the word, tries to approach it as he digs the heels of his palms into his eyes and drags in air and tolerates the hot feeling crawling up his throat and into his eyes (he does not cry, and never has).

He tasted that stupid smoke every day for a fucking year after and he can still taste it now, on nights like these.

He hates this. It's a pattern. He knows how it goes. He wakes up, he says fuck, he doesn't do anything, he waits for his heart to stop hammering, he takes a drink, he maybe - if he's lucky - goes for a walk and throws a rock as hard as he can at a lake. And he does not feel better. Connor swallows the taste of vomit rising in his throat.

This is pathetic, and he doesn't want it any more than he wanted it on the night.

"How's the storm?"

Still, Connor lurching from the bed startles him. Harry jumps to sit up straighter. Were he more green, he might have also reached for his gun. Instead, he reaches for the wastebin and flicks the cherry of his fragrant cigar inside. He'd not asked Connor if he minded if he smoked. The smoke detector sits on the dresser with its batteries spilled out. Aside from the hard crease in his brow, Harry seems unaffected.

"Not done blowin' yet. Just the calm before the storm, kid."

Harry doesn't know Connor well. Personally, at least, outside of their bizarre work arrangements. He's always thought the guy was a real classic detective; a little grumpy, a little broody... Hard-boiled you might say, in the most professional sense. Seeing him look the opposite was strange.

MICHELE MORRONE