The damp basement had a way of filling him with dread, should he not have frequently found his home on the softness of the killer's bed. His back rises and falls as his lungs savor unburdened breaths, his stare reemerging listlessly at the dilapidated wall to his right. His eyes are empty, almost soulless, the trauma still sweltering inside of him as Danny silently allows his body & mind to recover. He knows better than to speak during these times . . . Dwight needed time, touch, and nonverbal reassurance. He hadn't a voice to be used...

Another trial, another series of hooks, another one of his lives offered to the greedy, spidery talons of the Entity. He never got used to it . . . as much as he would have expected to by now. Each sacrifice still haunted him to his core. But the weary survivor had difficulty condemning the other man for his actions. Even still, Dwight Fairfield had empathy. Here he laid, a killer tracing gentle circles on his skin, willing the scars to fade faster by the minute. It was inexplicable, the time it took for magically mended wounds to vanish completely from his broken body; they served as a fleeting reminder of his suffering.

He can hear Danny breathe, breaking up the silence that felt both frighteningly tangible and calming at the same time, so long as the unmasked man's touch kept him grounded and at ease. As the touch fades, he feels weight shift behind him. Dwight doesn't even blink. Dark blurs cloud his vision without his glasses, but he doesn't want to have them on right now. He's been more than vulnerable in Danny's presence before, so this was really no different. As the man's form lowers, Dwight feels the warmth of his lips retracing the path of his fingers. It sends a chill through his body as dark brown hues retreat once more into the darkness of his mind.

A sigh leaves the survivor's lips, attempting to simply exhale the weight of his condemnation to so much ceaseless pain and suffering. With each small kiss pressed to his skin, a warm sensation floods the radius of the area. The last trial had been particularly brutal . . . Dwight had, for the first time, failed to trick himself into seeing the Ghostface as anything more than a stranger. It made the pain so much worse . . . Dwight often wondered what Danny's face looked like in those moments, beneath the mask. A strong part of him convinced himself he wouldn't be able to handle it if he knew. . .

This is what you get for falling in love with a killer.

Tears threaten to break through fallen lids and he feels his breath hitch as the sensation of touch travels to the small of his neck. Danny's breath, warm against his skin, communicates affection nonverbally. Perhaps more than affection . . . a fierce, protective possession. As Danny's lips continue to pepper small gestures along his neck, Dwight's eyes creep open as he feels a tear begin to blur his already functionless vision. Nothing is said . . . because what is there to say? This was just how things were. It was a small sacrifice to pay to lay with the unmasked man for even a minute. . . to feel his embrace and forget about his vices towards the rest of the world. How could someone so bloodthirsty deny his compulsions for just one individual? And why was that Dwight? As much as he didn't want to question it, the thought often plagued his worried mind.

Danny would come to rest his weight comfortably around Dwight's form, face nuzzling into the same spot on his neck as the emotional dam began to burst without a sound. Tears escaped Dwight's heavy eyes in silence, his gaze locked in on an indistinguishable blur of the brown and black hues of the wall.