Of course she dreams of him. Her mind's nothing if not giving.
Dreams of herself first - the narcissist that she is at heart. Disoriented, wading through a grassy field full of bubbles. Each one glittering under the hazy sky full of early light and reflecting back a memory like wet glass. They dance along a breeze that brings with it the artificial sweetness of G96.
When one floats nearby, the memory within is fuzzier than the rest. She stretches up on her toes to draw it closer.
Just as her nails graze along the shimmery surface, it immediately starts to swells. Clusters so quick that she doesn't get the chance to withdraw before the wetness sucks her fingers up and crawls along her wrist.
The harder she wrestles to yank herself free, the faster it swallows her arm. Within seconds it entirely consumes her and her vision drowns with distorted paints, like an old picture scanned too many times.
On the next blink, the sun is almost blinding. Her skin flushed but free of bubbles, the field swapped for a crowded street in downtown D.C. Her sleep shorts replaced by a baby pink sundress.
But she isn't disoriented anymore. She recognizes this memory.
With butterflies in her throat, she starts to move across the pavement. Her sandles smack the concrete again and again, carrying her forward with purpose. Enough to put distance between her and the creep that's been following her ever since she left the parking garage. This time, she's not worried.
She remembers today. How could she ever forget? She knows exactly what today is.
It doesn't matter that her phone's dead in her bag, like it perpetually always is. Or that she left her pocketknife and bear spray in her car out of fear of not being able to bring it in the museum. It doesn't matter if she has no clue where to go for safety, since she usually never comes to this part of the city.
She knows exactly who's waiting.
Her feet don't stop until she reaches the end of the block, her heart pounding. At the time, the slow blinks of the crosswalk sign felt like a death sentence. But now she doesn't care that there aren't enough blurry-faced strangers waiting to cross for her to blend into the crowd.
She finds him across the street between passing blurry cars. Exactly where he was last time.
Reclined back at a table outside a resteraunt, his back to the bricks. A shadow perfectly at home in the corners of the building where he fades from the view of most, features concealed from the nose down by a mask. At the time, all that mattered was that he was terrifying and massive enough to get the point across.
Just as unfamiliar fingers skim at the small of her back, the crosswalk blinks green and she breaks into a full on sprint.
Simon's standing before she even gets close to his table. His brow taunt and his eyes assessing. Before he even gets the chance to say something, she falls into his chest.
"There you are!" She beams, exactly like she did that day too. Giggles too precious to be considered a threat, full of breathless air, and grips tight to the folds of his jacket. "Sorry I'm late, my phone died. Didn't miss me too much, did you?"
His warm eyes flick exactly once over her head before the weight of his arm secures around her.
"Glad you're safe, love." Simon's accent is like gravel slathered in syrup, sticking permanent to her mind. "Started t'worry. Y'alright?"
She could've kissed him on the spot. Right then and there, mask and all. Didn't help that his thumb smoothed slow between her shoulders.
To hide the flush creeping up into her face, she tosses a look over her shoulder. At the time, she told herself it was to make sure her unwanted straggler had finally fucked off.
"Thank you," she murmurs, almost light-headed when his hand falls from her back. She releases his jacket slow, almost unwilling. "That was really sweet. I'm -"
But when she turns back to him, her stomach lurches.
It isn't Simon standing there anymore. Not in any of the ways that matter.
Kitted in Ghost's gear, warm eyes entirely frozen and unseeing. An entry bullet kissed right between the skull's brow to splinter the plastic, blood pouring wet into the bala's fabric. His neck rolls to an unnatural angle -
No no no, this isn't what happened, this hasn't happened yet, not yet -
Before she can scream, his body sags forward.
She buckles under the familiar impossible weight of him, her nails catching at his plate carrier, but it's too much and the ground comes rushing up fast. When she slams into the concrete, her skull makes a sickening *crack* that stains the world red.
At least she dreams of him still.
