Febuwhump 23 - “The Old Silence”
Day Two: Flinching with Muriel
{WC: ~600} {Muriel x reader, mostly introspection, ptsd, fluffy ending}
@febuwhump
Breakfast is quieter than usual. The warm and cozy contemplative silence is gone, instead the silence today is cold and tense. Others may not notice the difference, but to you it’s as plain as the difference between a breeze in May and a breeze in November.
Usually, you and Muriel wake up- but stay in bed longer than needed. You stretch, and help each other get dressed. Words aren’t needed- at least not until you’ve both gotten food and tea in you. It’s a comfortable silence, one of mutual understanding.
Today’s silence is because Muriel woke up first, and went straight to the table, and is sitting there without food or tea. You don’t want to ask him what’s wrong. You already know what’s wrong.
Muriel sighs, burying his face in his hand. He doesn’t know you’re awake- but you don’t realize that as you come over to comfort him. You’re silent- but that makes it worse. There’s no sound, no visual cue, but he knows someone is coming up behind him. Muriel jumps from his chair- the wood screeching across the floor like a minor chord on a piano. His hands are up, and away from his chest, palms out towards you.
You both stare.
Muriel looks ashamed now- his hands awkwardly lowering to his sides and his gaze turning away- and your guilt rises to your throat choking down any words. He turns to the kitchen and starts to cook breakfast just so he can busy himself doing something. You pound your feet against the floor with a bit more purpose now to avoid startling him again.
“I’m sorry,” he says, the first words of the day.
“You have nothing to apologize for. I’m-“
“Neither do you.”
He wants you to ask.
“…bad dream?”
He closes his eyes and nods. You don’t need to press any further. You go to fetch the tea you both brewed last night, today’s flavor is black tea with bits of peppermint you splurged on at the market. You pour a cup for each of you.
“…can I gather the eggs?”
It’s an indirect way of asking if you can get the firewood, one of the only chores that are done in the morning. After a dream like that- he doesn’t want to lift any axe.
“Of course, you don’t need to ask.”
By the time he gets back with enough eggs, you’ve put the fire on and the kitchen smells strongly of cinnamon. You’re making French toast- a special treat. There’s blankets on the floor by the fire, and you’re ready to listen whenever he’s ready to open up.
He isn’t ready to open up yet. In a few hours he’ll finally feel safe to share the details- he’s had this particular nightmare several times but he hasn’t shared it with you yet. He’s afraid of what you’ll think of him, but he trusts that at this point you wouldn’t leave him no matter what he dreamed.
He is ready to ask one question.
“…sometimes I feel like… it’s been so many years since any of it happened… I shouldn’t be dreaming about it anymore…”
He sits next to you.
“…is it bad that I still dream about it?”
“…dreams are the way our mind heals,” you tell him. “The dreams are scary, and sometimes painful, but healing can be like that, too. You don’t need to be ashamed because you’re dreaming about it. It doesn’t mean you aren’t healing.”
He looks relieved, a weight off his shoulders.
And the old silence is back.
