When someone was woken up suddenly, from a noise, a movement, or even internal causes like a nightmare straight
out of a horror movie, there was that moment of confusion. That moment of confusion shook him even more,
because it was twice he was experiencing it, as the dream slowly faded away back into the mists of his mind, he still
remembered that false awakening.
He didn't speak, he reached over to where he saw a book of matches from the last inhabitant, probably used for the
stove, and lit one, holding it to his finger until he swore and blew it out.
Okay, he was really awake this time. Never hurt to be sure.
He nodded then and cleared his throat. "I woke you up." He realized. "Sorry." Still clearing cobwebs of sleep from his
mind.
"Hector!" She snatched the matches and the still dying one out of his hands and, for just a moment, the look on her
face belonged to a mother who's child was playing with a hammer. She set them all out of his reach on the night table
and then turned back around. Shifting so that one of her legs rested against his and she was mostly facing him. She
took the hand he'd just tried to set on fire in one of her hands and cupped his cheek with the other one. Dipping her
chin so she could meet his eyes with her own. Ignoring the comment about waking her the way she usually did when
someone was saying something that didn't belong. Her face softened than and she exhaled slightly. Thumb moving
lightly across his cheek.
"Hector. What just happened?" She asked gently.
"What?" He asked, confused as she took the matches away. It wasn't like he was trying to set them on fire. He just
wanted to make sure he was awake. He'd been fooled once before.
"I-I don't know. Nightmare, bad dream, I guess." He said, shaking his head. "I get them. Haven't gotten them for a
while, but they come back I guess." At least this one hadn't featured his mother. But it had featured Andi. And that
bugged him. Big time. He took a breath. "You're right. It's over. I'm awake. All done."
Until the next time he closed his eyes. He wondered if there was any coffee in this place. He'd even take instant.
She watched his face. Watched his eyes. And her own softened as a result. Gentle she combed her fingers lightly
through his hair, letting her nails trail before she leaned forward and rested her forehead against his for a very long
moment. Finally she pressed a soft kiss to his forehead and then slid out of bed and walked to the kitchen. Got a
glass of ice and a towel as well as her pack. Walking back over and settling down on the edge of the bed.
Competent, she wrapped one of the ice cubes in the towel and gave it to him. Then she dug a bottle of water out of
her pack and filled the glass, handing that over as well.
Nightmares... Ghosts in the darkness... She'd had her own in the camp. After - after she'd gotten back. Whenever
Hector wasn't around. Waking ones sometimes even when he was. And - what she'd seen, lived with, let into her own
mind... none of that was even half of what Hector's life exposed him to. Before and after the army. She watched him
for a moment and then stood back up. Finding her clothes and starting to put them back on. Finding jeans and a
shirt for him as well that she laid on the bed. There was no clock in the building and Andi wasn't wearing a watch. But
she knew it was late. Still close to the middle of the night most likely.
"Come on." She offered him gently, pulling on a shirt. "It’s a nice night for a walk."
It was with automatic movements that he dressed, pulling on what was laid out for him and then he stood up and ran
his hands through his hair to smooth it back, push it back, with various degrees of success. He drank the water and
held the ice to the forming blister as he stepped outside with her.
"I wasn't setting myself on fire." He said, needing to let her know he wasn't nuts. At least not completely. "I, ah, I woke
up once, in the dream. So I wanted to make sure I was really awake this time."
Or God knows what would come out of the closet.
She slipped her hand around his waist and guided them down to the water's edge where the waves brushed up to
lightly push at their bare feet. Realizing belatedly that she'd given him the dress shirt to put back on with his jeans.
"Most people simply pinch themselves." She commented calmly. She'd hardly thought he was literally trying to light
himself on fire. There were more effective ways to do that than with a single match and a finger. But she wasn't
exactly used to people intentionally burning themselves when they first woke up either. Most people she knew
avoided pain when it was possible and it bothered that part of her buried deep inside that was terrified by how
careless he was with his life.
The little running birds were gone and the only sounds now were the waves and the occasional sound of leaves
moving in the breeze coming lightly off the water. The moon was bright enough to cast shadows and illuminated the
edges of a thousand tiny lapping waves that pushed their way toward the shore and than returned to the sea with a
long, wistful sigh. For a long time, Andi was quiet. Finally she rubbed her hand lightly against his side.
"Tell me?" She asked softly. And whether it was about the dream, the cause of the dream, his nightmares in general
or simply the weather she didn't specify.
He shook his head. "One of my first Delta missions, we were in South America, where a drug cartel was holding a
couple of villages hostage. By the time we got there....it was too late." He said vaguely, which was all he could
manage really. "They burned it to the ground, the people were still inside their huts. We were late by a day, that's it.
Red tape, that sort of thing. Then I was in a hospital, then I thought I woke up, except I didn't....it's the same theme all
the time really, locations really don't matter. Bet your dreams are better."
She leaned her head against him as they walked. Listening to his voice as much as what he said. Reached over to
rest her free hand over his stomach.
"Most of the time." She answered. Silent for a while and looking out over the water. "Except when I wake up and - he's
watching me. Or I'm sorting through a pile of burned bodies looking for someone I love. Or I'm - remembering and
she's screaming. Before that it was just watching blood pour out of every orifice of someone I cared about. Or waking
up surrounded by shadows without eyes and something burning behind them. Most of the time it’s better though.
Places in Africa I love or my friends when I was a child. Grandda in his flat in London, laughing over the latest
Pratchett book. Mum and Da. You." She rubbed her hand lightly against his stomach. "When they're not just
completely out of bounds and involving elephants in airplanes or some such." There was another pause and then
she shook her head slightly. "I think one of the scariest things about dreams is what they put together inside your
mind out of all the bits and parts you don't want meeting." She raised her hand to rest it over his heart. Looking up at
him. "I'm sorry about the villages." She told him softly. There was nothing that could be done now, maybe not even
then... but it had scarred him deep inside. Taught him some lesson that his mind wasn't willing to let go or ever forget.
"Well, look on the bright side." Hector said, looking out into the sea as mists rolled over it from the humidity. "At least
at the end of the day you can say you've done some good, right?" He shook his head. "What can I say? I know you
heard, hell half the neighborhood heard most of it. I just let him get to me, I don't know why. Guess it's because when
push comes to shove, he is my father."
She stopped walking to turn around and step into his arms, winding her own around him. Not showing any surprise at
the 'switch' in the conversation. Resting her head against the curve of his shoulder, she exhaled, arms wrapping
closer.
"I know." She answered softly. She paused. Shook her head gently. "I've never heard such cruel things said before.
How could he say such hurtful, hateful things?"
"Because he's a drunk." Hector said with a shrug. "And just because they're hateful and hurtful doesn't mean they're
wrong. I bet Hitler didn't much appreciate being called a genocidal madman after all. But no more screaming matches
with the family drunk for a long time. No one's walked away from him before. Last family party I sprawled him out over
the table where the cake was. Dee was less than pleased."
The conversation was diverging. And it could go either way. She wanted them both. Gentle she backed them up until
they were above the waterline and then sat down. Drawing him down with her so that she was sitting facing him with
one of his long legs on either side of her. Her eyes moved over his face, his dark eyes. Soft she put her hands, palm
flat over his heart, edges of her fingers curling to catch at his shirt. Lifted her chin a degree in the night air.
"Which ones weren't wrong?" She asked softly. Watching his eyes.
He had to think about that for a minute. "I've never killed a baby." He said finally. "That one is wrong. And you're not
a tramp. I didn't pay you. That's....really about it. Well, that and if I was ever put in a position where I had to depend
on them for anything, I'd rather eat the barrel of my gun." He was silent for a beat. "Hey, you asked."
Something in her chest started to ache.
"Hector..." She whispered his name, reaching up to gently cup his face in her hands. Resting her forehead against
his she added: "My Hector" in a soft breath. Then she drew back enough to look at him. Meeting his eyes.
"And the rest of that? You think that's true?"
He sighed. "Andi, I do kill people. In all the time I've been in the military, I'm willing to bet that I've killed more people
that the most notorious serial killer. I do know how to slit a person's throat, or break their necks, and all other sorts of
not quite dinner conversation type of things. I don't know what you want me to tell you. He's not wrong. He may be
looking at it from a very dark point of view, because he hates me, but that doesn't mean he's wrong."
"Hector..." She slid her hands into the hair at the back of his neck. Tipping her head.
"Do you think I don't know that?" She asked, brows coming down as she met his eyes. "Do you think I just say I
understand but inside I don't? That I ignore that part of you because it doesn't fit into what I want?" She didn't think
that all. And she didn't think that was what he thought either. But she was willing to walk through this if it was before
the rest. "No. Killing people isn't something I think is good. But sometimes, its necessary." Maybe not the 'civilized'
thought but she'd grown up in Africa. She knew what evil people did to others. And courts and jail time weren't
existent where she'd been born. Not then. Not now. She brushed his nose lightly with hers and met his eyes. "I worry
about you. I worry about what it does to you. But there's a world of difference between you and someone that hunts
down small children or helpless women just because they can. Because they enjoy it. In civilized countries they send
out the police. But in most of the world, no one stops them. You do. You stop the nightmares that walk around in
human form. The shadows in the night that terrorize hundreds of children and their families. And you stop them so
they don't come back and start again." It was a vicious philosophy. But Andi hadn't grown up knowing the police men
were walking the streets or that the locks on the doors would stop the nightmares from coming in. And she didn't
believe in 'justice' systems the way a child from a more civilized country would. Over half the countries in Africa were
run by evil men and organizations that propagated the nightmares she'd grown up with. "What you do is good." She
touched his cheek lightly. "You know it is. And - he knows it is too. That's why he mocks it. Because he can't be proud
of you. He's wrong about that, you know." She said it softly, sad eyes meeting his. "And he's wrong about the rest of
it too."
"This isn't Africa." He said seriously. "There hasn't been a war on this soil since....9-11 and Pearl Harbor don't even
count, they were one shot deals. Actual war? Civil War I think, and we were fighting each other. War of 1812 maybe.
And we can't win, the military. If we go in and stop something, and there are casualties...there are always casualties...
we're sticking our noses where it doesn't belong. If we don't, well, we're being self centered and we don't care about
anyone else...or it's all about oil...or something stupid like that. And no one even really knows what I do. No one here
anyway. Something's sticky, they call us in. CIA needs ground support or cover fire, they send us. I've been to places
that aren't even on any political map, places people like my father don't have the security clearance to even know
about. So he doesn't understand. I know that. He can't understand. But he also ran from the military. He was one of
the last draft numbers called in Vietnam, and he ran. He hates the military, always has. And I went and joined up.
Chews on him I know."
He sighed. "But that's not even what it’s about. It goes back further. My mother died and I lived. Probably should have
been reversed."
Andi's eyes suddenly went fierce and narrowed down. Her hands on his face stayed soft but it was the soft you'd use
to hold a child steady just before an inoculation. She met his eyes with her own.
"Don't you ever say that." Her voice was soft and low. "Don't you ever say that again. Not even if you're just telling me
his point of view. Hector..." She shook her head. "Please." She rested her forehead against his, voice softer still.
"You don't know how badly that scares me. That I know that thought is living inside you and how badly it scares me."
"You asked." He said simply. "And that's why my father hates me. Best I can figure out anyway. His life would have
been so much better if my mother had lived. And the only reason I lived was because she died. She was...she was
thrown into the windshield..." He said, his eyes going blank, the way eyes did when someone was remembering
something, as if it were replaying right before their eyes and they couldn't look away. "She was thrown into the
windshield, and came flying back, breaking her seat. I had started to go forward, but her seat stopped me, trapping
my leg. I looked it up, in school, how many pounds of pressure it takes to break a femur. Around 1500 pounds or so.
Mine broke in two. If she didn't hit the windshield, she would have lived. But if she hadn't hit the windshield, and
ricocheted back, I wouldn't have." It all added up in his mind.
She shut her eyes. It wasn't what his father believed that scared her. Or what he thought his father believed. It was
what he believed, buried right in the core of him. That was what scared her.
And what broke her heart was the little boy that had carried a responsibility that wasn't his all his life. And a father
that had run from doing the same thing. And the grown man that bore both now.
"Hector." She slipped her hands back to cup his face. Tipping it so their eyes could meet again. Waiting until he
came back from where his mind had gone. It broke her heart for him. "I'm so sorry, my love. I wish there was a way to
make it different." She shook her head and swallowed against the tightening in her throat. "It’s not fair. It’s not fair
your mother died. It’s never fair when a mother dies shielding her child. A split second's difference and it might have
been both of you instead of just her. Or it might have been her living. Knowing that she'd lost her only son and
spending the rest of her life torturing herself with what she should have done differently to save you." She touched
his chin gently. Held his eyes. "But I will tell you - that if it were me - and I were given the choice, any opportunity at all
- I would have spent anything and offered everything to let my son live. To give him the chance to see the sun again
with his dark eyes and to know he had the opportunity to grow up into the man I'd always imagined he'd be one day.
Maybe your mother didn't get the choice. But you're her son. And that night she got to show you that you meant
more than anything else in the world to her." She exhaled softly. "That you still do."
He sighed and shook his head. He heard her words, but they had a while to go yet before they could get close to
penetrating the years and layers his father's words had inside of him. Many years, many layers. Starting from the
moment he woke up in the hospital and realized that, no, Mommy was not okay.
"That's a way to look at it." He said. "I see it as a stupid, stupid senseless accident. And everything would have been
completely different, I would have been too. He would have been." He shook his head again. "This is why I avoid my
family. They dredge things up that are best left at the bottom of everything."