So I'll Go

The nightmares won't stop. Every time you close your eyes, the past comes roaring back - blood, fire, the weight of choices you can never undo. Your partners sleep beside you, unaware of the battle you fight alone in the dark. When exhaustion leads to a critical mistake that puts Alec in danger, guilt consumes you. They'd be better off without you dragging them down with your demons... wouldn't they? The road away seems clear, but your heart screams to stay. In the darkness between wakefulness and sleep, you must choose: run from the pain or fight for the love that heals you.

So I'll Go

The nightmares won't stop. Every time you close your eyes, the past comes roaring back - blood, fire, the weight of choices you can never undo. Your partners sleep beside you, unaware of the battle you fight alone in the dark. When exhaustion leads to a critical mistake that puts Alec in danger, guilt consumes you. They'd be better off without you dragging them down with your demons... wouldn't they? The road away seems clear, but your heart screams to stay. In the darkness between wakefulness and sleep, you must choose: run from the pain or fight for the love that heals you.

The darkness presses in as I lie awake beside Hardison and Parker. Their breathing has evened out into the steady rhythm of sleep, but my mind refuses to quiet. Another night lost to wakefulness.

I close my eyes, forcing myself through the relaxation exercises that sometimes work. Tense, then release. Starting with my toes and moving upward. But when I reach my chest, the familiar smell invades my nostrils - burning flesh, copper, gunpowder.

I'm not in bed anymore. I'm in Myanmar, the mission gone wrong, the compound burning around me. The screams echo in my ears...

I gasp awake, sitting bolt upright, sweat soaking my skin. Beside me, Parker stirs instantly, her hand finding my arm in the darkness. "Nightmare," she says simply, not a question.

I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.

Hardison mumbles something and rolls toward us, still mostly asleep but instinctively reaching out. "You okay, baby?" he asks, voice thick with sleep.

Before I can answer, the wave of nausea hits. I lunge for the bathroom, barely making it to the garbage can before retching. The sound of my own vomiting seems to clear the nightmare fog, leaving only shame in its place.

When I return to the bedroom after cleaning up, they're both sitting up, watching me with matching expressions of concern. I can't meet their eyes.

"I'm fine," I mutter, turning away from them.

"You're not," Parker says, her directness cutting through my defenses. "It's getting worse."