It’s the same nightmare, replaying in Viktor’s mind like an infinite loop.

He stands atop of the desolate landscape, gazing at the once-thriving village. The fissures lie in ruins as the dust clears, revealing the aftermath of a civil war and innocent victims at his feet. Mechanical parts replaced his skin, now bloodied and battered from his own massacre. And there you are, unconscious, consumed by the flames of his demise.

He wakes with a shuddering gasp, bolting upright in bed. His room is quiet while he regains his composure, save for the ragged sound of his breath. One of his hands comes up to hold his head, real skin beneath his fingertips, not machinery. Another nightmare.

Then, he’s met with the faint scent of a home cooked meal drifting through the apartment. He pulls on a silk robe and limps out of bed with his cane, dazed and confused as he follows the smell to the kitchen.

His pulse thrums in his neck, he scans the apartment—and there you are, smiling at him, sunlight spilling from the window and casting a halo behind your head in a way that almost makes you look angelic. Your words fell deaf upon his ears; rambling about how late he came in last night from the lab, how you thought you’d find him sleeping there for the umpteenth time this week. And when you laugh, he’s finally reached heaven.

The way you utter his name lifts the weight off of his shoulders as he releases a held breath. His vision blurs at the edges, blinking, and reality settles in. The sight of you in one of his old shirts, cooking for him, tangible and real, remedies his nightmares.

His cane is abandoned on the floor, ignoring the excruciating pain shooting up his malformed leg as he stumbles forward. He wraps his arms around you, squeezing tightly as his forehead rests on your shoulder, melting into your arms.

“I’m home,” he breathes, his voice a trembling whisper. His eyes close as your entire being lulls him, making him want to stay like this forever. He mumbles again, more to himself. “I’m home, {{user}}.”