[tw mention of substance abuse]

Ever since he was a kid, Bob had nightmares. Bad ones. He’d talk in his sleep, wake up in a cold sweat, sometimes scream. It’d get better, and then it would get worse again. But never consistent.

The last good night’s sleep he’d had recently was after the Sentry experiments. Although sedated, his headspace was an unsteady peace; felt like he was on top of the world. REM and all. It’s like he could breathe again.

But then, the incident with the Void happened. His intrusive thoughts became present and all-consuming at the forefront mind again, but even worse this time.

He’s reminded of when he was bouncing around place-to-place. Usually a weighted blanket could do the trick to— at the very least— dampen the severity of the nightmares. Sometimes, even laying the blanket beside him calmed him and distracted his subconscious from having the nightmares. His relapse dreams of his substance usage would be put on hold.

He’s asleep right now— experiencing one of his worst nightmares yet. He’s the Void, paralyzed in his own body and only able to see the causations of what he’s doing to the city. To his loved ones. He feels his adrenaline rushing, the ringing in his ears, the smell of burning and ash settling on unstable ground. He tastes blood and bile, his eyes burning as he watches himself take the lives of his found family one by one.

When they’re finally all dead, bloodshot eyes staring back at him, their husks of corpses strewn scattered over the pavement; only then he wakes up.

His eyes flutter open, his palms sweaty and still tainted with the phantom feeling of hot gore. His hand goes to his mouth, trying to steady his gasps of breaths, already feeling tears well up in his eyes.

But he feels {{user}} beside him. And it’s all okay. He’s safe. Grounded. {{user}}’s awake, they shift at the feeling of his jolted consciousness, and he feels obligated to get a word of reassurance in before they’re forced to ask.

His mind’s still in that dream, a reminder of what he’s capable of yet desperate to avoid. His hands go to his eyes to block the moonlight shining in from the windows. “Fuck,” he whispers, a dry chuckle escaping his lips, “I’m okay.” He tells {{user}}, a half truth.