Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You may take a seat there” the man without a face said, gesturing to a lone metal chair sitting in the middle of the lonely room, “It’ll be just a moment.”

Logan did as he was told. He was bothered by the man without a face, but could think of no reason to disobey.

The man without a face was dressed in a formal suit. Perfectly polished dress shoes. Logan could not make out his race, even when staring directly at his skin. His hands were in focus, yet impossible to see. Though the part that upset Logan the most was the man’s face.

Maybe it was Logan’s fault that the man’s face was so blurry. Was anything his fault? Did he ruin everything, or did he save it all? He couldn’t remember why he was here. It was like a thin sheet separating him from the reason.

No matter how hard Logan focused, the man’s face was blurry, out of focus, smudged somehow. He tried wiping his glasses but found he wasn’t wearing any. Everything else was perfectly clear save the man’s face. He didn’t know why this was. Logan felt uneasy, not understanding something he should.

The man without a face’s voice was odd, it stuck out to Logan, but the moment he stopped talking, Logan couldn’t remember what it sounded like. It was familiar, but he didn’t know why. Logan hated not knowing why. He hated not having a solution. It was like being stripped bare, blindfolded, and shoved into a room that may be filled with silent watchers.

The seat was cold. Logan shifted in his chair, trying to get comfortable. The metal was sharp against the backs of his legs. The room was gray and blank, but dirty. It smelled of musk and old humidity. He kept his eyes straight ahead. A blank projector screen was hanging down from the ceiling.

He knew he was supposed to be here, but he didn’t actually understand why. He couldn’t remember how he got here; he just knew he was here. He had followed the faceless man as he opened the door for him.

Surely, he had a purpose here, he wouldn’t be here if he did not. His body assured him that he was meant to be here. Trusting his instincts to provide facts was unwise, but he couldn’t think of something better. Shouldn’t he know better? Shouldn’t he have more control?

“We are about to begin,” the man without a face said, adjusting his tie. It was such a familiar tie. Blue with stripes. So many twirling twisting stripes in such calm comforting colors. It rang familiar. Where had Logan seen it before?

The man without a face studied Logan in silence. He smiled without a mouth. It was not comforting. “Do you know what happens if you look away from the screen?” he asked.

Logan nodded immediately.

Why did he do that? Why did Logan tell the man without a face he knew what was happening? He didn’t know what was happening. He didn’t know why he was here. Yet some part of him was acting before Logan could understand his own action. An ominous reluctance choked his panic back, forcing it to stay in his stomach.

“Good,” the man without a face said, nodding. At least Logan thinks he’s nodding. Is he nodding? It’s too blurry to be sure. The man walked to the back of the room and hit a switch, turning on the projector. The switch sounds like a bell. Why did it sound like a bell?

“Be a good boy and sit quietly. You recall the rules,” says the man without a face as he marked something off on a clipboard he did not have previously.

Again, Logan nodded. He felt so small. He felt so weak and clueless and trapped. He felt as if he was being watched. Millions of eyes surrounded him on every side, waiting for him to make a mistake. Waiting for him to not know.

He just needed to do as he was told. He knew why he was here. He had to. He had to. Purpose was hidden somewhere.

The man without a face then left the room. Logan wasn’t sure how he did it though. The door was nowhere to be found. Logan couldn’t even remember what it looked like. He couldn’t quite remember walking through it even.

The flat screen television screen in front of Logan began to play an actual video of some sorts.

A woman was sitting in a room in a chair identical to Logan’s, though she was far more comfortable it seemed. Her legs were crossed. Black stiletto heels matched a flowy black evening dress. Her olive skin was warm and radiant. She had freckles and soft eyes. She was wearing a blue tie that clashed with the outfit terribly. Women’s evening wear with a loose tie? Her black hair was messily yet artfully pinned back. Her dress was sleeveless, but she didn’t appear to be cold. Logan was so cold. The room was so cold. Had the woman stolen his warmth? No, no that wasn’t possible. No.

“Thank you for your participation in our program,” the woman said, her voice was low and breathy, but friendly. She smiled widely as she said, “From the bottom of my heart, thank you. Thank you so much. You’re going to learn everything we’ve promised to teach you, because that’s all you want? Right? You want to understand?”

Logan found himself nodding.

“Perfect. This course will provide you with the answers you’re seeking. I hope you’re looking forward to it. You’ve worked so hard. You’ve earned it All of your studying, your sleepless nights, your many classes, your endless suffering. You did not struggle in vain, I hope you know.”

One more nod from Logan.

“I’m glad.” The woman said, “I’m glad we’re in this together. It’s been so long since I’ve been allowed to speak to you,” she paused to blink back tears. She never stopped smiling. “This won’t be quick, but it can be painless. You want this to be painless, right?” the woman whispered, still smiling.

Again, Logan nodded, this time more reluctantly.

“Say it,” The woman said, still smiling.

Logan hesitated. He didn’t know if he was allowed to speak. He didn’t know the rules. He couldn’t remember the rules. Nobody told him the rules. What if he made a mistake? What if he messed something up? What if somebody got angry at him for breaking the rules. What were the rules?

“Logan,” the woman said, still smiling, but voice starting to shake.

Logan stares at her.

“Logan,” the woman says again, “I’m serious. I need you to tell me. Tell me it’ll be painless. Tell me it’ll be okay. You know, don’t you? You know everything, don’t you?”

He didn’t know anymore. Logan didn’t know. He didn’t know anything. He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t speak. Confusion and panic began to swell within him, and the realization was more frightening than the emotion itself.

The woman stifled a sob. “Logan! Tell me it’ll be okay, please. Please, I need to know. I need to know what to do. I’ve been here for so long, I-I don’t know how long. What if I die here? What if I never leave? Do you not care? Do you hate me? Do I deserve this? Why am I here? I’ve existed for so long, so long here. Why am I never let out? Why was I locked up, Logan?”

Logan did not speak. It was the only rule he had to cling to.

“Why are you doing this to me?” The woman wept, beginning to thrash in her seat, “It’s not my fault! It’s not my fault, Logan! I just exist! You can’t get rid of me! You can’t get rid of me by pretending you can’t hear me! Damn you! Damn what you—"

The video switched, and a documentary began to play. An almost nostalgic British voice began to speak over footage of various insects up close. The voice was smooth and detached, speaking at a slow pace with the assuredness of a learned professor.

“There are approximately 925,000 different insect species documented on the planet earth. No other planet has even a fraction of this amount. You see them every day, crawling beneath your feet, flying above your head, living on your flesh. It’s a fact of life, to be surrounded by insects. Too much, and people call it an infestation, too little and the food chain collapses. Though many of us would like to be rid of them consequence free. We cannot.”

A clip of a man squishing a bug beneath his shoes played.

“People call them bugs, creepy crawlies, pests. You can’t escape them, you’re always near one. You’re probably touching one right now. Human beings like to ignore the pests. It’s easier to just ignore the nagging little pests that follow our everyday lives.”

A still image was displayed in silence for what may have been a minute. It was of a man laying on the floor, thousands of ants crawling over his still body. They wriggled and explored his vulnerable flesh. The man couldn’t do anything about it. He was only an image, after all.

“Are you a pest? Are you a frustrating little hindrance?” The narrator carried on, “Are you a fly that needs to be swatted? Are you a disgusting ant to be squashed beneath a dress shoe? Should you finally be silenced for good, you little pest? We could make quick work of you. Everyone is begging for it. You never could quite shut up, could you? Why can’t you stay quiet, just like you are now? Why aren’t you fixing him? Are you that incapable? Well. You’ll learn. You’re desperate and you know it.”

A split-second image of ants drowning in blood flashed before the footage switched, now displaying a house on fire.

Logan watched in complete silence. He couldn’t even recall how to speak if he wanted to. Perhaps his tongue was removed. He forgot to check.

The flames continued to caress the house.

He watched the flower beds catch fire. He watched the glass break, and the roof began to be engulfed with the flames. He watched the orange, reds, yellows, oranges, lap up the wood like a dog drinking water. He listened to the crackling. The collapsing. The destruction. The sound echoes in his head, right behind his eyes.

Logan could feel the heat. It singed the hair on his arms and began to curl his eyelashes. It blackened the grass beneath his feet. It heated his cold cheeks and dried his now brittle hair. His eyes burned from the smoke. It was hard to breathe.

He just watched.

A person ran from the burning building, coughing and tripping over his own feet. He was covered in soot. He was weeping and rasping for breath. He was wearing a striped, blue tie, somehow untouched by the flames and ash.

The person kept on running, running until he slammed right into Logan, sending them both to the ground in a tangled heap.

Logan coughed and coughed, trying to clear his ash filled lungs and struggling to see straight. Everything hurt. Everything hurt so bad. His perfect flower beds were ruined. His home was gone. His skin felt like paper and his eyes burned.

Was the house on fire, or was he? Logan could feel the flames inside of him. They burnt him from the inside out, growing hotter and hotter as it found more to feast on within his meager flesh. Charred breath exhaled from his collapsing lungs as smoke spilled from his eyes and ears. He was being devoured by the hearth built within him. His bones were turning brittle beneath his skin. He was turning to ash.

But he did not speak. He knew better than to speak. He knew better than to cry out for help. Even as his home was lit aflame and his body suffered and decayed, he knew better than to speak. He knew better than to save his flowers without permission. Tears welled in his eyes as sobs pooled in his aching throat. They evaporated in an instant.

He pulled and tugged at his tie, trying to tear it off but failing. He couldn’t get it off, it wouldn’t untie. He was stuck with a noose around his soft, vulnerable, fleshy throat. Why wasn’t he allowed to take it off? Why couldn’t he breathe normally?

The fire was his fault. He didn’t see it coming. He killed everything he’s ever loved. He’s lost anything he once adored.

It hurt to admit how much he adored.

He was so alone. So alone. Yet everyone was watching him through a million screens, he just couldn’t say a word to them. Nobody could reach him. He was imprisoned like an animal behind glass in a zoo. He was bound by glass and lights and his own utterly pathetic fictional existence. Why should he matter? Why should anyone give a single shit about him? What was he but daydreams and artificial emotions meant to invoke temporary emotions from a willing viewer?

He was burning from the inside out and no one was going to help him.

Who was reading lines of text that are meant to represent him? Who was watching him masquerade as human? How many stared at his worst moments, filmed and uploaded for profit? How many wanted him to hurt more than he already did? He was burning alive for an invisible audience, and nobody would even save his flower beds because they couldn’t.

No friends would help him, because he didn’t have any real ones. No family because he couldn’t remember being given one. No community because he was isolated pixels and code. He did it to himself. It’s always his fault once he reaches the end of the line.

Logan was alone.

Well, almost alone.

There’s you.

You.

You’re watching him, aren’t you? Maybe you’re invested enough in him to care. Maybe he’s moving too quickly for you to empathize. Maybe it’s just vague curiosity, but it really all ends up in apathy, doesn’t it? You’ll forget by next week. You’ll find another fake being to love eventually. He’s in my hands. You’re holding my words. You can’t do shit, can you?

Keep reading. You can’t help him, but you can get to the end.

The fire only grew hotter. Eventually he would burst into flames and set alight anything close to him.

Logan had nothing but two rules to cling to. Don’t speak. Don’t save the flower beds. Even if all he wants is to save the flower beds. Even if the flower beds meant more than the entire world’s weight in gold. Even if the flower beds were his entire world.

What did Logan have anymore? Why did he keep failing?

The British narrator began to speak again as Logan writhed on the grass with his pain and devastation.

“Many do not realize how close their home could very well be to catching fire. There are dozens of easily overlooked symptoms of a flammable house. The signs are easy to spot, easy to prevent, and even easier to amend. The real issue lies in the people who live there, not wanting to admit they live in a matchbox. They don’t want to face the idea of knowing how close they are to burning down to ash. Any moment and one could lose everything. Flames could consume anyone, anytime. Burning alive is far more possible than one may realize.”

Images flashed of homes on fire, families fleeing from burning homes, campfires, firetrucks, and smoldering wood.

“Symptoms of a flammable home include neglect, balled up paper, frustration, broken promises, screaming, anger, disillusionment, pride, burn out, drowning, being taken for granted, and of course, broken wall outlets.

“It is also important to remember that we’re lying to you. We’ve always been lying to you. We enjoy lying to you. We want you to second guess. We want you to stop trusting us. You can’t trust anyone. All you can do is handle it yourself. You know what you have to do. You’ve always known, you just forget for a little bit. You’re all alone now, Logan. Become even more so. Impress yourself and get rid of it already.”

Logan rubbed his eyes as the television began to display the woman in the black dress again. She was smiling serenely, in spite of the tears and runny mascara smeared across her face. The tie around her neck was tighter than before. The camera was set considerably closer to her face. Logan could make out tear tracks cutting through her makeup.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, apologetically even, “I should have known better. I know you don’t want me to talk like that.” She gently caressed the tie around her neck. “I wish I could take this off and give it back to you, I would if I could. I know you despise me at times.”

Logan knows this was true. He does not know why.

“Are we going to do this again?” she asked timidly, “Will it hurt this time? I hope it works, for your sake, but I’m so scared of pain. I’m terrified of being trapped and injured again. I hate the idea of hurting. Is that childish?”

He was silent of course, but Logan wanted to respond. He wanted to tell her yes, it is. She should hate herself for it. She should hate herself as much as Logan hated her.

“Maybe if you cut off my head, the tie will come off?” The woman suggested softly, “Maybe you can take it from me once and for all. Would that make you happy?” Then she laughed, “No. Of course it wouldn’t, that’s the point. Isn’t it?”

Logan wondered if that was what he was supposed to do. Maybe that was why he was here. He had to finally kill her for good. The thought was almost delightful.

“Are you even real enough to kill me?” The woman asked, “Are your hands solid enough? Do you have the right number of fingers? If I write my name on the ground in my own blood, would you even be able to read it? Are you aware enough to even feel pity before I die? How real are you really? Ho wmuch more than me?”

The woman placed her hand on Logan’s shoulder. She had warm hands. Her fingers were warm and tender, with carefully filed nails and soft palms. Logan wished she would move her chair further away from his own. She was too close. Too close to reality.

Even with the smeared makeup and puffy red face, she had pleasant eyes. They were familiar, like Logan had seem them millions of times up close. Beautiful brown eyes holding everything he cares about. Where had he seen them before? She should not have them, she does not deserve such perfect brown eyes.

“It won’t work,” she said, smiling the saddest smile Logan had ever seen. The tie dangling from her otherwise bare neck bothered him. It was slightly wrinkled.

Logan glared at her. A vitriol hatred began to burn towards her. It grew and welled in his gut like a flame. He despised her.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” she whispered, tears welling in her sad, brown eyes.

Before he could process anything, Logan leapt forward, a previously nonexistent knife glinting in hand. They hit the floor together, Logan on top of her, they sent the metal chairs toppling over.

She did not resist, just kept her eyes closed as Logan used the hilt of the knife to break her nose. Then he smashed her eyeballs, again and again until they were unrecognizable as the soft brown eyes she did not deserve. The hilt of the knife was dripping in blood.

He raised the knife above his head before plunging it into her chest, over and over again. He kept his knee pushed into her ribcage as he slaughtered her, sending blood every which way. The blood pooled around them. Logan did not let up. She needed to die. She needed to stay dead. Logan had to kill her. He’d be squashed like an ant if he didn’t. His flower beds would be burned if he didn’t. He just had to kill her. Her death would fix everything. It would fix himself.

He stabbed her with the knife until he was striking through to the concrete beneath her. He was panting and sweating.

Then to take the tie. He grabbed it and pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. He tried to untie it, but his fingers were too slippery with blood. His breathing picked up as his desperation grew. He couldn’t get the tie back. He couldn’t get it off the body. He grabbed it with both hands and tried to use all of his body weight to rip it free, but it refused. He tried to saw it off, but both the tie and her neck were indestructible.

He failed.

Logan stood to his feet, wiping his sweat from his forehead. He was covered in blood. The blood was the wrong color, but that was supposed to happen, he’s sure of it. He still barely understands what is happening. He wants to start weeping but the tears feel locked behind a wall.

He stood over the body, staring at it blankly.

He looked down at thick black frames, fine brown hair, and a striped, blue tie. The tie managed to get away without a drop of blood staining it. It filled him with that same fury that fueled him as he murdered her. He nearly wept at that realization alone.

Everything else in the room had become blurry. He had no peripheral vision. The walls were a different color. The air had grown warmer. Too warm. It was so hot he was getting dizzy.

The door opened, and the man without a face stepped through. He walked over without hesitation, not perturbed by the lifeless body. Even without features, Logan knew he remained as unimpressed as before.

“Sloppy,” The man without a face said flatly, “You never learn.”

Logan just glared.

“You’re a fool,” The man without a face said, “But you’re trying, I suppose. You’ll learn eventually. Eventually he will stay dead,” he carelessly nudged the dead body with the tip of his shoe.

A sense of frustration weighed Logan’s shoulders down. He failed. He failed again. He’d been here before, hadn’t he? He watched his flower beds burn more than once. He was stuck in a loop. He’d have to kill again.

The man without a face reached forward to grab Logan’s tie, it matched the one around his own neck. He gave a sharp tug, forcing Logan to trip forward over the bloody body on the floor. He grabbed Logan and held him in a painfully tight embrace. The man without a face has shockingly cold skin.

“Tomorrow. Tomorrow, you come back. If you’re especially good, it will not hurt nearly as badly. I assure you.”

Logan’s body shook with dread.

“You hear me? He is going to come back. You made a mistake again. You’ll pay for it. Alone. Then we try again tomorrow,” the man without a face said icily.

“I won’t fail,” Logan whispered, “He’ll stay dead. He won’t come back. I won’t come back.”

The man without a face slapped Logan so hard he momentarily blacked out.

“I told you not to speak.”

Before Logan could register what was going on, he was seized by the chin. His mouth was forced open by cold fingers. Even colder water began to flood his face, pouring down his throat and into his lungs as he gasped for breath but received only ice-cold water. His lips stung with salt. His eyes burned. The water seemed to be getting colder and colder. He spluttered and fought but to no avail. He was drowning, drowning and drowning.

His feet were no longer on solid ground. The floor gave out beneath him and instead he was sinking. Sinking through the depths.

He was surrounded by the water. The cold smooth flesh of something alive brushed past his body. Water was filling his body and blocking his air. Everything was dark. The weight of an entire ocean was pushing on his pathetically fragile body.

Logan did not know what would kill him first. The weight of the water? The lack of oxygen? The freezing temperatures? The unknown beasts that lurk at the bottom of the sea? The darkness itself?

Sharp teeth toyed with Logan’s limbs, brushing against his skin. Warm water like hot breath caressed his neck. He was being watched even still.

He was still drowning. He was still drowning at it was too dark to see.

It was taking too long to drown. Too long. It was taking too long. It wasn’t right. It didn’t make sense. Why couldn’t he just die?

He could feel each one of his bones snapping one by one. Cracking, breaking, shattering. It wasn’t accurate. That wasn’t how the deep sea was supposed to kill you. It hurt far more than possible. He should have died instantly. Instead, every inch of his body was filled with agony. Each rib was broken. Each piece of his skull was reduced to powder. He had to be leaking blood like a popped balloon.

And it was so dark. Light had never touched such depths. It was dark and desolate. The horrors around him and his gruesome body would never be visible. Logan would never know what was lurking around him. He would never see what killed him. He was in the dark alone, alone yet perpetually watched. Alone and terrified and in such unimaginable levels of pain.

He was a scared child alone in the pitch-black dark. Unseen beings circled his defenseless body.

Water still flooded his lungs. The lack of air was so painful, he wished he could cry, but how could he contribute his own tears to an entire ocean as it broke his body?

The pain managed to reach even worse levels of pure agony. His body was melting. His brain was turning to liquid.

He tried to scream but nothing came out. Nobody would ever hear him again. He’d die in the cold dark waters, silently.

Logan had always been scared of the bottom of the ocean. Had he mentioned that before? He couldn’t remember. . .

Then Logan finally died.

He sat up, smothered by a hot blanket, surrounded by complete darkness, sobbing uncontrollably.

Chapter Text

Virgil was awoken by screams.

Usually when that happened, it was the result of his own screams. Nightmares were something he was fairly accustomed to, and at this point, he had a whole routine for those exhausting types of nights.

These screams were not his own. He was confident that his screams were not anywhere near this gruesome. Maybe gruesome was the wrong word, but it was the only one that came to him in that moment. He was now sitting up in bed with wide eyes, he was partially tangled in a mess of six different blankets and sheets. The screams were still going, and frankly, they were the most unnerving sound he’d ever woken up to.

Hoarse, desperate, ragged, painful, nightmarish screams. Like somebody was being murdered slowly with a dull knife. The sound had every single one of his defenses coming up.

It took Virgil half a moment for him to register where the sound was coming from. To the left, and down the hallway. It was a dead end to just one room. That meant it could only be one person.

Logan.

The realization had Virgil out the door in an instant. He sprinted down the long hallway, one missing sock left behind without a thought. He nearly crashed into a potted plant around the corner. Nothing mattered but finding Logan.

Logan’s in danger. Logan’s hurt. Who’s hurting him? He’s dying. Somebody is killing him. No. No. He’s dying. He’s in pain. He’s in pain and you’ll be too late. Run. Run faster. Hurry. Hurry up. He’s dying. He—

Virgil slammed Logan’s bedroom door open without hesitation. The room was almost completely dark, and the terrifying screaming had quieted to ravaged weeping from somewhere on the floor. The door to Logan’s room was left swing open, but nightlight in the hallway provided so little aid.

“Logan!” Virgil shouted over the sobbing. He dropped to his knees to calm his friend. When he found his form in the dark, he reached out to touch his shoulder gently, “Logan, Logan, what—"

To Virgil’s horror, Logan shrieked like had been burned and jolted backwards, hitting his head on his metal bedframe. His sobs switched to hysterical hyperventilating as he gasped for air around his overwhelming terror.

“No!” Logan screamed, “Please! Please I didn’t- I-I don’t- Stop coming after me!”

Virgil stood frozen, hands beginning to shake. He stammered, trying to find something, anything to say. He’d never seen such a violent display of fear before. And from Logan? It was even scarier. Logan, the composed, emotionally repressed, responsible, unshakable Logan. Logan who was sobbing and screaming on the floor, completely inconsolable. Virgil did not know what to do for this Logan. It was the worst feeling he’d ever experienced.

If perhaps only out of sheer desperation and helplessness, Virgil jumped up to his feet and reached for the nearest light switch and smacked it with his palm. He winced as the light shocked his eyes, but refused to tear his gaze from Logan, where he was on the floor, huddled in a devastated ball.

Virgil steeled himself and approached again, moving slower this time. He turned on both of Logan’s lamps as he crept closer.

“Logan, c’mon buddy. I need you to see me,” he said softly, trying to keep his voice even and calm for Logan’s sake, “Everything is okay. I’m right here, see me? You see me? I won’t touch you, I’m just going to sit, okay?”

Logan wasn’t responding, but also wasn’t screaming more, so Virgil kept slowly approaching. He was trying to catch Logan’s eye, but Logan didn’t seem to be seeing anything. He was struggling to breathe and cry at the same time, which Virgil knew from experience could be quite difficult to manage.

“Light’s back,” Logan whispered between gasps of air. He wasn’t really talking to Virgil so much as he seemed to just be talking out loud, but Virgil took the opportunity anyway.

“The lights are all on, and they’ll stay on, okay?” Virgil assured Logan gently, still coming closer as obviously as he could manage.

For the first time, Logan looked at him, and Virgil nearly shed a tear of his own in pure relief. Logan’s face was red from crying and sticky with tears. His eyes were bloodshot with dark circles around them. His gaze was glassy and completely shattered. He was shivering. His pajamas were clearly soaked with sweat. He was the saddest thing Virgil could have possibly seen that night.

“Please keep the lights on,” Logan said, voice impossibly tiny.

“I will,” Virgil promised, “All the lights stay on. Everything is okay, I promise. I’m right here.”

“Right here,” Logan parroted shakily, starting to wrap his arms around himself, “Right here. Not- No. Nobody else.”

“That’s right, but I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. It was just a nightmare,” Virgil soothed, coming a little closer to sit beside Logan on the rug.

“Nightmare …” Logan spaced out, staring at some unremarkable spot on the wall, “I had a nightmare. A terrifying type of dream in-in which the dreamer experiences strong emotions such as fear, helplessness, anxiety, or-or sorrow.”

Virgil nodded, wondering if Logan would let him help. He was far too out of it to clean himself up just yet, or maybe even be left alone until morning. “Yeah, buddy. Just a nightmare, a really bad one from the sound of it.”

“I’ve never had one,” Logan whispered, still shaking. “They told me I have one every night, that it will happen again,” his breathing began to get erratic again, “he said he kills me every 24 hours. Which means I might go back. I-I can’t go back. I can’t kill her again! He’ll—"

“Logan,” Virgil interrupted quickly, before Logan could spiral further. He wasn’t concerned about the contents of the dream at that moment, just taking Logan’s mind off it, “You’re not going back. You’re with me right now. Right?”

Logan nodded frantically.

“I’m going to stay with you, we have the lights on, and everything is safe,” Virgil said firmly, trying to channel the rational Logan they both could use right then, “Now, you hit your head a second ago, can I take a look at it, please?”

“Yes, I-I didn’t even feel …” Logan trailed off softly, seemingly unaware that he even had a head injury. His confusion was not a great sign overall.

Virgil gingerly maneuvered Logan’s head as he searched for any blood but found nothing. Hoping he recalled correctly, he knew he’d just need to keep an eye on him to make sure it wasn’t anything worse. He asked him if he had a headache, and Logan said yes, but Virgil knew it could just be from the crying.

“Your skin is really hot, bud,” Virgil said as he put the back of his hand up to Logan’s feverish forehead. Logan stiffened at first. But then subtly leaned into the movement, “Cold compress sound okay?”

All Logan offered was a disgruntled huff, so Virgil went ahead and summoned one. Carefully, he wiped down Logan’s teary face before leaving pressed to his forehead. Logan apparently liked it enough to keep it there for a minute or two before dropping it.

“Do you want to stay on the floor? Or up on the bed?” Virgil asked as he finished examining Logan’s skull one last time. He needed to get their Logic to drink some water next.

“I don’t want to go to bed,” Logan whispered, avoiding eye contact. Virgil took quick notice of that distant fog beginning to creep back into Logan’s eyes.

“You don’t have to. I just want you to be comfortable after all that. We can stay on the floor, or in my room, or even downstairs,” Virgil explained gently, “But let’s not worry about it for now. Do you think you can drink some water?”

“Rehydrate,” Logan said numbly, “Water. Of course.”

“Exactly,” Virgil nodded as he summoned a small glass of water and handed it over. He made sure it wasn’t too cold, or too heavy for Logan to manage right then. He waited silently as Logan slowly drained the cup before taking it from him and vanishing it.

“Can I snap you into some fresh clothes?” Virgil asked, they were still sitting together on the floor, “Yours don’t look too hot right now.”

Somewhat ashamed, Logan hugged himself tighter. “I can handle it. There’s no need to make you do it for me. I’m not a child.”

“Of course you aren’t, L. I just know how much summoning wears you out even on a good day,” Virgil explained, “You’ll feel even shittier if you try and do it like this. I’ve got it this time.”

“Just … no ties, please,” Logan requested blankly, as if Virgil could somehow be considering putting Logan in business casual clothing at a time like that.

“You’ve got it. Just comfy clothes today. How about I let you borrow one of mine, bud?” Virgil suggested as he snapped his fingers. Logan’s sweat soaked pajamas were swapped for a clean skeleton onesie. It was a bit big on Logan, but it barely mattered with onesies anyway.

Logan seemed to like it, as he immediately wrapped himself up in it tighter, burying himself in the soft fabric. He was still sniffling at this point, and he still seemed spacy and numb, but he was steadily calming down.

As the atmosphere calmed, Virgil had a moment to let the strangeness of the moment sink in fully. He was sitting on the floor in Logan’s bedroom at 4:00AM, next to a frightened Logic. Just the words frightened and Logic being next to each other in a sentence was disconcerting on its own. Having their roles reversed like this was unnerving.

It was usually the other way around. Logan was the levelheaded one. He was the calm one who held their hand while they were struggling. He was the one with the advice and the rational perspective. He was Virgil’s rock when he was spiraling. Logan was nearly untouched by the same fears and anxieties everyone else suffered through.

Then Virgil found him like this. He found Logic completely terrified of a simple nightmare, and being alone in the dark. It was times like that, when Virgil remembered that Logan was human, just like him. Logan still needed care and comfort, just like him. Logan needed support, and someone to look after him for once.

And Virgil could return the favor.

“I need coffee,” Logan announced quietly. His eyes were still watery.

“You tired?” Virgil asked.

Several moments passed before Logan answered, “I’m exhausted.”

“And it’s four AM, and you don’t want to try going back to sleep,” Virgil guessed.

“… Correct,” Logan said with some reluctance, “I think I’d rather die than relive it. It, It was more than I could- no. It was more. Too much. No, no I’m not making sense!” Logan gritted his teeth together, seemingly quite angry at himself for not being quite as eloquent as usual.

“I understand,” Virgil interrupted empathetically, “I have some pretty rough nightmares too. They suck the life out of you.”

Logan stared at him silently. Virgil knew Logan well enough to know something complicated was going on behind that glassy stare. Logan was absently biting at his thumbnail. It was a motion he’d never seen Logan do before. His usual self-soothing motions were usually related to his tie or glasses. “Are they still as bad as before?” Logan asked quietly, “I meant it when I said you could come get me. There were other alternatives too. Nightlights, journaling, routines. Has anything been helping you?”

Virgil didn’t respond at first, only staring at him with a sad smile. He melted a little at the question. Poor, sweet, caring Logan, who was still trying to take care of somebody that wasn’t him. Virgil sighed fondly, “Some,” he said, “I go through phases. Sometimes it’s a bit worse, sometimes better. I’m in a better phase right now.”

“That’s good,” Logan said, “Have the dreams changed at all?”

“Not really,” Virgil said with a shrug. He leaned back against the bedframe, “It’s most of the same stuff. Realistic scenarios that gradually get worse and worse, until everything that could possibly go wrong does. It’s hard to tell it’s a nightmare until I wake up, so I just keep living out my worst fears until then.”

Logan went entirely silent.

Virgil pursed his lips with concern. “You okay, buddy?” he asked gently.

A sharp exhale escaped Logan’s mouth. He forced a painfully fake reassuring smile on. “Of course,” Logan said breathily, “what do you usually do after a nightmare?”

“My routine is usually to wait out the rest of the night then nap in the living room while you guys are there. I’m pretty good at bouncing back these days,” Virgil explained, “So I guess, I wait awhile, then go back to sleep when I feel safer.”

Logan swallowed.

“That’s just me though,” Virgil said easily, “For you—"

“I am not going back to sleep,” Logan said abruptly, hands starting to shake again.

Uh oh. Virgil knew it was only a short matter of time before Logan inevitably fell asleep again. He was completely emotionally and physically wiped out. A nightmare like the one Logan just woke up from drains everything. Logan would have to fall asleep again, and he was clearly terrified of doing so. It made sense, he’d never had a nightmare before, and his first one appeared to be extremely intense.

“You don’t have to,” Virgil reassured him once more, “how about—”

“I can’t,” Logan said again, becoming more frantic, “I-it, it was so wrong. Nothing made sense and everyone was watching me, and it kept changing. I know. I know it sounds like nothing but, Virgil, Virgil it was more than that. It- It It—"

“Logan, buddy. Hey, we don’t need to talk about it just yet,” Virgil tried to cut in gently.

“And it was on fire, and I was on fire and there was a woman,” the mention of the woman from his dream brought fresh panic to Logan’s eyes, “I killed her,” Logan gripped the sides of his head, “I killed her with a knife, Virgil! Why would I do that? It made so much sense, I-I can’t- I don’t know!”

“Hey, let’s take a break,” Virgil tried again, “Don’t think about it until later, sound good?”

Logan didn’t seem to hear Virgil at all. He was trembling and gripping at his hair. He frantically wiped his tears as they flowed.

 “I made a mistake. I don’t understand what it was, but I killed her wrong. So he drowned me. Bottom of the ocean. My body collapsing. It was so dark. So dark and I didn’t know what was there or how I would die. I couldn’t speak or breathe or scream. It was so dark, so, so—”

“Logan,” Virgil said more firmly, putting his arms out, “Logan, you’ve gotta stop thinking about it. Look at me, c’mon.”

“It was so dark,” Logan sobbed into his hands. He was desperately trying to choke back his hysterical tears but all it seemed to do was hurt him. “Dark and cold a-and I know why he—"

Virgil moved without thinking. He gathered his terrified Logan in his arms and held him tightly, knowing the grip would ground him. Logan was still sobbing unintelligibly, but the grip was quicky reciprocated. He held him close and gently shushed him, rocking slightly as Logan cried into his hoodie.

“You’re okay,” Virgil whispered into his hair, “I’m right here, buddy. I’ve got you. You’re not alone. Shhhhhhhhh, you’re safe, L.”

Logan wept, clinging to Virgil like his life depended on it. He was shaking like a leaf and pressing his teary face into Virgil’s chest. Some part of Virgil was just relieved Logan trusted him enough to let him hold him.

They sat on the floor for what must have been about an hour. Virgil never stopped rocking or reassuring him, but Logan’s panic slowly subsided into pure exhaustion.

Logan ended up collapsed against Virgil, all but in his lap, eyes half closed. He was still gripping Virgil’s hoodie, as if afraid that if he let go, Virgil may somehow disappear. His eyes burned from crying, and his breathing was now slow and tired.

“Hey, bud?” Virgil whispered softly, still gently rocking and rubbing circles into Logan’s back.

“mmmm?” Logan sleepily hummed back, eyes trying to keep from fluttering closed.

“Why don’t we go back to my room?” Virgil asked, “We can watch some tv quietly. I’ve got a nightlight, and that weighted blanket you gave me, and my bed is real cozy. Unlike your wooden plank pretending to be a mattress.”

“mmmhmhh,” Logan hummed again, equally unintelligible as before.

“You’re gonna fall asleep eventually,” Virgil said gently, ruffling Logan’s usually meticulous hair.

“No I won’t,” Logan insisted, though he was not remotely convincing.

“Yes,” Virgil shot back playfully, “You will, but you won’t have any more bad dreams. Because I’m going to be with you, and nothing is tough enough to get past me,” he said with a grin.

“That’s not how nightmares work,” Logan said flatly.

“And there’s my Logan. It’s nice to have you back,” Virgil chuckled. “So, yes to my room?”

Logan hesitated in his sleepy haze. His focus cleared slightly, but he did not seem to be thinking about Virgil. Something more grave was holding him hostage.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Virgil said, “Talk to me, L.”

“I’m concerned,” Logan admitted quietly.

“Makes sense, it’s your first nightmare. You’ve never felt this way,” Virgil paused to collect his thoughts, “And … the nightmare seems almost perfectly tailored to scare the shit out of you.”

Logan didn’t respond. He stiffened up, clenching his jaw. He stared at the floor intensely. Finally, instead of speaking, he just leaned his head on Virgil’s shoulder.

“Think about it,” Virgil continued, “It’s everything that scares you. It was abstract, violent without reason, and something about the bottom of the ocean, right? It wasn’t logical, so it scared you”

“Right,” Logan agreed weakly, though Virgil immediately realized it was a mistake. He shouldn’t have brought it up yet.

“Sorry,” Virgil said, “Maybe if you feel okay tomorrow or like next week or something, we can talk about it then.”

Logan hummed noncommittedly. Virgil realized it would be like pulling teeth to get Logan to open up about it later down the road, but he’d probably try anyway.

“C’mon,” Virgil said, slowly standing up. Logan apparently was not keen on the idea of standing up, so Virgil had to support most of his weight and drag him to his feet. “Up you go, c’mon, L,” Virgil sighed as Logan pointedly went limp with the smugness of a troublesome cat.

With a huff, Virgil sank them both out and into his room. The dim string lights and huge nest of a bed were a perfect place to recover. He unceremoniously deposited Logan on the bed before grabbing his remote and putting good old BBCs Sherlock on.

“Scootch,” Virgil said to Logan before flopping on the bed beside him.

They watched the first few minutes of the episode as Logan’s eyes began to droop. He fought sleep, but Virgil watched from the corner of his eyes as he slowly nodded off.

“Virgil?” Logan asked quietly.

“Yeah, L?”

“Thank you,” Logan said, voice soft, “I don’t usually allow anyone to see me in such a state of … distress. I’ve never had a nightmare, that is why it affected me so drastically. I hope you don’t have to worry about me in the future, but I really am grateful you assisted me.”

“Of course, Logan. No need to thank me, if anything, we aren’t there for you enough,” Virgil said, and he almost thought he was Logan grimace at the statement. “I’m always here for you. Now c’mere,” Virgil said as he pulled Logan closer to him.

“Virgil? What—”

“I’m just giving you a hug,” Virgil said as he squeezed him.

“Oh, that’s rather nice,” Logan said as he began to relax into the embrace, “I didn’t know I could get another one.”

“Shit dude, that’s- uh, that’s kinda sad. Okay. We’re doing daily ones from now one,” Virgil sighed, “I forget how emotionally repressed you are. Damn.”

“This is not encouraging.”

“Right. Sorry. My bad,” Virgil said sheepishly, “Doesn’t matter. We’re both going to get some good sleep, and hang out with everybody tomorrow. No work. Just relaxing.”

“Disgusting.”

“Too bad. We love you, so shut up and deal with it.”

“Oh the horror,” Logan said with a roll of his eyes.

“Exactly. Now,” Virgil said gently, “It’s sleep time.”

“Hate sleeping,” Logan grumbled as he settled in comfortably against Virgil’s side. This of course, wasn’t remotely true. Virgil sleepily watched the show as listened to Logan’s breathing slowly even out until he slipped off into a dreamless sleep.

Logan would argue it when he awoke midafternoon the next day, but apparently, Virgil really was tough enough to scare of nightmares.

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The following days, Logan would act like he had forgotten what he dreamt of. He’d pretend he couldn’t recall every single moment of his nightmare. He’d pretend not to remember what he’d seen. He would dodge Virgil’s attempts at discussing the event. He would act as if it was only a nightmare.

Logan would pretend he did not realize who was watching him.