Characters: Dom, Arthur, Mal
Warnings: dark, morbid, that kind of stuff
Word Count: 240
Meddling with dreams was like playing with water. There was science involved, all things exact and measured to make things grow, branch, disappear, all in line with one’s wishes; and there were boundaries, which one did not cross because dreams, like water, hid enough power to ruin and unravel. Dreams were infinite and infinity was chaos.
Or so Dom had preached when they first had met. Arthur still mocked him about it until now, mainly considering just how far he would push at those boundaries himself every single time.
“The trick,” Dom always said when confronted, “is to know when to push.”
Except when Arthur got shot in the knee, or stabbed in the stomach, or thrown from a three-story building, because when Arthur did not die, the dream turned into a nightmare. To kill him became priority, and when Dom finally returned, Arthur would still be there—un-shot, un-stabbed, un-dead—and they would part ways hastily before he could look at him in the eye again.
Later that night, the elevator of his dream would stop on the fourth floor and Mal would greet him with a smile, her fingers crooked under the angle of Arthur’s chin. The gate would not open and the elevator would not move as Dom stood there, watching her doing what she had done, over and over and over again.
When he woke up, all he could remember was his screams, not Arthur’s.