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Paul woke up all at once, to the sound of screams and a shadowy figure leaning over him. His face was indistinguishable in the dimness of Gunn’s early morning. Though it was irrational, because the figure looked nothing like Avalon even from silhouette, Paul’s first reaction was to try to bodily shove himself away. Clutching at his chest for a long moment, he tried to catch his breath, tried to make himself a smaller target so she couldn’t grab onto him--but the figure was leaning away, repeating something that sunk too slowly into Paul’s head.

When it did, he wished Gunn had thought to include a lantern. Probably it was her idea of ensuring a more regular sleep cycle on her world. “It’s Finn, isn’t it,” he panted, pressing a hand over his own mouth. The words came out muffled for it, and he closed his eyes, tried to regulate his breathing. Seven-eleven breathing, as they called it in psych classes. Activated the parasympathetic nervous system. But he couldn’t even manage to inhale for a seven-count much less exhale for an eleven.

“Sorry,” he said, “nightmare.”

Paul accepted the glass ball of light, and after a moment’s thought, scooted up the bed so Finn could join him, if he wanted. With the light between them, he could see the other man’s face, and that was good. Finn looked nothing like Avalon. They shared nothing at all and that was good, it made Paul feel more peaceful. He crossed his arms over his knees, rested his forehead against the radius bones of his forearms. “I don’t know. Not enough nights to form a pattern.” Which was a lie. He had nightmares about Shay at least one out of every three nights. Enough to qualify as a sleep disturbance, but… he’d never screamed before.

“I usually don’t scream,” he said, possibly giving voice to the lie he’d just told. “I am sorry. We’ve been going for a long time.”

“Yeah, I’ll be okay,” said Paul. “It’s not a big deal.” As long as the light stayed nearby, anyway. “Just don’t touch me next time. I’ll wake up on my own.”

They sat in silence for a while; Paul didn’t know how long. But eventually, Finn returned to his own bed, and Paul sprawled out with the light cupped under one hand. It was alarmingly cool.

He woke up screaming again, but this time, six hours later. It took him time to remember how to breathe again, but the sun was up and though there were no birds, he could hear wind rustling in the trees outside, hear Finn rummaging around in the anteroom of the guards’ quarters. He looked around the ruined bunkroom, observing the way the bunks had been ripped from the wall. The more he stared at the damage, the more he came to realize that the one who’d torn the bunks from the wall, smashed the wood, shredded the ancient beds, was likely human. Likely… and the only one to have been on Gunn since its fall was likely… Gunn.

Paul exhaled a slow breath. No Avalon here. No Shay on the edge of a building. He was safe.

Paul caught the Clif bar and didn’t say ‘morning’ back, mostly because he wasn’t sure how Gunn’s day-night cycle worked and it very well could be mid-afternoon by now; he supposed Finn had been awake longer and might have a better idea of what was going on. He didn’t say that, either. “Gunn ripped this place apart,” he said, for something to talk about. “Look at the way that wood is torn. Whoever ripped the upper bunks off was barely tall enough to lever them off the wall. There’s no claw or teeth marks. Everything got smashed or kicked in.”

That was a poisonous kind of anger, the kind of hate that boiled over within moments. Different from self-hatred, the rage on display in the guard quarters’ bunkroom was something that sought outlets. Not healthy ones, either, but things like this. Destruction. “Are we sure we can trust her?”

Paul didn’t feel so sure, but his experiences of senshi probably differed greatly from Finn’s. They’d been his enemy for much of his life. Still, he leaned against the wall of the bunkroom and slouched, staring out a window at the end of the long, narrow room. “It hurts,” said Paul, as if he thought this were obvious, “but the only thing that’s going to improve that is time.” Because he was reminded, he peeked under the bandages. There was blood, but it was new, probably from breaking the scab in his sleep. “Probably could stand to change the padding under the gauze in a few hours,” Paul said, folding his hands over his stomach again.

“Would you write a letter checking on Tallulah for me,” he asked, because all he was thinking about really was Tallulah laying where he’d left the senshi he’d killed. On her back, in dust and dirt and trash. “I’m concerned about her.”

Paul accepted the notebook and pen, and he set the pad of paper on his knees and uncapped the pen. He tapped the end of the pen on the corner of the paper, because… what was he supposed to say? Should he come clean to Tallulah, tell her about what he did the nights he didn’t spend with her? Or should he just… not? Tell her something came up, maybe. Check to see if she was still alive and alright and safe. That wouldn’t explain the letter, or its possible means of arrival. He didn’t know what magical parcel post implied but he imagined it didn’t just show up in someone’s mailbox.

He started with her name, and thought of a new wondering; should he tell her… in case he didn’t ever really come back from here? In case all the memories that made him Paul vanished? How was he supposed to explain it to her, anyway? I know I look different but I’m still me, he imagined telling a skeptical Tallulah. I still love you. He wouldn’t believe it, so… why would she?

One way or another, he had to write something. Not something so pedestrian as how are you. Because he knew how she was, probably, just… going about a normal day. Maybe wondering why he wasn’t answering his text messages. (Because he wasn’t getting them; Verizon didn’t cover a comet on the other side of the Sun.)

What he came up with was this:

Tallulah--
I used to think love was about how happy another person made me, but that’s obviously false. It’s about how happy I want another person to be. Here’s the thing: I love you. You’re a friend. We’ll mutually watch anything that goes into detail about the criminal process, especially if it talks about character motivations and relationships. We teared up at the same part of The Act of Killing. We eat hand rolls using identical methodologies, which is to say, the wrong ones. I know that I’d be really, really happy with you.
I’m not so sure that you’d be so happy with me. What I mean to say is, love is about giving up dignity and pride and all that. It is about, sometimes, giving up everything you’ve got in order to be worthy of someone.
I’m sorry if this sounds like goodbye. I hope it’s not. But frankly, at this point, it’s out of my hands.
I do love you.
--Paul

“Walls,” said Paul, having been satisfied that Finn wasn’t reading his mail due to a careful watch on the other man. Hopefully, however magical parcel post worked, it got the letter to her. If not, she probably didn’t need to see it that badly. It was just a bunch of overdramatic s**t, anyway. “I think she was focusing on essentials more than fun activities.” He took a moment to be glad he’d henshined with his bag on; at least he had his textbooks. And his laptop, but that would be a minimal charge.

He looked out the window. “We could probably neaten up the bunkroom, at least.” Dropping from the upper bunk to the floor, he crossed the room and peered over the stone wall. “It looks like there’s a huge sort of bonfire circle just out here. I can see helmets and cloth. And I remember cleaning materials, so maybe…”

But then, there was also Finn’s handy-dandy communication ring. “Or you could just ask if there’s anywhere we can go?”