Truth be told, May's not even sure what season it is.
She's lived through so many realities in such a short amount of time that she can't quite remember what a real spring day feels like, smells like. Heavy metal doors and steel walls sealed against the cold of space have locked her in from all sides for what feels like a lifetime. Digital boundaries, constructed by her worst fears. The pressure of the ocean, caught by warm hands but the comfort provided by them quickly replaced by adrenaline injected straight into her bloodstream. Survival.
Constant pain in her thigh as her wound protests every movement, in an environment where she must stay running in order to survive.
Home. Earth. A time in space that she knows, deep in her weary bones. She doesn't know if it should be winter by now. She can't remember if she missed an entire season living in that other world. She lived through so many winters there. Repeating, repeating.
Once again, they live confined by the same metal walls, only now they protect against millions of pounds of Earth and water instead of shielding them from debris and emptiness. Sometimes she stands on the landing pad, her hand hovering above the controls. She knows there is fresh air just above her here. She thinks she can smell the water, though it's probably just a trick of the mind.
She thinks of beaches and cool drinks and warm company. She wishes she could remember how many cold winters she suffered through. She remembers being alone, through the insufferable DC summers, digital and fake but suffocating all the same.
She wishes she could sleep. All the realities she’s been witness to keep blending together in her dreams, leaving her short of breath and restless in the early hours. The Lighthouse hums all day and night, but it seems loudest in her ears when everyone but the security shift is asleep. The buzzing of the lights, the continuous exhalation of the vents, water dripping from a pipe buried somewhere far above her bunk. She dreams of Bahrain, every iteration, true and false; there is no outcome absent of pain. She dreams of crashing in the gravity storm, Phil’s hand gripping her arm tightly as he turns and says it’s not your fault, Melinda. A piece of the broken Earth cuts through the Zephyr, littering the surface with the pieces of a broken prophecy.
She always wakes reaching for the warmth of a body that is not there, her fingers only grazing the cool surface of the wall. Most nights, she stares into the darkness until sleep washes over again. If it’s closer to six am than not, some nights she’ll drag herself down to the gym they’ve set up. She watches Piper and Davis spar, their moves refined, faster, deadlier than their first days of training under her.
Other nights, she finds herself slipping on a jacket and moving down the hall towards his room. This has been happening more and more; exhaustion tugs at her limbs but she moves forward until she’s standing at his door.
She knocks, this time. Bahrain, Cambridge, torture disguised as experiments, following him through an impossible gate, flooding hallways, cold, cold space.
Her dreams have woken her early tonight. It is barely past one, but after a few seconds, the door slides open in front of her.
“Hey,” Phil says. His voice is rough, but comfort washes over her all the same.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she doesn’t mean to say, her words barely louder than a whisper.
“Come on,” he says, pulling her inside by the sleeve of her jacket.
She sits on the edge of his bed, reaching for his arm as he starts moving towards the desk chair. He sits next to her, space between them. Her hand falls to the mattress, filling the empty space, the back of her hand pressing against his thigh; his knee relaxes until it rests against hers. It is quiet; there is no water dripping, no buzzing lights. Everything is still, here.
“Do you dream about it?”
She doesn’t specify which of the impossible things they’ve lived through she’s referring to. She thinks he knows. She thinks she knows the answer, either way.
“I dream about making soap more than I’d like, if we’re being honest.”
She laughs, closing her eyes. She smiles when his hand joins hers between them, threading their fingers together. She knows it’s his real hand; they radiate heat, together.
“I remember all the people I hurt. I remember not knowing you,” she says, squeezing his hand.
She can feel his eyes on her. He waits.
“I don’t want to remember not knowing you there,” she finally says, meeting his gaze. He’s looking at her so openly that she almost has to look away.
She’s tired of turning away. This time, she doesn’t. She lets herself study him—the way his eyes are continually drawn to her lips, the tired hunch of his shoulders, the black veins sketching the skin just below the collar of his shirt.
She lifts her other hand to pull the fabric aside, smoothing her fingers over the death etched into his body; his lingering, festering wound. She wishes she had fought him, forced Reyes to pick her instead, let the fire rage through her instead of letting it burn through the very thing that was holding him together.
She comes back to herself when he lifts her hand away from his shirt and presses her palm to his cheek instead, leaning into her touch.
“You won’t lose me again,” he says, and she pulls him towards her, breath caught in her throat as he kisses her.
For the first time in weeks, the Lighthouse is silent. It is blocked out by the pounding of her heart, the heat of his mouth against hers, as the worry constricting her chest starts to ease. She never wants to let him go again.
Her hand moves from his cheek to the back of his neck as he pulls their joined hands into his lap, the backs of her fingers resting against the soft skin of his stomach as his shirt rides up. He is the one to finally break away, breathing heavily, but only moves enough to rest his head gently against hers. She takes her hand from his and slips it beneath the edge of his shirt, resting her hand flat against his stomach. She can’t help but smile when his side jumps beneath her touch, as he lets out a shaky breath against her cheek.
“Will you stay?”
He seems to hesitate, unsure; as if he’s asking for forgiveness. She kisses him again, lightly.
“I’ll always be with you, Phil,” she says.
“I love you,” she says, the way she should have the first time.
He relaxes against her, lets her pull them down until they’re lying together. He reaches down blindly to grab the blanket tangled at the foot of the bed, wrapping it around them as she fits herself against him, head tucked under his chin.
When they’re settled, legs tangled together and his arm wrapped around her, hand running over her spine, she finally feels him relax completely.
“I love you,” he says, kissing her forehead.
His words are the only thing she hears all night long. It’s the best sleep she’s had in years.