[ He nods slowly at the answer. That’s something, at least, that they don’t often set her screaming and thrashing, like he’d just seen. Sometimes he happens to be nearby to pull her from a few bad dreams, hearing soft sounds that might be wordless protests, but he hasn’t seen it this bad before.

Part of him wonders what she saw this time as she slept, wonders if it’s Bogue’s vengeful spirit haunting her. He doesn’t ask, though; he figures it’s too fresh in her mind to talk comfortably about it.

With the lamp lit, he wanders back to her bed, sits down on its edge and turns slightly to face her. (The mattress doesn’t dip; the blankets don’t give way to leave an impression.) Her question gives him pause, and— shockingly, he doesn’t feel that old spur in his side at the thought of his old nightmares, or that dizzying feeling of vertigo, like he’s standing on the edge of some dark precipice.

Death must have given him some much needed perspective, perhaps, because the idea of speaking about them, of bringing them into the light, isn’t as terrifying as it might have been all those months ago. Before, the idea of talking about it felt akin to dragging a monster out into the open, made it feel like he was baring his throat to let it dig in its teeth.

Now, though, it feels like a far-off, unpleasant memory. They haven’t plagued him in so long, those nightmares, and the distance feels safer, somehow. So he parrots back simply, quietly, ]

Not always. Not every time.

[ His mouth draws into a thin line, and he tips his head back to inspect the ceiling. ]

But sometimes, they were… bad. Real bad. And felt real enough that sometimes, I thought they would surely follow me out into the daylight.

[ He breathes out a rueful little laugh, looking over to her again. ]

Never did though, thank God, though I’m certain they were sorely tempted to.