"Shhh, shh, it's all right," Corrigan murmurs against Kurt's ear, feeling that moment when they jolt from the nightmare to the waking world, feeling the way the hellish visions cling to them for a moment before they recognize his scent, his voice, his touch. The first few days Kurt had been home were without any sort of flashback or terror lingering from their long captivity, seemingly miraculously chased away by the pack's warmth and love. They'd slept a lot, waking to eat or feed Holly or bask in the safe embrace of one of the wolves, before drifting off again. Naseer had bandaged their wounds (mutely, keeping focused on his task, not shivering apart until he was well out of Kurt's earshot) and the others had hunted with renewed vigor for enough food to last their little family through the winter. Kurt had been awash in pain and discomfort, so any touch was kept soft, gentle, not too strenuous.
And then -- they'd suddenly awoken sobbing and screaming, sending Holly into a feverish wail in response and alerting the entire pack to snarling ferocity. Since then, the dreams had been nightly, and while Kurt apologizes and tries to put on a brave face during the day, every time the sun goes down, Corrigan can see the tight fear in their eyes as they prepare to return to that place again.
He doesn't begrudge them it, of course -- it's not their fault, they don't want to keep going back again and again. But their fractured, tormented mind, finally allowed to rest, keeps summoning the images over and over, in stunning clarity. So Kurt awakens and sobs and apologizes and clutches at Corrigan as they cry. And he strokes their shorn hair -- neatened by Leo's careful hands, curling slightly at the ends, falling around their face in soft waves, now that they're clean and warm and fed -- and he murmurs his apologies and he asks, then as every night, steeling himself for the answer: "Do you want to talk about it?"
Because sometimes the answer is "no", and Corrigan must sit with his fervent need to find and identify every threat to his beloved, unsatisfied. And sometimes the answer is "yes", and Corrigan must sit with the knowledge that even knowing the threat does nothing. He can't hunt down a memory. He can't tear the throat out of a ghost.
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And then -- they'd suddenly awoken sobbing and screaming, sending Holly into a feverish wail in response and alerting the entire pack to snarling ferocity. Since then, the dreams had been nightly, and while Kurt apologizes and tries to put on a brave face during the day, every time the sun goes down, Corrigan can see the tight fear in their eyes as they prepare to return to that place again.
He doesn't begrudge them it, of course -- it's not their fault, they don't want to keep going back again and again. But their fractured, tormented mind, finally allowed to rest, keeps summoning the images over and over, in stunning clarity. So Kurt awakens and sobs and apologizes and clutches at Corrigan as they cry. And he strokes their shorn hair -- neatened by Leo's careful hands, curling slightly at the ends, falling around their face in soft waves, now that they're clean and warm and fed -- and he murmurs his apologies and he asks, then as every night, steeling himself for the answer: "Do you want to talk about it?"
Because sometimes the answer is "no", and Corrigan must sit with his fervent need to find and identify every threat to his beloved, unsatisfied. And sometimes the answer is "yes", and Corrigan must sit with the knowledge that even knowing the threat does nothing. He can't hunt down a memory. He can't tear the throat out of a ghost.