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"You failed," the mystery person tells him. "You couldn't save any of them."
Carter parts his lips, ready to beg. A cock is shoved between them before he gets the chance to make a sound. He looks up in time to see Todd Henley grinning at him.
Carter gasps awake, his lungs feeling like they’re on fire, his body slick with sweat and shivering. He moans as he realizes he had yet another nightmare. It’s the third night in a row he’s dealt with them.
Pulling his knees to his chest, he rubs at his face and tries to forget the echoes in his mind. The mysterious voice telling him he failed. The dead, open eyes of his brother. The way Elliot cried for his mom. The violence everywhere he looked. The loss of hope. The way Todd Henley smiled at him.
He tries and tries to get rid of it all, but it's like the dream was covered in glue, all sticky and stubborn.
Carter growls in frustration.
What the fuck is wrong with him? He thought he was getting better. Getting out of the safehouse. Rebuilding his life. Fixing things with Travis. They just said I love you the other night.
He’s getting better.
He’s getting better, isn’t he?
Carter fumbles for his phone on the nightstand, sighing when he sees the time. 3:07 A.M. There are two men he could turn to right now - three, if he wanted to be generous and include Maison. Chances are good all three are even awake. That said… he’s only willing to let one of the three know he’s struggling.
Within seconds of texting Casey to ask if he’s awake, Casey is calling him. Carter smiles and answers. “Hey, you should be sleeping.”
Casey scoffs. “Look who’s talking.”
“Did you sleep at all?”
“Not in the cards for me tonight. You?”
“I tried. Nightmare woke me up. Again.”
“I thought they were getting better,” Casey half-says, half-asks.
“I thought so too.” Carter lays back on the bed and stares up at the ceiling, remembering his first night in Nathan Roarke’s bed when he did the exact same. It had felt like the world was closing in on him. Like he was moments away from being crushed or suffocated - or fucking both. The same feeling is starting to crawl through him again. “I thought I was getting better.”
Casey makes a sound Carter can’t interpret. “Thought being the operative word.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’ve been in fucking denial, Carter. For fuck’s sake, we were put through hell. You refused counseling, treated group therapy like a joke, and focused all of your energy on finding Elliot and convincing everyone you’re fine.” He laughs dryly. “But you’re not fine. None of us are fucking fine. All you’re doing is running from it instead of dealing with it like the rest of us are.”
That stings. What’s worse? It’s… possibly true.
“I can’t,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “I can’t be there, Case. I can’t talk to that stupid fucking therapist who doesn’t get it, and I can’t talk to any of you guys because I’m a fucking hypocrite who was living a cushy ass life compared to everyone else. Where the fuck does that leave me, other than to just move on?”
“We all went through hell, Carter. You included.”
“Not like you. Not like Matt or fucking Nolan or any of the others. What I went through was a fucking joke compared to you guys.”
Casey huffs. “That’s such bullshit.”
“Casey-"
"No, you know what? No. Please hold."
"What?"
But Casey doesn't answer, only the sound of rustling and angry, incoherent mumbling coming through the phone. Carter frowns, but does as instructed and holds. After a few minutes, Casey knocks on something. A few seconds after that, a sleep-soaked voice Carter knows all too well says, "Casey, hey buddy, you okay?"
"Can I come in?" Casey asks, his voice slightly far away.
