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John hadn’t had nightmares about Claudia for years. He hadn’t had nightmares at all in years. Maybe it was the werewolves. Maybe it was Chris. But when he sat bolt upright in bed, the remains of a shout making his throat feel raw, he wasn’t entirely caught by surprise.
He had hoped the nightmares would be about something else, though. Anything else but her.
It made him feel bad for thinking about Chris. He thought about Claudia when he wondered why Stiles had gone for so long without coming to him with the truth. Was he that untrustworthy? Did Stiles think he’d be angry? Angrier than when all he knew was that Stiles was being weirder than Stiles-weird, creeping out at night more often, creating more trouble than usual? Or did Stiles just have no faith in him? He thought about Claudia, and he wondered, would Stiles have told her? Or would she have figured it out on her own? He was grateful, in a way, that she had died before all of this paranormal shit had happened, because at least he wouldn’t have to watch her get her head torn off by a werewolf or her throat torn out by a vampire or any other variation of horrible crap, all of which had been appearing in his dreams in the last few weeks. But those nightmares had all been at home.
This one, John remembered abruptly as he stretched his neck (sleeping on a couch did him no favours) happened at Chris’s house, and Chris was storming in with a loaded gun, still wearing his pajamas and looking far too awake for a guy who probably got jolted out of sleep by an entirely unnecessary shout that John would now have to explain.
Chris took one look at him, sheepish and groggy, and lowered his gun. Then, a look which was much too understanding crossed his features, and he was a normal human being again, daring to show his tiredness.
‘Nightmare?’ Chris asked.
‘Yeah,’ John said simply. Chris disappeared to the kitchen. When he returned, he had left the gun, and was holding two steaming mugs.
‘It’s just tea. You’ll want to get a few more hours sleep before tomorrow.’ There was a silent suggestion there, that they were going to keep hunting as soon as the sun came up, and John thought about the two victims they had already found and couldn’t help but agree.
He took one mug and cradled it, testing the heat. Chris inhaled as if to start a sentence, then exhaled and lifted his milky tea to his lips, staring mutely at the carpet.
‘It was about Claudia,’ John said finally. He rolled the mug slightly between his palms, letting it warm his hands. ‘Ever since that business with Deucalion and Jennifer … every now and again, maybe once or twice a week. I can’t make it stop.’
The words came out blunt rather than plaintive. He was grateful for that at least, that he could be matter-of-fact about it. There was a certain plain intimacy that came from drinking tea at something like 3 in the morning with another guy, a parent, someone who knew what it was like to roll over in bed and remember, oh, that’s right. She’s not here any more.
Chris nodded slowly, and kept drinking. John took a sip from his own. It was a little sweeter than he was used to, and a little stronger too, but Chris had used loose-leaf rather than teabags and no matter what Stiles said, there was a difference in taste.
‘I thought I saw her … Victoria, I mean,’ Chris started haltingly, as if there was any confusion, ‘just around the house. Going into the bathroom, or the kitchen, or in the garage getting out of the car. I’d keep seeing her out of the corner of my eye. That was a part of why we moved, after we got back from France. Allison still sees her sometimes.’
Then he stopped, as if he’d said too much. There was something remaining. A twinge of embarrassed inquiry at the inflection at the end of Chris’s question, asking “does it get better after a while?” And John didn’t say anything, because no, not really. It stays that way for a long time.
And sometimes all you can do to make the ghost disappear is drink until your vision narrows, but Stiles suffered for that, John knows he did, however vehemently Stiles denies it, and he realizes as he thinks about it that the nightmares are only coming on nights that he drinks.
He sips at his tea and wonders what to say, and if there is anything to say. Chris moves to sit next to him, and they stay there for an hour, sitting half-hunched with their elbows on their knees, eventually forgetting their tea, and talking only ever in hushed voices even though Allison sleeps like a log and wouldn’t wake up unless a bomb or her alarm went off.
The sun does come up after a while, and John hasn’t gone back to sleep. He looks at Chris, full in face for the first time since he first came out of the kitchen with those two mugs of strong, sugary, milky tea, and decides that maybe he could do without sleeping every now and again.
So long as it was here, with him.