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Crane can't wake up.
Those are the worst ones. He's fully aware that this is a dream because great grandmothers don't resurface from where you've killed them, buried their bodies. No. Dead people don't walk the earth, they don't point with skeleton fingers and they don't use that voice.
They don't tell him he's a disappointment and they don't tell him he's going to burn in hell and they don't chase him down the hallways of Crane manor. They don't.
They don't but she's doing it, now. Screaming at him. 'Worthless,' and 'bastard child' and 'waste.' The words are spinning in Crane's head as he hurriedly goes to his room and locks the door and puts an old dresser in front of it so she can't get in.
Something spills out.
Crane looks over and he's horrified--it's a magazine, an innocent magazine, one with a smiling man on the front, a smiling shirtless man with promises of more nude males under the cover and it's right next to a Slayers official magazine with Kable on the front with a gun.
--And he can hear her now, except it's not 'worthless' and 'bastard child' and 'waste,' it's 'unholy boy,' and 'faggot,' and 'freak of a son,' and he slides down the wall, sobbing as his dead grandmother claws her way into the room.
'It's your turn, Jonathan,' and there's a flock of crows and they're pecking him, eating his liver, eating his eyes and he's falling and falling and falling and lands on the hard, cold floor of his highschool's bathroom, where his head is underfoot of one Billy Squires.
"If it ain't the Scarecrow," And Billy's accent is far more Georgian--something Crane trained himself out of--and he squeezes his eyes shut.
"No, please, don't--"
"Shuddup, Scarecrow! With that figure, you can't even fight back!"
He can hear the unzipping of Billy's pants and knows what's going to come next, the trickle of liquid that makes his cheeks burn in humiliation and suddenly from the tile floor a skeletal hand bursts out--
--his great grandmother grabs a hold of his ankle--
--crows burst in from the bathroom windows--
--and all he can hear is 'maybe he wouldn't piss on ya if ya were worth something'--
and all Crane can do is scream.
Those are the worst ones. He's fully aware that this is a dream because great grandmothers don't resurface from where you've killed them, buried their bodies. No. Dead people don't walk the earth, they don't point with skeleton fingers and they don't use that voice.
They don't tell him he's a disappointment and they don't tell him he's going to burn in hell and they don't chase him down the hallways of Crane manor. They don't.
They don't but she's doing it, now. Screaming at him. 'Worthless,' and 'bastard child' and 'waste.' The words are spinning in Crane's head as he hurriedly goes to his room and locks the door and puts an old dresser in front of it so she can't get in.
Something spills out.
Crane looks over and he's horrified--it's a magazine, an innocent magazine, one with a smiling man on the front, a smiling shirtless man with promises of more nude males under the cover and it's right next to a Slayers official magazine with Kable on the front with a gun.
--And he can hear her now, except it's not 'worthless' and 'bastard child' and 'waste,' it's 'unholy boy,' and 'faggot,' and 'freak of a son,' and he slides down the wall, sobbing as his dead grandmother claws her way into the room.
'It's your turn, Jonathan,' and there's a flock of crows and they're pecking him, eating his liver, eating his eyes and he's falling and falling and falling and lands on the hard, cold floor of his highschool's bathroom, where his head is underfoot of one Billy Squires.
"If it ain't the Scarecrow," And Billy's accent is far more Georgian--something Crane trained himself out of--and he squeezes his eyes shut.
"No, please, don't--"
"Shuddup, Scarecrow! With that figure, you can't even fight back!"
He can hear the unzipping of Billy's pants and knows what's going to come next, the trickle of liquid that makes his cheeks burn in humiliation and suddenly from the tile floor a skeletal hand bursts out--
--his great grandmother grabs a hold of his ankle--
--crows burst in from the bathroom windows--
--and all he can hear is 'maybe he wouldn't piss on ya if ya were worth something'--
and all Crane can do is scream.
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The scream that cut through the silence of the night had him awake instantly. He retrieved the handgun he kept wedged between the bed and headboard and silently made his way through the hallways. His eyes were fully adjusted to the dim lighting. He scanned the living room for signs of intruders, but nothing had been moved, nothing was broken. They had gone directly for Crane which suggested they might have broken in that way.
The scream came again, a sobbed 'no' punctuating it. Tillman's mouth drew into a grim line. His happiness depended on Crane's well-being. He had to handle the situation correctly-- minimizing the doctor's injuries by drawing attention to himself and dispatching the enemy or enemies as quickly as possible. As he inhaled, he cocked the hammer on his gun. As he exhaled, he eased the door open.
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It's why it's so odd that he's currently no longer on his bed, even, having spilled onto the floor somewhere between the old chapel where he used to be locked in, and the fields of corn where he frequently got lost in. And everywhere were crows, great black crows and sometimes there were people--
The moment Crane manages to curl himself into a ball something happens, and he's flailing and kicking and crying because Billy Squires is doing more than just pissing on him--no, he's found out about his little secret, and is dragging him out to the dugout and the baseball diamond to beat some sense into his 'stupid faggot head'
and everytime the bat comes down Crane's screaming, crying, begging--what he's doing in real life as he grabs onto his pillow, only to violently toss it in the direction he sees his childhood bully in.
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"Did you dose yourself?" he asked, voice quiet and neutral as watched the terrified, sweat-dampened face of the doctor. It was bizarre to see him like this. Even when he was cracked and talking to himself, there was some semblance of impassive control. He was without his mask.
When Tillman received no immediate response, he began searching through the tangled sheets for an empty cartridge of fear gas. After moving some things around, he thought better of it. It wouldn't do to accidentally dose himself to confirm a theory.
"I'm going to move you closer to the window," Tillman stated in the same tone as before. "Fresh air."
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"Don't--don't you--don't touch me," Because Billy Squires had him pinned down, bleeding and crying, and he's telling him that a faggot like him will probably like that's about to happen...
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He opened the window and made his way back to Crane, all too aware of the fact that he was out of his element. He crouched next to him, close but not touching. "Come on, Doc. Let's walk. It's five feet. That's all."
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He trailed off, now, sobbing, curling himself into a ball, shaking uncontrollably. This was Crane unhinged--Crane gassed would most likely amount to the same thing, but right now? Right now he was getting beaten while the skeleton of his great-grandmother watched, and a thousand crow eyes were upon him.
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He was awake now. Awake but no less sane, hair disheveled, tear strains on his cheeks. He's looking at Tillman but not quite there, mind still far away until he's finally trying to calm himself down. Muttering a list of phobias. Trying to breathe. Trying to stop shaking.
"A dream," he said simply. "Just... Just a dream..."
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Tillman's grip softened and shifted up to Crane's shoulders. He gave a reassuring squeeze with both hands. "Perimeter secure. Everything is okay," he informed Crane quietly.
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He's shaking, and still not quite aware of that's happening.
"H-hydrophobia, fear of water... It's just--just a dream..."
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Glaring hard at the wall, he rested a hand between Crane's shoulder blades and began to rub slow, reassuring circles. "Just a dream," he agreed in a low voice that rumbled through his chest.