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It was the high pitched electrical whine that was the worst. The sound of his wheelchair was absolutely the worst part about being captured by Mr. Curtain. While the threatening footsteps from the Ten Men were a very close, very nerve wracking second, it was the wheelchair that brought pain, mockery, suffering every time it became audible. Reynie shuddered just thinking about it. He flicked his eyes towards the other three, wondering if they too, were affected by the noise. Kate was dramatically splayed out on the floor a few paces away from him, one arm thrown over her eyes as if to block out the obnoxiously fluorescent lights. She hadn’t bothered to fix her ponytail after her escape attempt and strands of hair had fallen out to messily frame her face, barely covering the scratches and scrapes that littered her body. Constance had her eyes squeezed shut and he realized with a guilty pang, how could Constance be affected by the wheelchair when she had so much going on already? She was trying so hard to transmit messages to and from Mr. Benedict, and he had the gall to question if she was doing okay. Obviously not, he thought harshly at himself. He forced himself to move on, lest the girl catch notice of his self-deprecating thoughts and create a mean poem about it. Sticky was looking in the opposite direction of Reynie, expression the picture of misery. His hands were nervously rubbing his glasses clean with the hem of his shirt. The other boy didn’t deserve this, none of them did. Reynie bit back a whimper as he shuddered again. He couldn’t even tell if he was actually hearing the noise, or if he was just imagining it at this point. He scrubbed his face, incredibly unhappy with how shaky his hands were. What good was he to the group if he was constantly on the verge of a panic attack? Faintly, oh-so-faintly, he heard the sound of footsteps begin to draw near. The heavy thump of someone’s shiny, polished shoes grew closer and closer, so loud that the other three noticed the sound as well. Kate positioned herself in a crouch in front of Constance, while Sticky shifted closer to Reynie. Neither noticed him struggling not to scream. Abruptly, the door slammed open, revealing a wickedly grinning McCracken. Reynie’s breath stuttered as the man sauntered in. “Good morning, duckies,” he crowed, cheerfully, carrying another bowl of stale, unbuttered popcorn. The four stayed silent, tracking the man with their eyes as he made his way over, slowly, ominously. When he was just out of arm reach from Kate, he leaned down and placed the bowl in front of her. “Mr. Curtain has a surprise for you, so eat quickly!” He instructed, backing a few steps away. His eyes never left the four, giving him a rather cross-eyed expression, but Reynie was too terrified to even acknowledge it. “Oh, look,” the man laughed, prompting violent shivers to travel down Reynie’s spine. “He’s already here!” McCracken pointed behind them, a knowing smirk plastered on his face. Reynie whipped around to see Mr. Curtain right behind them, mouth set in a deadly looking smile. His gloved hands were resting innocently upon his lap. “Good morning Reynard.” He screamed. ~~~ One moment he was in that awful prison, the next, he was sitting upright, hopelessly tangled in his sheets as he gasped for air. The room was lit dimly, the light from the street lamps streaming through the parts of the window not covered by the shade. The light… from the street lamps… The prison didn’t have street lamps, nor any lamps they could see from their window. Across the room, Sticky rolled over with a groan, still asleep. Oh. He wasn’t back there, it was just a dream, he thought, half-hysterically. Just a dream meant not-real, but it was real. He had been there. …Right? He let out a sharp, irritated exhale. No, he was just overthinking things. Of course he hadn’t actually been there, that was absurd. He was safe inside Mr. Benedict’s home, the regular guards no doubt posted where they should be. Sticky was fast asleep on the other side of the room and Kate and Constance were just down the hall. He was fine. After a few moments of staring blankly at nothing, he gave himself a little shake, slowly crawling out of bed. He didn’t think he’d be able to go back to sleep, nor was he particularly interested in finding out if the dream would continue the moment he shut his eyes. To the kitchen it was. He silently made his way out of the room, avoiding the creaky floorboards and stair steps on the way. Many nights sneaking around the house helped him learn where not to put his foot, lest he wake up the others. As he padded closer to the kitchen, he noticed a soft stream of light spilling into the hallway. Though it was coming from the dining room, he couldn’t imagine who was up at this hour. As much as he loved her, he secretly hoped it wasn’t Number Two. He wouldn’t know what to tell her when she asked why he was awake. It was not Number Two. “Reynie?” the short, blonde child in front of him asked. She looked as surprised as he felt. “Constance,” he croaked in acknowledgement, wincing at how dry his throat felt. He shuffled past her, making his way to the cabinet that held the glassware. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Constance resume her task of stacking cheese crackers in a precarious manner upon her plate which was already covered with cookies and other foods she had filched from the snack drawer. He glanced away, filling his cup with the tap. When the glass of water wasn’t enough, he turned the kettle on, intending to make some tea. He must have spaced out or something, because he blinked and suddenly his body was moving on autopilot to take the kettle off the hot stovetop. He moved through the familiar motions of preparing tea in a haze, mind foggy and startlingly blank. Somehow, he managed to find his way back into the dining room without spilling a drop of the scalding hot liquid. He blinked again, eyelids heavy. Constance was watching him in concern, eyebrows furrowed like she was trying to figure out the answer to a puzzle. They sat in silence. Constance methodically made her way through her food while Reynie watched the steam from his tea grow dimmer and dimmer. Absent-mindedly, his thoughts returned back to his nightmare. He was still stuck on the fact that maybe he still wasn’t safe, maybe he had hallucinated the events of their escape and up until the current point, he had just been unaware it was a dream. Surely that wasn’t right, was it? He mentally replayed the dream again, unaware that he was growing more visibly distressed by the second. It seemed so real, so vivid, he couldn’t possibly dismiss it as just a dream. A small hand, slightly sticky from something he chose not to think about, landed on his forearm. Neither acknowledged the way he flinched, painfully knocking his knee against the table so hard his untouched tea sloshed about in the cup. “Your dream was wrong,” Constance stated, eyes uncharacteristically unreadable. Of all the things he might have expected the younger girl to say, that certainly was not one he would have thought of. When he didn’t respond, brain still stuck processing what she had said, Constance continued. “It’s not real. The wheelchair didn’t make any noise.” He let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “What, what do you mean?” He sputtered, aching to believe her but still stuck in the panicked what-ifs. “Reynie,” she pressed, stepping uncomfortably close to him. “It wasn’t real. You feel my hand, right?” He nodded. Though still mildly sticky, her hand was warm against his bare skin. He swallowed when she gently increased the pressure, effectively grounding him. He stared at her hand for an undetermined amount of time, only blinking back to reality when Constance made an impatient noise and started to crawl into the chair with him. “C- Constance?” he stuttered, utterly confused by her actions. He did, however, shift over to try and give her space to sit beside him. A pudgy hand halted his movements as she got comfortable on his lap, tucking her shoulder under his arm. He watched, frozen and slightly mystified as she leaned her head against his chest. When she finally settled, she tipped her head up to look at him. They sat there, unblinking. He wasn’t sure if it was a staring contest or if she was simply looking at him, but he did not intend to let the younger girl win by forfeit. Out of nowhere, Constance hit his chest with a flat palm. He startled back into the present again, only just realizing he had zoned out until after the fact. “Are you okay?” Constance asked, bluntly. Ah, how foolish of him to assume they would just ignore the issue and not talk about it. “I’m fine, Constance,” he sighed, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes. She was not impressed. “That’s a weird way to pronounce sad,” she muttered, frown planted firmly on her face. Though he huffed a reluctant laugh, he didn’t move to respond further. What was there to say? They sat there for an undetermined amount of time. Constance had tilted her head back down, no longer looking at Reynie, but cuddling closer as the minutes passed. The leaves on the tree outside gently danced against the window panes, casting soft shadows on the opposite wall. The bulb in the lamp hummed quietly, barely loud enough to act as a white noise. Constance’s small body moved as she breathed, a warm weight against his lap. Just as he started nodding off, eyes fluttering shut, Constance spoke again. “It’s not your fault,” she whispered, so low he barely heard her. “What?” he asked, more air than sound. “Reynie, it’s not your fault,” she repeated, louder. “I know,” he muttered back, breath catching. “It’s not your fault!” She insisted, eyes growing wide. He swallowed, uncomfortable under her knowing gaze. He didn’t know how to respond. Of course he knew it wasn’t his fault they got captured again. It wasn’t his fault they had walked right into the trap set for them, it wasn’t his fault he- Constance cut him off harshly. “Stop,” she exclaimed, frown etched deep, deeper than earlier. He bit his lip and forced back the tears that started stinging in his eyes. Unfortunately, this did the opposite of what he intended and it upset Constance more. “Reynard Muldoon, you stop right now. Stop, stop blaming yourself!” She cried, agitated. They both froze when a floorboard above them creaked, scarcely moving a muscle until they were certain no one else had awoken. “Constance, I know it’s not my fault,” he tried to soothe her, anxiously fidgeting with the arm of the chair. “Don’t lie to me, you still blame yourself! Reynie, I know.” Yes, Constance. He was aware of the fact that she could read his thoughts. She beat her fist against his chest, far more gently than she normally would have. “Reynie, if you don’t stop blaming yourself for everything, I’ll scream.” “Whoa, okay, okay,” he hissed back, stiffening up. He stiffened further as she wrapped her arms around his neck, but she didn’t seem to be attempting to strangle him. “It’s a hug, Reynard,” she said dryly, squeezing her arms a little too tightly, before drawing back. A foreign look of uncertainty crossing over her face, but he didn’t let it linger for long, bringing his arms around her gently. Ever so slowly, Reynie lost the tension that had been running through his body since he woke up, all of forty minutes ago. He slumped back against the chair, shifting to a more comfortable position. Constance laid her head back against his chest, eyes not-quite shut yet. They both knew that the issue wasn’t solved with a simple hug, definitely not. But for now, they’d be alright.