Chapter Text
The only solution he finds to the dreams, is to stop dreaming at all. He’s used to sleepless nights, if not from choice then from the insomnia that plagues him, and he sleeps less the older he gets anyway. There’s too much shit to do, and more to make up and problems to create that need to get done. He pushes his body as far as it can go, reverting back to the kind of workout he used to do at seventeen before he understood that he didn’t have to starve himself into being strong, his entire body aching as it’s pushed past the point of excretion. He’s caught between being sore and feeling stronger than he has in years. Almost as if he’d gone soft by allowing himself to rest at night. He tries to keep moving, keep himself away from the edge of sleep. He cleans, mostly, the repeated movements help keep his head in check.
He goes through a checklist, house floor, steps, and then moves on to cleaning his gun. Taking it apart and laying the pieces out, careful even though he doesn’t need to be (He isn’t changing anything, but the burns are still painful on his skin), then putting it all back together over and over. The repetition helps soothe his fraying nerves. And he cleans up the room. Washes the floors, organizes what little he owns. Makes another list of things if only to have them all listed out, if only to see them categorized. He also sweeps both inside and out. Again and again, even if he’s not really doing anything. It’s the motion. Like rocking on a boat. Comforting, he tells himself, and not a compulsion brought on by his lack of sleep at all. And when he runs out of things to clean he makes them. He washes his hands like his skin is going to fall off if he doesn’t, even if doing so makes the dead and healing skin fall off and crack beyond the healing prowess of the salve. He picks at loose threads just to stitch them back into the fabric. He pulls at his skin and tries not to think about why the blood doesn’t bother him anymore. And through it all, through all the ticks and checklists and urges to do more, he finds himself still wanting for things to do.
Out of desperation and some boredom, he instead watches the clock, counting the mechanical tick out in a patterned rhythm that does nothing but worm its way into his head. Forcing him to repeat it over and over until his brain lets go. He checks the time every three minutes, pausing when he notices the hour hand tip a little bit past three in the morning, which means that Wedge should be back soon. Which means there’s one other thing for him to do.
Biggs walks down to the station, the air is stiff at this time in the morning and hangs nearly dead over his lungs. The streets, however, aren’t even close to being empty. They’re packed with people, crowds buzzing around bins and the open food stands (gods, the smells are dizzying, often overwhelming, and sometimes tantalizing. Although he’s too nervous and tired to eat). And with the overcrowded areas comes the smell of smoke. It’s another acrid scent to go with the already smog filled air. The trains bring in more smoke, on top of the occasional smoker, and he watches the air twist dark with it. He looks up at the sky, or rather the way that the air forms the illusion of sky overhead, it’s light out, or almost light out. The plate is dyed with the kind of hazy yellow and sunset orange that almost morning brings. Not yet full grey, the lights less visible. It’s pretty, like the way mold is pretty.
He waits by the entrance to the slums, eyes shut and back resting against the metal plates that make up the pathway. It’s cold on his back, it should wake him up some but the chill is around him like arms, pulling him under.
He just needs to sleep. He just needs not to dream.
The sound of the train arriving jolts him back awake. If that could be considered sleep. Just missing the space of a few seconds. His head feels light, when he moves it takes his soul a moment to catch his body, chasing after him until he’s awake to a full extent.
He watches the train, forcing his eyes open. Everything is still too loud, the talking, the train, laughter, footsteps. Wedge is easy to spot amongst all the noise, the quiet hm coming off of him, etched into his soft smile and proud posture, speaks of a job well done. He’ll have something to report back to Barret then. Good. It’s good to see him like this. Happy, that is.
“Hey.” He says, feeling stupid for the way his voice comes out choked and gravely.
“Hi.”
“How’d it go?”
Wedge grins. It's so pretty. Not like the haze is, like how people are. All honest and hard to face. “Great, I’ve got to see Barret and update him first, but it’s good news, I promise.”
“Glad to hear it.” The two start walking back into the slums, Biggs keeps his eyes on Wedge’s hands, his brain providing the unhelpful imagery of blood splashing up when the light casts on them the wrong way. He needs to touch them, to tap his fingers to Wedge’s palm and ensure they don’t stick with the tacky pull of blood. But he doesn’t. “Anything I should know?”
Wedge taps the side of his nose and winks. Something he’d picked up from Jessie.
“Alright,” He doesn’t touch him. And he can’t look him in the eyes. “Glad you’re back.”
He doesn’t follow him to the bar. He cannot stop seeing blood when there is none. Can’t stop his hands twitching. Can’t help himself from wanting to reach out.
Blood on his hands, blood under his nails. Hollow and white eyes. Pain across the front of his skull. Blood. His hands shaking. Cold. His head hurts, splitting open. Vision swimming.
It’s stupid, he feels like a child. Petulant and naive. Like holding your eyes shut tight when fear takes hold, like not seeing will save you from the oncoming horror before you. But he avoids him anyway. Eyes closed to the fear, the consequences chasing towards him anyway. Knowing he cannot save him from everything, not in this lifetime. Not in any lifetime. And also that avoiding him is just going to make everything worse. It’s so juvenile but he hasn’t slept in two days and that makes it make more sense. He won’t deal with either of their mortality, and it is postponing the hurt of having to lose him. Yes, one day, they will die, yes, one day he’ll lose another person, but he won’t face it now. He likes to think that he will go first. That if he has to die, he won’t be alone. Both selfish and cowardly. The denial is easier and he takes it without question. But he’s not surprised, he never pretended to be anything other than this. He’s not a strong man, he’s never been one and it’s not something he wants to be either. Loss is nothing new, but it’s hurt is no less potent.
He tries to work, but without sleep he is irritable and his mood changes rapidly. He continues to stay up, the day and night cycling through without sleep. When Tifa asks him to help out with installing some of Jessie’s filters he can already feel his patience waning well before he’s even spoken to a single person. And it should be easy work. And it is. Mostly. But there had been complaints, and the weapon shop owner just doesn’t know how to read the very clear irritation on his face.
The man looks at him, brow raised and challenging. “This shit don’t work.”
“Do you want them or not?”
“I want something that works.” The man snarks.
“Sure.”
“I ain’t paying for this shit if you keep screwing me over.”
Biggs hums his acknowledgment, fingers drumming on the counter. Fuck. His head hurts, pain sparking at his temples and spreading rapidly across his eyes, stinging just behind them with a bubbling light that flickers on and off in time with his irritation.
“Seriously, I’m paying way too much for this shit.” The man complains, arms crossed over his chest.
“Do you want me to install it or not?” He replies, short, tired. God his head hurts, and he’s so goddamn tired. He needs to sleep. He needs someone to knock him out hard enough to kick all the dreams from his brain and give him a good few hours of rest. He’d take even just one hour.
“I want to know why you're scamming me. All this damn money and it still smells like shit. Do these things even do anything? And why’s the cost so high, huh? Ain’t there anyone else who sells this kinda crap? Or do you think I’m stupid? Gonna keep buying junk like some sort of-”
Biggs puts his gun on the counter, barrel facing the man. He holds up the filter, “Where am I putting this?”
The man takes a moment to look between him and his gun. Grumbling as he points Biggs back behind him and to the hvac system. “Fucking hell. Fine, you know, Tifa’s far better at this, where the hell is she?”
He ignores him, and installs the filter. The man pays, but complains the entire time.
Having had enough of loud men, he goes to check on Marle, feeling a bit like a child going home to a parent with an F on their project, except he wears the bags under his eyes with far more shame and a far greater willingness to improve his current situation. She looks at him and her dog growls.
“You need to sleep.”
He feels his eye twitch at the suggestion. It doesn’t matter that she’s right. He doesn’t want to hear it anymore. “Need anything?”
She sighs, leaning on the railing and looking over him again. Her eyes are kind even if her lips are drawn down in a frown. He doesn’t like the way she scrutinizes him, but lets it happen anyway.
“I should be asking you that.” She flicks her head up, looking down her nose at him. “You smell like booze and cat hair.”
And sweat, he adds mentally.
“I know.”
“You going to do anything about it?”
“Shower, eventually.” He’s still got shit to do, or he’ll make another excuse to be awake and run ragged.
Marle just raises her thin brows at him, both of them knowing that is not what she meant.
“I’m okay.” He tries, feeling worse the longer he runs his mouth for.
He’s pretty sure she murmurs the word ‘bullshit’ under her breath, but he’s not certain. He always thought her the sort of person who’d say it straight to your face. Which she does, regardless if she had spoken it for her own ears earlier.
“You need to sleep- and don’t give me that martyrdom attitude. People are starting to worry about you.”
He almost smiles. Knowing that when she says ‘people’ she really does just mean her.
“I’ll sleep when I find the time to.” He smiles, trying to lighten the mood. Something she takes gratefully, never one for overly long sentimental conversations.
“This is why I can’t stand men. Always got something to prove to someone who doesn’t care.” She huffs and waves him off.
He leaves without lingering, knowing she’ll just tell him to sleep again if he stays any longer. Instead, he heads back to Seventh Heaven, hoping to find Jessie and promising himself that he’s not drinking again. On the steps of the bar, rather than Jessie sitting with her cards, is a distressed and flustered Tifa accompanied by an upset looking Marlene. Both are looking at the road with wide eyes and a lingering worry and both snap to attention when he gets closer.
“Oh, Biggs, hello.”
“Hey, something wrong?”
“No, I don’t think so. It’s just,” She sighs, looking far older than she is and far more tired than she should be. “Have you seen Barret or Jessie?”
“No, I thought Jessie would be here.” He takes in Marlene’s still sullen expression, her knees pulled up to her chest and asks; “Where’s Barret gone to?”
“Well, that’s what I’m wondering. Jessie went out to find him but she’s been gone an hour. You know how Barret can get, and Jessie’s more of an instigator than anything.”
He grimaces, remembering the television and Jessie’s whoops of delight.
“Sh-ah, shoot.”
“Do you mind watching Marlene?” Marlene’s head pops up at her name, looking between him and Tifa with a cautious optimism. “I’ll be quick, I swear.”
“Of course.” He kneels down in front of Marlene, sparing a glance at Tifa. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Thank you.” She says, before rushing off down the first path, seemingly following the same path that Jessie must have taken off down.
It allows Biggs to take her place on the steps, sitting with his arms resting on his knees, next to Marlene. She’s returned to pouting, head buried in her knees and dress pulled up over her legs, effectively cocooning her in a small pink ball.
“Hello,” he taps her side with the back of his hand, careful not to jostle her.
“Hi.” Her voice is muffled by the way her face is pressed into her knees, but she turns her head to the side to look at him when he speaks, cheeks smudged down against her dress.
“What'd you do today?”
“Nothing.”
He smiles in spite of himself. Her reluctance to speak while attempting to be somber is endlessly endearing to him.
“So,” He nudges her side again, grinning when she pushes him back. “You didn’t see Betty today?”
She looks at him through her still watering eyes with the sort of accusation that slaps the word ‘traitor’ over him without her speaking a sound.
“I saw her.” she says, hiding her face in her arms, looking up at him with a look taken straight from Barret, all suspicious eyebrows and clenched jaw anger. “What about it?”
“What’d you get up to?”
Marlene sits up a little, some of the wetness being blinked away
“We played hide and seek, I got scared but Betty saved me.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Betty’s cool. She knows all the best places to hide because she has kitties. They hide from me, but not if Betty is with me. Then the kitties like me more. Do you think they know I’m stealing their hiding spot?”
He lets her idle chatter wash over him, her posture slowly changing as she sits up and kicks her legs, hands waving as she embellishes her stories with the sort of flair only a 4 year old can possess. Misremembering and mixing fact with fairytale pulled right out of her head.
“I like Betty.” She concludes, twisting the hem of her dress between her fingers. “She’s cool. And she’s smart. And her Daddy’s alway home. I like that.”
“You know,” He swirls the words around his mouth, trying to find the right sound before he eats them. “Your Dad’s trying to be home for you too.”
“I know.”
“He’s doing some really important work.”
“I know.”
“And you can miss him as much as you want.”
“I know.” She says, with more conviction. “Do you miss your parents?”
The question stuns him for a moment, and he takes a moment to turn it over. It feels irresponsible to say no, to tell her that he didn’t know them long enough to miss them, so he settles for something a little further from the truth.
“Sure I do. But they’re with the planet now. And, well, there’s nowhere else I’d want them to be.”
Marlene ponders this, her hand resting on her cheek, propped up on her knee which she bounces on occasion.
“I love my Daddy and I want him to be here the most.”
“That’s good, I promise he wants to be here with you as much as you want him to be.”
Marlene smiles. It’s a soft smile, like she’s still learning how to smile and doesn’t fully know what it means. He smiles back, like he means it, and finds he does.
“I like you.” She says, in the same way she tells Barret, or occasionally Tifa, that she loves them. “You’re good at being sad.”
He freezes. Tifa’s absence suddenly clearing itself in his head. She’d been gone a near perfect amount of time. And she must have known exactly where this conversation would lead. He really needs to stop underestimating how sneaky Tifa can be when she wants to. Sicking a child on him, of all things.
“Thanks.” He says, unsure what else to say to her.
“Daddy says you’re being stupid. And that you need to sleep.”
He ruffles her hair “Your Dad’s right, but I think we should both listen to him, don’t you?”
She looks over the horizon, at the set sun and the night sky, but agrees with a shake of her head. “Okay.”
He follows Marlene through her bedtime routine, brushes her hair, counts for her when she brushes her teeth and helps her crawl into bed. He reads to her until she’s fast asleep and he feels his own heart rate slowing in sympathy.
He leaves her room, the door slightly ajar, and heads back to the bar. Barret is waiting for him, arms crossed and staring down at the top of the bar.
“Sorry.” He offers. For himself. for whatever Jessie had done, for the fact that he’d let Tifa get one up on him so easily.
Barret looks down at him with a perfect echo of Marlene’s earlier look -eyebrows drawn and jaw clenched- before letting it slip into something kinder.
“Thanks for looking after her.”
“You get into trouble?”
“Don’t push it, now get the hell out and get some sleep.”
“Heard.” He holds his hands up in a placating gesture but leaves without a second word.
When he sits on his bed, after three days of no sleep and finally finding himself wanting it, he instead discovers himself to be unable to do so, his entire body too wired. His head is stuffed like it’s made of bees and television static. His heart beats too loud no matter how often he soothes it. His face is wet while he lays on the bed and thinks about dreaming.