I'm good at shooting people, cracking wise, and pretending to know how to fight.

Nightmares weren't exactly rare for Atton, who'd seen his fair share of poodoo - to put it mildly. These, though, these ran hard: memories of blood and pain and death, battering at his mind until the emergency exit clause kicked in and he veered up in bed, sweating and shivering, everything on hyper-alert burning fear adrenaline for an impossible span of time and just a few minutes, a few seconds--

He threw the blankets off the bed and padded into the living room in his boxers, rubbing at the back of his neck. A little exercise, yeah, that might help get rid of the jittery energy that jumped across his skin like electricity. He rolled his shoulders and turned towards the window in the dining area, hoping Sparks wasn't awake yet. It was always freaking awkward when the kid walked in on him having a meltdown.

He took a deep breath. Then another, deeper breath. There was an itch between his shoulderblades where it felt like someone was gonna shoot him any minute, and a sting in his fingers. He wriggled them to get the feeling out.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Okay.

He stretched his arms out.

They froze halfway into the motion, as a brimstone voice rolled right over him.

( And I get the fool. )