He dreams of fire.
A raging inferno that mercilessly consuming everything in its path and dares to leave nothing but ashes- which are swiftly lost to the wind- in its wake. For a moment, the only sound he could make out is the roar of the fire- as it does its upmost best to deafen him- before there are screams.
They are faint at first- nothing but echoes in the wind- yet soon they are baring down on him like a Tidal Wave with the upmost intent to drown him.
They're doing a wonderful job at it.
He can't breathe- though maybe that's because the screams have somehow turned theirselves into water yet were still managing to make his ears bleed? His lungs burn with the need for oxygen yet the light that marks the surface is slowly moving further and further away from him... Nyet. Its not moving away, he's sinking.
The heavy chains around his waist are pulling him further and further into the dark depth below. He should struggle, he knows he should, yet his body goes lax allowing the chains to pull him down faster.
Why bother? A traitorous part of his mind whispers, What's the point?
What was the point? Honestly, he doesn't know. His anger has long ran out, smoldering by time and a vengeance long sense filled. His Hate isn't what it used to be- all those involved in his brother's death are long dead.
If he's honest, he just keeps going because he can, not because he must. He keeps going because no one has managed to stop him.
He opens his mouth as though to speak his answer aloud only for water to rush inside, filling his lungs in a matter of seconds as black dots appear in his vision.
He can't breathe.
He can't see.
His eyes are heavy and he far too tired- too resigned- to keep them open.
Right before they close though, he see what looks to be a flash of emerald green light.
It more reflex then anything that has the rouge haired man's fist lashing out to the source of the shout even as he pushes his out of the warmth and into the cold. He hasn't lived this long by taking chances.
There's a sound on the other side of his shelter, that he recognizes as a body hitting a carpeted floor... Wait a moment, wasn't all his floors wooden?
Raising a pale hand, the rouge wiped the sleep from his long golden eye before blinking to clear away the fog. The first thing he notices is the fact he's crouched on the side of a bed -with dark emerald sheets- gripping one of his favored knives with what looks to be a smear of blood on the back of his knuckles.
"Good morning to you too," Even without look he knows that voice- distantly he recalls hearing it the night before- almost as well as he knows his own.
"Nigel," A golden eye darts to the British -Penguin turned- man even as a firm hand runs through snowy hair while another holds a handkerchief to his nose, "What time is it?"
Its not his best response and defiantly not an apology but Red wasn't one for apologizes anyways -One would have better luck convincing Savio to give up being a cannibal then getting an apology from the rouge.- and Nigel obviously didn't expect one as he sighed softly, "Too early. Put that knife up. I thought we agreed for you to keep those out of the bed. "
Did they? Maybe.
If he's honest, Red didn't really pay much attention- half an ear at most. Just enough to fish out any important slips- to Nigel's rants and raves- especially those concerning his knives- when they decided to surface. Still, the rouge slowly finds himself slipping the knife onto his side of the bed's nightstand- even as he promises himself he won't- before making his way back to the bed.
It seems he didn't break Nigel's nose, as the emerald eyed man tosses the handkerchief onto a chair before making his own way back to the bed.
The covers are warm- considering the rigid chill within the air- yet not quite as not as warm as the body next to his own. The silence is comfortable enough in Red's opinion, but obviously not so in Nigel's as the spy breaks it just when the rouge was beginning to drift off again.
"What were you dreaming about?"
"Earlier, you looked like you were having a nightmare. I heard taking to others helps with them."
Spies. They were worse then housewives.
"Nigel," a soft sigh leaves the rouge as he rolls over slightly to burry his face in the other's chest, "Go to sleep."
While he cared for Nigel- he wasn't sure if it was enough to be called Love at times- His mind wasn't a place he would wish upon anyone, not even his worst enemies.
If Red was asked to describe his relationship with Nigel and Rockgut he would have to call it:
He doubted anyone- anywhere- could find a relationship more bipolar then their own. One minute they would be friends- or as close to friends as they could be- and comrades and the next they were the worst of enemies just waiting for a reason to tear out each other's throats.
Red trusted the two enough to spend hours sleeping next to them- without a weapon in sight- yet he would never trust the two with his back should either of them so much as be holding a pen- let alone a real weapon such as their own guns and knives.
He would listen to their problems yet would never speak a whisper of his own. They questioned his relationship with them- was he using them? Was it just lust? Was it all just part his twisted Game?- and to be honest, so did he.
Yet for some reason- not even he could falter- they -all three of them- always came back.
Maybe they were damning theirselves?
There was too much violence- distrust, betrayal, anger, doubt, obsession, possession, ectra...- for this relationship to be healthy. Even Red- with all his lack of understanding certain aspects of life- knew that. As it was everything a relationship shouldn't be.
Yet he couldn't walk away.
They wouldn't let him, anymore then he wouldn't let them.
So if asked what he thought about their relationship, Red would have to say:
This twisted, bipolar relationship was going to be the Death of him.
If one could look into the head of rouge's head at that exact moment they likely would have fount a Chibi Russian crying in despair under a cloud of depression.
His damn luck was acting up again and anyone who knew him would tell you: Red had the Devil's Luck and nine times out ten it wasn't good. Especially for his continual health, this would happen to be one of those times the rouge decided as he looked from the two Kits to the would-be Black Market Dealers then back to the Kits.
He's going to be blamed for this. The rouge just knows it.
Nigel and Rockgut would be after his head before the day was over. The glaring Kits blue eyes moved from known Mad Man to the Obvious One next to him.
"Uncle? Are you mad?! That's the Red Squirrel!"
Innocent confusion covered Privates face as Red resisted the urge to burry his face into his clawed hands in a vain attempt to hide from the world. Of all the Kits for him to run across it in a Global Black Market it would be Private and Rockgut's Protégé.
If there was a God out there it obviously hated him.
"Uncle Red, Help!"
"You idiot, were supposed to be trying to escape him not call his attention!"
Was it too late to turn around and pretend he never saw them?
He doesn't see their fights as fights anymore but rather, if he had to put a name to it, Dances.
Block. Left. Right. A feint aimed for his ribs. Dodge. Right. Block. An attempt to sweep his feet out from under him. Jump. Back step.
They know each other too well as even the slightest of movements all but screams the other intention.
A gun half raised to his face. Twist until they drop it or you hear a snap, the snap is more likely. Kick away. Duck. Left. Left. Right. Down. Jump.
Perhaps he could even call it a Sense of Harmony?
The faint sound of boots rushing across the ground- its time to leave before others can arrive. Duck. A hit to the ribs followed by sweeping the other's feet out from beneath the Agent. Smirk. It always annoys him.
"Dos Sylvania, Agent Rockgut."
They never learn to lock the windows and so the dance ends... For now, that is.