Mike’s been home for almost a month now, and Sonny still talks to him sparingly in a painfully cold tone of voice. He’s apologized, time and time again, but it never seems to do enough. Sonny’s couch still comforts him like it used to when he would crash in the middle of the day after pulling a double, but his sleep is restless with the interruption of nightmares. Sometimes it’s from his time in the military, others from his undercover stint, and still others from the shootings he’s been involved in.
This one is about the day Munson shot him. He can feel the panic again, followed by his muscles exerting during the fight, and then the explosive pain of the bullet burying itself in his torso. Terror grips at his lungs and he can’t breathe, he’s choking on his own blood. Everything’s so loud. People are screaming his name. He doesn’t know if Lisa is okay, because that’s all that matters. Just her.
“Mikey!”
His eyes shoot open.
It still takes him a few seconds to register the sight of Sonny leaning over him, brows drawn in and the corners of his mouth turned down.
“You were having a nightmare. It was just a dream. It’s not real.”
Mike sits up, forcing air into his lungs until he feels more in the present. The couch is familiar, and so is Sonny’s arm around his shoulders. For a split second he feels safe, but then he remembers the distance between them.
“I thought you were pissed at me.”
Sonny removes his arm and shifts away from him, making Mike feel empty inside. “I’m not pissed, just… just hurt. You abandoned me, and now you’re back, but I just don’t- I don’t know what to do, Mike. This is uncharted territory.”
“How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?”
“As many times as I prayed for your soul, Mike.”
Then the distance grows greater when Sonny stands up to go back to the bed that used to be theirs.
Ouch.


