[This post is from J.T.’s point of view.]
“You seem tired, Jameson.”
J.T. winced at the sound of Ériu’s voice, a threadbare whisper in the darkness as he eased down the darkened hallway in the last hours before dawn. “I am tired,” he whispered back to the ghost dogging his steps. “I’ve been up for probably nearly twenty-four hours at this point. Anyone would be tired.”
It was a lie, though. He wasn’t nearly as tired as he pretended to be—adrenaline was still pumping, and though he knew he should have been beyond exhausted, it hadn’t quite hit yet. Maybe when the rush wore off. That happened, sometimes. He’d crash and crash hard, probably sleep the better part of the day and then have to struggle to reset his sleeping schedule in the aftermath.
All he really wanted to do was sleep, but at the same time, he didn’t.
That’s because you don’t want to sleep alone and you have been for weeks.
“What’s bothering you?” the ghost asked. She was alongside him now, a spectre in a dark green gown, her pale hair bound in braids and woven through with silver trinkets that clinked softly with each movement. “Everything went well. They’re all healthy and safe.”
“I know.”
“But there’s something digging at you.”
“Yes.”
“But it’s not Thom or Sif or anything like that.”
He stopped dead in his tracks, looking directly at her. “If you know so much, Ériu, you’d bloody well better tell me what’s bothering me since you seem to be damned good at telling me what it’s not.”
She turned squarely toward him, her eyes narrowing. “You don’t have to take that tone of voice with me.”
A frustrated sigh escaped his lips and he started walking again, suddenly not caring if she kept up or not. He could see her from the corner of his eye, but she didn’t say anything as his strides ate up the distance between him and his bed. He jerked open the door to his room.
“Jay?”
