Chapter 11
Turner used to have terrible nightmares. They were vivid, disturbing, and turned him into an insomniac. Though the images themselves were always different, the motif was still the same. Having not witnessed his family's murder, his mind played evil tricks on him, manipulating the scene in every way possible.
Sometimes it was a string of pictures, like photographs, still frames of his wife and child sprawled on the bed, a facelessman with a knife standing over them, blood everywhere.
Other times, it was just his wife's smiling face turned broken and crying, as she begged for mercy, asking the masked man not to harm her baby. His daughter in her mother's arms at first grinning, blue eyes twinkling and then lifeless, vacant irises, her body motionless as the man carefully concocted a familiar crimson mural on the wall behind them.
Sometimes, the worst dream of all, the one that left him shaking and alert for hours was the one where he found himself with the knife, blood on his hands, blood staining his expensive suit, with his wife and child butchered like animals, limbs strewn across the floor.
That dream always ended with him staring at his reflection, he saw someone he could not recognize, an evil grin, dark to hurt and murder the only people in his world that meant something to him.
He would not sleep long after those dreams. Those latent manifestations of his guilt and shame were too much to bear at times; they seemed relentless, as if he would permanently have to bear the cross not only in wakefulness but also in sleep. He didn't mind it, knew he deserved to be punished for what he did, but eventually, the nightmares stopped, or more like transformed into something else.
They were replaced by his new subconscious purpose.
Now, instead of picturing what Red River Killer did to his family, Turner found himself picturing what he would do to him when he caught him. There was never much detail to these dreams, but they always, always, always involved him butchering Red River Killer like he butchered his family.
Despite his continued struggle with insomnia, even after the nightmares became just faded memories in which he sought occasional, twisted solace, Turner still envisioned what it would be like to finally get his revenge, except now, just beyond the actual act, he wondered what would happen after.
He never had, but a transformation that had caught him off guard was forcing him to see into the future, manipulating his one-track mind into questioning everything he's ever lived for since the murder of his family.
It was quite annoynig, he thought, how his own mind could play tricks on him and he was no more immune to it than the suspects he coerced into confessions or the colleagues he managed to piss off. Needless to say, Turner didn’t sleep well for an entirely different reason now and he knew a lot of it had to do with the woman whose bed he shared.
She was not supposed to make him think about the possibility of an exist ence beyond the execution of his revenge. She was not supposed to force pleasant images into his head about what it would be like to gather her into his arms, whisk her away somewhere remote, and not leave the comfort of her warmth for an undefined amount of time.
But she had. She's done all those things and more, without even realizing it.
Turner was well aware that there were some topics that Watson knew were off limits, and the main one was his family. She never questioned him about it, never asked, and didn’t even touch on his reluctance to part with his wedding band even though he was no more a married man than she was a married woman. He didn’t know whether to be thankful for her prudence or to be irritated by it.
He knew if she ever broached the subject in a non-work related manner, he would mostly likely snap at her, become defensive and cold and his less than honest thoughts. He sometimes wanted her to confront him, force him to own up to things that he had trouble letting go, but he knew she never will.
Despite what she may think of herself, Natalie was an incredibly patient, durable soul who spent most of her life guiding other people into realizing their potential, and he thought he would be no exception. Another thing he learned over the time he spent getting to know Natalie Watson outside work was that she was not as resilient in her own pain as she was in her actions towards others.
Turner thought about how his own nightmares transformed into something else, something far more sinister, a blinding thirst for vengeance, retribution that quickly clouded all his thoughts and feelings, those of grief, anger, and pain.
For Watson, her nightmares have never and will never turn into something as wicked, so he was terrified that the painful images that plagued her subconscious would never subside, would never set her free.
The first time it happened, he pretended to be asleep.
He wasn't sure why the guise was necessary, but with the way her eyes immediately shifted to make sure he hadn't woken up, Turner realized she was still not ready to let him see that part of her. Whatever was hurting her was too private, the memory too raw and painful, and if there was anything he could relate to, it was that.
It was the shame and fear that he wouldn’t be understood, that his psyche was too damaged and his soul too frayed to be accepted by someone. As much as his heart aches from suspicion that Watson might feel a fraction of what he did, he gave her the space she needed, the privacy that might give her some measure of power, promising to intevene only when he felt it natural to do so.
Thankfully, the episodes were few and far in between, and for the most part, he spent his nights in and out of sleep, always comforted by the presence of the petite woman in his arms, who had somehow begun to lessen the weight on his heart.
He didn’t want to admit it, unable to cope with the ramifications of the realization, but every night that he held, or cooked her dinner and listened as she berated him for using too much wine in his sauces, Turner found himself closer and closer to admitting that he really was falling in love again.
Which is why one night it became unbearable to feign sleep when her small body spasmed beside his and she woke up with a jolt, chest heaving as she took deep breaths to steady her heart. He didn’t even realize he was touching her until she turned around and even in the darkness of her bedroom he could see the look of shock and shame cross her features.
He didn’t want to be accusatory, didn’t want to show her he was hurt by her desire to keep this from him, so he gently coaxed her back into his arms. Watson laid down wordlessly, too exhausted to fight him as Turner wrapped his arms around her, pulling the covers over them both.
They lie in silence for a long time, his hand tracing over the pulse point on her wrist, until the frantic beat subsided and her body relaxed against him, no longer frigid and cold.
"Tell me about them," he finally whispered against her neck, his warm breath soothing her.
"I don't want to," Watson mumbled with a hint of defiance in her tone, burying her head in the pillow. Turner smiled, he could't help it. She always told him how stubborn he was, but in truth, he was malleable to her words, far more so than she wass to his.
“Why not?”
Watson let out a sigh and twisted in his arms, laying on her back and staring at him. He was laying on his side, propped up on an elbow, the comforter fell to his waist and he had the most concentrated look in his eye. She got sidetracked without trying and pondered once again how this even happened. How he went from being the annoying, slightly damaged advisor that threatened her team's credibility to the man who shared her bed, cooked her dinner, and watched reruns of Seinfeld with her.
Her hand instinctively reached out to caress his cheek and he responded to her touch like a kitten, rubbing his stubble against her palm, smiling softly at her as he leaned down to brush his lips over her forehead.
"I'll make you a deal," Turner decided, sliding down until he was eye level to her, "If you tell me, I'll tell you everything that you could't find in my case file." Her eyes grew wide; she was surprised, taken aback by his suggestion.
"Eric, you don't have-…"
"I know I don't have to." He pressed his fingers to her lips, "but I want to. I've been wanting to for a while. You've told me a lot about your family, your past and I haven't been as open. I want you to know."
There was conviction in his voice, sincerity, and Watson knew it took a lot out of him.
Turner wasn't just a private person; he was also not quite over what happened. She knew little about his upbringing, but was convinced that he believed his rearing shaped him to be prone to arrogance and made him thirst for fame, which ultimately rendered terrible consequences and she knew that still weighed hevy on his heart. For him to let her in, to finally be ready to tell her everything, it meant something. Maybe it meant absolutely everything and she threaded her fingers through his curls, pushed his body on top of hers, and fused their mouths together in a slow, languid kiss.
"You think you can distract me?" Turner nuzzled her neck after he pulled away, biting slightly on her earlobe, and earning a squeal from her.
"Not at all," Watson said innocently, but her foot rubbed his calf underneath the covers, contradicting the purity in her expression.
They looked at each other for a moment, playful smiles and dazed looks, but when he reached out to swipe the bangs from her face and felt the cold moisture on her forehead, Turner remembered why they woke up and frowned, his eyes somber as he traced a finger across her collarbone, hooking it into the strap of her camisole.
"I’m serious, Natalie.”
"I know."
Her voice was quiet, subdued, there was a hint of insecurity in it that he was frankly not used to. He had only heard it once before. It sent an unpleasant feeling of guilt to his chest and he moved her until her head was resting on his shoulder.
Watson buried her nose in his chest, letting his scent and heat and everything about him calm her mind for a moment. She's not afraid of telling him everything, she knows there's always been trust between them, but right now all she wanted was his presence beside her. She wanted his quiet strength and confidence in her to reaffirm her belief that despite any ghosts that she battles alone in her dreams, she won't have to fight them by herself when she's awake.
"I want to tell you everything, just not tonight okay?" she looked up, her green eyes still as bright and shining even when she's pleading with him, "just hold me."
"Okay," He nodded.
Their bodies found each other instinctively, limbs intertwined naturally, as if they were meant to lay like this and be connected in an intimate way. Turner felt her breathing even out and thought Watson had fallen asleep, so he ran his fingers through her hair, trailed his hand up and down her spine, indulging in the softness of her skin and the gentle rise of her chest.
Ironically, though he had not been plagued by nightmares in quite some time, Turner knew he wouldn't get much sleep tonight. His heart may be at peace, but his mind was in turmoil. He was used to being the closed off one, the one who carried an air of mystery around him, the one who needed the coaxing, not the one who pushed. Perhaps it was a good lesson for him. Perhaps, it was good that she humbled him, building his patience and motivating him to open up to her first.
Just as he closed his eyes, almost okay with Watson's reluctance to talk, her sleepy voice broke through the silence, "Thank you," she whispered, "thank you for wanting to open up to me; I know it must be hard."
He realized that although he may never again be a complete mystery to the woman in his arms, he was willing to sacrifice that if she promised not to shut him out. He placed a soft: kiss on her cheek and somehow slowly the bounds of insomnia lessened just enough for him to fall asleep, holding Watson closely, subconsciously hoping to chase away both her demons and his...