“Nightmare,” he explained hoarsely, and let out a long, shaky breath.

“Get used to it; it happens. It’s like a brain hiccup.”

Your brain sucks, McClane told him, his tone deeply irritated. It should let us sleep. Also, that was a big, fat lie. It never happened. You didn’t get shot, I checked.

Riley smiled tiredly. McClane might sound pissy as hell, but he was rubbing and kneading his host’s rigid muscles anyway, and it was doing wonders for Riley’s post-nightmare jitters. He needed this right now, the feeling of being touched, of someone being there to lend his strength for a

bit. Just for a minute or two, until Riley could get his metaphorical feet under him again.

So what did happen? McClane asked when Riley’s heartbeat had finally slowed down to a healthier rhythm.

For once, Riley’s reluctance to talk about it outweighed his unease about McClane sifting through his memories. “Don’t you know already?”

Wouldn’t ask if I did, McClane grumbled. He shifted his focus from Riley’s neck to his back and patiently set about loosening the knots between Riley’s shoulder blades. You keep a pretty tight lock on the things you really don’t want to think about. You simply blank out whatever you can’t deal with.

“Like what?”

Riley was stalling and they both knew it, but he also honestly wanted to know. He hadn’t realized there were memories he was actively avoiding.

It was a coping mechanism his father had employed from time to time, one that had irritated Riley and the rest of the family like nobody’s business.

He’d always sworn he wasn’t going to do the same, but it looked as though it had happened anyway. It made him squirm, uncomfortable as hell. He didn’t like thinking about his father this way, as though maybe the man hadn’t been quite as perfect as Riley chose to remember him.

“Like what?” he repeated, uneasy.

Like what happened with Misha.

A deep-seated vibration made Riley moan softly in relieved pleasure and arch his back in a slow, unthinking stretch. He knew about the Misha thing. It had been a conscious decision to suppress those memories. He’d get to them in time; he just needed a little emotional distance first. Of course, McClane didn’t stop there.

Like how your daddy died. Another humming sensation kept Riley from tensing up again, but it was a close call. Like how you ended up all alone. Like—

“Okay,” Riley interrupted hastily, increasingly discomfited in spite of the preventive massage. “I get it.”

So do I, McClane said quietly, squeezing the taut muscles along Riley’s spine. I’m not trying to hurt you. You don’t want me to know, I’ll leave it alone. But Misha worries us.

Us? Riley thought fuzzily, but McClane dug in again and his confusion dissolved in the satisfying pop of strained tissue loosening up.

He’s a problem, McClane continued, oblivious, and I want to help, but I need to know what went wrong.