He dreams of Rannoch. When his dreams aren't haunted by the boy on Earth, Mordin, Tarquin Victus, all those he should've saved but didn't, couldn't. When the shadows don't surround him until he wakes in a cold sweat, he dreams of Rannoch. They have a house, on the cliff that she claimed. Nothing big, just a small pre-fab home for them, a few rooms and a garden that neither of them really tend and will soon grow rampant. In his dreams she's never in her enviro-suit. She's always in sundresses that billow in the wind that plays with the hair she keeps hidden in her hood. The dreams are never big or important, none of the heroism of the waking world leaking through. Painting the house, sitting on the porch swing he has always wished for, water fights in the garden. She's always smiling, face never covered by her mask. The dreams of Rannoch never require her to shake him awake as he thrashes; they're so much worse. Because when he wake from them the tears are falling from his eyes, and he knows, deep in his core, that they will never see her home-world again.