Phil's sleep has been slowly becoming more regular for the first time in almost a year, but the emphasis here is on slow. Some nights are better than others.

He doesn't necessarily seek high places, usually. Just hidden ones. But tonight he figured he may as well; the view is nice and it's quieter than most places, and silence is still a valuable commodity for him these days.

But when he wanders upwards, it's not very quiet; there's a heart beating there with the slowness that comes with sleep, and when he mounts the height, there lies Cassandra. With flowers about her head, sprung from the metal.

Oh, dear. Here? He stoops down, fingers brushing past the flowers as he tries to feel if she's got any kind of pillow, and... no, it doesn't seem so. That can't be good. So he disappears, and returns with an armful of pool towels to fold beneath her head, and wonders for too long if he ought to move her.

But by then, the exhaustion's catching up to him, and. Well.