The Convergence Creation Week 2017.
Day 5 - Pain.
Often enough, he isn't the one to have the nightmares. Not in this world, anyway. Resting by the side of the woman who had become his total confident, beloved friend, and lover, bad dreams seemed to stay away. It was Jenna who might stir awake at times, with a whimper or a simple flinch. He'll feel it, even in slumber. His arms will tighten about her frame and they will remain entangled in each other until she settles back down; and even then, they will stay completely enwrapped with the other until dawn.
But sometimes, there's a fear too sharp, too fast, that it will cut through any curtain of security and comfort and stab one right in the back. That fear came when the name her name disappeared from that plaque, remained gone for four days. It remains even now, even if she has returned with all the love and safety she had offered in the past; it's there, simmering, even when he isn't aware of it. Tonight, it seems to drag up anything it can sink its claws into; any memory that might trigger any amount of negative reaction. He doesn't jerk away immediately, as Jenna might at times. Nor does he make a sound, or move an inch, during the nightmares' rampage.
The only reaction the fear gets is when he finally does wake up. It takes a second, or less, to go from the onslaught of images and memories and exaggerated worries, to consciousness; seems to send the body into a small state of shock, because a cold sweat soon appears, and a shiver runs down the spine. The next breath comes out sharp and shaky, through dry lips as groggy blue eyes blink rapidly, and look around. Instinctively, whether so the body can gather into itself in a protective manner, or a subconscious will not to waken the slumbering spouse beside him, he pulls away. His arms slide from her waist, and still without a sound he turns the other way. He swallows thickly, and attempts to close his eyes again, to calm the pounding pulse rushing through his ears; this only makes the images return, and soon, the tired eyes open once more.
He lays there, silently, and still as a stone. Fists are tangled in sheets, and every muscle is tense as he simply waits for everything to drift to the farthest corner of his mind; it's a process familiar from years before, when the first few times he had slept in the cockpit of a ship, or on a wooden cot in the jungles of Kashyyyk. The process, of forcibly ignoring everything until the nightmares are far from the front of his mind, can take any amount of time, from several minutes, till dawn rises. He's patient in this process; if not out of stubbornness, then almost irrational fear. As if any movement or noise might bring the hauntings of his mind to life before his eyes, and make them a reality – or repeated reality.
Something that sets this time apart from the time immediately following his brother's death, is that he isn't alone in the room, or even the bed. At some point, Jenna stirs. A breeze has come through the open window; maybe the chill wakes her up. Maybe she feels the absence of the warm body that had shielded her from the draft for the past few hours. Or maybe it's just instinct, bred by familiarity and affection and devotion. The reason is not very important. Jenna stirs, and of course, she notices that he is gone. Or at least, no longer near her. When her drift hand fails to find his own, she turns about. Her eyes haven't opened yet. She turns so she's on her other side; and yes, now she feels the fabric of a shirt, and a flinch. She opens one eye halfway, and finds herself gazing at a back.
A concerned little frown settles upon her lips, and she shifts herself closer. That same hand carefully slides over his arm, so that it wraps around him. She feels every coiled muscle, and the lingering of the cold sweat on his skin. She hears his sharp intake of breath and immediately she pulls herself to him. Up against his back; she knows him well. How his instinct at any hurt, any trace of fear, is to run. It was her's as well, after all. He's already running, in this quiet way. And so she grabs on, and attempts to ground him. Remind him that where he is, there is safety, and love. And that while something hurtful, and anxiety-producing, and feared might have intruded, it did not mean he had to leave it.
She kisses the back of his neck softly; her fingers stroke the hand she feels clenched on his other side, and she sighs quietly.
"I'm here."
"I'm here," she says; and it's such an abnormal amount of impact that the two words, in her whispering voice, bring. Like a feather that lands on a plate of glass, and shatters it into millions of shards. Or the flutter of a butterfly's wings, that send all the grains of sand on a shoreline sweeping into the ocean. Throat tightens. The feeling of slender fingers atop of his own send an electric wave of chills – different than the earlier ones – racing through his veins. She's a shield. A wonderful, warm, comforting shield, that surrounds him; and whenever he drifts away, just gently urges him back with careful, not forceful, tugs. There's a twinge of regret at wakening her; there's also a twinge of relief.
Yes, she's here. Thank the Force she is here. He hadn't though, since his brother had died, that he could ever miss another human being so much, as he did her when her name had disappeared. Never thought he could possibly feel so insecure, or worried, about how he was supposed to handle his future, when he had been left with a small brood of terribly fragile children to both love, and protect. One of them a mere child, who almost would have to live the rest of her childhood without a mother to guide her, and teach her how to be a woman. Thinking about it now stirs up the gut-clenching, stomach-flipping sensation again – like he's freefalling and has no hope of ever grabbing onto a handhold or even hitting solid ground. He must react physically some way, because he feels her curl up even tighter against his back. There's another kiss too, this one to the back of his shoulder. He feels a gentle hide glide through tousled hair.
"I'm here," she repeats, like a saving grace. " 'm right here, baby." It's a quiet nickname that he recognizes. Just another of those small reminders that she is, in fact, here. She's come back. She's been given back, to him, to her family. He releases out another exhale, shakier. If possible, her embrace tightens.
"Ben."
It's a call, and he cannot resist. Even if it's engrained in his muscle memory, to hide away, run, resist, he turns around slowly. He doesn't think he could ever deny her of the affection, the mutual submission, the care she'd been robbed of for so long of her life. Soon, he's facing her. His eyes have opened, and he is staring at warm, chocolate irises that gaze softly on him. Just as quiet as he is. He feels her hand, the one in his hair, slide down to his face. Her thumb brushes away something, a moisture he hadn't realized as resting on his cheeks. She's gives a sad sort of smile (to him, one of her most beautiful).
"It's okay," she whispers, as she wears that smile. "It's okay, Ben."
How different is her method of chasing away the poison left by the nightmares, than his own. When she stirs, whimpers, flinches in her slumber, he becomes a wall, one that encompasses her as he draws her in close, holds her tight until he's forced it all away. She's not a wall though. She's as soft as fleece and gentler than a bird's song. She melt's down, because she knows that he'll follow. He will always follow. She doesn't bother to try and break down the guards that his mind instinctively throws up, doesn't even attempt it; all she has to do is coax him out of them, with a soft touch, an even softer voice. And it works. He feels it working now, feels the rigidness start seeping from his death grip on the sheets and the wired tension unravel from his body. When she gives a soft hush, his eyes close. This time, images don't dare to peek out from the shadows. In this darkness, he feels her lips on his forehead. They remain like that for a full five minutes.
At the end of these five minutes, his hands have released the blanket, and his arms now snake back around her waist. Her smile grows a bit, he can tell, without opening his eyes. One more kiss is pressed to him, this time to his lips, before she ducks her head down and gives a quiet sigh. She's against his chest and he holds her there. As time passes, both soon drift back into slumber. Her touch, her reassurances, her existence, have sped up the process significantly. Ben Derek will now be sleeping with his wife in his arms, as she holds him just as close; and the fear that had come knocking in the night, has been chased back into its home under the bed until next time.
Find a place inside where there's joy, and the joy will burn out the pain.
A/N: Disclaimer: Jenna Winters is a Supernatural OC created and played by Liza on the Convergence role playing forum.