A hundred and a thousand thanks to Meepyonnee for always being the best beta ever

Esto perpetua

—

He lies awake, eyes open in the darkness, acutely aware of everything around him.

Her hand rests against his back, nestled somewhere between vertebrae and his shoulder blade. He knows, knows with certainty that eventually she will shift: she will turn in her sleep and take her hand away. For now, however, he savors the feeling of her palm, pressing gently against him, nestled against the fabric of his shirt.

The house is quiet but the woman beside him is full of sounds, as she is when she is awake and even as she drifts into slumber. Soft sighs escaping her lips, partial hums of agreement or protest as sleep overtakes her. A violent twitch shakes the mattress and she burrows further under the quilt and closer toward him. Her other arm circles around him; her hand lands near the base of his spine.

He wills his eyes to close but can't force the rest of his body to relax. His ears catch the slightest of sounds: a gust of wind rattles the windows and a tree scrapes its branches across the roof. Far away, the sound of a truck rolling over gravel and a dog barks. Beside him, in the darkness, her even breathing.

She makes a sound that is half a sigh, the rest a hum. Her fingers tighten around the fabric of his shirt. When he hears these vocalizations he can almost imagine he's catching fragments of a hidden conversation. A conversation held somewhere between this room and the unknown expanses of eternity. A conversation he is not—and no one else ever will be—privy to, even as he observes from the sidelines.

The creak of the house pulls him instantly to alertness and he opens his eyes. There is enough illumination from the street lamp to see the outline of the room, even though the curtains are drawn. Shadows dance across the gap shown on the opposite wall; intricate patterns of branches and leaves simplified into nothing more than varying shades of gray, swaying in the breeze.

In the kitchen, down the hall, the refrigerator motor turns on. Something rattles as it runs. It quits with a shudder and the house is quiet again.

He listens. Her breathing is deeper now. She has been still for some time now. If he were to get up now, he knows, he could do so without waking her. And he does this, on many nights. He always preferred to work, rather than to lay awake in bed, and often times can't help himself from slipping back into the habit. There is always work to do; if he's going to be awake anyway he might as well work until exhaustion pulls him back to her side. There are always more materials to read, more files to review, emails to be sent. But tonight he stays where he is, relishing the feeling of her hands, laying against his back. Her body, warm underneath the quilt beside him. He can't bring himself to move; not even the slightest shift or turn should it disturb her and cause her to draw away.

He does not know how long he has laid there in absolute stillness or how much time has passed. He did not notice her pull her hands away. Her body is now pressed against his side; she lays on her back. He realizes he must have fallen asleep, drifted into quiet slumber beside her. The realization comes to him slowly. He does not feel sleepy or sluggish and yet his thoughts are slowed by the darkness around him all the same.

She makes a small sound; this must be what woke him. She rolls away from him but he follows her, slipping his arm around her and resting his hand against her shoulder. She whimpers in her sleep and he tightens his grip. Not so much to wake her but enough, he hopes, to reassure her with his presence. Hoping he can reassure her with the warmth of his own body, next to her own, remind her with his own being that whatever plagues her is only a dream.

She moans softly, shudders, and begins to tremble beneath his arm. When she cries out again he says her name, surprising himself by the hoarse sound.

"Mai," he repeats gently. He rests his forehead against her neck and she seems to relax again, but only for a moment.

Now she cries out loudly, twisting her body as the nightmare takes its hold of her. Her legs twitch in an attempt to get away from whatever it is that pursues her and she inhales a gasping breath, her body jerking before becoming entirely still. She has awoken now, she feels his body against her own. She releases a long, shuddering breath. The inhalation is quieter as she tries to steady her breathing, but he can feel the thudding of her heartbeat throughout her body. She is afraid.

He squeezes her shoulder gently but says nothing, only letting her know that he is awake by her side. He props himself up with his elbow against the pillows and strokes her hair gently. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her face turned halfway against the pillow. She doesn't want him to see her crying, but in the darkness he can tell.

Sometimes she apologizes for waking him. Sometimes they get up from bed, depending on the time, to turn on the light and the kettle. Sometimes, they talk about this nightmare—or try to. In the darkness of the room she speaks in ambiguous riddles and circles, shielding him from the details he's so desperate to hear. Turn on the lamp, she shrugs it off and tells him not to worry. But he is worried. He can't help but worry. It's an inconvenience that has plagued them for weeks now, months even, and no matter how many times he assures her she is not the inconvenience, but the nightmare—over and over and over—somehow, she doesn't seem to believe him. And if she does, it hasn't changed her mind not to tell him, not to say aloud this nightmare that has her firmly in its grasp.

But it will pass. He knows this; tries to remind himself that there is only so much he can do. This has happened before, and it will probably—almost certainly—happen again. She is strong. She can handle these dreams. He wishes she didn't have to, but he knows that she can. She is so much more able than most give her credit for.

In the darkness, she reaches across her body to place her hand over his own. Her fingers intertwine with his, squeezing them tightly. Sometimes her hands seem small, in comparison to his own—but she's ceased to surprise him with their warmth and strength. The way she returns his grip: steadfast, strong, unwavering. The grip of her hand seems to speak for her. The grip of her hand seems to thank him for being there. Reassures him that she's okay. And reminds him that he isn't alone. That she is—and always will be—here for him, by his side. As he is—and always will be—for her.

He lets his head sink back into the pillows and listens to her breathing, his own breath synchronizing with the rhythm of hers. He can feel the gentle rise and fall of her body beneath his hand. Her grip on his fingers begins to relax. She is silent, this time, as sleep takes its hold over her once again. There are no catches of a private conversation. Her body is still; no shifting beneath the quilt, no involuntary twitches. Only steady, even breathing.

The house is quiet. If he were to listen, he would hear the sound of the wind outside. Leaves skitter across the road, illuminated as they pass beneath the street lamps. Trees yield, bend and resist. Clouds race over the city, glowing burnt orange and purple as if a silent conflagration has been lit in the sky. But the clouds above and the wind that carries them pass by without his notice. His awareness is focused only on the confines of the bed, and even then only vaguely. The warmth of a body in the curve of his own. The comforting weight of blankets. And the quietness of their breathing.

He closes his eyes and lets the sounds of the darkness pull him back to the depths of slumber.

—

a note from abbq:

Really showing my roots here with all this sweet corn. If you enjoyed this in any manner you can really thank Meepyonnee for convincing me to revise and share. I wish I could say I wrote this for fluff week, but alas, it was only coincidence. My writing is never that cooperative (and in the end too late, anyway.) But please show the love and pop over to her profile and check out her stories, if you haven't already. You won't be disappointed!

I suppose this is the first successful oneshot I've managed, except it's not even really a oneshot at all and more of a vignette. (Tbh my first (and last) oneshot was probably the first chapter of btlt, but then I went and spoiled it by turning it into multi-chapter. Ah well c'est la vie.)

Thanks, as always, for reading! (And a special shoutout to all residents of Idaho, past and present.)