A/N. Oneshot taking place within the narrative storyline shortly after arrival at the Bureau. Contains some coarse language. Trigger warning for mentions of self-harm. Disclaimer: I don't own The Divergent Series nor the characters in this story.

I run my hand through my hair, frustrated. I haven't slept all night but the tiredness still doesn't come. I feel a weakness seeping deep into my body, heavy and weighty, but I can't shake the restlessness that keeps me moving each night, round and round the Bureau, ceaselessly. Every night I watch Tris succumb to sleep, falling into it seamlessly, as if pulled under by the ebbing of the tides, and every night I wait for her breaths to even out and her hand to loosen its grasp in mine before I leave her.

I don't do much, really, just pace the halls, watching screens in the control room, waiting, begging, for my mind to shut down, to demand sleep. It never does.

Tonight I watch the Allegiant movement on the screens that monitor them. They're gathering their forces, unsure of what has happened to us, continuing with the mission they believe in. They don't understand that things can never return to the way they were. Things mustn't.

When I finally get back to the dormitory, my eyes go straight to the corner Tris and I have adopted. I expect to see her fast asleep like most mornings, hair covering her face, hand still outstretched, unaware, in her sleep, of my absence.

This morning she is not here, though. I look around the room. A couple of the others- Cara and Caleb- are not in their beds either, although it's possible that they were not there to begin with. Christina and Uriah are still asleep, sprawled out in their bunks. With all that's been going on in the last week everybody has been distracted, but I've noticed that Uri and Christina have been spending a lot of time together. I don't think either of them is actually ready for a relationship- not so soon after Will and Marlene- but they've definitely been there for each other. Christina has been doing a better job at looking after Uriah than I have. The memory of my promise to Zeke disturbs me, so like most things recently I push it aside.

My eyes shift to the next few beds. Two have been pushed together, and I see Peter sleeping, arms wrapped around a small figure with blonde hair. Tris.

It takes me a few seconds to comprehend what I'm seeing, and then anger and confusion rip through me. I know that there is an explanation, but in my tiredness I am too stubborn, too hurt, to look for it. The image before me does not make any sense.

I can still hear all of Peter's snide comments; see him looking to Eric as he kicks at Tris' face. I can see him holding her over the chasm; imagine his groping hands all over Tris minutes before I got there. I can still see the bruises he left.

Another image niggles at the back of my mind: Peter, cradling Tris' body, bringing her back to me, helping us out of Erudite. I push this away.

Tris is curled into him, not quite touching his chest, but close. Peter's arm rests on her upper back. It is an awkward position, but in sleep his arm is relaxed. The two bodies are breathing deep and evenly. Fast asleep. I want to hit him, to wake him up and tell him to never touch Tris again, to stay away or I will kill him. I feel like I could easily kill him in this moment.

This is the thought that makes me turn away. I storm out of the room, letting the door slam behind me, leaving them as they are. The noise would probably wake them, but Dauntless are used to sleeping amongst noise.

Great, I think bitterly. Let them sleep. At least some people are getting it around here.

I turn the corner and an angry snarl rips from my chest as I slam my fist into the wall. The hallway is deserted so no one sees me, and if anyone has heard, they don't come running.

You're jealous, the niggling voice returns. I push it away again. Tris has a hell of a lot to explain.

I return to the hallways I've grown to know, but this time my stride is angry and purposeful. Every face I pass looks quickly away from me. I know that they can see the rage burning within me.

He tried to kill her. She was asleep right next to him.

Tris and I have been trying to be honest with each other, but now I can't help the doubts that rise in my mind. Is something going on with them? What isn't she telling me?

I must have been walking for another hour before I see the back of his head in front of me. Peter's hair is still flat from sleep and he walks with his usual swagger. At the sight of him my anger flares.

'Hey Peter,' I call out, my voice all but shaking.

He stops and spins to look at me. The few people that inhabit the hallway scatter as discretely as they can.

'Four,' he acknowledges me. His voice is hard and defensive, like he knows what's coming next.

'So what,' I spit, striding towards him, 'you try to kill a girl one day and you're in bed with her the next? I never pegged you for the cuddling type.'

Peter narrows his eyes but does not back down. Good. My body is practically humming with the anticipation of a fight. I can feel the anger curling inside me, making it's way to the tips of my fingers and toes, to my head, my chest, my entire body. I can visualise it now: elbow to throat, knee to abdomen, fist to face, and when he's down, a few kicks to his ribs. I'm practically purring at the thought, the animalistic rage overcoming all sense of reason.

I crave a fight- I want the satisfaction of crunching bones. I want him to fight back. I relish the thought of a chance to expel all this pent up ager and frustration, to protect what's mine. It's a most primal instinct, but it's there nonetheless. I want to beat the message into Peter: Tris is mine. I am hers and she is mine to keep, to touch, and to love.

So before Peter can open his mouth to reply I'm in his face, my hand tightening around his throat.

I let him throw me off. I thrive off of his defence.

'Maybe,' he snarls, his hands tightening to fists as he moves back towards me, 'if you were there to look after your girlfriend when she's screaming in the middle of the night, I wouldn't have to do it for you.'

He must see the surprise in my face because he scoffs at me.

'Every fucking night. Usually I'd just throw a pillow at her or whatever, but she started scratching herself last night. Ripped half her fucking skin off before I went to shut her up.'

I take a step back, shocked at this new information. Peter takes advantage of my unguarded position to get into my face.

'Maybe tonight instead of taking your usual midnight stroll, you can stick around for the part where Tris wakes up crying out for you, so I don't have to do your fucking job for you,' he spits, and pushes me back against the opposite wall before turning away and stalking back up the hallway.

I process what Peter's just told me. I knew Tris would be having nightmares, we all are. But if she's waking up every night while I'm not there, why isn't she saying anything?

She trusts you, the voice answers. She's waiting for you to come to her. She's trying not to push you. The familiar hold of guilt seeps into me. Peter mentioned scratching- if she needs me, if she's hurting herself, I should be there. I should be there even if she doesn't need me.

Peter is at the end of the corridor when he turns around, sliding his hand tiredly down his face. It's only now that I stop and really look at him. His face is worn, and despite Peter's ingrained Candor arrogance, his posture is sagging. There are dark circles under his eyes and his skin is pale and lifeless.

'She's near the fountain. Probably just sitting there,' he sighs.

I nod mechanically. It seems Peter is intending to surprise me every time he opens his mouth. He shuffles his feet a little bit, and then nods nonchalantly in return and keeps walking.

When I reach the fountain by the entrance I have to look into the back corners to find Tris. She's curled into herself, knees pressed against her chest, and staring blankly at the wall in front of her. I lean against the wall for a bit before I get any closer. I can feel the distance between us like a weight that has settled in my stomach. So much has happened, so many difficult, horrible things that have driven a wedge of hurt, suspicion and loss between us. Nothing can be simple anymore.

It strikes me as ironic that most people crave mess and adventure in their lives- especially the Dauntless- and I, who have never craved anything but simplicity - have been bombarded with chaos and misery and complications my whole life.

If Tris and I, by some miracle, had both have stayed in Abnegation, I may have met her at an outreach program, doing some kind of volunteering. I would've gone to her house, shared a meal with her family, and after a year or so of dating, we might've been married. If Erudite hadn't of attacked when they did, Tris and I would've experience dating in Dauntless- blatant flirting, ridiculous displays of public affection (if we'd ever worked up to it), group dating, trips outside the compound, perhaps exploring the train lines. We might've moved into the same apartment after Tris chose her job. It would've been exhilarating and frightening and incredible.

But Tris and I will never know either of those realities. We've been subjected to this mess of war and heartbreak instead. How is a relationship meant to grow, to flourish, when it is founded on and surrounded by cruelty and fear?

We have been pushed apart and tested time and time again by our vulnerabilities and by our own faulted personalities, and the sight of Tris before me is proof of how far I have let the destruction go. The anger I've been carrying with me- not only this morning, but my whole life- settles now into a deep ache, and the weariness returns. All I want is to take Tris into my arms and to sleep until all this passes, to keep us both safe and secure. To know that Tris will be always okay, always within the protection of my arms. But these things cannot be.

Tris doesn't look up at me until I am right in front of her. Her eyes are wide and glassy, but the corners of her mouth turn up in the ghost of a smile, so I crouch down until my eyes line up with hers. She is beautiful.

I'm not sure what to say, so I settle for silence. I grab her hands, which are curled around her knees, and draw them to me.

Her forearms have been ripped at, and I can see this is what Peter was referring to. Scratching, he said. They are bloody and shredded, deep cuts running from wrist to the crease in her elbows. They have stopped bleeding, but the dried blood cakes her skin, and there's a good chance the wounds could get a pretty serious infection. How could she do this to herself?

Tris meets my eyes, but she looks distant.

'I… I don't… I don't really know…' she stammers nervously, and I decide I don't need, don't want, any kind of explanation from her. I don't think you need an excuse for fear and for panic. I press my lips softly against Tris' to stop her.

'It's okay,' I tell her, and I briefly think back to how many times I've told her that over the last couple of months. It's not okay at all. I tell her again anyway. 'It's okay, Tris'

Tears have gathered in her eyes, so when I scoop her up into my arms I am especially gentle. Just like the night at the chasm, she curls one hand into the material of my shirt, and rests her head against my chest.

We make our way slowly to the bathroom, and I grab out some bandages and disinfectant from the first-aid box inside.

'This is probably going to sting a bit, okay, Tris?' I warn her, and she nods her head.

When I quickly wash and apply the cream to her scratches I know it must hurt a hell of a lot, but she barely flinches. Who is this removed, vacant girl in front of me?

I wrap the bandages carefully over her forearms and imagine her sitting in bed ripping at her own skin out of- what? Fear? Anger? Sadness? Desperation?

What has become of us?

I finish cleaning her up and carry her back to our shared room. I lay Tris down in her bed and tuck her into the covers. Leaning down, I press my lips to her temple and her eyes slide shut.

There she is, this enigma of a girl- Tris. Stiff, Dauntless, Warrior, Woman, Martyr, Friend, Sister, Daughter, Girlfriend, Divergent. My Tris.

A small pale hand sneaks out of the covers and grasps my wrist.

'Tobias,' she whispers, and even though I've never felt further away from Tris than now, my heart still leaps a little at the sound of my name on her lips.

'Stay, please,' she asks, and I am surprised by the strength in her voice. She opens her eyes to meet mine, and there is a spark in there, buried under the weight of loss and war, but her eyes have yet to lose their shine.

I push my bed to hers and climb in, automatically wrapping my arms around her and cradling her against me.

'And tonight,' her voice is kind of muffled, but I hear the emotion thick in her throat, 'please, Tobias, stay.'

A year ago, I would have been embarrassed by the tears that form in my eyes, but now, after all that Tris and I have been through, I only hold her tighter and let my tears fall into her hair.

I don't know how we will fix the mess we've become, and I don't know if there is any way to piece back our relationship after so much destruction.

Tonight, I will stay, and when Tris wakes up, I will be here. I will stay.

Tomorrow night, I will stay, and when Tris wakes up, I will be here. I will stay.

I don't know much in life anymore, but this too shall pass.