It's a not a surprise to her; she can't imagine that it's a surprise to him either. She'd seen the subtle clench of his fist even as he'd forced his typically impish grin to flash across his face when the boys cracked a joke. She'd felt the infinitesimal flinch when she'd interrupted his daydream with a touch to his shoulder, guiding him out of the precinct. The day had been exhausting for both of them, so they'd fallen asleep quickly when they'd finally made it back to the loft, but when his nightmare wakes them both, it's no shock at all.
The dreams come less frequently now, several months having passed since he and Alexis had returned from Paris, but no distance from that kind of terror can bring complete reprieve. No, he'll be startled into consciousness with images of a dead daughter and a fraudulent father for the rest of his life. It's something she'd protect him from if she could, but all she can do is ease him through the aftermath.
She knows nightmares too well.
And he does the same when she's the one gasping into silence of the room.
Experience tells her that his heart is racing, so she rolls her body toward him, warm and mostly bare and now draped soothingly over his side; he stares at the ceiling through eyes too scared to see. She moves slowly until she can thread her fingers through his and bring his shaking hand to her chest, where he is able to feel both the subtle curve of her breast and the marred skin of her healed wound. It strikes her, not for the first time, that nightmares must have plagued him then, too. That he'd probably spent too many nights reliving the way she had nearly bled out in his arms. Their story may be on the way to a happy ending, but she can't help but hate herself a little for being the cause of so much of his pain at a time when she could provide no relief. She closes her eyes against that thought, and refocuses on what she can do for him now.
Her heartbeat knocks steadily against his palm and she whispers a reminder to let it lead the way. He's spent so many years following her; it should be easy enough to do it here.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
His breath stutters, words that will remain unspoken rattling in his throat, and she watches him struggle against the fear that continues to distract him. Sometimes the firm press of his palm against her heart is enough to ground him, but not tonight. He needs more from her.
They're wearing nothing but their underwear, but even that's a barrier she wants removed, so she tosses her boyshorts aside and reaches for the waistband of his boxers. He's still stuck in semi-consciousness and he's heavy against the mattress, but she's gentle as she tugs the material away and blankets his body with hers. Her weight helps, and the skin to skin contact has benefits she can't begin to understand completely. Even more, it centers him. They breathe as one.
Inhaling, as their ribcages rise together, the pressure building in tired lungs.
Exhaling, while everything relaxes with quiet relief.
The rhythm isn't perfect, the dance still clumsy, but it's a start. He's on his way back to her.
Still cautious and keeping her movements controlled, she slides down the length of his body until she can easily wrap her fingers around his ankles. The tension humming through his muscles is insistent, the vibrations palpable, so she applies pressure to counter it and travels the length of his legs. Her thumbs work against the physical strain, mapping the points she learned well through her own therapy; she murmurs reassurances that matter little, though the cadence is enough to calm him further. As she continues upward, she keeps her eyes on his and is comforted by the weary blink that greets her. When he begins to stir, however imperceptibly, she knows he's turned his attention to the present, oriented himself to her touch.
She knows better than to ease up on the massage at the first sign of responsiveness, and her practiced hands offer him the care he's so often given to her. Taking her time, the nuances of his body's reaction still valuable in knowing how to proceed, she allows her fingertips to play against his skin, smoothing the occasional goosebump and eliciting more than one sigh. She travels over his thighs, out to his hips and back to his abdomen. Her pace is measured in minutes, not seconds, and it's quite a while before she splays her hands over his chest and lets herself get lost in his slowing heartbeat.
Finally, she can lower her naked body to his, their legs tangled and her head resting on his shoulder. It's not the most comfortable position for her, but there's nowhere else to be. And when he lifts his arms to hold her close, she knows there's a chance that both of them will make it through the rest of the night.
Written for an incredible friend as my way of wishing her a very happy birthday.