Number Four is in nightmare. The kid is tossing and turning in bed, whimpering, panting, all of a muck of sweat.
If he was Four's father, if Four was his son, he would hold the kid and comfort him. But he is not. He's just the gritty, edgy, paranoid protector who scolds Four every time the kid wants to live a real life. So he declines from any kind of touch, afraid of the sweat could burn his hand like lava.
There is always distraction. Computer, Internet, there are always photo and video traces for him to fuss over. The kid was born to be noticed, born to shine, born to be the guardian and so. Like what the Terran says, some birds aren't meant to be caged. He hears Four turn over and groan, finally waking up. Without looking back, he stretches out his hand. A sweaty hand claps his, and he drags the kid out of bed.
The dream is obviously worse than normal. It takes more than fifteen minute for Four to chill and change into clean pajama. After stumbling out of bathroom, the kid sits beside him and starts babbling about Mogadorians and monsters, about some nerd kid's father found a way to track them, about some town in Ohio. He is still focusing on the computer screen, but Four babbles on and doesn't really care whether he is listening or not. Or who else the kid can talk to?
"You died in front of me, Henri." said Four hoarsely.
He pauses, then ruffles the kid's hair, letting him mumbles on about going to school, meeting a girl in dream and forever love until falls asleep again.
Dreams are useful. For a gifted kid like Four there will be valuable information in dreams. But dream is not real. Like Henri is not his name, like Daniel or John or even Four is not the kid's name. It's just something convenient.
But forever love is real, for their kind.