He loved watching her sleep, loved the trust it implied.
He loved the element of voyeurism as he watched private dreams play out across her face, heard secrets slip from sleepy lips: the night-time making her naked and defenceless, vulnerable as he stood watch, her midnight guardian. That she allowed this felt like the bestowing of an honour and when he thought on it, he felt the hero within him rise.
The night-time allowed much more than daytime permitted. Under the cover of darkness, in the safety and security of her sleep, he was free to express all the emotions that sunlight tied to his tongue. Here he could say without censure, confide without criticism, confess.
Or he could be silent, let her sleep-murmurs and sighs do all the talking as he toyed with her hair, feeling the silken tresses slip and coil around his fingers, entwining her with him, as their lives were inextricably interwoven. Sometimes the strands would slide smooth as satin, other times knot and tangle tugging and tightening around his fingers as her face tightened, dragging in a bit of daytime discord. That meant he could shush and soothe, smooth the furrows from her brow, make everything right again; something his daylight self could never do.
Occasionally, things other than his clumsy caress would disturb her sleep-slackened face, things he was not privy to, could not begin to imagine. Her murmurs would become moans, languid stirrings took on a more frantic edge as dream-storms gathered and she would reach out for him. For him! His heart would swell, despite its ache at her distress, swell as she clutched at him, clung to him, her hand tightly gripping her night- protector. And he would be strong and rock-steady and all that she needed until the tide turned.
Then he would look at her hand, nestled like a kitten in his palm, and would stroke its softness, forgetting how it could claw and scratch when cornered, remembering how it could play. Or he would watch her lips mumble the sweet sleep jumble of nonsense and he could relax, knowing he would not have to be on guard against the cutting edge of her tongue. Oh, those lips – lips that could wound with words, lips that could bless him with a kiss but here in the dark all he heard from them was love.
But mostly he would just watch, soaking up the vision of her, absorbing every detail so it would sustain him when they were apart, lost in this private world of the two of them. Here he would remain, her night-watchman; peerless, fearless, favoured until dawn broke and shattered the illusion.
He loved watching her sleep because he loved her.
How could he not? She was his mother.