He trembles against her, body wracked with shivers, eyes clenched tight. Soft, keening noises break in his throat, each breath a choked gasp. And there is nothing she can say that can ease him, nothing she can do except lie here with him wrapped tight in her arms, and silently pray for the pain to pass.
The candlelight is soft on his skin, sharpening the angles of his face, crevasses thrown into relief. His jaw is clenched so tight that when he wakes he'll complain about it aching, and she'll say nothing about how close he was to screaming. He doesn't like to upset her, so even though her heart is breaking having to watch him suffer like this she won't tell him how hurts her. He has such trouble sleeping, it would be cruel to wake him now and besides, this is one of his lesser nightmares, she can tell.
She's seen him far worse.
Her hand is light on his back, rubbing smooth circles as if he were a child in need of comfort. He may be a long way from a child, but there's no doubt in her mind that he needs someone to look after him, to be here for him. Of course he does.
Gently, she adjusts her arms around him, pulling him closer, his head tucked under her chin. Her poor Erik. What dreadful things live in his head, and she can do nothing about them when they make it their business to hurt him. If she could keep him safe, just like this, she'd hold him every moment of every day and never let go. Just hold him close, and promise him that he'll be all right. Is it so much to ask for, a little peace in his head? Just once?
His breath hitches and stutters, long fingers bruising the skin of her hips where he's been holding on so tight, as if he's afraid she'll simply melt out of his grip. And he would have been right, once, but she's here now and she's not going to leave him, not like this. Not when he needs her.
She smooths back his thinning dark hair, kissing the grey at his temples. He swallows, some of the tension bleeding out of his body. The nightmare is passing, and soon he'll be gifted with easy sleep again. She feels it coming, remembers from so many other similar nights where she woke to his restless pained murmurs, and he was too tired to wake from the torture of his memory. Soon it will be all right again. Soon.
He is sleep heavy, and numb, his mind sluggishly refusing to work. For the best, he suspects. There was something horrid in his dreams, and he'd rather not remember exactly what it was. If he lies here, just a little longer in this cocoon of warmth, then he won't even have to remember that there was a nightmare, and that sounds like such a wonderful thought.
Frankly, he doesn't think he could move if he tried, legs and arms alike weighing like lead.
Even with his eyes closed, he can sense the candles guttering low. They flicker dimly through the darkness, though why they're lit is a little baffling. He's certain he quenched them before rolling in beside Chris-
Christine. The bed is empty aside from him, has been for some time if the cold sheets are anything to go by. Where is she? Oh, God. Did he scare her off?
His heart pounds painfully. Not that. Anything but that. Well, not anything, but still. Where is she?
His eyes snap open, blurry with sleep and needing to adjust to the dim light of the room. At the sight of the Christine-less bed, a rush of blood goes to his head, drowning out tiredness though he already knows she isn't here. There's something extra unnerving about seeing her missing.
He sits up in bed, and is just about to step out when the footsteps in the other room catch his attention. Light, feminine, a familiar comforting tread. Christine.
They're coming closer, she's coming back to the room, and he tries to tell himself that he's not relieved, that he wasn't worried, and knows as he lies back down that it's a lie, his heart settling at the realisation that she's here and she's safe, the exhaustion settling again in his bones.
She's wearing one of his shirts. It hangs down to her knees, buttoned against the chill, and her feet are bare. She's so lovely, framed in the door, wrapped up in his clothes, and something stirs deep inside his stomach, but he's too tired for any of that now.
"Are you awake, Erik?" her voice is soft as she creeps back into the room, oddly soothing.
"Only just." His voice is hoarse, low and gravelly. Was he screaming? That happens sometimes. Not this time, his throat isn't sore and his jaw throbs as if it was clenched, his teeth aching. "Did I wake you?"
"No." It' a lie. She's too quick with her answer; she's been expecting the question. But he's too tired to question her. His dear Christine just doesn't want to worry him.
She slips back into their bed, taking his hand and bringing it to her lips. "Are you feeling better now?" She's so soft in the candlelight, her skin tinged golden and edges blurred, hair still wild from sleep. Has she ever looked so beautiful? He doesn't realise he's staring until she quirks her lip, an eyebrow raised. What was the question again? Oh, yes.
"Much better."
"That's good." She bows her head and kisses his forehead, lips so gentle as if she's afraid of hurting him. How did he deserve this angel? Whatever did she see in him? "I love you." The words are murmured against his skin, faint, almost imperceptible, and his heart swells fit to burst.
"I know." He tugs her down from where she's raised above him, propped on an elbow, and pulls her close, tucking her head beneath his chin. She's so warm in his arms, wrapping herself around him as if there is nowhere else in the world she would rather be, and the thought brings tears to his eyes. "I love you too."
"I know." She kisses his neck, and pulls herself closer to him, their bodies pressed tight. "I know."
And wrapped up in her arms, her in his, it's so easy to drift back into sleep again, the easy knowledge of their love a shield from the world.