Eight: No Peace

I shift in my chair, feeling the ache at the base of my spine. At first it was a brief, uncomfortable quiver in my back, but each night, with no relief from the rigid vigil, it creeps further up, deeper into bone and muscle. I'm well aware of my age, and that pain should be expected when I subject myself to such abuse.

Well aware-but equally frustrated.

I sigh through slightly parted lips, the warm breath chafing against cold skin.

My eyes flicker over again to him, wrapped in his thick, downy comforter and curled onto his side. I can remember when that same comforter used to swallow him up, his face softly framed by the pale blue fabric, that young face with the round jaw and dimpled chin.

A jaw that has a light dusting of stubble now.

My heart clenches tight in my chest, and I run a hand down my face. During a whirlwind of missions, reports and training, its quite easy to dodge the signs, to drown out the teasing little whispers in the mind.

But ever since…he was returned, there have been countless hours to sift through the memories, the worries.

I recall times when he was small enough to fit beside me on a narrow armchair or crowd in comfortably when space was limited.

His feet nearly dangle off the edge of the bed tonight.

And my back is sore, like an old man whose loitered in one place too long, who will spend many tense moments trying to work the 'kinks' out, as they say--

Who lets his thoughts amble well off track, floating off onto his melancholy haze, his sentimental twirl in the ether.

And then finds reality once more.

He's folded in on himself, tucked in the soft circle of the worn duvet, almost in a self-protective position, as if at any moment he'll be forced to spring into full vigilance.

A familiar frame of mind.

No. No. The night, with its dense spread of darkness that seems to inspire the wicked gleam in the criminal eye, will certainly not have him. Because we're both poised for attack.

Attack?

I reach out tentatively, to brush fingers across his back…Perhaps then he will stir, maybe even wake. And then I won't have to sit here, silent witness to his restless half-sleep, unconsciously imitating his Master. He can be beside me, eyes open.

But, a sliver of an inch away from him, my hand detracts.

Why would I subject him to this dragging insomnia? For my own peace of mind?

There isn't peace. Never peace. If I can keep him safe…that is my own kind of peace…the only kind I can possibly have.

Despite my last minute reversal, he flips from his side to his back, a crease chiseled between his brows.

My entire form stills. I'm a veritable statue in the middle of his shadowed room, waiting for him to slip back into sleep, for his eyelids to go lax.

For a handful of minutes, it's uncertain whether he will abide by my unvoiced wishes and remain oblivious to his sentry, or if his eyes will fix on me, questioning me, wondering why he's being watched like a sniffling child with a cold.

With a thankful exhale, I ease my body, as I sense his brief sentience fade, his head lolling to rest on his pillow.

I try to disarm my concern, frowning at him when he twists in again, grasping his braid against his neck, huddling close.

I would have reached out for him, to comfort instead of awaken…

But I feel that neither of us can find solace tonight.

Only that he should sleep.

And I should not.