She cards his hair between her fingers, palm resting against his scalp. Her thumb strokes the thin strands - black and grey alike - over the side of her index finger, careful, gentle strokes, a rhythm for his easeful sleep. He snuffles, nuzzling deeper into her collarbone, forehead warm against her neck. The nightmares have gone away for tonight, leaving only exhaustion in their wake. And still she does not sleep, has no wish to sleep when he is sleeping on top of her like this. Sleep is such a waste when she can be treasuring the solid weight of him along her body, one hand in his hair, one on his back.
The sleeve of his white nightshirt has ridden up, revealing the scars etched deep into his right wrist, the hand resting limp against her left shoulder. Unbidden tears leap to her eyes. Such awful scars that could have killed him when the wounds were fresh, and they are not the only ones littering his poor abused body. How could anyone have done that to him? How could he have done it to himself?
(Perhaps...he wanted to die. Perhaps it would have been a mercy.)
No. She cannot think that. If he had died, then she would not have this, would not have this husband sleeping on top of her, this precious love which enfolds her. She is under no illusion that her husband is a good man. She knows he is a murderer, an extortionist, a one-time drug addict though he broke that addiction with a great deal of difficulty. She knows his crimes and the deaths at his hand likely number in the hundreds. She knows that there was at least some pleasure for him in wielding such power.
She knows his temper is furious and vicious. She's seen it, of course she knows, and it justly terrifies her though he's always exhibited such control for her sake. He tries, he does, but it bleeds out through the cracks that so many others have left in him. He hates to see her so frightened, so upset, and yet it happens but she cannot begrudge him, not when he tries so very hard.
And she loves him. She loves him so very much in spite of it all, with a tender gentleness that fills her heart and aches in his absence. For all he's done, she cannot imagine a life without him.
She kisses the scars on his wrist tenderly, and holds his limp, heavy body tighter. She can keep him safe, now, if nothing else. That much she can certainly do, even if she cannot remove the torment in his fractured mind. She knows he cannot outlive her, not when his age and health are against them, but she can keep him safe and love him for however long they have left.
She pulls the covers up closer around them, brushing her lips over his forehead and twining their fingers, his breaths soft and even again her skin. Truly, she needs nothing more than these delicate moments of peaceful closeness. Humming softly, she closes her eyes, and sighs into the night.