Greg watched and waited as I climbed into bed. He eyed me with a strange look, half pleased, half predatory. I felt the thick, heavy weight of his stare as I reached over and switched off the lamp. He carefully settled himself under the covers then–right on cue–threw an arm over me and dug his scruffy chin into my shoulder. The weight and heat of his body, the feeling of his heart beating against my back, they were wonderful sensations that I could never get tired of.

"You're so damn comfy," he murmured, sleepiness creeping into his voice.

"You told me that I'm a fantabulous pillow in the kitchen." I pretended to resist and made a half-hearted effort to squirm away. His arm tightened around me like steel cable and it made me smile in the pitch black room.

"And I'm telling you again in the bedroom. These real pillows here ain't got nothing on you."

"Um...sure. Thanks, I guess," I said, though I wasn't positive that what he said was meant to be a full-fledged compliment. I don't think he's aware of how bizarre half the things he babbles out loud are. Even if he was utterly and completely aware he'd still keep babbling them anyway.

"Move again and I'll hogtie you to the bedposts." The half-assed threat in his voice was undercut by a loud yawn.

"I'm not moving."

"You're mine, Jimmy. All mine."

"Okay, Greg. Whatever you say."

He dug his chin in deeper until I yelped in protest, then said, "Damn right. What I say goooeeesss..."

That was all he had for the night. Soon the chin digging into my sensitive skin was replaced by steady, warm puffs of his breath. Sleep tight, Greg.

I was glad to see that he was feeling better. Visions of staying up half the night with him as he made endless trips to sacrifice himself to the porcelain God haunted me for a while, but now all's well that ends well. He was back in bed. The Pepto had slain the big bad monster churning around his insides, and he was ready to get his full four hours before he woke up, made himself some coffee, and waited ever so patiently for me to get up and make him breakfast.

So I get to spend another night being his pillow. If it helped him sleep better that was fine with me. I had the sneaking feeling that it was another one of his little ways of testing my limits and that he was honestly surprised that I didn't complain. There was a simple reason behind that–I didn't complain because there was nothing to complain about. Maybe he couldn't wrap his head around that concept, but I'm not asking him to. Let him dwell on it until his brain leaks out of his ears. If laying here with my best friend draped across me was wrong in some way, well then, I'd really hate to see what the right thing is supposed to be.

A quick glance at the clock told me it was a bit earlier than I thought. Maybe he'd get in five hours tonight and be a little less cranky in the morning and not dictate exactly how I should be cooking his eggs or pancakes. If he had a bullhorn and whip, he'd use them.

Five hours of somewhat restful sleep. Maybe I could get that too.

I entwined my fingers in his and gently pulled him a little closer, being extra careful not to disturb him. He continued to slumber away as if that's what he actually did every night instead of stare at the ceiling or watch television, and for that I was eternally grateful. I settled back and let his warmth settle over me. If I was going to be his pillow, he was going to be my blanket. It was only fair.

The horrific screech of the alarm cut through the air and I reached over to hit the switch before another clock wound up the victim of a vicious murder. The other side of the bed was a jumbled mess of twisted blankets with no one underneath. No great shock there. Golden light spilled through the half-opened door, along with the scent of fresh coffee.

When I staggered to the kitchen the next morning I was more than little surprised to see that Greg had made his own breakfast, a bowl of Corn Flakes. I made the mistake of staring at the sight of him and his own hand-poured meal and was brought out my reverie at the sound of his voice telling me to drop dead from shock later. While pouring myself some coffee I brought up the subject of pancakes. He shook his head. I suggested French toast. He turned a little green, and I think I did too. No more thick, rich, artery-clogging meals for a while. No pancakes for a while, either. I helped myself to the Corn Flakes.

As I munched away I noticed Greg perusing the morning paper. "What's new in the world today?" I asked between dripping spoonfuls.

"We're all going to hell in a handbasket," he answered without looking up from whatever article had his attention.

"You say that every day," I pointed out. "That's not new."

"That preacher's wife is going on trial and some idiot got his arm bit off by an alligator."

"Okay then." I winced at the mention of the alligator. "My appetite has officially been ruined forever."

"You're still cooking for me," Greg said blithely.

He continued to chat about what he read in the paper, the weather, his motorcycle, what he needed record off the movie channels.

He chatted about everything except going to rehab.