AN: 2.7
Restless
At 2am the doubt and fear and guilt are more aggressive than they'd ever been. Carefully, as not to disturb Jack, Linden shifts her position on Holder's bed, trying to make herself comfortable. Outside, a light shines at the oddest possible angle through the window and the wispy white curtains do nothing for it. She imagines the worst but it only turns out to be a streetlamp, a permanent fixture that Holder somehow manages to deal with every single night.
She decides that maybe getting a drink of water would help, or even a small sip of Nyquil (cabinet above the utensil drawer, beside the extra bowls; the stuff is like crack for insomniacs). Maybe sleeping in her jeans and thick sweater is the problem, but she doesn't really have much of a choice.
The entire apartment creaks with every step and there's no nighttime traffic to make it less loud. Holder's even breathing comes from the couch and she finds him on his side, both arms tucked under his face and half of his blanket pooling on the ground.
Linden has seen him sleep before - slumped over his desk after a 30-hour day or leaning heavily against the passenger window during long car rides back to the station. But this is the first time she's seen him as how he'd normally sleep, in his own home, his own niche. He's peaceful, relaxed and not nearly so taut. So this is what Holder looks like when he's not trying to prove something to the world.
Linden gently pulls the blanket over him and tucks it under his socked feet. He sighs and wiggles his toes, but doesn't wake up. Maybe his sister's done this for him growing up, she thinks.
There is a peace here, an inexplicable safety that is more reliable and true than anywhere she's been in a long time. There are no cameras, security guards or alarm systems but there is an atmosphere of family (mismatched as they were) and the warm comfort of an actual home.
She lets her hand rest at his feet, a kind of thanks for his generosity towards her and Jack. Touch is something she's slowly growing accustom to, but it's still hard.
"If anything happens to me," she says, instinctively and unplanned like an exhale, "I want you to look after Jack. He likes you."
There is so much shame in her words, not because she doesn't mean it but because it's an acknowledgement of her weakness. It's only in this darkness, to someone who can't hear her, that she can admit she's failing her son. It's so painful, but a burden lifted nonetheless.
She makes her way back to bed, forgetting why she got up in the first place. She'll lie wide-awake for a few more hours, beside her son but so distant from him. She won't know when she'll fall asleep but when she wakes up, she'll feel well-rested and rejuvenated. She'll hear the sounds of morning activities from the kitchen and see her son smiling for the first time in a long time.
And she'll see Holder in an apron and think it's the funniest thing ever.
-End-