The Arms of Morpheus
by
Owlcroft
Just a little mood piece.
A/N: This story refers to events that are contained in chapter three of the story 'Jittersbugs', found on this site.
He jerked awake, breathing hard, and at once turned to check his wife. She was lying there facing him, peaceful, undisturbed. He gently, cautiously, touched the back of her hand with one red-tipped finger and suppressed a sigh, managing to breathe more quietly. His dreams of their wedding night came rarely now, but still managed to upset him, even though he never talked about them. She didn't react to his hesitant touch and he put all his love and devotion into it, his breathing nearly normal at this point. He'd wanted so desperately, needed so desperately, to give himself to her and her only. And she'd wanted him. Somehow she'd wanted and needed him . . . had accepted him that night when he offered himself to her for all time. And she'd given herself to him at the same moment. That's when it had all happened. His . . . recovery.
ooooo
She was awake, of course. She always woke when he had that dream. But from experience, she knew that he needed to believe he hadn't disturbed her so she would feign sleep until she knew he had dropped off again. Otherwise, he would just apologize and be so unhappy it nearly broke her heart. It always began with twitches and a high-pitched moan, not a sensuous moan, but as if in pain. He was never aware of having made a sound once he did wake, but she – who otherwise slept deeply through the night – never slept through that. She always woke at that sound.
The first few times, she had offered him comfort and tenderness, but he wouldn't talk about the dream, except for the apologies. Now she watched him with sleepy eyes, remembering that first night of their marriage – how careful of her he'd been, how gentle and caring.
When they'd first met he had been, basically, all repression – repressed emotions, repressed sensibilities, repressed intellect. Anything that could lead to understanding himself or anyone else – that might have allowed him to have and express thoughts or feelings – was kept behind a wall only penetrable by the unconscious dedication of himself to her and the rightful result of that dedication. And so, when the breakthrough happened, it was to his own shock and severe disorientation. He'd managed to explain it all to her the next morning, and they'd never looked back after that. He was accustomed now to having all of his 'juice' and to having emotions that he'd never understood and rarely experienced before.
She still marveled that he had, from the first, been so attached to her – had needed her as much as she needed him. They were two halves of the same heart that had finally found each other. And the trauma of remembering at last, becoming himself again, had faded. She knew the instant he finally dropped off again, and carefully turned her hand so she was holding his gently. Then, as his sleep deepened, she relaxed and also slid back into sleep.
ooooo
In the arms of Morpheus, they both dreamed that they were in each other's arms.
