Chapter Text
III.
He doesn’t bother telling her how she dies in his dreams night after night, everything covered in blood, Jafar standing over her, laughing like a maniac, that bloody knife in hands, his voice echoing through the room.
Like she’s only asleep.
Over and over and over again and all Will can do is watch, even though there’s no bars in his dreams jut him and Jafar and Ana gasping for air, dying yet again and his feet are heavy and immoveable, like they’re stuck in cement.
And then there’s Ana’s voice, desperate and pleading, talking about going back to a time where he loved her and all he can think of are lost moments, hours and days and months he’ll never get back and broken hearts, both his and hers and how desperate she must’ve been to make deals with the ultimate evil. Then he wakes drenched in sweat, breath coming short and that heart of his beating so rapidly he can feel it in his throat.
He doesn’t bother telling her how he checks twice, sometimes three times if she’s still breathing next to him either and oh how relieved he is to find everything white, from the pale moonlight falling through the windows, over the rustling duvet covering them, to her silken nightgown, as he slides his arm over her waist to pull her closer. He doesn’t bother telling her because he doesn’t want to stress her any more than she does herself anyways.
(She doesn’t tell him either.)
He’ll deal with a few sleepless hours per night, as long as she’s there, lunges working and heart beating.