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Routine finds them quickly. When they travel he sleeps and she keeps watch. When they arrive she sleeps. She goes days without rest, eventually finding it at the bottom of a bottle. It's like she’s afraid to close her eyes. Afraid of attack? Of not waking? Perhaps she simply doesn't trust him to keep guard.
More than three days of waking pass before the door to their room opens for them again. He tells her it’s not healthy, not safe. She asks him why he thinks she’d be bothered about that. The longer she wakes the stranger she becomes. Conversations unfinished. Words left half unsaid. Laughter that springs from nowhere. He figures it’s something to do with the accidental lobotomy. He wants to help. He can’t if she doesn’t listen. When the booze is running low she uses chems. He hates that.
This night is different. She stopped making sense a good few hours ago, a jumbled word soup pouring from her mouth whenever she spoke. She’s exhausted. More than he’s seen her before. They arrive and she’s straight to bed, throwing all but her shirt and pants to the floor she falls onto it.
When he emerges from the bathroom he hears her soft snoring.
He wakes to the bed shaking but it’s the crying that roused him. He wants to help. He sees her back heaving, sobs shaking her small frame. He wants to help. He knows how nightmares feel. Suffocating. Blinding. Consuming.
Whispering her name he places a hand to her back. When she shifts beneath it he expects to be thrown off, instead she shuffles backward, tucking herself in against his body. He wanted to help. He’s never touched her like this. It’s been so long since he’s touched anyone like this.
The hand on her back slides up, arm snaking across her stomach. Her stiff body relaxes some. The right choice was made. Using his thumb he rubs a gentle arc across her stomach. She rests er hand on top of his, hooking her thumb over his fingers, gripping tightly. Minutes pass that feel like hours before the sobs die down to a few sniffles, then to quiet. It's a shock when she speaks, the hand on his had loosened and her muscles relaxed; he thought she was sleeping.
Voice thick she tells him there’s a man whos face she can’t remember. Shere members little after the dreams. She’s always small, young. The man is always there. She’s always terrified. It’s when she tells him what scares her most when she wakes, that his heart sinks lowest. What if they’re not dreams? What if they’re memories? A lump rises in his throat, arm tightening around her waist.
“I’ll protect you,” he whispers. Why did he say that? She’s strong. She doesn’t need his pity.
“Thank you,” she replies, breathing a tired sigh.
She drinks less now. The chems lie untouched. Soon he’ll get her to sleep in shifts at camp.
Routine finds them quickly. When they travel, he sleeps and she keeps watch. When they arrive she sleeps and he stands guard.