Work Text:
SIMON
I’m bloody exhausted.
It’s been an impossible week.
I just want to sleep and reset my mind for one night, if I’m allowed to. It seems impossible, given that I’ve been having night terrors every so often. They haven’t been occurring quite as often as they used to (therapy has been truly helping me with that, thank Morgana). Even with that, I still find myself waking up in a cold sweat, heart palpitating, gasping for air, and with Baz clinging to me, whispering soothing mantras in my ear.
Hush, Love. You’re alright.
Hush, Love. I’m here.
Hush, Love. You’re safe.
The problem is that if I’m not having night terrors, I remain trapped within insomnia’s unforgiving clutches.
Merlin help me, I sound like Baz.
We had decided, after America, that we would give our relationship a fighting chance. Or, rather, I decided to give our relationship a fighting chance. Baz would never coerce me into making a decision I was not comfortable with. He made it clear, from the beginning, that I held all the cards and that he would accept whatever it was I wanted. If I wanted him, he’d be here. If I didn’t, he would accept it, as much as it would destroy him.
Through it all, I still want him. And I’m slowly starting to understand that no matter what, he’ll always want me too.
Going back to therapy helps.
I turn in bed and gaze at his sleeping form. The moonlight from my bedroom window is hitting him and he looks practically angelic. His eyes are closed and relaxed, shielded by his long graceful eyelashes. I want to place a kiss on his lips, they look so serene right now, but I hold back. His eyebrows look slightly furrowed, but I imagine that he’s most likely having a dream. His hair is splayed across his pillow in a dark halo. I resist the urge to tuck it behind his ear. I don’t want to wake him. Baz has spent so many nights being the shelter for my hurricane of a mind, he deserves at least one peaceful night.
I instead pay attention to the steady rise and fall of his chest. Usually I can lull myself to sleep by following Baz’s breathing pattern. I attempt to do just do just that, but I am finding it more difficult to keep up with him tonight. His breathing is more rushed than it normally is. It should be enough to worry me, but I still don’t want to wake him, especially if it’s for a silly reason. I don’t want to be responsible for him losing a night’s sleep in vain.
I decide to quietly exit the bedroom. I pick up my wooden practice sword from near the door. I figure if I can’t get any sleep, it might not be such a bad idea to practice my sword fighting. I’ve been getting back into swordsmanship during the last few months. It was difficult at first, considering I hadn’t practiced in over a year. I found that eventually, I’ve been able to fall into the familiar flow of controlling a sword. I soon joined a gym and found others who were also interested in learning sword-play.
Both Penny and Baz have been so supportive of my rediscovered passion. Baz has bought several books for me on the subject and about the different styles of sword-fighting (although he has read them more often than I have), and Penny has made a small space for me in the flat that she has designated “Simon’s Safe Swordplay Space” (Baz had rolled his eyes at the alliteration). It’s in this small space where I spend the next half hour practicing some moves. I go until my arm can no longer hold the wooden sword without shaking. Accepting the wave of sleep that is sure to hit me, I relent. I lean my weapon against the wall and return to the bedroom.
I anticipate that I’ll find Baz still peacefully sleeping. I imagine myself crawling back into bed with him. Maybe wrapping him in my arms and pressing myself closer to him. He loves it when I cuddle him like that. What I find instead causes my heart to sink to my stomach.
It’s the position of his body that sets off the first red flag in my mind. Where Baz typically sleeps slightly turned to either side, long legs partially outstretched, I notice that his legs have been pulled tight against his chest, almost constricting him. His back, normally straight and placid, is now hunched over in agony. His hands are pulled rigidly against his chest, as if he’s trying to pull something off him. His breathing is rapid and uneven, almost as if he is struggling to fill his lungs. I know that feeling. I’ve felt that feeling.
It’s his face, however, that shatters me to my core. It’s completely contorted into a grimace: eyebrows compressed together, his hair cascading like spilled ink over his sharp features.
I rush to the bed and immediately push the hair away from his face. I start to gently caress his cheek, hoping that I can bring him back from whatever is haunting him. As soon as my hand brushes his cold cheek, he seizes up and begins to cry out.
“LET ME OUT! PLEASE! LET ME OUT!”
He’s turned on his back now and is clawing at the air. His mouth is full, a sure sign that his fangs have descended. Tears are streaming down his face. I know where his mind has taken him tonight and I silently curse the person who did this to him. Even though he’s been dead for almost two years.
I close the distance between us. The risk of being bit be damned, I won’t keep watching him suffer like this. I grab his hands and climb over him. I bring his hands to his face and I start talking to him.
“Baz! You’re here. Wake up. You’re with me. You’re not alone Baz! You’re with me!”
“No… Please… no…” Baz has shoved me off of him and turned over again. It isn’t working. He’s fully back in that blasted coffin. I wish I knew what I could do to help him. I think back to the many times that he’s had to bring me back from my own dark place. I wrap my arms around him and hold him steady. He begins to fight me, but I refuse to yield. It isn’t an easy feat, considering his vampire strength. I place a calm hand on his head and lean in close to his ear and repeat the same words he would say to me.
“Hush, Love. You’re alright,” I whisper as the fighting diminishes. Slowly, slowly, Baz starts to calm down. I deliberately move my hand to the side of his face and gently rub soft circles near his jaw line. I feel a slight movement, as his fangs start to retract.
I continue.
“Hush, Love. I’m here.” His breathing starts to slow. I can still feel him shuddering. My hand moves back up to his head and I start running my fingers through his silky hair.
“Hush, Love. You’re safe.” I place a small kiss on the side of his face. I’m still holding him steady, but he has long since stopped trying to push me off him. From his strong, even breaths, his relaxed posture, the calm lines on his face, I believe that the worst of it is over. He should be able to sleep peacefully for the remainder of the night. I still need for him to feel that I’m here. That I’ll always be here. So, I continue to delicately caress his hair while repeating our chant.
“Hush, Love. You’re alright;
“Hush, Love. I’m here;
“Hush, Love. You’re safe.”