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Technically speaking, this probably isn’t the healthiest coping mechanism. Technically speaking, if anyone found out, they’d probably be worried. Technically speaking, this is probably avoidance, and he’s pretty sure it’s frowned upon.
Technically speaking.
Thankfully, no one knows. Not even his wife (and that right there is enough of a sign, isn’t it? It’s been long enough since the whole Zerstörer mess that he’s married now) seems to realize what he does: how he lays beside her, feigning sleep until he hears her quiet snores, then rises, keeping watch by the window.
He rarely sleeps these days, and when he does, it’s not for more than a couple of hours at a time. He can’t; if he closes his eyes, all he can see are the fallen forms of his family, and he’s terrified that one day he’s going to wake up and they’ll all be gone. Like maybe Truble knocked him out in their fight, or he tripped over a rock and hit his head, and dreamed up a beautiful world where everyone he loves is alive again.
… Probably not healthy. But he knows that, and that has to count for something, right? (He can practically hear what his friends would say if they heard that, but he firmly ignores it.)
It’s just… They died. Everyone was dead; everyone but his son and step-daughter, at one point. Everyone else who meant something to him died. And now they’re alive again, but he can still feel tremors of grief running through him without warning, suffocating him.
“You’re not sleeping.” Diana’s voice is thankfully low as she pads up to him, studying him at his perch by the window.
Of all the people to possibly find out, she’s not the one he would have chosen-the girl’s grasp of secrets is still a little shaky-but if he plays his cards right, he might be able to get out of this without worrying anybody. “Just… Not tired, I guess.”
She frowns. “Yes, you are. You’re tired a lot now.”
Having a step-daughter with unmeasured powers isn’t always convenient. “Well, what are you doing awake?” He tries. If all else fails, deflection works, right? “It’s definitely past your bedtime.”
“You woke me up.” She doesn’t sound bothered, just matter-of-fact. “When you got up.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” He winces. “Look, why don’t you head back to bed? I promise, I won’t get up again.”
She climbs onto a chair across from him, shaking her head. “You’re already up.” Glancing out the window, her brows furrow. “Is something bad out there?”
Great, now he’s worrying the kid. “No, honey. Nothing. I’m just… Keeping my eyes open.”
“In case something bad happens?”
He hesitates, grappling for an answer that won’t worry her more. The poor girl has been through so much in her few years so far, and he’d really like to keep her safe and unafraid for awhile. Give her a peaceful place to land.
She takes his silence as confirmation, and continues, “Bad things happen a lot, here. I don’t know why.” Something seems to occur to her, and she looks up at him, eyes wide and trusting. “Is it my fault?”
Oh, his heart might just break on the spot. “No, of course not. What makes you think that?” He reaches out to her, taking her hand, and she squeezes his, but her expression doesn’t relax.
“The bad man in the mirror came because of me. And Mommy and Daddy used to fight about me a lot. Sometimes, they did bad things. And-”
“Diana.” He abandons his chair, scooping her up in his arms. She’s definitely a little too big for him to just carry, but he leans into his Grimm abilities, holding her close. “None of it is your fault, okay? What Zerstörer did is his fault. And your parents…” He hesitates, not wanting to paint them as villains (especially Adalind), but not sure how to explain the moral complexities of their situations to an eight year old. “Whatever they did, they chose. What other people do isn’t your fault.” Then, remembering who he’s dealing with- “Unless you use your dolls to make them do it.”
She giggles, dropping her head down to his shoulder. “Mommy says I can’t use my dolls anymore.”
Thankfully. That’s just a little too much for him. “Well, there you go. The only person you control is you.”
With a hum, she snuggles closer. “I think I can do something else, though. I don’t even need my dolls.” Concern flickers in his chest, but she only looks up at him with an adorably pitiful puppy expression that she definitely learned from her mother. “Can I please have some hot cocoa?”
He chuckles, shifting her in his arms. “You know, you should probably go back to bed.”
“You should, too.” She gives him a pointed look, and he huffs, sensing where this is going. “Mommy would be very worried if she knew you were awake.”
…. Definitely Sean Renard’s daughter. “If I make you some hot cocoa, will you go back to bed after you drink it?”
She considers this briefly, before nodding. He carries her to the table, deposits her gently on a stool, and sets to work boiling the water. Why she makes him do this, he isn’t quite sure; Renard has confirmed that she’s definitely capable of boiling and cooking almost anything. But he doesn’t mind. It gives him something to focus on besides the looming dark of the outside window.
It’s only once the cocoa is finished-one cup for him and one for her-topped with a generation helping of whipped cream, that she picks up their earlier conversation. “I thought you weren’t afraid anymore. Like me.”
He blinks a few times, trying to retrace the silence and figure out where this came in, before finally, he remembers. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he replies, “I wasn’t. But, you know… Sometimes our brains decide things are scary later on. Even when they shouldn’t be.”
She nods sagely. “Especially when we don’t sleep.”
… Okay, first of all, why is the eight year old calling him out like this? He pouts, and she giggles, the sound a balm to his frayed nerves. She’s right, of course. He needs to get some rest. But how?
They sip their cocoa in silence for awhile, and more than once, her eyelids flutter. Clearly, the poor girl is getting tired, but is fighting sleep for the sake of cocoa. Or maybe, just maybe, because she’s worried about him.
Guilt tugs at his stomach once more, and he sighs. “Diana, you know you don’t have to take care of everyone, right? It’s okay to just… Be a kid.”
“My daddy says that a lot.”
Not that he’s normally one to agree with Renard, but in this case… “He’s right.”
She purses her lips thoughtfully, the expression adorably serious for such a young child. “I thought maybe you were like me,” she says finally. “I’m not afraid when I’m awake. But sometimes when I’m sleeping, the bad things come back. And I don’t like that.”
Yeah, that about sums it up. He searches his mind for something comforting to say, and suddenly, he catches on a memory from long ago, hidden in the darkest corners of his brain. “You know what my aunt used to tell me about bad dreams? There’s only one way to avoid them: make sure you don’t dream about kittens.”
“... What?” The look she gives him is ridiculously skeptical. “That’s not what I have bad dreams about.”
Funny, this was easier when he was on the receiving end of it. How had Marie convinced him so easily in such a short span of time? “Right, but that’s the best way to avoid nightmares. Just tell yourself over and over, ‘I will not dream about kittens.’ ”
She lights up. “And then I’ll be thinking about kittens, so I’ll have good dreams! Thank you, Nick!” She hops down from her stool, running around to his side of the counter, and wraps her arms tightly around his waist. And, okay, it would have been nice if she’d been fooled for half a second, but at least she’s feeling better. “I think I can go back to sleep now,” she says finally. Then, pausing to eye him: “Maybe you should think about kittens, too.”
“Maybe,” he allows, fond amusement flickering in his chest. “Goodnight, Diana.”
“Goodnight!”
He watches to make sure she actually goes to bed, then washes up the mugs, setting them out to dry for the night. Then his gaze darts to his wife, lying peacefully on their bed, and he cannot help but smile.
Maybe, just maybe, they’ll be okay for tonight.
He makes his way back to the bed, slipping under the covers. Adalind hums in her sleep, rolling toward him, instinctively seeking out heat. She snuggles into his chest, and he presses his face to the top of her hair, breathing her in.
Closing his eyes, he forces himself to focus on a single thought: I will not dream of kittens. I will not dream of kittens.
(He doesn’t. He dreams of Adalind, of Diana and Kelly, of his friends and family, of Renard wearing a Santa hat for some reason, and happiness. But he does not dream of kittens.)