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A splinter woke him up and alerted him to the fact he was outside, in his boxers, and barefoot.
Well. This was unfortunate.
As the shock and existential crisis of ‘oh God the night terrors are back’ settled in, so too did the chill of the early morning Canadian air. Alan hugged himself tightly and went back inside, stepping carefully to avoid further injury to his feet.
Denny was, of course, snoring like a log. There could be a stealthy ninja assassin or a herd of buffalo entering the room now, it made no difference to the older man. Alan spared him a glance regardless, feeling an odd mix of jealousy and relief, as he made his way into the bathroom to tend to his grievous wound. The skin had, thankfully, barely been broken and first aid required little more than some ointment and a band-aid.
Just for his own assurances he added on a pair of socks; the modern man’s natural shield against all heinous wooden steps. He stood in the bathroom doorway and sighed heavily, pondering how best to proceed.
There was neither scotch nor cigar to chase away bothersome mental demons. Truthfully, he just wanted to go back to sleep and bury away whatever awoke him. Unfortunately for him, he was too awake now to simply doze off again.
Alan paced the darkened room. His own bed no longer seemed welcoming - it had, after all, betrayed him. That trust was broken forevermore. Nothing to be done about that. Alright, so… what, then? The rustic couch? One glance told him that would be a bad idea. The stiff, wooden monstrosity was an unnatural configuration of tree bark and branches. It looked as worn down as the porch, and its assortment of thrift store throw pillows did little to appear welcoming.
“Denny Crane,” Denny Crane said from his sleep as if in agreement.
Alan glanced at him, let out a small huff of laughter, glanced away, then… looked back. That bed was big enough for two, and maybe if he—
No. Denny would never allow it. The man was against hugging for God’s sake. Surely “cuddling”, even under these strange circumstances, would be out of the question. He dreaded to think of what colorful and aptly politically incorrect commentary Denny would have if ever Alan even asked him.
But.
But.
He was still considering it.
Alan crossed his arms and stepped closer to his friend’s bed. In the inky black shadows of the room, in his own mind, he could admit that he’d thought, more than once, about what it would feel like to fall asleep next to Denny, or on Denny, curled around him like a lover. To say little of their activities prior to the sleeping...
Alan shook his head and cleared (read: buried in) his mind of those kinds of thoughts.
Denny rolled onto his back and his hands fell loosely to his sides. The space beside him still seemed a very inviting spot, all just for one Alan Shore. And yet doubts kept him frozen to the cold, unforgiving ground.
Suppose that, by some miracle, Denny awoke when Alan was climbing in? ‘Whoops, sorry, must’ve taken a wrong turn’ didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of working. Suppose Denny reacted with disgust and shoved him away?
Alan shivered at the thought and the chilly air of the cabin. The mere idea of Denny reacting that way felt like an almost-physical pain. He truly, unabashedly, cared about the older man; loved him, even. Emotionally, platonically, spiritually, and… in other ways, too. Ways that likely would never happen in this lifetime, and ways he could only admit in jest.
Okay, this was getting him nowhere. His mind was now more a tangled mess than before and nothing was helping to settle it back down.
Maybe… maybe five minutes couldn’t hurt. It wasn’t being inappropriate, not really, Alan told himself. This wasn’t sexual at all.
Spurred on by that thought - or, more accurately, the lack of warmth - Alan got into bed with Denny. He curled up on his side like a child, with knees tucked in and fists pressed close to his throat.
It felt… right. Warm and peaceful and safe.
He watched his friend in his slumber and exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Slowly, he allowed himself to relax, as his breathing matched the grunting snores of his companion. How might he explain night terrors to someone so… pig-headed?
An image arose in his mind quite suddenly. Denny in a traditional, yet colorful and majestic, cowboy outfit, a revolver in each hand, shouting and shooting away Alan’s night terrors - here represented by cartoonish, copyright-friendly ghosts - nearly had him laughing. He bit his lip to keep in the sound, still feeling a strange and unexpected sense of giddiness.
That faded pleasantly away as drowsiness claimed him. I’m sure I’ll think of something profoundly clever in the morning. Some giant predator outside spooked him... Yeah, that might work. He inched closer, and rested his head on Denny’s chest and shoulder.
Only five minutes, he reminded himself. The rhythmic heartbeat soothed his mind and he felt his thoughts pleasantly slow to a crawl. He reached one hand down and lightly held onto the hand of his friend.
“I love you, Denny,” Alan whispered softly.
“Denny Crane,” came the strong reply, and a reassuring squeeze on Alan's hand.