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Striker is a different man when he sleeps. Awake, he’s coiled and ready to strike, primed to react, pivot, whatever the situation calls for – no matter how little advance warning. The level of raw, unchecked energy is beyond comprehension sometimes. Blitz has seen him go from a stationary stakeout position to scaling up the side of a building, sprinting across rooftops, and then pouncing the target from above like a hawk, teeth bared and claws ripping through flesh like fucking butter. He’s good with guns, even better with knives, but he outranks Millie when it comes to a willingness to just get in there and get fucking filthy. Pure predator, demon blood in the veins churning and pumping overtime as he looks up, catches Blitz’s eye, and gives a triumphant grin that’s all cocksure swagger and pride.
In short, he’s a fucking vision after a kill and if Blitz could get away with it, he would fucking paint the entire town red for this sexy son of a bitch.
But in sleep, Striker is different. All the sharp edges are sanded down, dagger teeth tucked beneath the lips and tail loosely curled in a way that makes him look defenseless. He likes to sleep on his belly and – though Blitz has the common sense to not tease him about it (too much) – hold something to the chest. A pillow, a couch cushion, whatever’s on hand. It’s not quite cuddling; more like something to ground Striker when he’s asleep, when he doesn’t have the kind of bearings and sense of space he has when awake.
Once, when he was really fucking drunk, Blitz asked why. Asked if he used to do that at the orphanage or when he lived on the streets. He got a deadpan, “Gotta have shit to hold for that, Boss,” before Striker went back to cleaning his knife. He’s always cleaning – knives, guns, et cetera. Always cleaning, always doing something with his hands and his body. Rarely sits still, even for staff meetings, unless Blitz has commandeered his lap as a seat, in which case Striker is always touching him. Moxxie gets flustered about it, mumbling about office decency and stupid shit, and Blitz lets him think there’s a whole lot of naughty shit happening because the reality isn’t anyone’s business except Loona – and only because she knows the truth. The reality, that Striker touches Blitz like he isn’t quite convinced this is real, that he can touch Blitz whenever he wants, and whenever Blitz has to get up, or leave, the grip tightens for half a second before releasing in a slow wave, finger by finger… That reality isn’t for Moxxie, or for Millie. They have their own domestic lovey-dovey shit, the kind that Blitz used to tease them about all the fucking time. Now that he has it for himself, it’s…well, precious.
Sure, it doesn’t fit the textbook definition of precious when they’re snarking at each other, tossing around words like “bitch” and “fucker” like they’re getting paid for it, or when they nearly level the foundations with a fight that has every neighbor shouting complaints. But their fights don’t last past the night, no matter how exhausted they are, because the thought that either one might not be there in the morning is fucking terrifying. Blitz is absolute shit at apologies, and Striker isn’t much better, but it’s said in the way Blitz lets Striker watch his hunting shows on TV, even though he thinks they’re boring as fuck, and a tiny kiss set to Blitz’s neck or shoulder for no reason other than the two words they don’t actually say out loud. And they don’t need to, which Blitz thinks is something really fucking special – that they don’t need to say shit to say a whole fucking lot.
They both have nightmares, too. Different kinds, technically, but a nightmare is a fucking nightmare. Whatever the packaging, they fucking suck. Blitz dreams about the fire, about eyes glaring at him with accusations flung left and right, about every shit decision he’s ever made, about Loona being stolen away and he can’t get her back, no matter how hard he claws and fights and runs. He usually wakes up in a cold sweat, sometimes by his own screams, and Striker holding him from behind without a word. Thank fuck, too, because more words are the last thing he wants after those kinds of dreams.
Striker is in a fight for his fucking life when he dreams – dreams, period, because there’s no separation. He either sleeps with an empty head or he has a nightmare. And Blitz always knows when Striker is having one, because he’s reduced to a hissing, snarling, thrashing animal ready to break every bone in his body to break out of the cage he’s found himself in. It isn’t safe to touch him like this – Blitz tried a couple times and got fucking wrecked. Bandages for a month and Striker sick with guilt. Instead, he has to wait it out, which sucks more than his own nightmares. He has to watch, to listen, all while wanting to just shove himself inside Striker’s brain and beat the ever-loving shit out of whatever is torturing him.
He's asked what the dreams, nightmares, are about. Sometimes Striker can remember – fights from his younger days, botched jobs, ambush attacks on the streets, all of which account for the scrapbook of scars covering most of his body. It’s the ones he can’t remember that are the worst to watch. At least, Striker says he can’t remember, and Blitz lets it be. He once made a weak-ass joke about a shrink having a field day with both of them, and it made the exhausted shadows under Striker’s eyes disappear, just for a second, when he laughed.
Blitz slips under the covers, diligent in his efforts to not jostle Striker out of sleep, but it never matters. The second he’s settled on the bed, Striker abandons the pillow and replaces it with Blitz – head pillowed on the belly, arms tight around the hips and waist. The first time, Blitz was sure that Striker was faking sleep and did it intentionally. Nope. When his internal clock is powered down, he’s fucking out, unlike Blitz who will wake up at a car horn outside or the low buzz of a new text. As soon as he feels Blitz join him, the pillow or cushion or whatever is unwelcome. He’s seen Striker shove the damn things out of the way to get to Blitz – all while he’s asleep.
Looping his tail with Striker’s, Blitz sinks back into the remaining pillow and rests his cheek atop the soft white hair with a low sigh. “Your wires are so fucking crossed, babe.” He mutters tiredly. His eyes are already drooping and he’s not about to fight it.
Against his chest, a sleep-rough mumble of, “And yours are a tangled rat nest, sugar,” proves that Blitz has a thing or two yet to learn about when his mate is actually asleep, but he’s too tired to volley a quip back.
He’ll think of something in the morning.