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For a second after he wakes up, he can’t quite remember where he is. It’s toasty warm, a familiar scent all around him and for a second he’s caught between being seven and seventeen, in a room that once was his yet no longer is.
And then he remembers; the nightmare that shook him violently out of his restless slumber, his unconscious mind deciding to offer him up so many images of Lucy dead or dying or leaving him behind that he had felt the sudden, desperate urge to check that very second that she a) was alive and b) hadn’t walked out on them in the middle of the night.
She had been both present and alive, bleary-eyed but awake at the top of the attic stairs, half-shrugged into her dressing gown on her way down to him.
“You were shouting,” She’d said.
“Sorry.” He’d responded, mortified he’d woken her and beyond grateful that George sleeps like a rock to prevent this being even more embarrassing. He’d only meant to briefly peek in, check she was okay then slip away while she slept, which he belatedly realised was kind of creepy.
“S’okay.” She’d dumped her dressing gown off, leaving it on the floor where it landed and grabbed vaguely for his hand, half-asleep. “C’mon then.”
And then to his extraordinary shock, she’d dragged him over to the bed, propped herself up against the headboard and looked at him expectantly until he’d done the same.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He’d swallowed, the bad dream settling like a filter over her soft-eyed expression and he can almost see the ghost touch, the blood splatters, the tears that his own mind chose to torture him with. He’d shook the vision away, focused on the very tired, very real girl in front of him instead of the imaginary one who kept slipping through his fingers.
“Not really.” He’d admitted and braced himself for her argument.
But instead, she’d simply said, “Okay.” and taken his hand in both of hers, settling them in her lap.
And then she’d just talked, about everything and nothing; a funny story about a teacher from the school she’d gone to before being recruited to Jacob’s, how George had tried to teach her to cook spag bol and it had been a disaster, the time she saw Bobby Vernon trip over his own rapier at the Archives. Just speaking, quietly and slow, looking up at the ceiling without expecting him to utter a sound in response.
At some point, they had slid down the headboard until they were on their backs, his hand still clasped in Lucy’s, her fingers playing with his as she spoke, just talking and talking until he was completely mesmerised by the sound of her voice, the lilt of her accent, letting it wash over him and drag him back down into sleep.
And now-
It’s morning and there’s an arm around his waist. A small hand is tucked under his sleep shirt and loosely curled over the jut of his ribs. A leg is pushed in between his, feet pressed against the back of his calves, astonishingly cold toes brushing his ankles.
He can feel regular, deep breaths ghosting along his spine, the weight of a forehead against the base of his neck, hair tickling the exposed skin above his shirt’s collar.
He freezes and a sleepy grumble is muttered into his back from the figure curled up behind him.
“Luce?” He murmurs cautiously.
The hand under his shirt flexes slightly, fingertips brushing his skin.
“Shh.” Comes a mumble from between his shoulder blades.
He can’t help the half laugh, half sigh that escapes at the perturbed noise she makes, even though terror is creeping through him that he’s somehow done something untoward and wrong that’s going to ruin everything forever.
“Lucy.” He says a little more firmly, because he’s fairly certain he’s outstayed his welcome by several hours if the light from beyond her half-open curtains is to be believed.
“M’sleeping.” She whines, pushing her face firmer against the muscles of his back, rubbing her cheek against the cotton of his shirt like a cat.
“Sorry.” He chuckles and she huffs against him before she settles, her legs shifting slightly to wind tighter around his.
The golden spill of mid-morning sun is puddling in the mountains of Lucy’s duvet, pooling in the creases of her pillows.
He wishes he could see her, the light catching on the glimmering strands of her hair, dancing over her lashes and the gentle swell of her cheekbones, but he isn’t quite ready to break the spell so for the moment just basks in the combined warmth of the morning and the girl pressed up behind him.
He’s not sure how much longer they stay like that, cocooned together; he might have dozed off again, an even rarer occurrence than a dreamless sleep. He can’t remember the last time he had a lazy morning and he’s certainly never shared one with someone else. Usually, he lies in bed, staring at the wall until it seems like a reasonable time to get up, regardless of the fact he only has an hour or two of sleep under his belt.
Lucy shifts behind him, muffles a yawn into his shirt. She’s waking up properly, but the cosy atmosphere doesn’t change as she comes to; if anything, she snuggles in deeper, sighing a deep breath that expels across his back like a caress. Any lingering fear that’s she going to kick his sorry arse out of her bed and cuss him out for taking liberties melts away. He just lies there as she shifts into wakefulness and if she’s surprised to find herself wrapped around him like a koala, she doesn’t mention it.
A feeling alien and yet familiar descends upon him as he relaxes back into the mattress, a hum of approval vibrating from Lucy’s chest through to his spine as he does so.
“D’you want to talk about it now?” He feels Lucy’s lips brush his shirt as she speaks, fingers twitching again before settling firmly in the grooves of his ribcage, like she’s trying to hold him together.
On any given day, she more or less is. It’s not fair to her, really, to have her always on alert to pick up his pieces when he never tells her what’s making him fall apart in the first place. But she still does it, even if its accompanied by a blowout fight or, even worse, days of silent treatment. She makes him feel terrified and confident and-
Safe.
He feels safe wrapped up in Lucy’s arms, in his old bed with the smell of her shampoo permeating the pillow and her nose burrowed into his back, curled up together in their little puddle of sunlight. Safe enough to meet her half way for once, or at least a quarter, as long as she keeps holding onto him like this.
“Yeah.” He says. “I want to talk about it.”
And rolls over to face her.