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Back when he was at the orphanage, it was normal for the children to wake up in the middle of the night, crying from nightmares, startled the other kids awake with their sobs. It was usually the caretakers who comforted them and helped calm them down, but sometimes, it was Nicholas himself who'd have them get under the covers with him, pat their back, and they would hold each other until the child's eyes stopped watering.
"Don't worry about it anymore."
"It's just a dream, that's all."
"You are safe now."
"I'll protect you, I promise."
He would whisper these words into their ears over and over again, the way he whispered to himself whenever his own nightmare came calling, the difference is, well, the silence.
Nicholas never made a sound when nightmares visited him in the middle of the night. He would open his eyes wide, clench his teeth tight as breathless fear overwhelmed every inch of his body, his fingers would grip the sheets like claws, and he'd be sweating, but even then, he wouldn't make a sound, not once. After all, he couldn't risk waking up anyone else in the room, who is just trying to sleep through another day, and Nicholas is not only the oldest, he's also everyone's trustworthy Nico-nii, a little nightmare is not going to scare him away.
With that thought in mind and the lingering fear still stinging his heart, Nicholas would curl up tighter, bury his face in the pillow, and force himself to sleep, because tomorrows were always harder than today.
This habit follows him to adulthood, it seems.
The difference is it isn't the orphanage's ceiling above him, or a kid's warm body next to him, snuggling close to him for comfort, it's usually the hard floor of an abandoned building, or the rough fabric of a bed in a cheap motel and the feeling of cold metal - the Punisher, pressed against his skin. Night after night, he would dream about the kids asking him to pick them up with his hands in his pocket, hiding away the blood, he would dream about screams and cries, gunsmoke that filled his nose full, blood and pain, needles and vials,...
And every single time he woke up, he would force himself to calm down, with sweats clinging to his chest and neck, nails buried deep into the sheets, mouth dry, breathing ragged, but no sound, not even a whimper, just a silent struggle.
Until one night, when he doesn't.
But it's not a sound. Not a whimper. Just a low sigh.
Just that, there is this one certain needle-nogging head there.
It all started when the two agreed that they really have to cut off on the money by squeezing themselves into one room, then into one bed, with their backs facing each other's.
"Good night, Spikey."
"It's Vash!"
"Good night, Spikey."
Wolfwood remembers having that conversation before falling asleep, before the inevitable nightmare came knocking at his door and pulled him out from the Sandman's grip.
His body slightly flinches as his eyes shot open, one blink, two blink, there is moonlight falling through the window, not the sight of oozing red, one breath, two breath, there is the smell of old wood and humid air, not the distinct, metallic tang of blood, his fingers twitch, once, twice, there is the feeling of a rough, lint blanket, not the cold, hard touch of metal.
It's just a nightmare, he tells himself, forcing the adrenaline coursing through his veins to stop.
This is reality.
He breathes, slowly, calming himself down.
Just a nightmare.
As he lets a low, relieved exhale flow from his lips, a familiar voice interrupts his train of thought.
***
Vash the Stampede is a light sleeper.
That's why when the old wooden bed under him creaks at the sudden movement of the other, he instantly wakes up.
Maybe it's because they are in the same bed, under the same blanket that he can feel Wolfwood's slightest movement, the way his breath hitches, the way his body trembles, a silent struggle, like a cat trying to stay afloat in a pool of water. It...pains him, seeing the other struggling to keep up his facade, to pretend that everything is fine, refuse to let out even a whimper, as if it will shatter him, break him apart.
So he decides to speak up, knowing it has a higher chance of pissing the other off rather than helping him.
"Wolfwood, you are awake?"
***
Wolfwood frozes at the sudden voice, his shoulders tense, like a kid caught doing something bad.
"No." - The reply comes out harsher than he intended.
"...Ahahahahaha...." - The other man chuckles weakly.
Then silence.
"..."
"..."
"Are you oka--"
"Stop poking your nose into others' business and go to sleep, Spikey."
"That's cold!"
"Oh, why you-- what are you doing?"
Before Wolfwood realizes it, his heartbeat has calmed down, and the small gap between them has disappeared, as he can feel the other's back touches his, warmth radiating from him, through the clothes' fabric, under the cheap blanket.
"It's cold, I'm making use of available heat."
"I'm not your damn heater..."
Despite his words, Wolfwood doesn't pull away, nor does he turn around to face his partner. The warmth pressed against his back is...familiar, yet different. It feels like a part of him, yet foreign, almost like a stranger, despite the time they spent together. Still, it fills his heart with a strange peace, and it calms the pounding of his heart down to something bearable.
...
How irritable...
"Hey Spikey..."
"Mmmhhhmmm?"
"Thank you."
"Huh? What? What did you just say?"
"I said go to sleep."
"No, you did not! I swear--"
"Damn you Spikey!! Go to sleep already!!"
It's the first time in a long, long time, Wolfwood goes back to sleep with such peace in his mind after a nightmare.