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Jumba Jookiba does not cry out when he has a bad dream. Upon waking, his mind shifts into the analytical, the logical, as a matter of course. Nightmares , he thinks, is funny word, even for funny humans. The scientist would like to build a corral for his dark dreams, to close them in for the night and let them run themselves tired. He imagines sea-curls of foam on their wet flanks, the shine of skin over muscle. Thanks to Lilo, he’s seen plenty of pictures of horses - has drawn some for her, too!
Tonight, his mind will not quiet. Waking has not dispelled the dream or loosened its hold. His body feels clammy and bulkily helpless - easy for his herd of dreams to run down and surround, their dark bodies making a wall between him and rest.
“Pleakley?”
Only soft snoring answers.
“Little one, are you being awake?”
Nothing.
“Bossy noodle?”
There is a snort of indignation as a snore is cut off. “How bossy can I be?” comes the drowsy but irritable demand. “I’m asleep !”
“If you are talking, are being awake,” Jumba points out helpfully.
Pleakley yawns enormously and Jumba gets a vision of the way this scrunches up his eye. It’s a cute look. “Guess so. Did you need somethin’?”
Just little one . “Was being having bad dreams.”
Pleakley is instantly more alert. “About what?”
“Prison,” he admits, mouth becoming a thin line. “Little dark hole. All alone.” He had been much alone in his lab, too, but he had been in communication with other scientists; he could also leave anytime he chose to get a meal or see a show. Prison was nothing but the promise of loneliness forever, a place to be held and forgotten.
The bunk creaks as Pleakley climbs down. The Plorgonarian tucks in with Jumba without a thought, pretty nightgown brushing cool kisses against the fear-rigid Kwelti. Jumba feels his hands start toward those silken folds and makes them into fists. “Little one looking like is not sleeping alone,” he makes himself joke.
Pleakley strikes a pose, pleased with the attention. “I like to feel pretty when I go to bed. You know that.” He shivers as he feels Jumba’s skin. “You’re freezing! That dream really got to you, huh?”
Jumba nods, suddenly almost brought to tears to have a friend who doesn’t mind embracing him. Once, he had done all he could to evade Pleakley’s physicality, his easy touches and pats on the back. Little one should have been giving up on Jumba, he thinks. Never being touching again. But the Plorgonarian had kept right on until his well-maintained walls had simply evaporated. “Being… scared,” he admits slowly. “Not wanting to be in dark hole.” Not want do without this .
“Aww, don’t worry, big fella. You know I’d never let that happen. I’d petition every authority figure in the Federation if I had to. You know I can be pretty convincing.”
Jumba huffs something that might wish to grow up to be a laugh. “Pretty annoying.”
“Don’t knock it - it works.” Then he pauses, mouth open. “Hey - lookit you.”
Jumba tries, but sees only thick arms, the swell of his belly under the sheets. “What is?”
Pleakley touches his cheek. It’s brief, but everything in the Kweltikwan likes it. “Your eyes. They glow in the dark.” They are, in fact, flecked with what appears to be warm and cool currents of liquid gold, like good champagne in which flakes of gold have been suspended to indicate its value.
“Ah. Yes - Jumba can be seeing seven black cats in dark room before cats are seeing him.” He smiles.
“Well, Mr. Glitter Eyes, you gotta calm down. Gimme your hand.”
Jumba does and feels awe wash over him at the way that touch matches his so well. They’re so different, but somehow their differences are complimentary ones. Counterparts , Jumba thinks. It’s an Earth word that he likes far better than “nightmares.”
Pleakley holds one of his hands to anchor him. With the other, he rubs the rigid planes of his arm, a gesture meant to soothe. “You don’t look it, but you’re petable as a cat,” the Plorgonarian tells him, eyes closed. “Might get you some funny ears for nights like this. Getcha laughing.”
Jumba does arch into his touch. He can’t help it. He wants Pleakley to touch him all over, to undress him and not be disgusted by what he finds. Not to being thinking Jumba is nightmare, he thinks wistfully.
Pleakley stretches, nimble thing, to lay his head on Jumba’s chest. “It’s okay, pretty eyes. You’re not going anywhere. Not without me. I need ya around too much.”
“Is backwards. Jumba is needing bossy noodle.”
Pleakley laughs at him without opening his eyes. “Yeah? Sometimes it’s good for you, having me in charge. Keeps you outta trouble.”
“Is Pleakley being busy tomorrow?”
“Not really. Why?”
“Wanted to… repay. Take shopping, maybe? At store that gets… what you call? Leftovers?”
“Unsold stock,” the Plorgonarian corrects primly. “At discount prices. But you don’t owe me.”
“Still would like. Is fun, seeing dress up. Yellow is being good. Bright things.”
Pleakley hugs him. Jumba must really need him tonight if he’s handing out compliments about his clothes. “We’ll see how awake we’re both feeling. Now try to rest, huh? You’re safe.”
Jumba shakes his head. His neck is stiff. “Don’t want more dreams. Go back to bad place.”
“I know. But if you do dream it, just remember I was there with you. Try to think that.”
But Jumba sags. “Little one did not like Jumba then. Scared.”
He had been scared. “I went from scared to impressed really quickly. You’re something else, Jumba.”
He makes a soft noise that’s all disagreement. “Monster,” he mutters darkly. “Fangs. Too many eyes. Too big and strong. Surprised little girl and bossy noodle not have nightmares about Jumba.”
“Hey! That’s not like you.” But, looking closer, he realizes that Jumba is not intentionally being difficult. He’s truly afraid.
Presented with this problem, Pleakley climbs right up the other being’s body and stretches out over him, holding his eyes. “You listen to me, Dr. Jumba Jookiba,” he says, all but shaking a finger in his face. “You are warm and kind and wonderful. You are smart and strong and great to look at. And there’s no prison on this world or all the rest of that your family wouldn’t come get you right out of, okay!?”
Jumba becomes meek in the face of this. “Okay. Will… will be trying to sleep, now.”
“Good.” Pleakley lays his head down on his chest. The heart under his ear has a rhythm as unique as its owner; it reminds him of rain tapping out a laughing tune in the puddles.
“Noodle is staying?”
“Yeah. You’re an amazing pillow.”
Jumba sighs. Maybe a pillow is all he can be to Pleakley right now… but it feels good just the same. Maybe with the Plorgonarian placed atop him like the cherries with which Lilo decks her desserts, his dreams will turn sweet. “Goodnight, best noodle.”
“Goodnight, best pillow.”
No more nightmares visit that night.
End!