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Summary
Even in his sleep, Tommy was never at peace.
Curled up against the dark walls of his bunker, he hugged the old viridian cloak from his exile close to him in lieu of a blanket, shivering. He thrashed violently, kicking out and whimpering as if he was fighting an invisible enemy in his dreams. At times, he screamed, at others, he sobbed violently, but wracked with exhaustion and self-medicated by the potions he took in excess, he was unable to wake even despite the evident distress he was in.
It’d be a stretch for Dream to say he felt guilty, exactly. He had to admit, it was an amusing sight, and it warmed his heart to see him keeping the cloak he’d given him in exile. Seeing him desperately swaddle himself in it to stymie the screaming fits he’d had trying to sleep before was a mix of satisfying and sweet, and the fact it worked was utterly adorable- the little brat still cared about him deep down, he supposed. He could still be saved.
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Or, while watching Tommy from the walls, Dream finds him asleep, and it makes him ruminate on his Big Happy Family. Prompt was “Sleep”
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fear.