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Jason stays with you that night, holding you in his arms and comforting you quietly, gently rocking you back and forth while you relax into him. Once your eyes flutter closed and you breathe out a sigh, he takes the opportunity to really look at you up close for the first time since he'd come back.
And what he sees worries him, strikings of fear hammering against his heart and tendrils of concern and anxiety sneaking around his throat. You don't look… well. You're not acting well. Wandering around alone late at night, not being concerned when faced with immediate danger, leaving your doors and windows unlocked - all of these set off alarm bells in his head.
But even worse than that is the sight before him now. He loves you still, of course - loves having you in his arms and feeling the way you press against him in your half-asleep state. But you're lighter than you used to be; if he trails his hands up and down our waist he can count your ribs. And there are deep purple circles under your eyes indicative of someone who is consistently not getting enough sleep.
If he listens closely, Jason thinks he can hear the rattling of your breath through your lungs, as if your body is so unwell that even breathing has become difficult… but maybe he's paranoid now. Maybe he's looking for more things to worry about.
The worry does come quickly, though, when you sigh against him and begin pushing yourself away and back into a sitting position. His heart lurches at any sort of divide between the two of you - after so long without you, the only thing in the world he wants now is to hold you close, close, close . And the longing glance you send to him tells him you feel the same.
Regardless of that, though, you sit up straight and drag your laptop onto your lap, opening it and squinting against the harsh blue light as you glance at him over it.
"I'll let you, um…" you start, and he can see it, the exhaustion, the fatigue, those walls of yours closing back up. "Thank you for coming by and talking. I appreciate it."
Jason frowns. "Of course, baby. I'm here for you, yea?" He doesn't miss the way your hands bunch the couch cushions at his words.
"I know," you respond, your voice quiet and weak. Jason moves towards you, gently taking the laptop and closing it, setting it back on the coffee table and ignoring your explanations of how much work you have to do.
"I think you need some sleep," is all he offers.
" You need sleep," you retort. Jason grins and pulls you back onto his lap, burying his face in your shoulder.
"We can do that together, you know."
"Jason -"
"Just sleep. I mean it," he soothes, squeezing your hips gently. "Come on, it's late… or early . I think the sun is gonna come up soon." You hum in reluctant agreement and let him nudge you to your feet, taking your hand in his and pulling you along down your hallway.
"You still a heavy sleeper?" you ask as you swing the door open to your bedroom. Jason assures that he is and narrows his eyes slightly, but before he can ask, you let out a quick, "I was just wondering." He tugs your hand gently and turns you to look at him.
"What's up?" he asks, and there's so much gentle , so much love and care and concern in his voice that it makes your breath catch.
"Just, um… I'm kind of a bad sleeper. You know, restless - I move a lot. I don't want to keep you awake." you explain. Jason pulls you towards him and wraps an arm around you, pressing a kiss to your temple.
"Don't worry about it, sweetheart," he whispers into your skin, holding onto you a little tighter.
But Jason doesn't sleep that night. He lays still, keeping his breaths even and deep while you curl into his chest. He watches as you shift and turn in your sleep, breath hitching in fear and body flinching in distress.
No, he doesn't sleep through that. How could he? How could he when you, his person, his love , is so clearly scared and hurt? How could he when all he can think of is how many nights you've gone through this alone? He holds you through the night, whispering comfort into your hair that he hopes you can somehow hear through the fog of whatever nightmare has its hold on you and keeps stroking a gentle, soothing hand up and down your spine. When you start crying in your sleep, he holds you so tight he worries about leaving marks as he shushes you, promising you that he's here , that he's back and he'll keep you safe and nothing bad will ever happen to you again.
And if he, himself, lets tears trickle from the corners of his eyes as he murmurs apologies into your skin for not protecting you from whatever happened while he was gone… well, that's no one's business but his own, he supposes.