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When Rush woke, so did Young. After months of sharing a bed, he had learned to still his military instincts to the overactive scientist’s twitchy sleep, full of murmurings of things unknown and incomprehensible to him. He could sleep through the shifting underneath his arm, and the fine strands of his hair grazing across his skin.
Just as Young learned to sleep through Rush’s stirring in his sleep, he learned to wake when the other man woke, and how to take quick inventory of his current state. When Rush woke to an alarm or a voice, it was with a groan of impatience. When Rush woke well-rested and of his own accord—which Young had only had the privilege of observing once or twice—he laid perfectly still with eyes open for several minutes before he began buzzing through his day. When Rush woke from nightmares, it was with a deep breath and a bite.
Usually, after the start of Rush’s waking, Young drifted back off to sleep. But Young couldn’t—or wouldn’t—after Rush had a nightmare. When the other man gasped to consciousness, he began kicking and pushing at anything touching his skin, bunching the covers at the foot of the bed, raking the sleeves of his shirt up his arms, scratching at Young’s hands that tried to stay him.
“Rush.” His tone was level and gentle. Trying to overpower Rush’s yells was a hopeless endeavor and tended to only rile him up. “Rush.”
“Don’t make me go back! Get off, get off, get the fuck off!” He wailed, his body having been pulled out of the dream, but his mind still stuck in it. Young stayed sitting up on the bed, holding his shoulders gently but firmly onto the mattress, enough to keep him from thrashing so hard he hurt himself. He stayed as Rush landed a kick to his bad knee, wincing but holding steady. He stayed as Rush’s nails dug harsh, red crescents into his forearms, as his screams peaked and split his ears.
“Rush. Rush.” Young kept repeating, mind going numb to the noise. “Nick.”
Eventually the screams gave way to quiet sobs, and the piercing hold Rush had on his arms became limp. Young lowered himself onto the bed and pulled Rush as tight against himself as he could, one hand running absentminded patterns through his hair. “I’ve got you.”
Young stayed until Rush tired himself out and fell asleep curled up into the crook of Young’s shoulder, knees drawn up between their chests. Young stayed.
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When Young woke from a nightmare, it was with a startled inhale. Quiet, but sudden and sharp. Rush, in his active sleep, would stir slightly at the noise, but settle back onto the bed at Young’s controlled exhale. God help him, most nights he tried not to cry, but some nights the flashes of bombs, the pattern of blood in the dirt, were too strong to keep at bay.
He had always cried quietly, but now he tried to cry still as well. He bit his lip and let tears run down his face, clenched fists shaking with the effort. Rush was a light sleeper, but not an observant one. Young shifted and pulled Rush close to him and buried his face in his hair. Rush let out a small hum and settled his back against Young’s chest. He willed his breathing to be regular and slow, he willed his tears to stop, he willed the other man a peaceful night of sleep after another long day, followed by long night, followed by long day.
If Rush had ever known, he would’ve found a way to wake when Young woke.