Chapter Text
Are you open tonight?
The text lit up on your phone screen, under the contact name “Isaac”.
You double check your calendar app, even though you know it’s clear, and text back: Yep :)
You pause your movie and stand up; when this particular client texts, it means that he is on his way or already staring at your door. The knock at your door makes you grin at how right you were. You check through the peephole first before opening the door. The man on the other side breezes past you and waits for you to lock the door before greeting you.
“Thank you for answering,” he says, watching you with his big, dark eyes.
“Of course, Marc. Thank you for remembering to text this time,” you say gently.
He winces at the memory of the last time he showed up unannounced, how you had scolded him harshly and threatened to cancel his sessions if he ever did it again. He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, staring at the floor, and you let the silence continue as you study him.
The wary look in his eyes, the slight shuffle of his feet on your floor as he tries to resist the urge to pace, are all-too familiar. It’s been a while since his last visit, and Marc seems nervous. You can't help but find it endearing that even though you've tried to make it clear that he is paying you for your services, Marc still acts like you are doing him a huge favor.
Which maybe you are. Marc has told you before about the many nights that he can't sleep without the help of your abilities.
You fold your arms over your chest and finally break the silence.
“You look like shit,” you say with a small smirk.
Marc looks up quickly, eyes wide with surprise. He lets out a breath that he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“I guess I've missed my beauty rest lately,” he says with a slight grin.
“I can help with that. Did you bring-”
Marc pulls his hands out of his pockets and hands you an envelope.
“Thank you,” you say as you stash the money in a nearby drawer. You don't bother to count it; you can tell by the weight that he's probably overpaid you again.
“What do you want to eat?” You ask as you walk to your kitchen and open the fridge.
Marc follows, sitting on one of your mismatched bar stools. He leans against the counter wearily.
“I already ate, so…dessert?” he asks.
His answer has you smiling again. Marc loves sweets; it's the one thing you know he will eat even when nothing else appeals to him.
You hold out two flavors of ice cream bars. Marc picks the chocolate immediately, like you knew he would. You hand it over and watch as he unwraps it.
Marc nods towards the other bar and raises one eyebrow. "You're not gonna make me eat alone, are you?"
You open the ice cream and lean back against the fridge as you eat.
"How's business?" Marc asks after a few bites.
"Business is good. I'm getting more referrals from my regular customers. I've been thinking about doing more consultation work, maybe do some in-home assessments."
Marc stiffens and looks up sharply from his snack. "That sounds dangerous, going into other people's homes by yourself."
Your eyebrows arch on their own. "As opposed to inviting them into my home one-on-one?"
He sighs heavily. "That's a fair point, just… be careful. Please."
You eye him curiously. Marc never asks how you are; you suspect it’s mostly because he doesn't want you to ask him back. You take care not to invade your clients' lives, and they extend the same courtesy.
"I'm always careful," you say after a minute. "It's not a definite plan yet, but I want to offer more services at different price points…help more people, I suppose." You finish your bar quickly.
"What time do you need to leave tomorrow?” you ask as he eats.
Marc frowns. “Early.”
“Do you need me to keep an eye on your phone for messages?”
He shakes his head no. “I’ll put it in the lockbox.”
You pass him your phone. “Set an alarm now, so I know when to wake you up.”
He eats the last bite of ice cream and taps on the screen a few times, then hands it back to you.
You accept it and slide him a lockbox key on a lanyard. “Your usual room is ready."
He nods before walking away. Thankfully, Marc is one client you don't have to lead around your home; he knows the drill by now. You busy yourself with tidying the kitchen while you wait for him to change into the sweatpants and T-shirt you keep clean for his visits. You know he’ll be done in less than ten minutes; it’s a level of efficiency that makes you sure he has military training.
You wait until you hear the bathroom door creak open to follow him to his room. Marc sits on the end of the bed as you enter.
“Which one?” You hold out two vials of essential oils, both scents that you know Marc likes.
He points to one, and you set up the diffuser.
You hand him a small bottle of hand cream, the extra strength kind that won't sting if his hands are already bleeding. He accepts it without argument, something you didn’t think was possible back when he first came to you for help. Back when he didn’t know that you could be just as stubborn as him.
While he applies the healing balm to his hands, you pull back the covers for him. Marc glances at you, then crawls up the bed and lays down, pulling the blankets over himself tightly. You turn off the overhead light, then drag a nearby chair closer to the bed, facing him. The low glow of a nightlight reflects briefly in his dark eyes.
“Ready?” you ask quietly as you sit.
Marc closes his eyes and nods. You've done this with him enough times, checked and rechecked his comfort level with each step, that he knows what to expect. Still, you're happy to see him relax so quickly.
You push your fingers into his hair, making Marc suck in a breath sharply, then sigh it back out as he adjusts to the feeling. He’s assured you before that he likes it when you do this, although it still makes him tense at first. You don't pry into clients' minds, but you've seen enough pieces of Marc's nightmares to understand why he has trouble calming down.
As your fingers work through his hair, you reach out with your power to touch his mind carefully. You can feel his anxiety humming away, keeping him alert. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter and tries to fight his own fears.
“You're safe, Marc,” you say soothingly. “You're here in this room, with me, and you're safe.” You continue to glide your fingers through his curls.
Marc shifts in the bed and tries to stifle a groan. You can feel all of his pain and exhaustion. Then the guilt: there's years and years of it, layered up in his mind like scar tissue. It keeps him bound, unable to breathe when it squeezes him suddenly. Your heart aches for him every time you feel how heavy his memories are. You are perhaps the only person who can give him a little peace, at least long enough to get some real rest.
“You’re going to have a long sleep, with no nightmares, and you will feel so much better in the morning,” you tell him gently.
“Promise?” He grits out, and the rawness of his voice breaks your heart.
You nod even though he can't see you through his closed eyelids. “I promise, Marc. I'll protect you.” You push a gentle wave of power through his mind.
The frown that nearly always creases his forehead smooths out. His fists unclench, hands lying open on the bed. His shoulders slump back. Marc slowly opens his eyes and watches your face.
You can sense from his mind that he needs this part, craves it even more than the deep sleep you will grant him. His body and mind both feel weightless, floating in your power.
Full, but without his heavy burdens. Empty, but without his pain from loss.
Marc opens his lips to speak; he can't form words. You can’t hear thoughts, but with him so close to sleep, you can sense the intent in them. Awe. Relief. Gratitude.
“You're welcome, Marc.”
Marc closes his eyes.
You smile gently and brush his hair back one last time. “Sleep well.”
With a push of your abilities, his mind goes over into sleep. You watch his peaceful face until his breathing is deep and steady. Maybe you watch for a few minutes longer than you should, because the change in his features is just so gratifying. You made this much-needed rest happen for him.
You stand and quietly exit, leaving a small tendril of power on his mind to alert you if anything changes.
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Hours later, you look up from your book when you hear soft footfalls approaching.
“Marc?” You question quietly, surprised.
He is standing in the entrance to your living room, looking very groggy and confused. You can tell from your little vine of power still attached to his mind that he isn't dreaming. He's done this type of sleepwalking before, though it's weird that you didn't sense the change this time.
You stand slowly and move towards him. His eyes track you warily, without any recognition in them.
"Marc," you say again gently once you get within arm's reach.
His deep frown and tense posture give you pause, so instead of touching him, you hold out your hand to him.
“Come on; I’ll take you back to bed.”
After a long minute of him staring at your hand, he takes it and lets you lead him back to his bed. He sits on the side of the bed but doesn't let go of your hand. He stares at you with eyes half-closed with exhaustion.
“Do you want me to lie down with you for a while?”
Marc lets out the breath he was holding and nods. He releases your hand and lays down on his side as you climb into the bed. You adjust the blankets to cover both of you, then settle in behind him, pressing your chest to his back and draping an arm over him. Your other arm rests with your fingers on his head. You idly comb his hair as he relaxes into your touch.
After a few minutes, you feel his body jerk reflexively next to you. He's trying to keep himself awake.
“It's ok; you're safe. You can sleep now.”
He shifts, obviously fighting the pull of unconsciousness.
“You're safe,” you repeat. “I will protect you.” You hug him to your chest a little tighter. “I’ll keep the nightmares away. It's safe for you to sleep.”
Marc flips in place until he is on his other side, facing you. You catch your breath at the look of longing on his face. He silently takes your free hand in his, threading your fingers together where they rest on the bed, then closes his eyes and relaxes again. It only takes a tiny nudge from your mind to push him back into a deep sleep.
An unexpected wave of drowsiness washes over you. You wiggle a little further down the bed to get comfortable. Marc won’t care if you sleep here with him; it will be easier to monitor his dreams from the same room, too. Your alarm will wake you up in time to make coffee and breakfast for you both.
You mentally check his dreams again. Nothing seems amiss, so you allow yourself to drift off. You are too tired to even wonder why Marc is dreaming in Spanish.