Work Text:
The air in Hank Hill’s tiny apartment hangs thick with the scent of roasted turkey and pumpkin pie, the aftermath of Thanksgiving gluttony seeping into every thread of the couch where Bill Dauterive sprawls, his uniform shirt unbuttoned to accommodate his swollen belly. His snores rattle the coffee table, but they’re nothing compared to the guttural, half-strangled noises Hank makes beside him—both men lost to food coma oblivion, limbs tangled in a way that suggests neither intended to share the couch but lacked the energy to care.
Bill’s nightmare arrives first: a jumble of desert sand and boot camp shrieks, his sergeant’s voice morphing into his mother’s, scolding him for not finishing his greens as a child. He whimpers, fingers twitching against Hank’s sleeve.
Hank’s dream is quieter but no less cruel—a ledger book with endless columns, numbers bleeding like wounds, his father’s disappointed sigh echoing between the lines.
They wake in unison, gasping.
Hank blinks at the ceiling, heart hammering, before the weight against his side registers. Bill’s breathing is ragged, his face pressed into Hank’s shoulder like a child seeking shelter. Something in Hank’s chest cracks open—not logic, not responsibility, just the raw, clumsy instinct to fix. Without a word, he rolls onto his side, tugs Bill flush against him, and slots his knees behind Bill’s thighs.
Bill goes rigid. “H-Hank?”
“Hush,” Hank mumbles into his hair, already halfway back to sleep.
The room smells like gravy and sweat. Bill’s pulse thrums against Hank’s palm where it rests over his heart. Slowly, Bill relaxes, and Hank’s grip tightens—not possessive, just sure. The nightmares don’t stand a chance.