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“You know, you can always reach out for me when you have nightmares, Sam.”
An offer given, but not oft taken.
Dollman was a light sleeper. Dolls don’t really need sleep, but it’s one of the few human luxuries he chooses to keep. The moment Sam would jolt awake, he’d peak over at him through ever so slightly opened eyes. It was mostly shapes, but he could guess what all went on for the most part.
The Sam shaped blob would lay there while the heavy breathing echoed through the room. This never lasted more than a minute. Then came the stillness, as if he were frozen in time. Dollman knew Sam was one prone to prolonged internal conflict, but moments like that frightened him, but left him buzzing with curiosity. It was only when Sam remembered he could move he’d swing himself to the edge of the bed. He’d hear the tapping of his feet on the floor. He’d look back and forth, Dollman having to quickly shut his eyes each time. Sometimes he’d even add in a loud, long snore for that extra convincing factor. Sam probably didn’t buy it, but the thought was there.
Usually, this was the part where he’d lay back down and drift off—but tonight was different.
Sam stood up. Quick, swift, before he’d have time to change his mind. Two steps and he stands before Dollman’s perch.
“Sam, you’re awake. Everything alright?” This was a new part of his performance, he even reached up to rub an eye.
“Ye-yeah,” had the click of his strap not bounced off the walls of the ship, the silence would be deafening. When Sam moved his mouth again, he talked out of the side of it. “…bad dream,” It was as if the words were slipping out from the back of his throat, coated in a thick layer of embarrassment—maybe even shame.
He reaches out a hand and wraps it slowly around the doll’s waist. Dollman revels in a warm hand against wood. This time is more tender than Sam usually is. There was no incoming whiplash from his begrudging attitude this time. He was held as if he were glass—Dollman couldn’t help but smile wider than usual.
Sam bought him closer to his face, adding a supporting hand under him to stop him from dangling. Dollman looked shiny eyed at the hair stuck to his forehead and his face that was clearly a bit pink. He was a patient doll, he wanted him to take his time—but he still wanted to hear him ask. After a long breath out, Sam opens his mouth to speak again—clearly this time.
“I wanna take you up on your offer.”
“Oh, I see,” he nods, there’s almost a cockiness to it, but it stops there. He rests a reassuring hand on Sam’s finger, “Please Sam, all I want is for you to feel comfortable and safe. Just hold me any way you’d like.”
Sam gives a huff of affirmation and a nod, returning to the bed, laying down on his back against the slim, firm mattress of the Magellan. One hand goes behind his head to act as a pillow, and the other settles Dollman onto his chest, leaving his palm on his back. He shuffles a few times to get comfortable, and only then does Dollman lay plush against the material of his shirt. He turned his head to the side, granting him a view of the sink on the other side of the room.
The doll quite enjoyed the sensation, Warm, smelled a slight musk Sam could never quite shake despite his shower recommendations. He could hear his heartbeat, pumping the blood so many seemed to adore. Unlike earlier, his breathing was surprisingly steady. The rhythmic ebbs and flows reminded him of being on a row boat pre-stranding. Yet, something still gnawed at him. Call it that curiosity again, or his constant need to speak up to contend with Sam’s quiet nature.
“…Sam?”
“Hm-?”
“Are you comfortable? I can also tell you a story if it would make you m—“
“No. This’s fine.”
Dollman starts to watch the sink leak droplets. He counts five of them, then opens his mouth again.
“…Sam?”
The response this time sounded more akin to a short, pained groan that bounces both of them up and then down.
“Maybe taking your mind somewhere else before you sleep would help. Do you have an itinerary for tomorrow? Maybe we could t—“
“No. I just wanna lay here.”
If a pit could grow in the stomach of a doll, his would have grown ten sizes by now. As daunting as a task it was to attempt to help Sam in his healing journey, he was resilient. In his mind this was a fine time for a teachable moment, and a chance to understand his travel companion more. Six droplets slipped from the sink before he gains his courage again. He’s got to tell someone to fix that in the morning.
“I just have one more question, Sam,” he starts, quickly so he wouldn’t be cut off again, “What did you usually do when you had nightmares—before you got to the Magellan?”
At first there was no response, but the question tightened the air in the room. The smooth rhythms of Sam’s body is interrupted. The screen above the sink flickers ever so slightly.
“…Deal with it, try to go back to sleep, one-a those. I get ‘em a lot, so.” The sound vibrates through his chest, down to Dollman’s painted ears.
“…Would you like to talk about them?”
In place of an answer, the ship creeks. There’s a slight hitch in Sam’s breath, and his body freezes, leaving them both in time.
A wave of guilt sends splinters down his spine. Perhaps he misunderstood the situation more than he realized. When it came down to it, a lot of the information he knew about Sam had come second hand. Fragile would tell his story in earnest, but it was clearly nothing close to what lied below the surface. She was secretive too these days, by extension also making Dollman himself slightly secretive. Everything else was Sam on a mission. The calculated and labor intensive life of a porter had little room for sharing needs that weren’t ‘I’ve gotta get a ladder,’ or ‘I’ve gotta take a piss.’ He wanted nothing more than to understand the Sam that lived in his core, but all he had was cold, hard fact—that and a few odd sleeping patterns.
In a last ditch effort to make amends for this social blunder and fix his newly acquired use, he shuffles himself from under his hand, up his chest and into his neck. Sam’s eyes were stuck to the ceiling, but he knew his mind was far from these walls. His mouth was slightly agape, but he made no sounds. Dollman rested his head in the crux just below his ear, and intertwines himself with his hair, embracing as much of him as he could hold. He burrows into his neck as he feels Sam slowly unthaw with a big breath out, his face turning slightly in the doll’s direction, careful not to crush him with his head.
The hand that was once atop his back returns, his palm cupping his back to keep them close together. The index finger finds a groove right between his suit jacket and the collar of his shirt. It feels the pattern of the wool back and forth, a touch so soothing Dollman can hardly keep his eyes open, the side of Sam’s face becoming one big shape again. Between long blinks, he watches Sam’s eyes close as if they were stop motion this time, just as he feels the even flow of his breathing return. The waves had finally calmed, and Dollman’s eyelids finally gave in.
“…maybe another time, then.”