Work Text:
Darkness had never been the problem.
Sound was.
All of it.
The drip from the sink. The low electrical hum buried inside the walls.
Distant traffic that, to Matt, felt like it was roaring straight through his chest.
Even his own breathing could turn against him.
Matt sat rigid on the couch, shoulders drawn tight, hands gripping his pants hard enough to bleach his knuckles.
His world—usually precise, mapped through senses he knew how to manage—had fractured without warning.
Too much.
Everything was too much.
Frank stood a few feet away, perfectly still.
He’d learned the hard way—through mistakes, broken moments, uncomfortable silences—that asking are you okay? didn’t help during times like this.
Neither did touching without permission. Neither did talking.
So he watched.
He saw Matt tilt his head slightly, as if trying to escape a sound only he could hear.
Saw his breathing hitch and shorten.
Saw his mouth press into a thin line, holding something back.
Frank took one step forward… then stopped.
That’s when it happened.
A small weight landed on the couch.
The kitten—black and white, crooked whiskers, a dark patch over one eye—appeared as if summoned. It hopped up clumsily, turned in a circle, and without hesitation curled against Matt’s side.
Matt stiffened for one more heartbeat.
Then the purring started.
It wasn’t soft.
It was deep. Steady. A living engine vibrating against Matt’s ribs.
Matt inhaled.
The air went in—and this time, it didn’t hurt.
The kitten pressed closer, settling right where Matt’s pulse was racing too fast.
Its paws kneaded the fabric of his sweater, claiming the space.
Frank didn’t move.
He lowered himself to the floor, back against the couch, close but not touching.
Guard position.
Watchful.
The purring filled the room.
It didn’t erase the noise, but it pushed it back.
Gave it a center.
Something solid to hold onto.
Matt closed his eyes.
His breathing began to find a rhythm.
Not perfect.
Not instant.
But better.
The kitten lifted its head, glanced at Frank with sleepy yellow eyes… then hopped down.
It padded over, rubbed its head against Frank’s knee, and returned to Matt.
A bridge.
Moving between them, as if it understood they both needed the same thing: presence without demand.
Frank swallowed.
He’d done terrible things in his life.
Protected people with violence, with blood, with choices that couldn’t be undone. None of that felt like this.
Staying.
Doing nothing.
Being enough without acting.
Minutes passed. Maybe more. Time didn’t matter.
When Matt finally spoke, his voice was quiet, rough, but steady.
—I don’t remember… —he paused to breathe—. I don’t remember the last time I felt this safe.
Frank didn’t answer.
Not because he didn’t want to.
Because he knew words would break something fragile and perfect.
The kitten stretched between them, touching Frank’s leg and Matt’s side at once.
Its purring slowed, deepened.
It fell asleep.
Frank rested his head against the couch and closed his eyes.
Matt let one hand fall, just barely, near the warm curve of the kitten’s back.
They didn’t say I love you.
They didn’t say thank you.
They didn’t say anything.
They didn’t need to.