Work Text:
You hear the crack of smoke that ricochets off the walls of your room, taste the whiff of sulfur that fills the dark shadows—this is what disrupts you from the fog of dreams, returns you to the waking world.
You're on high alert at once, the sheets of your bed sloughing off of you like waves, rippling back down the mattress as you search the room for a threat. Search for the evil that will be defeated without second glance.
But there's nothing—only the wave of a hand that you recognize from the countless times you've draped it into the curve of your own. There's a voice that further intrudes on the previous silence, one that you're used to hearing in more confident, swashbuckling tones. Only this time, it's urgent, shaky—
"Ach—nein, liebe—it's me! Only—"
You turn, whirling as you leap off the bed, find trembling footing as you whirl and face—
"Kurt," you emphasize, the fight leaching from you like a sieve. You find the ability to use words as your adrenaline retreats. "Oh, you scared me—"
You hesitate as your eyes adjust to the veil of dark, compensate for the shadows that you have to parse through for clarity. Take in the still-drying tear tracks that have trailed down his face, cutting through the perfect uniformity of cheeks you've pressed kisses into.
"—What's wrong?" You demand, consuming the distance between you both without a second thought. He ambles mindlessly into the open embrace of your arms without further explanation, a hiccoughing sob snuffling out of him.
You tuck your arms around the small of his back as he does yours, his nose finding the junction of your neck and shoulder. He holds you like you're the only means of salvation he has left on this earth.
"What's wrong?" You demand again, injecting more urgency that you feel befits the situation. "What happened?"
He coughs wetly, a tear dots your collarbone—you can tell he's trying to compose himself, but the clutch of his hands around you tell a different story.
"Ach—it is only—"—you hear the embarrassment that he's trying to desperately disguise, though he has no need to put airs on with you—"—I am afraid I was afflicted by, ah, bad dreams."
"Oh," you say, letting relief flood into your voice, replacing the worry, "Okay. I'm—"
You hesitate, unsure of how to continue, as he lets another sniffle interrupt the quiet. "Do you want to stay?"
"If you do not mind—"—he begins, when it's clear that's the only thing he wants. It's the only reason he could be here—to seek the comfort that the touch of your arms could impart. Something softens and grows warm inside you, something protective and loving takes nurturing, affectionate root.
"Of course I don't. You're always welcome in my bed." You reply, and he laughs at the wording, a shadow of his former self returning.
"You have such way with words, liebe," he chuckles, and it heartens you to know that you've chased away some of the fear, banished it to distant recesses with your joke. You'd make thousands more if it returned that smile that you feel pressed into the hollow of your neck.
"I mean every one." You assert doggedly, and squeeze him for good measure—he mirrors it with more fervor, returning back to himself. Taking more time in the waking world has granted autonomy that the dreams denied.
"Do you want to talk about it? Or to join me?" You nod in the direction of the bed, feel the absence of his cheek against your shoulder as he turns to look, weighing the options provided him.
"I don't see what it will do to speak of it," he admits, and it's clear he wishes for them to remain in Morpheus' realm where they'll remain dormant, "I only wish—"
You catch the glimmer of those nocturnal eyes as they glance shyly up to you.
"Yes?" You ask, already knowing a request when you hear one, when you see the mischievous, hopeful slant of his smirk.
"If you would hold me," he begins with reservedness that seems so uncharacteristic, "And, perhaps, run your fingers through my hair."
You're already guiding him to the bed, where he lets himself be ushered without further persuasion. You draw back the mess of sheets with one hand, while you push him to the side you occupied, still warm with your shape.
"You never need to ask for that," you smile at him, and you know he sees it even in the dark, for he returns it to you.
"Ah, but I do," he corrects you, and he does sound like himself even as you tuck him in before rounding the bed to join him, "For I'll know I'm awake and not dreaming—if you have granted me permission."
You chuckle at his reply, a muted echo in the room, as you urge back your own corner of the blanket. You shiver as you slide in onto the cool side, searching for the hands that are already snaking through the landscape of the bed, reaching for you. When you wrap around him, legs entangling, it's a perfect fit that you know he's aware of as well.
"Charmer." You press a kiss to the crown of his head, and his own laugh thrums through you in such close proximity, a rich, deep reverb.
"Your charmer," he declares, and he sounds like the Kurt you know and love—yes, love—"—If you'll have me."
"Always, Kurt," you promise. "Now come back to sleep with me."
"You needn't ask twice," he reassures. But you don't believe him until he's breathing softly in your arms, curled up against you—then, you feel you can do so as well.