Archive of Our Own

The nights are always the worst.

Meryl manages to ignore it during the daytime, when there are ample opportunities to busy herself. Distractions. Things just don't seem as bad under the light of the suns. But, invariably, every single time that Meryl tries to sleep, the nightmares come.

It's starting to wear on her—two weeks without a quality night's sleep will do that to anyone.

There's a faint tremor in her hands now, and it never quite goes away. The muscles around her eyes twitch and flutter as the days go on from the strain of holding her heavy eyelids open.

Tonight, it's the same story. She lays on her back in a bed that isn't hers, staring at the same ceiling that's taunted her for two nights now. Things are even worse here than they'd been before; Meryl struggles to sleep in new environments. She's been that way ever since she was a child, at least one sleepless night all but guaranteed any time her family traveled or stayed in a hotel.

The images that her sleeping mind had fed her are already fading away, but the thin layer of sweat remains on her skin. She shivers, though it's not from the cold. God, how she wishes it were from the cold. The room she's staying in is dreadfully stuffy, a byproduct of a house well-designed for desert life which stays cool during the day and warm at night. She can appreciate it, in an academic sort of way, but she has to admit that she misses the drafty hotel room from the previous week.

She fidgets a little, but it only serves to make the blankets constrict tighter around her, pulling her sleep shirt in odd directions. Her breath comes a little faster as the fabric presses against her.

Trapped, she's trapped—

With a bit more writhing she's able to escape the blankets' grasp and kick them off, releasing a shuddering breath as her feverish skin hits the night air. It helps, having them off, but only a little. The bedroom feels as if it's growing smaller and smaller with each breath, shrinking around her and keeping her locked in side.

She can't stand it anymore.

Meryl sits up, chest heaving, and jumps out of bed. She pulls the tattered brown blanket from atop the pile as she heads toward the door.

As she creeps through her doorway into the main room, she wraps the blanket around herself like a cape. It's big enough that it covers everything below her shoulders, obscuring the fact that she's walking around a stranger's house in only her sleep shirt and her socks.

Well, she corrects herself. Not really strangers anymore.

The house belongs to an older couple who were more than happy to allow Meryl and Wolfwood to sleep under their roof in exchange for some manual labor and company. She'd spent most of the afternoon helping to wash and fold laundry, while the sound of fence posts being driven into the unyielding ground echoed some distance away.

Her socked feet are almost silent against the ancient wooden floor as she makes her way past the sitting area. It's very dark out here, but she can see just well enough to tell that the spare pillow on the couch is unmoved, the extra blanket still neatly folded in a pile on one of the cushions.

The sight gives her pause; she's not sure what time it is, but she finds it a little strange that Wolfwood's not back yet. This is the longest stretch of time they've spent away from each other since…since that day.

Meryl selfishly whispers a prayer to anyone listening that he hasn't left her too. That he'll be back before she finally goes to sleep.

The front door creaks as Meryl pulls it open and steps out into the chilly night air. The cold hits her with a shock, instantly opening her lungs and helping her breath a little easier. It's been her trick since she was young; she has plenty of memories of sliding her bedroom window open and pressing her face against the screen after a nasty disagreement with her parents.

An old swing hangs from the porch, swaying ever so slightly in the night breeze. She'd noticed it when they had first arrived at the house to ask for lodging. She's always wanted to sit in one, but never had the opportunity; they're rare outside of the big cities, given the extra wood needed for such a project that some find frivolous.

The swing is a bit too high off of the ground, in her opinion. After her second try she manages to hop up onto the bench, sending it swaying and wobbling as she tries not to slide right back off again. Eventually she finds her balance and, at the realization tat her feet are far from being able to touch the ground, pulls them up under herself and curls into her blanket.

Far above her head, stars twinkle and form constellations she's never learned the names of. Maybe, if she wasn't so shaken up, she could appreciate the view a little more. As it is, though, it just serves as something to point her eyes towards.

Meryl sits, cocooned in her blanket, and tries not think about Vash the Stampede.

This mental tug-of-war goes on for quite some time—she's not sure how long she sits, but the stars move and change overhead as one of the moons rises. The chill of the desert night deepens enough that she shivers from under her blanket. Still, though, she doesn't go inside. Not yet. She'd much rather be cold than be back in that tiny, stuffy room, alone with her thoughts. At least out here she can pretend the stars are keeping her company.

At the thought, she feels tears well up in her eyes. Roberto would have teased her about being too sentimental, or tried to convince her that the stars were actually a huge cloud of worms.

But he's gone, too.

Meryl feels incredibly small and alone, bundled up as she is under the vast night sky.

She sits a while longer, sniffling now and then, until footsteps on the path startle her out of her mourning. A figure walks slowly toward her, swaying and pitching slightly every few steps. She holds her breath until she's sure it's him.

"Stryfe, tha' you?" Wolfwood calls out.

"Y-yeah," she manages, hating the small, watery quality her voice has taken on. It makes her feel like the child she's always mistaken for due to her size.

Wolfwood makes it to the porch and leans against one of the posts holding up the overhang, pulls out a cigarette, and lights up. The flame momentarily illuminates his face in a pale orange light, dim but just enough for her to see the bags under his eyes. He takes a drag, turns his head, and exhales smoke away from her with a deep sigh.

"What're you doin' out here?" He asks.

Meryl can hear the slur in his words more clearly now, a sure sign that Wolfwood had been drinking away all of their hard-earned money.

"Couldn't sleep," she admits. "Needed some air."

He grunts, but doesn't ask her to elaborate further. They lapse into silence as Wolfwood works on his cigarette, the cherry glowing momentarily brighter every time he takes a drag. Meryl shivers and pulls the blanket tighter around herself as she tips her head back and looks toward the stars. She wonders, not for the first time, if she'll be able to get any sleep before the sun rises. Unfortunately, it's seeming less likely by the minute.

Wolfwood flicks his cigarette butt on the ground, grinds it into the rough wood with his heel, and heads inside the house without another word.

There's no reason that it should bother her. It's not like she has that kind of relationship with Wolfwood—even if she did, he doesn't really seem like the type to discuss feelings or offer comfort. It's fine. It's not like she really wanted to talk about it, anyway.

Meryl bites down on the side of her tongue to keep the tears from returning, and pulls her blanket a little tighter. Would things be like this forever? Would her broken mind ever heal, or would she be cursed to replay the same moments over and over, unable to even get a good night's sleep?

As desperately as she stares up at the stars, they don't have any answers for her.

The front door creaks open, and then Wolfwood is standing in front of her.

"Here," he says. In the dark, she can just barely make out that he's holding a mug out to her. "It's hot."

She looks up at him, surprised, but it's too dark to see his expression. She un-cocoons herself just enough to wiggle her arms out, and reaches out for the mug. Curiosity gets the better of her, and she lifts it to her nose.

The steam is earthy, a little bit floral, and deeply familiar. Chamomile. The smell takes her back to university when she'd learned that certain teas could help with stress. She never could identify whether it actually worked or if holding a warm mug was simply cozy, but it's comforting to her all the same.

"You…" she says as Wolfwood sits down heavily on the porch, body angled slightly away from her as his back thumps against the post.

"Ya looked cold," is all he has to say for himself. As if that explains any of what is going on.

"T-thank you."

They fall into an awkward silence as Wolfwood pulls out another smoke. Meryl breathes deeply, drawing the aromatic steam into her nose. She tries to focus on her breathing, and on the warmth of the mug in her hands, but every few seconds she finds herself distracted by Wolfwood's fidgeting. He opens and closes the lid of his lighter, switching every now and then to tossing it between his hands or flipping it. Meryl has spent enough time with Wolfwood to know that he's normally not this fidgety, especially when he's been drinking. She tries her best to ignore it, but it still sets her on edge.

She sips at her tea. Grits her teeth.

"Are you okay?"

He scoffs, but doesn't speak. The silence stretches long enough that Meryl decides she isn't getting an answer, until he says, quietly: "Are you?"

"…No."

Wolfwood gestures vaguely in her direction as if to say, there's your answer.

She takes another sip of her tea. "I…I don't know how to be okay anymore," she says, the honesty of the words startling her as they leave her mouth. She's normally not one to talk about her feelings, and Wolfwood has never struck her as someone who likes it, either. He's the last person she expected to be doing this with.

"Takes, time, I reckon."

"I hate feeling this way. I…" she breaks off, coughing once and then taking a drink to disguise the way her voice threatens to break.

"What's eatin' at ya, little lady?"

What a question. She draws in a shuddering breath. "I keep seeing Vash in that tank his brother put him in. So many terrible things happened that day, but I always come back to that. I thought he was gone forever. It just repeats over and over, no matter how badly I want it to stop," she says, the words tumbling out of her. She clutches the mug closer to her chest, but the warm ceramic does nothing to warm the chill in her bones as she talks about it.

The cherry of Wolfwood's cigarette bobs in the darkness as he nods his head. "It's like that, after seein' somethin' you wish you hadn't. Things tend to get stuck."

"The things I see aren't even the worst of it. What if…what if he really is gone forever? What if we never find him, and he's—" she breaks off with a sob, unable to contain the tears any longer, and covers her face with the blanket.

"Stryfe," Wolfwood says sharply, though not unkindly. The wood of the porch squeaks, and when he speaks next he's much closer. "Can't be thinkin' like that."

"I can't help it," she whispers pathetically.

"You can." The words come from right beside her, the only warning she gets before the swing jostles under the weight of an additional body. "Stampede's closer to a cockroach than a man. It's take a lot more than this to put him under."

It takes her a moment to notice that the swing is gently rocking. She lifts her face from the blanket to find Wolfwood sitting beside her, one leg gently pushing them back and forth. His arms are spread along the back of the bench, but he's very carefully avoiding touching her. Or looking at her.

"What if you're wrong?" She pushes.

"'M never wrong."

She sniffles. "What about the time you said we still had plenty of water?"

"Okay, I'm hardly ever wrong. And I ain't ever told a lie." He pauses. "'Cept for the one I just told," he says with a slight smile.

Meryl turns away, focusing her attention on her nearly-empty mug. This close, she can smell the cigarette smoke, cheap whiskey, and sweat radiating from Wolfwood. It should gross her out. It really should gross her out. Instead, she finds it strangely comforting. That must be why she feels brave enough to voice the next part out loud.

"I wasn't sure you were coming back tonight."

"What, ya missed me that much?" He says with a laugh.

Meryl opens her mouth to respond, but the tears renew themselves before she can manage to speak. Her shoulders shake as all of the feelings she's been holding back finally come pouring out.

"Oh. Oh, shit," Wolfwood says, voice dropping with concern. "You were bein' serious."

She nods, pulling the blanket up over her face again. She hates crying, especially in front of someone. She hates that she's doing it in front of Wolfwood of all people.

"I…I thought…I'd lost you too," she hiccups into the fabric, mortified. "That I was alone—"

Before she can finish that sentence, Wolfwood rests his arm across her upper back, one large hand wrapping around her shoulder. He must feel how she immediately goes rigid, though, judging by how quickly he starts to pull away again.

"Sorry, sorry," he fumbles, "It's just…I'm not good with words like you are, and…"

"No," Meryl says with a sniffle, already missing his comforting warmth. "It's okay." She scoots a little closer to him and breathes through her instinct to flinch as he replaces his arm. Touch has always been difficult for her; she rarely finds affectionate touch comforting, and even then there's only a select few people she would trust enough to offer it to her. Wolfwood is not one of them. Or, at least, he wasn't. But…maybe it would be okay to try anyway.

"I ain't got nowhere else to go," he says quietly. "An' if that ever changes, I'll tell ya. Deal?"

"Deal," she whispers.

Wolfwood is warm. Very warm. She doesn't protest as he pulls her in a little closer and, as her eyelids start to droop, she gives in to the urge to rest her head against his shoulder. It feels a little weird to be doing this—he's told her before that he's not a good person, but she can't deny that she's always felt safe by his side, even when she hardly knew him at all.

Meryl's head slumps to the side, now resting more directly against Wolfwood's chest. From here she can both feel and hear his heartbeat. It's slow and steady and urges her to close her eyes, just for a moment. The rise and fall of his chest combined with the gentle rocking of the porch swing lull her further.

She doesn't fight it, instead letting her mind wander and stumble through half-dreams and nonsense scenarios as she drifts. It's nice to relax, as long as she doesn't think about it too much. All the while, a low humming noise is constant in the background. A song. At times she can almost pretend that it has words, but she can't make them out. It's…strangely familiar. Where has she heard that before?

In her dream, Vash stands in front of her, his blond hair messy and looking worse for wear, but alive. Wolfwood stands at his side, giving him a fond look while his attention is focused on Meryl. Vash picks up the tune, humming that same strange song as he holds his hand out to her.

That's right, it's the song she used to hear him humming softly to himself in the small hours of the night when he thought everyone else was asleep.

Meryl takes Vash's hand without hesitation, following him over the horizon.

When she opens her eyes again, it's to the morning sun spilling in through her window. It strikes her as a little odd, given that she has no memory of coming to bed after her time on the porch with Wolfwood. Blinking away the sleep in her eyes, her gaze falls upon the fresh glass of water sitting on her nightstand that she definitely had not put there herself. It brings color to her cheeks to consider the very real possibility that Wolfwood carried her to bed, tucked her in, and fussed over her. She's not supposed to need or want things like that, and he's not supposed to be the person to do any of those things.

And yet…it's really, really nice to feel just a little less alone.

The next night, Meryl finds herself on the couch with Wolfwood long after the older couple retire to their room—long after she herself should have gone to bed. He doesn't comment on the fact that she's still awake, which she's grateful for. He does, however, rise from the couch, knees cracking all the while, and put the kettle on.

A few minutes later he emerges from the kitchen with two mugs, avoiding her gaze as he places one down on her side of the low coffee table.

Wolfwood is more reserved when he's sober, both in words and body language. The contrast between his current state and last night's behavior doesn't bother her, though. They sit in companionable silence, him whittling away at a block of wood, her reading a children's book she found tucked away in the room she's staying in. She sips at her tea now and then, trying to ignore how foolish she feels to be reading something so juvenile as fairy tales, but the familiar stories and happy endings go a long way in helping her feel more at ease.

After a few minutes spent in denial of how heavy her eyelids are getting and the fact that she's been reading the same line over and over, Meryl closes the book and sets it to the side.

Wolfwood looks up from his project. "You look like yer moments away from noddin' off, there, little lady."

"I suppose that's true," she says with a soft laugh.

"Y'should head to bed. It's already late."

She hesitates, a question forming in her mind, but she pushes it down before it can break through. "Yes, you're right."

"Go on, then," Wolfwood says. He looks over at her, holding her gaze for just a moment too long before dropping his eyes back to his project. "I'll be up for a bit longer if…if ya need me."

So he had noticed.

Meryl's cheeks heat and the mere idea of having to ask for help again, but she nods all the same. "Thank you."

She goes about her nighttime routine as quietly as she can so as not to wake their hosts, and finds herself in bed not long after. Her body is heavy with exhaustion from all of the work she did around the house today—organizing, laundry, cleaning, helping to prepare food—and she's sure that sleep will come easy tonight.

She comes to understand, however, that she'd been too optimistic.

Just a few minutes after her eyes close, right on the brink of sleep, it begins. She sees Vash in the tank. The desperate look in his brother's eyes. Recalls her certainty, at least for a few moments, that she and everyone she loved were going to die. That the world was going to end right there in front of her.

Her eyes snap open on a sharp inhale, all of the warm sleepiness that filled her body just moments ago now gone. Her throat burns with the urge to cry.

What if Vash didn't make it? What if he did make it, and he's hurt and alone? How are they ever going to find him?

She whimpers and pulls the blankets over her head as her vision goes blurry, tears threatening to overflow. God, how she hates crying. She wishes she could just turn it off.

A knock at the door startles her—for a moment she's terrified that she woke up one of their hosts, before she hears Wolfwood's voice through the door.

"Okay?"

If she says nothing, it'll save her the embarrassment of crying in front of him again. But...

"…No," she says, not sure at first if it's even loud enough for him to hear until the door creaks open.

"What's wrong?"

"It's…the pictures again, I can't make them stop. They come back every time I close my eyes."

"Hm," he hums as he steps further into her room, closing the door behind him. "I thought as much."

There's something Meryl wants to ask for. Something she's wanted since she first put her book aside earlier. She knows she shouldn't—she'd be imposing, and it wouldn't be proper. What would her mother say? Yet…it's the only thing she can think of that would help her right now.

"Um…Nick?" she says, following up with a pathetic sniffle.

"Yeah?"

"Could you…um…if it's not too much trouble… would you lay with me?"

"'course," he says, like it's the most normal request in the world.

Wolfwood lays down beside her, positioning himself on top of the blankets. She's grateful to have at least that small barrier between them.

"You're sure this isn't weird?" Meryl whispers into the darkness. "You don't have to do this, if—"

"You sound just like him," he interrupts with a soft laugh, voice swelling with fondness—though for her or for Vash, she can't tell. "Both o' you'd rather walk over hot coals than ask for help."

Startled, she fires back. "And when have you ever asked for help, Mr. Lone Wolf?"

He grumbles something, but she can't quite make the words out. They lay there in silence for a while, both on their backs with about a foot of space between them.

"For the record, I don't find it weird," he says. "When I was growin' up, my brother didn't sleep too good either. He was always cryin' about somethin' or other and needed me to hold his hand or rub his back."

"Oh," is all Meryl can say. Wolfwood is very protective over his past—she hadn't even known he had a brother.

"Point is, I'm used to it. If I think somethin's weird, you'll be the first to know."

"Okay."

A few minutes pass, Meryl's occasional sniffles and Wolfwood's steady breathing the only sounds in the room.

"Would you tell me about him? Your brother?" she whispers.

Wolfwood doesn't answer at first, pausing long enough that Meryl is sure she's offended him and is just opening her mouth to apologize, when—

"Never was a bigger crybaby in all the land than my brother Livio," he starts.

Meryl's eyes drift closed as he talks, rambling through different stories and favorite memories. The words start to jumble together after a while, her tired mind no longer able to follow the narrative. Instead, she just focuses on the low, calming sound of his voice. At some point her hand finds one of his fingers and wraps around it. He doesn't pull it away.

Something changes between them after that night. Neither of them dare to talk about it, but Wolfwood doesn't let Meryl sleep alone anymore.

He comes in after their hosts retire to bed and lays next to her until she falls asleep. Sometimes he talks, tells her stories. When things get really bad, and she can't stop crying, he'll hold her hand and sing to her in that scratchy, low voice of his. He always sounds a little embarrassed to be doing it, but that's never stopped him. In the morning he'll sneak out and pretend to have been sleeping on the couch so as not to cause a scandal between their hosts over what they might think the two of them are doing in the bedroom.

It pains her a little, to have to go through such lengths to hide what they're doing. But it's important to her that they don't get the wrong impression, and most people would assume that they were doing something a little more…intimate, sharing a room together. Shes hates it sometimes, that idea that men and women can't be "just" friends. However, Wolfwood has never been weird about any of it. He treats her just as she treats him, and has never acted like he expects anything more to happen between them. It fills her heart with even more fondness, knowing that he's doing these things because he must genuinely care for her, not just to get into her pants like some other men she's known.

She feels safe with him. Safer than she's felt with anyone else, maybe ever. Even Vash—who Wolfwood has finally convinced her is still alive, somewhere—with all of his sweetness and good intentions, often worked her up more with his own nervous energy. Wolfwood, on the other hand, is solid, calm, and steady. Just what she needs during those horrible long nights.

When the two of them leave the little house after a few weeks, with gracious thanks to their hosts and promises to come back and visit, there's an unspoken agreement to keep their sleeping arrangement up. After all, it's much cheaper to only rent one room, especially when they present themselves as a couple for the "lovebirds" discount.

They've just finished checking in to one such room now, small and shabby with a single queen sized bed. Meryl smiles to herself at the relief of not having to go through the motions of arguing about who will take the bed, and who will sleep on the floor. They've had a very long day of traveling, and it's already almost dark out.

Wolfwood places their bags down on the bed and motions for Meryl to head to the en-suite to take the first shower. She knows it would be polite to argue and encourage him to take it instead, but the thought of the tepid water on her grimy skin sounds too pleasant for her to protest.

Half an hour later she's under the blankets and leaning against the headboard, grateful that her body is, for now, free of sand. Wolfwood is taking his turn in the shower, the sound of likely-cold water filtering through the thin wall that separates the en-suite from the room. Meryl holds a book open in one hand, lazily turning the pages as she waits for her eyes to get tired.

The faucet squeaks as it's turned off, and soon Wolfwood exits the bathroom. He wears his usual sleep clothes: a black tank top, baggy shorts, and as always, no socks. Meryl opens her mouth to tease him about it, but catches herself when Wolfwood looks her way.

He looks exhausted, eyes bleary and unfocused with dark circles beneath them. His wet hair falls into his face, and he doesn't bother to move it out of the way as he shuffles towards the bed.

Meryl lowers her book. "Are you alright?"

"Mmh," he grunts, pulling back the blankets on his side of the bed. She doesn't miss the slight wince that passes over his face when he moves. "Long day."

She can't help but feel a little guilty at that, given the fact that Wolfwood had carried both of their luggage as well as his cross all day. Never mind that he had insisted on carrying her things, and wouldn't take no for answer…perhaps she should have insisted more thoroughly that she could handle her own bags.

Wolfwood must sense her guilt, because he immediately lets out a sigh as he lowers himself into bed. "Calm down, it's not like that. Just not used to walkin' so much. Our little vacation made me soft."

"…If you're sure. Still, tomorrow, I can carry—"

"Nah, 's okay," Wolfwood mumbles against the pillow. "Better me hurtin' than…you…" he trails off, eyes fluttering closed.

Meryl's heart squeezes as she looks over at him. His face is slack, mouth slightly parted and the space between his eyebrows uncharacteristically smooth. He looks so young like this.

A realization hits her, then: this is the first time since they started sharing a bed together that she's seen Wolfwood even approach sleep.

As she listens to his breathing slow and even out, her anxiety grows. Back at the house he'd stayed up with her each night, and left early in the morning before anyone else was up, including her. Even when she'd wake in the middle of the night, he would still be awake.

Meryl chews on the inside of her cheek, desperately hoping that it's just a strange coincidence and that the hasn't been depriving himself of sleep for her sake. Perhaps she'll confront him about it in the morning.

Quietly, so as not to wake him, she places her book on the nightstand and switches off the light. She settles back onto her pillow and stares up at the ceiling.

It's fine.

She can fall asleep without his help, right?

An hour or so later, she thinks she has an idea of what the answer to that question is. Her body, full of nervous energy, aches to fidget and toss around in the bed, but she holds still anyway. All of her effort goes into ensuring that she doesn't wake Wolfwood with her squirming. She allows herself the privilege of gently rubbing her socked feet together, a motion that's comforted her since she was a child.

Wolfwood's breath hitches.

Meryl pauses, fearing the worst, but from what she can see in the darkness, his eyes are still closed.

She quiets her movements, watching Wolfwood's face for any other signs of discomfort.

He's still for a few moments before his breath hitches again. This time his eyebrows draw together, making the little wrinkle between them resurface.

"Nng," he grunts through teeth that she now notices in the low light are clamped together. His breath whistles through them, faster and shallower than it was a minute ago.

A sense of unease washes over her at seeing Wolfwood in such a vulnerable state, a side of him she's never seen before. Her face heats, partly from that sense of seeing something she's not meant to see, and partly…well…she's not quite sure if this is a good dream, or a bad one. She knows that people sometimes have dreams about more…intimate activities.

She looks away, trying to give him some privacy in case it's the latter, and tries to focus on something else; she wills her mind to conjure up the memory of the flora in the eco-dome she'd visited what feels like ages ago, with all of their vibrant colors.

Beside her, Wolfwood's breathing continues to speed up, becoming more erratic. As he pants, it almost sounds like he's trying to say something.

"Stop—" he hisses.

Meryl's eyes fly open. She turns her head to find Wolfwood has flipped onto his back, his face screwed up with tension, teeth bared in what looks like a snarl. In the dark she can just barely make out the way the tendons in his neck jump out as he strains against his dream. One of his hands grips the pillow tightly.

All of her earlier embarrassment of possibly witnessing a "pleasant" dream fades away, leaving only the cold realization that he's having a nightmare. A bad one.

She didn't know that he had them too. Has he been hiding them from her, or has she simply not noticed?

Maybe this is why she's never seen him sleeping.

Meryl takes a deep breath, trying to decide what to do. Wake him, or leave him be? Neither option feels like a good one, but eventually she decides that she can't bear to watch him suffer anymore. It feels cruel to let this go on for who knows how long.

"…Nick?" she tries, voice barely audible.

Nothing.

"Nicholas," she whispers a little louder. "Wake up."

He sucks in a breath and tosses his head back on the pillow, and for a moment she thinks he's finally awake. But soon after, another soft sound leaves him, closer to a whine than anything.

God, this is breaking her heart to watch. She has to do something.

She reaches out to place a careful hand on his shoulder to get his attention—to shake him, maybe. But before she can, he throws the blankets off and sits bold-upright, a low sound scraping its way out of his throat.

Meryl can only stare, unsure of what to do. She can't see his face from this angle. Is he awake?

His rapid, shaky breaths don't give any indication of what state he's in at first. But, as she looks closer, she can see that his shoulders are shaking.

He's crying.

Quietly, as if…as if he's trying not to disturb anyone. As if this isn't the first time something like this has happened.

The thought makes her sick. She needs to do something. She shifts, just slightly, hoping to let Wolfwood know she's awake without spooking him.

He goes absolutely still. Even his ragged breathing stops.

"…Nick?" she whispers as softly as she can manage.

The only acknowledgement she gets is a halting, shaky inhale.

Meryl pulls down the blankets and crawls on top of them, turning herself so she's facing Wolfwood. One of his hands is desperately pressed against his mouth to muffle the sound of his sobs, while his other arm is wrapped tightly around himself, fingers digging hard into his side.

"Did you have a nightmare?"

He lets another muffled sob escape before he nods, turning his head away from her so their eyes won't meet.

"'M sorry," he chokes out. "For wakin' you."

God, that's what he's worried about right now? "It's alright, I couldn't sleep," she says, leaning over to try to meet his gaze.

"I…" he starts, but he can't finish his thought. The last of his composure breaks as he slumps forward, curling himself into a tight little ball. His shoulders shake harder as he returns to the near-silent sobbing that had first alerted her that something was wrong.

Meryl wracks her brain for something, anything, to do to help him. She'd almost laughed back then on the porch those few weeks ago when he'd made a comment about not being good at 'these sorts of things.' The truth was that soothing her—anyone, really—seemed to come naturally to him. It's like he was meant to be a big brother. Meryl, on the other hand, knows she doesn't have any of the same talents.

She wishes Vash were here. He would know what to do. But…he isn't. And she has to try something.

"Nick," she says, warily. "I'm going to put my hand on you. Is that okay?"

In the darkness, she can just make out the faintest nodding of his head.

"Okay," she breathes out. She needs to do this right. "Okay."

Ignoring her instinct to be gentle, Meryl leans forward and uses her body weight to press her hand into Wolfwood's upper arm, trying her best to emulate the firm, casual way she'd seen Vash touch him.

It doesn't come as a surprise that he flinches when she touches him, but it still breaks her heart. She starts to move her hand away—an apology forming on her lips because, really, what was she thinking trying to comfort him like this—but before she can, one of his hands is moving from his knee and snaking around to rest on top of hers.

They sit like that for a while, Wolfwood's hand atop her own, pressing it into his flesh even more firmly. His hiccups and little sobs slow, but they don't fully stop. Occasionally he lets out a little whimper that breaks her heart every time she hears it. Something about him seems so young.

"It's alright," she soothes. "I'm here." He squeezes her hand a little tighter, so she repeats the words. "I'm here, I'm here."

"I'm sorry," he whispers, after he's calmed down a little bit. His voice is still wobbly, like he could start crying again at any moment. "That was…I didn't mean for you to see that."

Something unpleasant squeezes in her chest when he says it. I didn't mean for you to see that. Like it was a choice. Suddenly, she recalls the thought that had passed through her mind when she'd first heard Wolfwood crying in that horrible, silent way. She was sure of it then. This was definitely not the first time this had happened.

"I'm going to touch your back," she says softly, the hand that's not on Wolfwood's arm snaking around to rub firm circles on his upper back. He flinches, but then presses back against her touch. "You don't have to be sorry. You didn't do anything wrong, and I'm not mad. I really wish you would have told me, but only so I could help you. You shouldn't have to do this alone."

Wolfwood hitches in a breath. "You've been dealin' with your own shit. Didn't seem right to add one more thing to it."

"Suffering in silence isn't the way to handle that, though!" She huffs, more than a little exasperated.

Wolfwood doesn't answer. In the silence, the weight of her words hit her.

"Oh. I guess that sounds a little silly coming from me, now that I think about it," she says sheepishly.

"Wasn't gonna say anythin'."

She goes on rubbing his back, focusing to make sure the pressure is firm enough that it won't make him flinch.

"We're not very good at this, are we?" She smiles to herself, more out of sadness than anything.

Wolfwood shakes his head and gives her hand a squeeze.

"Do you… would it help to talk about it? Your nightmare?"

"Dunno," he says. The muscles in his back tense, no doubt from him recalling whatever was tormenting him. "Maybe. Blondie always told me it would, but I was too chickenshit."

Meryl's unease grows. He'd been having nightmares long enough that Vash was around for them? She'd assumed it was something about July.

"For the record, it helped me to talk about it. When we first started… this. I'm not great at the whole 'feelings' thing, but I'll listen if you'd like."

"Yeah," he agrees, seeming to at least consider it. "Okay."

Despite the affirmation, Wolfwood stays silent for several more minutes. Meryl keeps rubbing his back, gently squeezing his bicep now and then, just to remind him that she's still here. The silence stretches so long that she's just about to change the subject when he opens his mouth again.

"I… You know that I'm not a normal person, yeah?"

Meryl considers his question. There are certainly a lot of things about him that don't add up—the super-strength for one, and his seemingly endless durability. Oh, and those mysterious vials of blue liquid that he thought no one saw him toss back after a particularly nasty fight.

"…Yeah."

"Right. Well. I wasn't always like—" she can make out his vague gesture in the dark. "—this. When I was a kid, they… these people…" He sucks in a shaky breath, muscles tensing further.

"It's alright," she reminds him. "Take your time."

"They made me this way. And they weren't exactly nice about it," he laughs, but it comes out brittle. "They hurt me over and over, just to see what I could take. Injected me with shit on the off chance that somethin' interesting happened."

Meryl has stopped rubbing his back, frozen in horror. She'd known that something in his past was off. There had to have been a reason why she knew next to nothing about him, right? But this… she never would have guessed it was something like this. She has no idea what to say.

In the absence of a response, Wolfwood goes on. He's choked up again, like he's crying but forcing himself to push through it. "They did all that, but the worst part of it was the cell I had to sleep in. I didn't have no bed or nothin'. Jus' slept on the floor. Was dark all the time. Only saw light when it was time for them to fuck with me." He heaves a watery breath. "It's been so long, but every night I'm back in that goddamn cell."

"Nick," Meryl croaks, unable to stay silent any longer. "Nick, my God, I had no idea. I'm so sorry."

"'S alright."

"It's clearly not!" She snaps, crying now herself. "This has been going on every night?"

He doesn't answer, and that almost hurts more.

Meryl surges forward, wrapping her arms around Wolfwood's neck and drawing his head against her chest. He goes rigid, but only for a moment. Before long he's relaxing into her embrace, moving one of his arms to wrap around her middle.

"You're not alone anymore," she says into his hair. "You're not alone. You have me. And Vash."

His large hand holds her waist firmly as he cries into her chest. Her sleep shirt is damp, but she doesn't care. She's getting his hair wet with her own tears.

They hold each other, cry, and then cry some more. At some point they lose the strength to hold their position and slump backwards on the bed, Wolfwood resting his head on Meryl's bosom with both arms wrapped around her middle. She rubs over his shoulders and arms, because it seems to calm him.

It feels like it'll go on forever, but eventually their tears dry up. They hold each other, calm but still very much awake.

"I don't know if I'll be able to sleep," Meryl confides. "I got too worked up."

Wolfwood grunts in what she thinks is agreement. He hasn't spoken a word since he told her about the nightmares earlier, communicating mainly through head motions. She gets it. It happens to her too, sometimes, when the feelings get bad enough. It's like the connection between her mind and mouth are severed for a while.

"Would it be okay if I read my book?"

He nods against her, and starts to reluctantly push himself up. Meryl stops him with a firm hand on the back of his head.

"I don't need you to move, I think I can reach it from here." She stretches her arm out, feeling around the nightstand until her fingers brush the corner of the book. Thankfully her book light is already clipped to it. She switches on the tiny light and finds her place.

Meryl decides to read aloud tonight. She feels a little embarrassed doing it, conscious of the way she trips over her words and forgets to pause for breath, not to mention the fact that it's a romance about two women. But she does it anyway. Listening to Wolfwood talk—about anything, really—has become one of the fastest ways for her to calm down. She hopes it'll work in reverse.

A few pages in, Meryl shifts and begins to stroke Wolfwood's hair. It's softer than she expects for a man who she's pretty sure uses cheap bar soap for his every bathing need. He lets out a soft exclamation at first, but quickly settles into her touch. She feels him go boneless, all of that tension from earlier leaving his body. Affection swells in her chest, along with a little bit of pride that her idea worked. She presses a soft kiss to the crown of Wolfwood's head before clearing her throat and reading on.

They stay like that for a long time, until Meryl's eyelids are heavy and her throat starts to hurt. Wolfwood snores softly against her chest, sleeping peacefully for now. She switches off the book light, places her book on the nightstand, and drapes an arm across Wolfwood's upper back.

The usual dread that surrounds the nighttime hours is strangely absent. Perhaps it has something to do with the knowledge that, whatever happens, they no longer have to face it alone.