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It is past one when he wakes up, shaken and sweaty.
It is past one thirty when he has calmed enough to stop thinking of most of the reasons for his nightmare.
It is almost two when he realizes that he won't be able to go back to sleep.
He sighs heavily and sits up in bed. He rubs his eyes, breathing in and out several times until his heart doesn't feel so... heavy.
The room is dark. He gets up to find the switch. The room lights up like a bloody explosion. His eyes take a moment to adjust before he decides he needs to search for clean clothes so he can take a shower—as if everything he saw in that nightmare could be washed away.
Before taking his shower, he changes his bedsheets, as if changing them could take the nightmares away, too.
It is past two when he comes out of the shower. He feels better. He feels much better—more focused, more defined.
Nightmares aren't that common for him. And when they come, they aren't usually that bad. But this one... this one felt too close to home. Like he was back at the real thing again.
He shakes his head and goes to the kitchen. He puts the kettle on and waits with a bag of tea in his favorite mug. It isn't even his. It is one of your many mugs that somehow ended up in his flat—probably from one of the many times you have stayed, probably from one of the many times you have cemented yourself in his life as much as you have in his whole heart.
He looks at the mug fondly before he remembers you.
He hasn't seen you in a while. You have been busy with the start of work again, and he supposes it had been a bad time to come back home. Christmas was long gone, and it isn't the same as being home for the holidays, but that day he was somewhere else, under the pretension that he was saving the world.
He sighs and looks at his phone on the counter, right beside the mug. His fingers reach for it before he can even stop them.
He unlocks it, opens his messaging app, looks for his conversation with you, and reads the last messages.
It was from you a few days ago, asking him if he had arrived safe and sound in the city. He simply answered with a "yes," and you called him, but he wasn't able to call back.
He promised himself he was going to call, but he didn't do it.
He swallows.
He is not sure why. Maybe because he made the mistake of visiting his family, and they wanted all his attention, considering they didn't see him the last time he was in town. But then again, it was his fault because he avoided them like the plague—he didn't want to see them.
Was he a bad person for that? Probably.
His mum, especially, would be disappointed in him if she knew, but she already was.
Without thinking, his thumb ends up pressing the call button, and he ends up with the phone against his ear.
He waits with his heart in his mouth. He doesn't think you'll answer; it is past two in the morning, yet he still hopes...
"Kyle?" you ask, voice sleepy and hoarse.
His stomach does a flip, and he tries to be brave against the consequences of his own actions.
"Hello" he simply says, voice a little more broken than he wanted.
"Is everything okay?"
He takes a moment.
"I-I'm sorry for ringing this late... I'm... just..." He stops to breathe.
"Hey, it's fine, it's fine. Take your time."
He breathes in and breathes out.
"I-I had a nightmare, and... I thought of you, and..." He can't, for the life of him, say anything else.
"Is okay. You only call at this time of night when you've had a nightmare or when you need a moment after a rough mission." There is a pause where he tries to say something, deny it all, but who is he kidding?
He does those things because he knows that you are safe, and when he wants to be vulnerable or is knackered, he can always trust you to make him forget—or at least, make him forget for a second.
"Sorry."
"No need to apologize. You're vulnerable and you need someone. That's fine. You're safe with me."
He wishes he didn't feel so relieved, that he wasn't so attached to you.
But he is, and there is no turning back.
"Do you want me to keep you company?"
"No. It's too late, and your flat's a bit of a trek. I'll manage. I don't feel that bad."
"I don't mind. Besides, I was going to barge into your flat in the morning anyway."
"What for?"
"To demand a reason for ignoring my call the other day."
He smiles a little, fondly. That is you. All demanding, a person of action. He knows you don't have problems being successful in your job, not when your job is bossing around lads and fighting off parents at a school.
The kettle whistles, and he turns to turn the stove off. He waits for a few seconds until an idea pops into his mind.
"Would... would it be alright if I come over to yours instead?"
"I don't mind, but are you alright to make the drive here?"
"Yeah. I'm fine."
"Right then. I'll add an extra pillow on, then."
It is almost three when he arrives at your building, and he knocks on your door. When you open it, your hair is a little disheveled, and you look like you were having a good sleep before he interrupted it.
He recognizes the hoodie you are wearing. It's obvious it's his.
"Come on in," you say as he enters. He brought a backpack of clothes, and he hopes you'll allow him to stay for the weekend because he is... well, he doesn't want to be alone.
You close the door behind him and help him with his coat and shoes. He tries not to blush, but it's useless. When everything is in place, it's just him and his backpack.
"You can leave your bag in my room or on the sofa—whenever you like," you say before making your way to your room.
He follows you. Your room is a clean mess, just as he remembers. There are books and papers on a desk, your sheets are a mess, and he can hear the nightlife and traffic outside your window.
"Close the door." And so he does. You get into bed again, and he leaves his bag near your desk.
He goes to the other side of the bed and settles down.
You turn off the bedside lamp, and for a few seconds, everything is dark and silent.
"You cozy?" you ask, and he humms in approval. "Do you want to talk about your nightmare?"
He sighs instead.
"We don't have to. But we can if you want to."
"I would just... like to be here."
"That's fine, too."
And the silence returns.
You turn around to give him your back—not as a rejection, but as a matter of privacy. He lays on his side, facing your back, and stares at his hoodie for several minutes. He knows it's his hoodie because it has his last name on the back.
It must be around four or something when he opens his eyes again. This time it isn't a nightmare, but something else. He is facing the other side of the bed now. He is the one with his back turned, and when he turns his head, he realizes that you have an arm around him, softly snoring against his back while hugging him tightly.
For some reason, the act itself makes him feel small and stupid. But he feels them in a good way. He feels small in a safe way, and he feels stupid because his stomach and heart are doing a show inside of him that makes him feel pathetic.
But it's all in a good way. In a way that reminds him that he doesn't always have to be the protective, world-saving idiot you sometimes criticize. That he can also be a human being with mental and physical needs—someone who can get cuddled and showered with affection from time to time.
The world isn't going to end because of it. And even if it does, he will die happily here in your arms.
He returns to sleep with a smile.