Chapter Text
Paul woke up drenched in sweat, his mouth half-ready to let a scream out.
His nightmare was already slipping away from him, letting behind only the faint impression of feeling anxious and defenceless. He was still on the sofa, on which he had apparently fallen asleep at some point. The living-room was pitch black except for the light of the TV, which was on with the sound so low that his drowsy ears couldn’t really pick it up yet. There was a fleece blanket on his legs, the rest of it having falling down on the floor – probably because of his twisting and turning in his sleep. He didn’t remember putting it on him in the first place. He could feel it was a bit cold in the room, someone having turned the heater off for the night, but he was still so agitated from his dream that he felt like he was boiling. He shook his head, trying to chase the bad sensation in his belly and his throat away. Just a dream. It was just a bad dream. Then suddenly, the memory of why he was here in the middle of the night to start with came back to him.
His old friend Anxiety came back at once, crawling back up his veins. He had managed to handle it for years now; of course he still had periods of stress (usually because of work administrative problems or when Rose was sick) but other than that, their life was peaceful enough that losing his own body over to his anxious brain was mostly a fact of the past. It had been growing back lately though, unavoidably, and feeling it now so strongly was an unpleasant reminder of what his mind was capable of doing to him. He got up on wobbly legs then turned on the floor lamp and turned off the TV, stretching his numb limbs in the process. His watch told him it was 5:09 am and he stayed a long time staring at it, trying to let the information sink deeply in him. 5:09. 5:09…
Needing one last reassurance, he slipped on his slippers and went to the kitchen, lighting it up too. He rushed straight to the ephemeris pinned on the fridge, his heart beating louder and louder in his ears. 5:09. He pulled out the paper and the date of the new day appeared in front of him.
09/12/1980.
It was there, written black on white.
Paul forced himself to slowly breathe out. It had passed. The day had passed. He brought a hand to his forehead, trying to cool his overheated skin with his own hand. When he heard a soft ‘pat-pat’ behind him, he turned and surely Martha was there, walking all slowly to him and stopping to nudge his other hand with her wet nose. A small smile blossoming on his face, Paul petted her.
“Come on girl. Let’s go to bed.”
Paul left the kitchen with Martha following close behind. They went up the stairs – Paul slowing down to make sure Martha could follow – and went along the corridor, making sure to light it so that she wouldn’t trip. Paul stopped at the first room and slightly pushed the ajar door to throw a peek inside. The room was just as messy as usual and a tiny body was curled up in the bed against the wall. An even tinier, fluffier head rose up where the head of his daughter was supposed to be and Paul couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him.
“Melchior! Get down from there, you’re gonna smother her,” Paul whispered as he stepped into the room and closer to the bed.
The cat meowed a ‘prrt’ sound in response but didn’t move, so Paul picked him up and settled him further down on the bed, next to Rose’s legs. When he turned back to his daughter’s face, he realized she was half-hidden under the sheet and her black straight hair was all over her face. Between that and the cat, Paul wondered how she had been able to breathe at all. He pushed the hair away, which only prompted her to scrunch up her nose and frown in her disturbed sleep.
“Z’it school time?” She sort of asked, two seconds away from waking up.
Paul shushed her and fixed her blanket neatly around her small shoulders.
“Not today,” He whispered back, amused at her formulation. “Still sleepy time.”
“Mmh sleepy—” She half-murmured, falling back asleep right away.
Paul felt himself smile again. Having just started primary school seemed to rest heavy on her mind even during her sleep (and her weekends). Paul tiptoed back out of the room and back into the corridor, where Martha was still sitting and patiently waiting for him. He pulled the door half-closed again and started towards his own room further down the hall. Even though he didn’t turn on the light inside it, he could see enough thanks to the moon shining softly through the opened shutters. It had been weird at first, to get used to sleeping with opened windows, but John was adamant about it. Apparently it was too ridiculous for a ‘grown-arsed man’ to keep a light on, but sleeping in a fully dark room was out of the question. Paul had long abandoned trying to change his stubborn mind.
Speaking of said mind, when Paul spotted him sprawled out on the bed, his heart swelled and the remnants of his anxiety started to drain out of him. As Martha was already snuggling back into her cushion situated at the foot of their bed, Paul carefully got into his own sheets. As always, he was being extra careful not to wake the other man who was, unfortunately, slightly hissing in his sleep. Still with that annoying cold, it seemed. Paul embraced him tenderly, pushing his nose into his hair and breathing deeply. He slid his palm under John’s t-shirt and over his steady heart, letting the feeling soothe him. He was here. He was alive. Safe. Paul suddenly felt overwhelmed with love and gratitude and softly kissed the back of John’s head.
“I love you,” he whispered very, very gently – he felt the need to say the words, even if John wouldn’t hear them.
Surprisingly, a clumsy and heavy hand rose to pat his head, followed by slurred sleepy words.
“Shh. Sleep, you twit.”
It was the best thing Paul had ever heard.