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No matter how many times you feel their gentle touch against your skin, the impossible softness of silken bed sheets still manages to surprise you. They’re almost too luxurious in the way they pool around your skin and catch the dreary trails of slumber that seep from your waking form when it begins to detach from sleep’s warm hold.
Tonight is no different, but as the impossible weight of your eyelids begins to lessen you find yourself blindly searching for a different embrace.
Your hand wanders first; a tentative set of fingers emerging from the comfort of bundled blankets to prod at the space next to you. They, too, are met with lush silk, but it is cold to the touch and no amount of inspection offers any promise of the warmth you seek.
It’s with that in mind that you slowly will your eyes to open. Your hand retreats to rub away the hazy remnants of sleep despite there being little to see in the room’s low light, but it seems your eyes don’t want to join the rest of you in becoming lucid. Their protest quickly dies down under the repeated fluttering of your eyelids, briefly clenched shut once more as you emerge from your cocoon of blankets and evict the fatigue out of your limbs with a satisfying, pop-inducing stretch.
Finally awake (or awake enough, at least), you slowly lull your head to the door that adjoins the room to Silco’s office, noting with relief that the crack of light which indicates he’s still hunched over his desk at some ungodly hour is nowhere to be seen. The next leisurely turn of your head is punctuated by a yawn, and when your eyes open they’re focused on the door that leads out to the balcony.
Truthfully, you don’t use the space much, but ever since you banned Silco from smoking in your shared bedroom, he frequents the open space much more often.
Huffing when the next few seconds don’t reveal he’s just gone to the bathroom, you begin the process of stepping out of bed, although peeling may be a more suitable descriptor. Displeasured grumbling soon follows, elicited as soon as your bare feet touch the cold hardwood flooring. And, much to your chagrin, the act of pulling the burgundy dress shirt bunched around your form tighter does little to stave off the cold.
Silco’s voice fills your head during your heavy-footed shuffle towards the door, lightly chastising your choice of clothing in spite of the turnover to winter drawing nearer every day. He’s not wrong, but it is a comfortable shirt and despite his teasing, you’re well aware of how much he likes seeing you in his clothes.
Upon closer inspection, the balcony door is slightly ajar and the slim view it offers does little to entice the idea of stepping outside. Ever persistent, the cold air flits around each of your senses, but ultimately the knowledge that there’s only one reason Silco could possibly be outside at this hour easily outweighs the weather’s frigid enmity.
The first thing that greets you upon gently clicking the door shut behind you is your own breath, materialising in front of your face with every slow exhale. Just beyond it is Silco, an ever-imposing silhouette despite his relaxed posture; arms crossed over the balcony railing. You know he’s heard you with the way his head flicks fractionally to the side, but his attention stays fixated on the endless stretch of buildings beneath him.
You say nothing at first, opting instead to stand behind him and wrap your arms around his middle, nuzzling into the coat draping his tall frame and smirking knowingly into the material when your hands meet, revealing bare skin beneath the warm fabric.
“Where’s your shirt?” you tease, voice muffled.
He takes a moment to respond, but the curve of his lips is evident in his voice. “Stolen. By the same thief who’s sleeping soundly in my bed.”
“Last I checked she’s not in there, but she very much wishes she was.”
“Well, someone should tell her to go back inside or she’ll catch her death out here.”
“I’m sure she will, as soon as you go with her.”
That earns you a breath of laughter, felt underneath your hands as they press tighter against him, partly for comfort and partly for warmth.
“Go back to sleep, darling,” Silco says after a stretch of silence. “I won’t be long.”
The humour fades from your voice as you press your cheek to his coat, replaced promptly with concern. “You know I hate sleeping without you… especially when you’re out here.”
He doesn’t respond, and you know the prompt inhale of smoke is an excuse to ignore your silent question.
“Silco,” you prod softly, not content to leave him alone with his thoughts. “Was it the nightmares again?”
Another mouthful of smoke is answer enough.
You can’t count the amount of times you’ve woken up to Silco’s arms pressed too tight against you, chest heaving, jaw clenched, and hair damp with sweat. Nightmares don’t plague him as much as they used to, but they’re still a viciously persistent nighttime visitor.
You know every detail of what happened that night in the river. Although the years have washed away his anger and granted him the opportunity for revenge, there’s a part of his mind that is always held against its will beneath the polluted waters, seeping blood and tears into the cocktail of toxins. The story alone is a terrifying ordeal, and you resolved long ago to coax him out of every single one of those horrid dreams, no matter how often they sank their fangs into his subconscious.
After one final squeeze of your arms, you move around him without unlinking your fingers until you're pressed between his body and the balcony railing, face-to-face and chest-to-chest. The ensuing warmth is a welcome guest and you relish it for a moment before pressing a brief kiss to his sternum, and then another above his heart. You listen to the grounding thrum, its steady rhythm indicating that the worst of the night terrors have passed.
Tilting your head upwards reveals his own eyes staring down at you, a soft edge to the so often sharp nature of their opposing hues. “How long have you been out here? And don’t lie,” you add quickly. “I saw the ashtray when I came outside, there’s more than one cigar’s worth in there.”
The scar on his lip shifts atop a knowing smile. “You’re too perceptive sometimes, darling.”
“And how many times has that perception saved your ass?”
“I would have to stand here all night to put a number to that.”
You mirror the curl of his lips, trailing your unlinking hands up his body to rest at the back of his neck, thumbs gently stroking the hinges of his jaw. “How long?” you murmur again.
His own hands abandon the railing, one coming up to cup yours on the scarred side of his face and the other finding purchase on your waist. “An hour or so.”
A weary breath escapes you, seen more than heard in the chilled air. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“I always wake you.”
You fix him with a look of concern and exasperation. “You know I don’t mind.”
His shoulders lift in a brief shrug. “I don’t like to bother you when you’re sleeping so peacefully.”
Your gaze softens slightly at his words, until the implication sinks in. “It’s not a— wait… have you come out here before, after a nightmare?”
Try as he might, he can’t school the widening of his good eye under your accusation and instead opts to shift his gaze away from yours, settling once more on the cityscape behind you.
You know there’s no point in lecturing him now. You’re not convinced your tired mind could form the words, anyhow. So, you resolve to resume your thumbs’ soothing motions, until the hand on your waist isn’t so stiff with perturbation and the set of his jaw isn’t so pronounced. Your own annoyance simmers down, too, with the understanding that more conflict is the last thing his overworked mind needs.
“It’s okay,” you murmur, arms looping around him in a tight embrace that leaves no room for even a wisp of air between the two of you.
His body tenses against yours in short-lived surprise before his arms mimic your own, snaking around your waist while his chin finds a home on top of your head.
Your voice is a muffled whisper against his chest. “I just wish I could help you more.”
“You do. More than you know,” he says into the crown of your head.
There’s no telling how long the two of you stay like that, pressed together until there’s no way to discern where either of you end or begin. Still, an unwanted thought finds a way to seep through his embrace and into your head, planting its seeds until the roots are dug too deep to ignore.
“Not enough to help you out of that damn river,” you murmur, voice taut with bitterness aimed solely at yourself.
The muttered confession has barely slipped from your mouth when a hand finds your chin, tilting it upwards until you’re once again staring into stark red and green vexation. Those same colours seep into his tone, painting bold hues around the disbelieving whisper of your name.
“What? I’m not allowed to hate seeing you suffer?”
“That’s enough,” he says softly, but it’s not enough to stop the snowballing thoughts as they spill out of you.
“I know it’s not my fault — I know — but I feel so useless some—”
“I said enough,” he all but hisses, both hands curling around your own while you try to avoid his eyes, but the persistently firm squeezing prevails. “Don’t do that to yourself.”
Your head moves slightly to indicate the subtlest of nods, but the gentle pressure around your hands tells you that’s not good enough.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur, placing a soft kiss against his hands. “I just… it kills me, seeing you hurt like that.”
A kiss to your own hands. “I know.”
“I’d fight that river if I could,” you say through a weak smile and your unease lessens momentarily at the brief twitch of Silco’s lips, though it only lasts a heartbeat.
“I didn’t dream of the river tonight.”
The admittance is uttered so quietly you’re almost convinced he wanted the words to fall on deaf ears. Confusion picks its way through you, parting your lips and threading your brows until a crease is sewn between them. As often as the terrors haunted him, Silco never recounted dreaming of anything other than the night he almost lost his life beneath the River Pilt’s sullied waters.
“I dreamt of you,” he confesses, expelling the words like a tendril of smoke that had trapped itself in his throat.
Oh.
“Last time you had a dream about me our conversation went in a very different direction,” you joke lightheartedly, to no avail.
“I dreamt I lost you,” he clarifies, tone as flat as the glazed blanket over his eyes.
Your own weary smile greets you in the reflection of his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”
A pause. “It wasn’t your choice.”
Oh.
The pieces slowly fall into place. You’re no stranger to the risks attached to the path you’ve paved for yourself, nor the danger that comes alongside being a part of Silco’s life. You’ve been used as a pawn against him before, and though each and every attempt to exploit you had ended with more blood on his knife you know his worrying never ceases, regardless of the fact he seldom shows it.
You also weren’t aware such thoughts had crept their way into his subconscious, and you find yourself unequipped to help him navigate through this particular ocean of sleep-induced fears.
“I’m here now, aren’t I?” you finally say, mulling over each word as if they’re wires on a ticking bomb.
He tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear and you lean into his touch, warm as ever despite the forlorn look shadowing his face. “That’s not what I saw.”
“What did you see?” you press gently.
The myriad of neon lights behind you bounce off the planes of Silco’s face, painting everything in a muted glow. Red and blue accentuate every honed line that makes up his sharp figure, while purple and green shift over the muscle flicking in his jaw — a testament to the thoughts swirling around in his head. You can almost see them; the persistent ghosts that reincarnate in his mind and haunt his sleep.
The colours evaporate behind him as he leans forward, pressing his lips to your forehead. “Every time it’s a different scenario. A different location, a different enemy. The only constant is you.”
You squeeze the palm still ghosting your cheek, letting him know it’s okay to continue.
“Your life is taken in precisely the same way I have taken the lives of others, and all I can do is watch. My body feels like it’s once again trapped under raging waters, and I can never reach you in time.”
The stifled pain in his voice snakes around your heart, squeezing until the beginnings of tears begin to brim your eyes. You barely even trust yourself to speak above a whisper. “They’re just dreams, Sil.”
“And how many times have those dreams nearly become a reality?”
You can’t offer any consolation to that. “But why come out here and torture yourself?”
“There’s no need for both of us to suffer, darling.”
A lone tear makes its way down your cheek, drifting lazily until it catches the end of Silco’s finger and continues the rest of its journey down, impeded when you envelop his hand in yours and press it against your chest.
You feel the heavy sigh building in Silco’s chest before it expels in the form of a white puff of air. “This is why I didn’t want to wake you.”
Your own misty exhale melds with his as your fingers curl tighter; a compensation of sorts for your wavering voice. “You think you’re the only one that worries? You think I don’t drown under the thoughts of every possible thing that could happen to you, or that my dreams are all sunshines and rainbows? That I don’t get nightmares about never seeing you again?”
His good eye widens again, encasing the oceanic green of his iris in a sea of white. “And here you are chastising me,” he says softly, lulling away any tears threatening to fall over the precipice of your eyelids.
“Yeah, well, I don’t get them when you’re next to me,” you retort lightly, playing with his fingers to avoid his gaze until a gentle call of your name tugs your head upwards.
The warm glint in his eyes is a welcome sight. That is, until he speaks. “Do I tire you out that much?”
You promptly drop his hand in favour of shoving your palm against his cheek, distorting the ensuing smirk that curls under his nose. “It is impossible to have a tender moment with you.”
The red of his corrupted eye flickers in amusement. “Perhaps I should wake you more often.”
“Honestly, Silco,” you scoff, wiggling out of his hold and starting towards the door.
You don’t make it very far before long arms hook around your waist, pulling your back into his chest until you’re half-enveloped in the open coat.
His voice materialises next to your ear, warming you for reasons other than its proximity. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“And I’m not going to,” you huff. “Have fun ruminating, I hope you’re stuck to that railing by the time the sun comes up.”
A breath of laughter caresses your neck, felt again when a shudder of traitorous goosebumps erupts across your skin. You don’t make much of an attempt to escape his hold, anyway, and your desire to do so lessens with the gentle kisses brushing your neck.
Despite his insinuations, though, the tautness of his hold tells you those ghosts aren’t quite vanquished yet.
“Hey…” you murmur when his head tilts just so against yours. “You okay?”
“I am,” he says after a pensive inhale and another brief kiss to your jaw. “Are you?”
Your hand reaches back to stroke the short hairs at the base of his head. “Yeah. Thank you.”
“I should be thanking you.”
“For?”
“I would have to stay out here all week to put a number to that.”
“Come on,” you chide lightly. “Maybe three days.”
“A minimum of four.”
“At least I’d rest easy for those four days, knowing you’re out here.”
Silco’s arms shift around you in brief laughter before gently turning you so you’re once again facing him. “So long as you’re waiting for me, I will always come back.”
His eyes soften at the sight of your smile, this time free of bittersweet shadows.
“Promise?” you murmur softly, cupping his jaw once again.
“I promise,” he says, closing the gap between you and pressing his lips to yours.
The cold has all but dissipated by the time he pulls away, reciprocating your tender smile.
“Now,” he says slyly, and the smile curls into a smirk you know all too well. “On the subject of getting my shirt back…”
You’re out of his hold and backed up against the door before he can so much as blink.
“You’ll have to come and get it then,” is all you say before slipping through the doorway with an innocent smile that unfurls into a laugh when Silco rolls his eyes and follows you inside, all too happy to leave his ghosts alone on the balcony.