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You jerk awake in the middle of the night to the sound of Ethan screaming. It’s not a long, drawn-out thing; the neighbors aren’t going to call the cops over it, probably. He gives a short, sharp cry of pure terror and yanks himself upright beside you; you feel the mattress depress as he leans forward, gasping for air. He’s been crying out in his sleep, you realize – you heard it in your dream, but didn’t realize it was real enough to wake you up until just now.
“Ethan?” you say, dragging yourself into a sitting position. Your eyes are sandy; you’re still tired. A glance at the clock reveals that it’s just after 3 AM.
He’s sitting with his head in his hands, struggling to catch his breath.
“Are you okay?” you ask. It’s probably a stupid question. You know he has PTSD, but you don’t know why – he refuses to talk about it with you, and you know better than to pry. He always gets this bitter, sort of humorous air when you accidentally stumble upon his trauma in conversation, like something’s funny about it, or about the idea of talking to you about it. You try your best to just leave it alone, but he’s never had a nightmare like this before, not with you around.
“Yeah,” he lies. “Sorry. Go back to sleep.” His voice is rough.
“Can I touch you?” you say.
“I’m fine,” he says, which is obviously not true.
You put your hand on his shoulder and he flinches, his whole body startling away from you with a sudden, painful jerk; you pull back. “Sorry,” you say.
“Just give me a minute.” He sounds exhausted.
“Okay,” you say, and draw your knees up; you wrap your arms around your legs and put your chin on your knee, and just sit there beside him quietly.
“Go back to sleep,” he tells you.
You consider possible responses, and settle on, “No.”
Ethan laughs a little, bitterly. “Fine. I’ll just… be a minute.” And he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, and gets up, pulling on the boxers he discarded on the floor before bed. You’re at his place tonight, resting on his expensive mattress. It’s awfully comfortable. He leaves the room, flicking on the hall light as he goes; he keeps his head down, not even looking at you. You hear his footsteps receding down the hallway. Water runs in the bathroom, then switches off. He lets out a long breath. Then, silence. Silence. More silence.
You wait for him patiently, thinking. He keeps a gun in the nightstand; you wonder if you should be worried about that. It’s a little weird, how comfortable he is with firearms around the house, but none of them are loaded, and he locks the bullets up, so you decide it’s okay. He has a combat knife in the nightstand too, and that’s probably more immediately dangerous than an unloaded pistol. You always sort of attributed the weapons scattered around his house to his PTSD, and never bugged him about it beyond a few oblique questions here and there; he never seemed to want to talk about it, and got pretty fucking embarrassed when you stumbled on a shotgun hidden under the couch one time when you were vacuuming for him. (He hates vacuuming, almost as much as you hate doing dishes.) His home security system is no joke, either. You felt weirdly honored when he gave you the code; he acted like it was the keys to the kingdom, almost. Like he was trusting you with something special, something… dangerous.
He’s scared, you realize. He’s scared all the time. Why? What happened? You know PTSD can cause hypervigilance, make people always tense and on-guard, ready to see a threat where there isn’t one, (or where there is, you remind yourself,) but does it make them afraid? You’re not sure. But something happened to make Ethan afraid, fucking terrified maybe, and you have no clue what it was. Seems like he just dreamed about it, though. You sigh unhappily. Mostly it doesn’t bother you that you don’t know what it was that traumatized him so bad; he tries really hard not to make it your problem, and succeeds pretty well, for the most part. It’s none of my business, anyway, you tell yourself. But you wish there was something you could do, some way you could help him. And would knowing what happened make that any easier? you ask yourself. Probably not. Just be there for him, dumbass.
Light from the hallway spills across the bedroom floor. Ethan still hasn’t come back. You get up with a grunt and pad naked down the hallway after him. He’s still in the bathroom, leaning on the sink and staring at himself in the mirror with red-rimmed, haunted eyes.
“Hey,” you say quietly.
He blinks and looks down, his mouth tightening. “You should really go back to sleep,” he says, and looks at you in the mirror. You raise your hand slowly, letting him see you reach out to touch his shoulder; you rest your palm against his bare back, your thumb tracing the line of his shoulder blade.
“Are you coming to bed?” you ask him.
Ethan sighs. “Eventually.”
Never, you translate. “Then let me stay up with you,” you say.
“I’d rather you slept. I don’t want to keep you up. You have work in the morning,” he says.
“So do you,” you point out.
Ethan shrugs.
“Is there anything I can do?” you ask him, wrapping your arms around his middle and leaning your cheek on his spine. His heart is beating way too fast for a man just standing at the sink and staring at his reflection.
“Besides go back to bed?” he says, his voice dry.
“I meant for you,” you say.
“So did I.”
“You just seem so upset. I don’t want to leave you alone if I could, I don’t know, help somehow,” you say.
Ethan is silent. You peek up over his shoulder; he’s staring grimly into his own eyes.
“If you really want to be alone, I’ll go,” you say. “But… you seem like you could use some company.”
He catches your eye in the mirror, then looks away and sighs again. “I’m sorry I’m being such a dick,” he says. His voice is low, heavy with unhappiness.
“You’re not,” you say, giving him a squeeze.
Ethan wraps one hand around yours where you’re hugging him, his fingers tracing the bones of your wrist, and squeezes back. “I am, though.”
You kiss his shoulder blade; he really isn’t – being a dick, that is, but you don't see the point in arguing about it. “Well then, I forgive you,” you say. The silence stretches out between you. Ethan’s head hangs down between his shoulders.
“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask.
“Not really,” he says quietly.
“Okay.” You press another kiss to the knobs of his spine, then lean your cheek against his back again and just go on holding him.
He’s silent for a long moment, and then you feel him draw a breath. “I’m not supposed to have these fucking dreams anymore,” he says, his voice low with anger and frustration. “I thought they stopped.”
“Are there drugs you can take to help with them?” you ask. You know he has a psychiatrist; he’s on some medication – not much, but some.
“Yeah. I used to be on them.”
“Did they help?”
“Worked like a charm.” His voice is bitter. “I really thought I was done with this.”
You hug him tighter.
“You don’t know what they’re like,” he says, sounding haunted. “They’re not like normal dreams. They feel real. Like they’re actually happening. Like I’m really back there.” He tenses up as he speaks, like a frightened rabbit, his heart hammering in his chest. You get the feeling he’s reliving something awful.
“That sounds horrible,” you say.
“You have no idea.”
“I believe it,” you tell him.
He lets out a bitter little breath of a laugh.
“What?” you say.
“You wouldn’t. If I told you, I mean. You would never believe me. That’s why I don’t talk about it – because nobody would believe me if I did.”
An ugly idea is forming in your mind. “Ethan,” you say carefully, “if you were sexually assaulted, you know I would never question – ”
“No! No, god. Nothing like that. It wasn’t that,” he says.
“Are you sure?” you ask, worried. “Because if it was a woman, or – or something, that’s still – ”
“Hey.” He turns around in your arms, taking your face between his hands. His eyes are bloodshot; you’re pretty sure he was crying before you came in. He looks miserable and exhausted but he’s frowning at you, serious and earnest. He meets your eyes firmly despite how tired he looks. “Nobody raped me, okay?”
“Okay,” you say, the knot of worry in your chest easing just a little.
He kisses you lightly, then wraps his arms around you, hugging you tight. “I just can’t talk about it,” he says, leaning his cheek on your hair.
“That’s okay,” you say softly, pressing a small kiss to his shoulder.
Ethan lets out a relieved breath. “Thanks,” he says.
“Do you want to come to bed?” you ask him.
“I’m afraid to fall asleep again,” he admits.
“So let’s stay up then, but let’s not do it in the bathroom. There are more comfortable places,” you say.
“You should still go back to bed.”
“No.”
“Ugh,” Ethan grumbles. “Fine.”
He must be feeling a little better if he’s complaining, you think. “Come on, mister. Let’s cuddle on the couch and watch infomercials or something.” You start walking backwards towards the bathroom door, not letting go of him; Ethan teeters after you.
“Infomercials?” he says, and you hear laughter in his voice. Mission accomplished.
“Sure. What else is on TV at 3 in the morning?” you say.
“Definitely something else.”
“We can watch that, then. Or a movie.”
“You should sleep,” he insists.
“Oh, I probably will,” you say cheerfully, looking up at him. He still looks exhausted and unhappy, but there’s a tiny smile playing around the corners of his mouth. I just don’t want to leave you alone to be miserable, you think.
“In bed,” Ethan says.
“That’s what she said,” you reply nonsensically.
Ethan snorts. “What?” he says, but his smile is a little bit bigger now.
You tow him downstairs.
You make it through approximately one and a half episodes of Miss Marple before you fall asleep in his arms. Ethan had settled you on his lap, cradling you against him, and you were just so warm and cozy wrapped up in that blanket together that it was only a matter of time. You don’t wake when he reaches for the remote, don’t stir when he turns the TV down, don’t seem to notice when he kisses your hair. You’re snoring a little. Ethan hugs you tighter.
“You were there,” he murmurs to you as you sleep. “You were there this time. I was back there, and I saw you, and…” He squeezes you ever so gently, careful not to wake you. “You died,” he whispers. There are tears in his voice. “I had to watch. I used to have those nightmares about Mia – now I have them about you, I guess.” He sniffs, wiping his eyes with his free hand. “Shit, sorry. I don’t want to cry and fucking wake you.” His voice hitches. “Damn it,” he says tightly, and takes a few deep breaths, pulling himself together.
“The point is,” he says once he has his breathing under control, “the point is, I love you, baby. I love you so much. Too much. It scares me sometimes, how much I love you. The last time I loved someone like this, I…” You stir against him and he falls silent, but all you do is snuggle closer in your sleep, nestling your face into the curve of his neck, your mouth working a little before you settle with a sigh. Ethan strokes your hair, kissing it gently. “I love you,” he whispers. “Get some rest, babe.”
He lays the two of you down carefully on the couch, somehow managing not to wake you, his arm under your head for a pillow; the TV murmurs in the background, casting its soft light over the darkened living room. Ethan ignores it, focusing instead on your face, so calm with sleep. He kisses your forehead, then your mouth, and you stir again, eyes shuttling back and forth under your eyelids; “Sorry, baby,” he murmurs, and tugs a throw pillow over to put his own head on. He lies there beside you for a long time, just watching you sleep, before he drifts off himself. The two of you sleep through the night without incident, and Ethan, when he wakes in the morning, tells you he didn’t dream at all.