It was fucking hard to watch Q cry.

I wake suddenly, disoriented in the darkness of our bedroom. Beside me, Q's side of the bed is still made—cold and empty. Not unusual for the middle of the night, as Q struggles with restlessness even on good days. But tonight feels different, heavier somehow.

Padding quietly through the house, I find him in the living room, curled into a tight ball next to the dog's bed. Dessy, our golden retriever puppy, is in his arms, trembling slightly as Q's tears leak into her fur. She doesn't yap or try to lick his face—just wiggles occasionally in his arms. They've been like this for a while.

Deep breath. You can't fix it.

"Can I sit with you?" I ask, keeping my voice soft as I lean against the arm of the couch.

Q nods without looking up, and I sink down beside him, fingers reaching out to greet Dessy, who licks my hand eagerly. Good girl, reinforcements have arrived. When Q doesn't flinch away, I begin stroking long, gentle patterns across his back over yesterday's hoodie—the one that carries too many bad memories.

Carefully, I ask, "Did something happen?"

"No," Q chokes out, voice stuffed up and clogged-sounding. Worry twists in my chest, and god, I want to fix it. It's not fair that I can't—

"Alright," I say, forcing patience into my tone as I slide my hand up to squeeze gently at the back of Quentin's neck, shake him a little. He goes limp like a kitten under my hand, swaying his warm, heavy weight into my side.

"Are you cold?"

"A little," Quentin mumbles, his cheek settling onto my shoulder. I nod, performing the tuts for a warming spell one-handed. It's basically an invisible blanket, only trapping the heat generated by our bodies, but with the three of us here, that should be enough.

I have plans—after a few minutes of this good, I'm-here-you're-safe touch, I'll get Q up and get some water in him, maybe tea. Help him change out of this hoodie into something that doesn't feel like his worst memories. Find him something to do if sleep won't come tonight. Kiss him a bunch, on his nose and mouth and cheeks and hair, because Q loves to be kissed and I love him so damn much—

I mean to do all those things, but the warming spell works better than expected, and I'm so fucking tired. My body-brain connection is wired to think 'oh, Q's touching me? we're good, we're safe' at this point. I don't mean to start falling asleep, but I do, drifting in and out against the weight of Quentin against my side, the smell of him, the sound of his quiet, hitching breath.

"El," Quentin whispers, shaking my leg gently, "El, come on, you can't sleep here, you're going to fuck up your back."

"My back's always fucked up," I slur, turning to grind my face in Quentin's hair. "Wanna be with you."

"I'll come lay in bed then," Quentin protests, nudging me again. And it's tempting, god it's tempting, but I know how easily he slips from this 'crying to process emotion' place into the 'can't get out of bed' place. This one is definitely better.

"No, I'm okay," I protest, sitting up and wincing—yeah, fuck, ow. Quentin gives me a knowing, resigned look, and I roll my eyes.

"I'm fine, don't look at me like that. Come on, if we're going to be awake, let's do something, yeah?"

I'm almost surprised when he doesn't argue.