Chapter Text
Sleep was a mistress that Zayne had never been on good terms with, even in his youth. When the cruel embrace of sleep caught up to him, it was with nightmares plagued with black ice bursting from his skin, tearing open the sinews of his muscles, and shattering across his body like jagged glass. The same nightmare over and over of her limp corpse, her body crusted with the black ice, the same way his hands were soaked in her blood, deep heady crimson like her hair that was speckled with snowflakes, as if she was some sleeping princess instead of a mangled corpse of his own creation.
She smelled of jasmines even in those dreams, like it was a cruel joke that she would smell of jasmines. Whatever higher power existed truly must enjoy his suffering, he had promised the jasmines would lead her back to him no matter what.
And they did.
Every nightmare.
A trail of jasmines followed her every step, no matter how cold the world around her got or how the darkness consumed the air until there was nothing left to guide her but the sound of him. She chased after him, every time... in every time. She chased even when her body ached and he could hear her stifled cries of pain with every step. Even when the jasmines were swallowed by black ice and her body was barely more than a frozen statue that could crumble with faintest tremble of the wind, even she collapsed his arms and those bright eyes like the sun flickered... even as he watched the light in her eyes slowly drain away from her...
There would be jasmines, frozen and wilted.
He sat up quickly, shaking away the nightmares, ignoring the pangs of pain as the frost bit at his concealed arms.
There would be no nightmare tonight, no other version of him to devour his jasmine. No ice would touch her skin, never to crack the warmth of the spring he has chosen to selfishly keep by his side despite his nature... because there is no denying that this is his true nature.
No amount of denial has changed the nightmares; they tormented him every time he dared to shut his eyes. Haunting him from the very moment he chose to become her friend. Every night since he gained that little joy in his life... whenever she was near the nightmares would return. As if it was punishment from whatever higher power existed, not allowing him even this little comfort in the world.
It's an instinct to reach out to her in the darkness, to feel her warm skin and know that she is alive. But when he looked at the body lying in his bed, he doesn't see his Lyra, not as she is now. Half waking half dreaming mind has conjured up the sight of her frostbitten corpse once again. A sight he once knew more intimately than her waking self, a cruel phantom image that chased after him the same way she chased him in his nightmares. With it came the pain, the dull thrum of ice coursing through his veins, a voice in his mind telling him to correct this error. It always phrased it like that, to ease his guilt maybe. A correction to a minor clerical error, to set things on the right path, to make sure things are as they should be.
No matter how it was phrased he knew what it meant.
To kill her.
He knew the voice as well as he knew her, as well as he knew himself though that wasn't an accomplishment given how little he understood of himself. This voice though, he did know this voice, that whispered to him long before he knew Lyra's name, when she was simply the little girl who lived next door...
The little girl who had been horrifically injured by his hands, fear in her eyes but not anger. Not even when he cradled her in his arms and begged for anyone to come help because he didn't understand what happened. Only that Lyra wasn't moving, only that her heart wasn't beating and she looked so scared staring at him with big yellow eyes filled with tears that froze on her icy skin. That in those moments he wouldn't stop saying how sorry he was and how she promised she wasn't mad at him.
It didn't matter that she came back through some miracle or science.
She had been gone and every night since then, since he almost succeeded, the nightmares became more intense. The voice pleading to him, he was so close. Visions of that other world filled with nothing but monsters and that version of himself that has only known suffering.
It was easier to not sleep.
He had enough work to keep him occupied, finalizing patient reports, research, and hospital paperwork. Should he somehow run out there was always reviewing lecture he's given at universities, volunteering to be a guest speaker would certainly take away more time in his night. If he offered to speak for his old school in Skyhaven he'd be able to visit Caleb, a few nights away from Lyra so he could fitfully rest without the worry that he'd hurt her. The nightmares would still torment him but they would not control him, not when he is miles away from her. Until then anything he could think to distract him from the dull weight of exhaustion that settled uncomfortably over him. A shroud that only promised a sleep devoid of any real recovery or comfort, and maybe only held death.
It's a blessing the others aren't here; their erratic sleep schedules would lead to him getting caught much quicker than he would like. A demand that he should rest to late night conversations, neither option was palatable. Not tonight, not when he can feel phantom pains of frost spreading on his skin.
It has to be phantom pains.
It isn't real.
He won't let it be real.
Even if it meant leaving her behind, leaving them all behind and the little home that they have made for themselves. A little separation wouldn't kill him.
And yet instead of going to his home office to work he stayed in the bedroom, sitting on the floor beside their bed so he can keep an eye on her sleeping form. Lyra is the only one in his home tonight and for that he is grateful. When she manages to get to sleep it is a lead blanket that was near impossible to wake her from. A heavy death like sleep, her breath so shallow it was almost imperceptible... it didn't help with the nightmares. It certainly didn't help him stay focused on work, every so often getting up to make sure she was still breathing
Still alive despite the horrors his mind continued to conjure up.
And maybe the lack of sleep is truly catching up to him because it took far longer than it should have for him to realize that the yellow eyes staring back at him weren't part of his nightmare.
"Lyra."
"Zayne." His name is soft on her drool wet lips, a dull shine at the corner of her mouth. He would need to change the pillow cover tomorrow if there was a puddle of drool like he suspected, they were due for a wash anyways.
"You're awake."
"As are you." Her words are still slurred from sleep, despite how wide her eyes had been open she must have woken up not too long ago. Maybe the lights underneath the nightstand hadn't been hidden enough, he should've sat in the dark.
"I'm working."
"It's dark." She pointed out, glancing around the room before zeroing in on the dim light tucked neatly underneath the nightstand. It had seemed like a good idea, just enough light to work by without any reaching her eyes and disturbing her sleep, she thought otherwise. "That doesn't count."
"I'll be alright."
"Your eyes say otherwise doc-tor." She draws the word out the word mockingly, a slow smile spreading on her face as she leaned forward. Untangling her hands from the sheets and her body, she placed them on his face— warm. Her hands are so warm, he can't help but lean into her touch. "You're exhausted."
"I'm not exhausted."
"My love, flower of my heart, and piece of my undying soul," she began softly, her thumb stroking his cheek as she spoke. Faintly he can hear the sounds of fabric rustling as she moved closer to him until finally her forehead is pressed against his. "Lay down with me. Now."
It's not a question, he recognized the tone. She used it all the time on him and Caleb when they were children. No matter how much honey sweetness she poured into her voice he would always be able to recognize the demand that left little room for argument. It seemed like no matter how old they got she would always be his favorite tyrant.
A tyrant covered in blood brought down by his hands, an icy guillotine to slice clean through her warm flesh. Because she never listened to him, too stubborn to run away from him even when it for her safety.
He tried to pull away, a paltry excuse already on his tongue, but her grip is steadfast. She is much stronger than she had been when they were children, she wouldn't let him leave this time, he knows it long before she says it. A better lie would be needed, an excuse, a distraction, anything to get him out of this room so he can't hurt her. Another night spent in one of the hospital's sleep pods or his office would be enough, just one more night so he can secure a place somewhere far away from her until one of the others returns home to keep him in check.
"I don't know what you're thinking but you're not allowed to leave, you are never allowed to leave me again," she ordered stubbornly and despite how pouty she played it off he can hear how tight her voice had become. A strained sorrow that they never spoke about, leaving the hospital behind, leaving her behind in the cemetery... or maybe this sorrow stretched back further. To when Caleb had died and he could not meet her eyes, when he pulled away every time she reached out to him, when he left her crying in the hall outside his office for hours. Maybe it was from when they were little and he could hear her screaming his name, as he begged his parents to drive faster because he couldn't bear to see her after what he had done. "I don't care how the nightmare ends. You can't leave me."
"I'm not going to bed." It's a childish last-ditch effort to maintain some space between them. He isn't sure he can manage to stay awake if she's in his arms, she's too... familiar. Having a warm body in his arms has become the best way for him to fall asleep and Lyra has always felt like safety; the spring after a wretched winter that would sooner see him dead than allow him respite. A winter that would overtake him, steal away his dreams and replace them with nightmares that would become his reality. "I'll keep you company until you fall asleep, I have work."
"Fine!"
For a brief moment he's flooded with relief, that maybe Lyra's stubborn streak will take pause given how late at night it was and how long her shift had been. They were both exhausted, the lives of a doctor and hunter are filled with seemingly endless workloads that grow more taxing as the days go on. Wanderer attacks are on the rise, alterum appearances, and an increase in patients with protocore syndrome. It's something they're both painfully aware of, so it would stand to reason that she let this slide for just one night. He would anticipate a conversation in the morning, but her rest is more important right now, people need her.
More than he does.
She thought otherwise.
In a shuffle of blankets and vehement curses under her breath he found himself quickly engulfed in a mess of quilts and pillows. She wasted no time in tossing several plushies directly at his face while she clambered off the bed. Not bothering with politeness or dignity as she shoved him away from the bed to make room for her. Arranging the pillows and plushies around them comfortably, her hand on his chest as she tried to push him into the nest of plushies and pillows.
"Lyra."
"Yes, my stubborn and foolish husband?" She asked, her words sweet but the glare on her face as she pushed him firmly to the ground was warning enough. Glare unwavering even when she placed her head on his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist. "Something the matter?"
"What are you doing?"
"We aren't going to bed apparently," she replied, leaning slightly to grab the quilt she had tossed onto the floor. Once she was sure it was securely wrapped around both of them, settling deeper against him. "We're going to sleep on the floor."
"This isn't healthy for your spine," he told her, wrapping his arm around her waist and drawing her closer without a second thought. "You'll likely wake up in pain."
"That's why we have pillows," she said simply, her words breaking with a yawn as she dismissively waved her hands towards the pillow she had tossed onto the ground. "I'm going to stay awake until you fall asleep.”
"Lyra."
"We already have the aromatherapy set up from when you said we were going to bed earlier," she reminded him, her tone clipped and truly leaving no room for him to argue. "And I'll count snowmen for you."
"Snowmen?"
"Would you rather carrots?"
"Snowmen will do just fine."
"Thought as much," she mumbled, her hands squeezing the fabric of his shirt in a death grip. "I'll keep counting until Zayne has a good sleep."
"And what about Lyra?"
"When Zayne gets a good sleep, Lyra does too."
She wasn't going to let him go, she would sooner suffocate the both of them beneath a mountain of blankets than let him go. And as the numbers began to flit into the night air he can't help but cling to her just a little tighter.
Her body is warm, there is no ice eating away at her flesh like a disease. Her voice doesn't crack though it does waver with sleep, broken by a yawn and not a scream of pain or sorrow.
And she smelled like jasmines.
Always jasmines.