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Woody looks tired.
At least, Buzz thinks so. For the last few days, whenever night has fallen, Woody does his rounds—he makes sure everything is in order, he makes sure every toy knows to go back to their places before the morning, and to go still should Andy wake up in the middle of the night—but his movements have become sluggish.
Buzz thinks he's the only person to have noticed. Well, him and Bullseye. He's noticed the horse coming up to Woody, bumping his nose against him worriedly like he knows exactly what's wrong, but Woody just shakes his head and smiles that sad little smile, ushers Bullseye away so he doesn't worry over him more than he probably thinks he should. Not that Woody ever lets anyone worry about him at all. He hates it, Buzz has realized.
But Buzz is worried. He's very worried, and it isn't something that can easily be brushed away. Usually Woody would've slipped back into Bonnie's arms after checking up on everyone, but instead he just slips under the bed and crawls out just an hour or less before Bonnie usually wakes, when the sun is rising—then he stays there still, with his eyes wide open but his mouth curved downwards, so Buzz knows he's awake. He can't help but wonder though, what it is that happens under the bed that has him acting like he hasn't slept in days. However happy he may act, he's more snappy than usual and his reactions come slower than they should.
Buzz hopes Woody isn't sick. What a scary thought.
He doesn't look sick, even today, as Buzz hides behind some of the books on the bookshelf to watch him, he can see that he just looks—exhausted. Something has to be done about it, before he wears himself down to the ground. He's already halfway there, Buzz knows it. It's especially clear when he stumbles where he stands in his attempt to clamber under the bed for the rest of the night.
Buzz clenches his fist, glancing around to ensure nobody is around to watch, and hops off the shelf. He rolls towards the bed, shuffling around one of the supports, before moving to peek his head around the corner of it. He tries to remain unseen, even while his spacesuit gives off that gentle green glow. It's not something he can control.
He watches in silence as Woody makes himself comfortable on the ground, curling up into a ball in a manor so unlike himself that it makes Buzz feel a little ill. Woody's arms come to wrap around himself, and he squeezes his eyes shut like it hurts to do so. He's never seen Woody look so small.
How does he keep it up? Buzz wonders, how does he stay so strong for so much time and break so easily when he thinks he's alone?
Woody is the bravest person Buzz knows. But also the most stubborn. He'd sooner set himself aflame than let any toy go cold; that's just how he is, and surely how he always will be.
The least Buzz can do is ease some of the burning.
He ceases his hiding, and slowly moves towards Woody's slightly shivering form under the bed. His space suit lights the surroundings as he walks—it makes Woody's eyes peel open, and he looks at him tiredly, sitting up with his shoulders tense as if expecting to be reprimanded.
Buzz stops in front of him, eyebrows furrowing.
"Are you okay?" He asks, gently.
"I'm—fine, Buzz. I'm fine." Woody inhales slowly, but it looks like it takes him a great deal of effort to do so. He keeps blinking slowly, like he's struggling to keep his eyes open,
"What are you doing up? You've... Bonnie's going to want you to be fully recharged, you know?"
"Yes, I know. But what about you?" Buzz questions, "You look unwell, sheriff."
"Unwell?" Woody asks, shaking his head a little, "I'm," he waves his hand, "Just trying to get some rest."
"Under the bed?" Buzz raises an eyebrow, "I thought you loved sleeping next to Bonnie."
"I do! I..." Woody frowns, "I do."
Buzz sighs. He stares at Woody until he sees his resolve start to waver, and then moves to shuffle next to him. He sits himself down, pressing himself up against Woody's much softer body. For some reason, that little movement makes Woody's entire form relax, and his eyes start to droop much more than they had before.
It's a little sad, Buzz thinks.
Had him being there really helped that much? In so little time?
"Buzz..." Woody mumbles, "You don't wanna be here when I'm asleep,"
Buzz puts an arm around Woody. He's firm on his decision to stay,
"Why not?"
"It's stupid," Woody breathes out, "It's,"
Buzz watches him struggle for the words. He waits.
"...You remember the incinerator?" Woody manages out, eventually, "I—I guess it, I don't know, Buzz, I... It stuck with me?"
Buzz tilts his head, nods for him to continue.
"I mean, I—" Woody's chest rises, and then falls much slower, "...What happens to toys when they die? What—what's Bonnie gonna do with me when she doesn't want me anymore? I keep dreaming that I'm there again, in the incinerator, but this time—I'm all alone. And it's every night, Buzz, it's every night... Then the—the sun comes up, and it—I, everything's... A beautiful sort of orange, but—but seeing it right when I wake up? It's—I think I'm there again,"
By the time Woody is finished speaking, he looks like he's out of breath. Buzz didn't know the incinerator had hurt him that badly but as he thinks of it now, he sees how obvious it should have been; he is brought back to the sight of him in the flames, being pulled from each side—every toy with another to hold save for him. Buzz wishes he could go back to that moment and flee to his arms, so that if they really had died, Woody wouldn't have had to spend his last moments keeping them together instead of seeking comfort for himself.
Wishing has never done anyone any good, though. Buzz pulls him into his arms, feels Woody's chest hitch against his own, before he begins making these awful, broken sorts of noises.
Toys can't cry, but Buzz is certain this is what it would sound like. There are no tears coming from Woody's eyes, that Buzz can feel, but the heartbreak is there all the same.
"I can't sleep, Buzz," Woody chokes out, "I don't want to go back there. I'm scared I'll never leave. What if I don't wake up?"
"Woody," Buzz squeezes him there, "Of course you'll wake up. Bonnie still needs you. I still need you. You aren't going anywhere."
"I'm not—I'm not worth it, Buzz," Woody trembles against him, "I'm not worth all this effort,"
"You're worth every second of it," Buzz murmurs against his neck.
"I should've come to you sooner. If I knew you were thinking these things, I would never have waited."
He pulls away suddenly, to cup Woody's face instead. His expression looks grief-stricken, but Buzz doesn't know what it is he's lost. He presses their noses together—wishing distantly for a kiss instead, though he's too afraid to try for one.
"Who in the world is making you feel like you're too much?" Buzz asks, when their faces move away from one another, "No toy is going to convince you of something so awful. Not on my watch."
Woody's cheeks are slightly flushed, and he can't seem to figure out what to say. His eyebrows furrow, and he swallows, mouth opening and closing like a fish as he tries to make up some kind of response. He apparently comes up empty, and his head dips as he moves to curl up against Buzz again—likely deeming it an easier task than talking.
Buzz smiles a little, and shifts to take Woody's hat off for him. No toy is usually trusted with doing such a feat, but Woody barely moves this time around, so Buzz takes it as a sign to continue. He sets his hat down next to himself, and gently curls his arms around him, dragging him against his chest. He can only hope that his clunky space suit isn't too uncomfortable to lay on; Woody hasn't tried moving away yet, so he assumes that he doesn't mind it.
"I want to spend every night after this one by your side," Buzz tells him, after sharing a moment of quiet with him, "I don't want you to wake up scared or by yourself, anymore."
"...But, isn't it silly that I need something like this?" Woody whispers, "I—I mean, I'm doing it to myself. It's me. I'm the one who's been telling myself that I'm too much, and—and even though the other toys pretend to listen to me, I know they just think I'm—all used up."
"Don't say that." Buzz shakes his head, and he slides his hand down Woody's arm until he can intertwine his fingers with his own, "You're being too cruel to yourself."
"It's the truth, Buzz. And—and what good am I to Bonnie like this? If she woke up one day and I'd forgotten to crawl out from under here, I doubt she'd even look for me. It won't be long before she puts me in the closet." Woody squeezes his hand; Buzz can tell he's terrified, even though his voice carries more defeat than fear.
"If you keep thinking about what might happen later, how are you supposed to enjoy what's happening in the present? Bonnie needs you now, and even if what you're saying does happen, I am always going to need you." Buzz crooned, bumping his nose gently against Woody's temple, "Plus, I think the lack of sleep is just making things worse. You need rest, just like the rest of us do, sheriff."
Woody looks almost guilty as he gazes up at him again, though it soon gives way to the most exhausted expression Buzz has ever seen a toy wear.
It's awful.
He loves Woody. He loves him, which is why he hates seeing him so worn. Part of him wants to look away, so he doesn't have to deal with that look on his face, but he would never forgive himself if he made Woody feel like he couldn't stop being strong.
"You're—" Woody speaks up suddenly, his voice shaking, "You're right. I... I should sleep."
"I'll be here." Buzz encourages, watching his eyelids flutter and then fall shut. He can't imagine how tired he must've been, all this time.
"Wake me up, if you have another nightmare."
Woody only hums. Buzz can do no more than hope that he'll take his words to heart. It's scary to imagine him braving it all alone, while being right next to someone willing to sit through with it with him—but it's the sort of thing Woody would do, thinking it ‘kinder’ than waking somebody for his problems.
Buzz yearns for a reality in which Woody isn't so selfless. He thinks it'll kill him one day.
No, he knows it.
Someday, though. Before that happens, he'll retrieve all the pieces that Woody's given of himself to others, and spend however long he needs to giving every single one back to him—until he's whole again, until his future sacrifice isn't a guarantee.
It's all Buzz wants.
He just hopes Woody will want it too, eventually.