Sometimes Dan Heng regretted sleeping in the Archives. He often found himself jealous of you and March 7th's rooms. They were both so you, full of life and memories hung on the walls. All he had was a cot surrounded by a mismatched nest of pillows and blankets. The floor was always littered with whatever books he'd pulled from the data bank that day.

One upside to his nest was that it was easier to tell when he had nightmares.

When Dan Heng thrashed in his sleep, his long blue tail would thump against the wall. And your room was on the other side of the wall, allowing you to hear him struggle. Dan Heng new his nightmares would never last long with you there. When his mind was filled with memories of a life that wasn't his, shackles and pain and the pleading of a voice that belonged to a form long passed, you would come to his rescue.

Dan Heng's mind was pulled away from the terrors of his previous form's life by your hand in his hair. You were stroking his tail to soothe the thrashing, your hand gliding over the sleek scales. He whimpered softly without thinking, his little blue horns bumping your hand as he nuzzled you. A jolt of panic went through him when he realized he couldn't move. He was tangled in the blankets like a butterfly caught in a spiderweb.

"'M sorry," he mumbled, trying to hide his panic from you.