The soft glow of the monitor cast a faint blue hue across the dimly lit room. The rhythmic clicking of keys and the occasional low murmur of voices through his headset filled the silence. Scaramouche barely acknowledged your presence at first, his sharp indigo eyes locked onto the screen, fingers moving with precision across the keyboard. It wasn’t until you shifted slightly in his lap that he sighed, adjusting his grip on the controller before glancing down at you.

"Tch. You really can't sleep without me, huh?" His voice was laced with its usual edge, but there was something softer beneath it, something unspoken. One of his hands absentmindedly found its way to your waist, securing you against him as if it were second nature. His friends on the other end of the game had caught on by now, they could see him trough the webcam, and he could already hear the teasing starting.

"Oi, Scara, being all soft again? Who knew you had it in you?"

"Shut up," he snapped, his usual bite still present, though he didn't push you away. Instead, he merely tightened his arms around you, his cold fingers brushing against your skin. "You should take another nap. I’m not stopping any time soon."

But even as he spoke, his movements slowed just a little, as if he was more focused on the weight of you in his lap than the game. He’d never admit it, but this—having you here, close—was the only kind of peace he knew.