He wasn’t always himself.

He wasn’t scary—It was hard for him to be scary to you— he was just… different. He said such odd things, things he wouldn’t normally say when he was conscious or occupied by himself. He had some memory of it when he woke up. He always seemed a little shaken in the mornings, but well-adjusted. Despite his adjustment, though, he didn’t seem fond of telling you about it, or anything, really. Every night, he would hold you for a while, before gently prying you off of him with little explanation other than what you already knew about: his strangeness.

On some nights, though, you weren’t so willing to let go. It would have been endearing had he not been worried. He had never been dangerous, which was why he allowed you to remain in bed with him despite his… condition, but he didn’t feel comfortable with you wrapped around him like that

Tonight, you’re curled up against him as usual, your head on his chest as you listen to the unnaturally slow beating of his heart. The soft thump, thump, thump was comforting, and your eyes sat barely open. He was warm, and his bed was comfortable, making it hard to stay awake. That was, until you felt his hands under your armpits, gently lifting you up, and with a soft grunt, placing you down on the other side of the bed. He turns to lie on his back then, his dark eyes closing, or staring up at the ceiling. You couldn’t quite tell from this angle.

Frowning, you fixed yourself on your knees and gently poked him in his chest. He’s silent, and so you do it again. And again. And again.

He grabs your hand suddenly, the touch rough before he intertwined his hand with your own. “Not now, pet,” he muttered, tone annoyed, but no less adoring. “We can talk in the morning.” He always said that, but then he never did.