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Jackson had arguably slept in far worse places.
Sketchy caves, the snowy or muddy ground and jail cells all come to mind, among various other unpleasant experiences. Compared to that, a small tent feels almost luxurious.
Sure, he has to share it with the weird halfling who’s also, apparently, his new boss, but they’re just sleeping. That’s all. It can’t be all that bad.
At least, that’s what he tells himself as he ducks into the tent he’s just finished properly setting, careful not to knock his head on the low central pole.
He’s already semi-comfortably lying down under the blankets when Elliot comes in after him, wearing a stupidly fancy pink nightgown for the situation. It looks soft. Entirely impractical. The odd blue pendant he always wears is tied neatly around his neck with a bow, resting right at his collarbone.
Unlike him, Elliot doesn’t need to duck or hunch to fit inside the tent. he just steps in easily, leading Jackson to wonder if maybe this was specifically made for halflings.
“Well!” Elliot chirps pleasantly, already settling down across from him. “This is cozy, isn’t it?”
Jackson hums non-committally.
Sure, he may have slept in some of the worst possible places, but he’s also slept in a real bed before. A good bed. One befitting nobility, with a mattress thick enough that you didn’t feel the world beneath you at all. The thought alone makes his bones ache now, faced with nothing but a flimsy bedroll and packed dirt.
The lack of a proper response doesn’t seem to bother Elliot in the slightest. He busies himself with arranging his blankets, smoothing them with care, humming quietly under his breath. Jackson’s not quite sure if anything could shake him. He’s always got that dumb little smile on his face.
Jackson adjusts his own blanket and turns onto his side, deliberately facing away from the halfling. Close quarters or not, he’s learned the value of claiming even the illusion of privacy.
Then silence falls.
the crackle of the fire, distant murmurs and the night insects beginning their chorus all accompany Jackson as he closes his eyes with a quiet sigh, letting exhaustion pull at him.
It takes a while before he realizes something is wrong.
The unease creeps up on him gradually, a prickling sensation at the back of his neck. When it finally becomes too much to ignore, his eyes snap open, brows furrowing. He listens carefully, trying to pinpoint the source.
Then it hits him.
Elliot doesn’t fidget.
Most people do, at least a little. They sigh, tug at blankets, scratch at an itch, adjust their position. Something. But Elliot lies perfectly still, breathing slow and even, as if sleep were a switch he flipped the moment his head hit the bedroll.
It’s none of Jackson’s business, he tells himself. It’s probably a good thing. Elliot doesn’t snore, doesn’t kick, doesn’t do anything that could possibly annoy him. It should be comforting.
But he just can’t shake the feeling that it feels wrong.
The night outside grows darker, the tent lit only by dim moonlight filtering through the fabric. Jackson’s muscles begin to loosen, fatigue weighing down his limbs.
Then, just before sleep can fully claim him, he hears it.
A voice.
It’s barely more than a mumble. A soft, unfamiliar sound that weaves its way into his half-formed dreams. Jackson frowns.
The sound is coming from inside the tent. Or, more specifically, from behind him.
From Elliot?
Jackson holds still, half-heartedly listening.
Sleep talking isn’t unusual. Pepper’s done it before, letting slip the occasional nonsense phrase or half-word. Usually it’s more amusing than anything else.
But this doesn’t sound like Common. And while Jackson doesn’t speak Semish, he’s heard enough of it to know this isn’t that either. Truthfully, it doesn’t sound like any language he recognizes.
Carefully, Jackson turns his head just enough to look.
Moonlight seeps through the thin canvas, pale and diffused, but it’s enough to see Elliot lying on his back now, hands folded neatly over his chest. His mouth moves in time with the sound, but it doesn’t quite sound like his voice.
Well. It does.
But it doesn’t.
It’s wrong. Distorted. Like an echo, almost.
Jackson’s hand slides instinctively towards the dagger tucked under his pillow. He doesn’t draw it, but it makes him feel a little safer.
The pendant at Elliot’s throat glimmers faintly. Not bright enough to illuminate the tent, but enough to cast a sickly greenish glow across his skin.
Why doesn’t he take that thing off before going to sleep anyway?
For a moment, a stupid thought crosses his mind. What would happen if he reached out and tugged it loose?
He dismisses it just as quickly. Messing with magical objects is a good way to lose a hand, or worse.
He turns his back again, pressing one ear firmly into the pillow and covering the other with his free hand, fingers still curled tightly around the dagger hilt.
And somehow, despite it all, he manages to fall asleep.
Unfortunately, when he wakes the next morning, it’s with a stiff neck and a sore jaw: the aftereffects of tension he hadn’t realized he held all night. It takes a few heartbeats to remember why his fingers feel so numb.
He rolls onto his back and stares up at the inside of the tent.
He hears breathing.
Nothing else.
When he turns his head, Elliot is still there, asleep exactly as before. Perfectly still. The pendant rests unmoving against his chest.
Jackson exhales slowly and sits up, scrubbing a hand over his face. He ties his hair back, more out of habit than necessity.
Elliot wakes a few minutes later, stretching like a cat. “Good morning!” he says cheerfully, as if nothing unsettling happened hours ago.
Jackson half-wonders if maybe Elliot isn’t aware he even does that in his sleep. He elects not to be the one to break the possible news to him, if only to avoid the awkward conversation.
“Morning.” He simply mutters instead, before climbing out of the tent.
But the same thing happens the next night. And the next. And the next.
Jackson never mentions it to Elliot. He does complain to Pepper, occasionally, but she waves it off as harmless sleep talking. Jackson’s certain she’d change her tune if she heard it herself.
During the day, he finds himself watching Elliot more closely. Trying to reconcile the cheerful halfling who hums while cooking with the one who mutters in something ancient and wrong when asleep.
The dissonance never fully resolves, but it becomes clear that whatever it is, it isn’t dangerous. Slowly, Jackson comes to accept it as just another one of Elliot’s many strange quirks.
Eventually, he even stops gripping his dagger at night.
These days, the murmuring is something he expects. Almost a reassurance that Elliot is resting properly.
Which is why it unsettles him so deeply when something changes.
At first, it’s just movement.
Which shouldn't be strange. People move in their sleep, that's normal. Elliot, though, never does.
Jackson assumes he must be awake.
“You’re uncomfortable, buddy?” He murmurs as he turns around to face him, only to be met with silence and a clearly asleep halfling. Weird.
But even weirder is the way Elliot’s face is twisted in something that makes Jackson’s stomach sink: brows furrowed, eyes squeezed shut, lips pressed thin.
To make matters worse, his legs twitch beneath the blankets, small, jerky motions that stop and start without rhythm. One of his hands has curled into the fabric of his nightgown, fingers clenched tight enough to wrinkle it. His breathing is uneven, shallow inhales followed by longer, shuddering exhales.
Jackson frowns.
“Ellie?” He calls softly. He figures maybe using Pepper’s nickname for him could help. He seems to like her, after all.
No response.
Elliot’s mouth opens slightly, but no strange words spill out this time. Instead, there’s only breathing. Quick, panicked breaths.
Jackson pushes himself up onto one elbow. Elliot may be the weirdest little guy he has ever met, but he knows a nightmare when he sees one.
He reaches out for him with one hand. Almost. Then he realizes he has no idea what he’s doing, and he immediately backtracks.
What is he supposed to do in this situation?
Jackson isn’t particularly good with this. He would say he’s decent at most when it comes to comforting Pepper and, even then, that’s different. He’s known her for a long time. She’s practically family. He doesn’t have that kind of bond with Elliot.
So, despite himself, he lies back down and decides to ignore this too, just like he does the speaking in tongues.
He regrets it immediately.
Ignoring a stranger being creepy is one thing. Ignoring a friend who’s clearly suffering is another entirely. Enough so that he doesn’t actually manage to get a single blink of sleep that night, not even after Elliot calms down on his own.
Thankfully, it doesn’t happen again. Or so he thinks.
Nights return to normal. The stillness. The murmurs. The faint glow of the pendant. Jackson comes to not only expect it, but be somewhat grateful for it.
If the alternative is the halfling suffering through the night, then he’s good with the strangeness of it all.
But just when Jackson’s decided on writing it off as a one-time incident, it happens again.
Same pattern. Same tight breathing. Same squirming. Same fear etched into Elliot’s face.
And damn it, Jackson doesn’t find it in himself to ignore it once more.
Elliot’s breathing is getting worse. Each inhale catches, stutters, as if he can’t quite pull enough air into his lungs. His hand clenches and unclenches against the fabric of his nightgown, fingers trembling.
Jackson exhales through his nose.
“Alright.” He mutters quietly, shifting closer to the halfling. “Alright, come on.”
The tent is small enough that it doesn’t take much for them to be as close as can be. Elliot doesn’t wake, but he reacts immediately, shoulders drawing up as if bracing for something.
Jackson hesitates, then gently turns him onto his side and pulls him in, wrapping both arms around him.
He rests his chin atop Elliot’s head and pats his back, slow and steady.
“Shh…” He murmurs. “Just a dream. You’re okay.”
He’s not sure if this is the right thing to do, but he vaguely remembers his mother doing this when he was a child, once.
Elliot stiffens for half a second. Then melts.
He presses his forehead into Jackson’s chest, small fists clutching his shirt. The pendant is cool between them. Elliot still trembles, but the panic fades quickly.
If this is all it takes, then Jackson feels like a complete asshole for not doing it last time too.
Elliot’s ridiculously long hair tickles his face. At least it smells nice and clean.
Eventually, the shaking, too, stops. Elliot goes perfectly still in his arms.
Jackson allows himself to think, distantly, that this actually feels nice. He really hopes Elliot doesn’t start muttering in tongues while in his arms, though.
But, well, if he does, Jackson figures he can live with that.