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The ringing wakes Leon from vague, tense dreams that fade as soon as he opens his eyes, and it takes a few seconds for the name showing in the glow of his phone's screen to fully register as he squints at it in the dark. Once it does, he's wide awake, sitting up and picking up, concern coiled tight in his chest.
"Grace?"
He's met with silence, and he's about to repeat her name when she timidly responds.
"Leon?"
"The one and only."
Her words come out in a breathless rush. "I—I'm so sorry, I just—I didn't mean to bother you, I just, I, I—"
Grace sounds so small, and so afraid, and Leon already knows that she's beating herself up for calling him, that she's worried that whatever she needs from him now is of no great concern.
She couldn't be more wrong.
"Grace," he says gently, hoping the sound of her name will help ground her, stop her anxious stammering, stop the spiral he knows she's riding. "You're not bothering me."
"But it's t-two in the morning," she berates herself. "Weren't you asleep? And—" she continues, before he can answer "—it's just, how—" her voice quiets.
"How do you sleep, Leon?"
He's silent for a moment, processing the extent of what she's asking him. He figured this might be the issue; he knows what it's like, in the beginning—and sometimes still—to dream of blood, disease, the dying and the dead, wake choking and breathless and, more often than not, alone. He sleeps soundly most nights, nowadays, and doesn't like to think about how numb it means he's become.
"Like a fucked up baby," he says, and that gets a laugh from Grace—a measly one, but a laugh nonetheless, and it warms him. "You having nightmares?"
"Y-yeah," Grace says, timidly, as if it's something she's afraid to admit.
"Paperwork'll do that to you."
Leon's met with silence this time, and he regrets the joke, because he knows that said paperwork, in piles on Grace's desk at her office, is another heavy ticket to reliving the horror they've just been through.
It's only been a week.
"Sorry," he says, softer. "Talk to me."
"I'm so tired," says Grace, and she sounds it. She sounds on the verge of tears, too. "But I can't close my eyes. I keep seeing… everything. I'm n-never going to sleep again, am I?" Panic rises in her voice, and Leon knows he's got to get it under control before she breaks.
"You will," he says. "I promise. Where are you right now?"
"S-sitting in bed." She sniffles, loud, and he imagines her huddled there, tears falling into her lap, wiping her forearm across her running nose, and it stings him somewhere deep. He wishes he could be there, to put an arm around her, to talk her through it, and fuck, he might just offer to go there—but he doesn't, because he knows that right now, her guilt will flare back up at what she perceives to be just another silly inconvenience to him.
"Emily sleeps so—so peacefully," Grace continues, her voice shaking. "I just—I'm so glad, but I don't know how she does it."
"She's really one of a kind," Leon says. "Glad she's doing alright. You, on the other hand…"
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize." He pauses, and has an idea, something that'll get her back to baseline even if sleeping's still hard tonight.
"Listen, you're gonna breathe with me, okay? Lay down, on your back, and put your hand on your stomach, so you can feel your breath."
"O—okay. I can try."
He hears the rustle of sheets, pictures her getting settled, her wide eyes, the sweat that might be beading on her forehead. He gets up and walks into the bathroom, runs the tap and splashes some cold water onto his face with his free hand. It's not that he needs to wake himself up; he's alert, razor-sharp focus on Grace. It's that maybe he's feeling it a bit too—he's slightly unsettled—and he needs to be strong for her.
He stares at himself in the mirror as he talks her through getting her breathing under control; counting aloud for her as she goes slowly in, hold, slowly out, hold, until she's calm again, back to earth. He doesn't know how long it takes, but eventually he realizes he's got his hand on his own stomach, feeling his own breath, and when he says, gently, you're doing great, he wonders if he's also talking to himself.
His reflection is dim, and the years are showing, the difference between he and Grace stark. At this point being young is something hard to remember, and his youth is tainted anyway, all of it. But Grace has everything ahead of her, and she might be damaged, but he knows without a doubt that she can make it.
She inspires a bittersweet ache in him, a living reminder that he has his own youth to mourn.
"I'm not going to lie to you," he says. "It's won't be easy, getting through it. But I promise you, it's manageable."
We'll manage, he thinks, and then they talk until Grace feels capable of sleep again.
A few minutes later, once he's settled back into bed, thinking about the girl who, in some ways, reminds him of his younger self—his phone buzzes.
Thank you ❤️, reads Grace's text.
He writes back:
Anytime.