Chapter Text
Champ’s nightmares are full of dead people.
He struggles up from sleep, his heart pounding like there's a frightened bird trapped inside his chest, and the scream is poised just behind his teeth. He clamps his jaw shut and, breathing hard through his nose, holds the scream in until it gives up and slinks down into his belly.
He needs to pee so badly that it almost hurts, and he untangles himself from the sweaty sheets and hurries down the hallway for the bathroom.
When he’s done, Champ stands in the bathroom doorway for a few seconds, thinking about what he wants to do next. He’s proud of himself for handling the nightmare as well as he has been so far, even though it was one of the really bad ones, but that doesn’t mean that he isn’t still frightened or that he wants to go back into his own bed to be all alone, so instead he pads down the hallway and opens the door to his Dad’s room.
They’re sleeping, Hannibal and his Dad, and Champ is quiet as he goes forward to the foot of the bed and untucks the blankets from under the mattress.
He wiggles under the sheets and squirms up between his Dad and Hannibal, feeling the cool fabric of Hannibal’s silk pajama bottoms as he crawls towards the head of the bed, and now this is as much about the fun of being sneaky as it is seeking out comfort, and when his head pops up from under the blankets there is a grin on his face.
Champ’s Dad is on his left and Hannibal is on his right, and his own head is in the gap between their pillows. When he turns to the left he can see his Dad breathing, and can hear the faint whistle of air through his nose, but when he looks to the right he starts to get scared again; Hannibal’s face is turned towards him, eyes closed and hands tucked under his cheek, but he seems as still as a plastic doll.
There is a moment in which the after-image of his nightmare superimposes itself upon the waking world, and Champ sees again Hannibal among the dead, laying still on floor beside his Mama and his Dad and the dogs, glassy-eyed and leaking blood, and Champ feels the roar building up in his chest. He balls his fists to hit Hannibal - to make him move, to make him stop looking so dead - but then in the dim light of the room the man’s eyes open.
Hannibal regards Champ calmly, and he feels transparent - like Hannibal can see everything that’s going on in the inside of Champ’s skull, but is isn’t exactly a bad feeling.
“Did you dream?”
Champ nods, silently, and then he reaches out and curls his arms around the crook of Hannibal’s elbow. He holds on tight, watching to see if it’s alright - if Hannibal will get angry at him - and though his face remains impassive Champ can see the happiness in the gleam of his eyes.
“I didn’t yell when I woke up,” Champ tells him, and juts his chin out proudly.
“You didn’t,” Hannibal agrees, his voice low, and Champ sees his own pride reflected in the subtle lines of his face.
“I was going to yell, but I didn’t. I didn’t pee the bed, either,” he adds, and Hannibal nods against the pillow.
Champ mimics the movement, then he lets go of Hannibal, but only long enough to turn part-way over to tug at his Dad’s nightshirt until he rolls over in his sleep and curls his body around Champ. Then Champ grabs Hannibal by the forearm again and pulls so he knows to slide closer to himself and his Dad.
Clutching him at the wrist, Champ draws Hannibal’s hand against his chest and holds onto it like a stuffed animal. He feels the big hand turn in his grasp, palm pressing carefully against his chest to feel the beating of his heart, which is steady and calm now.
It’s good. Champ feels as safe as a caterpillar inside its cocoon, warm and protected on every side. It’s just what he wanted, climbing up here, and he yawns hugely and lets his eyes droop shut.
Sleep follows quickly after that, and if the nightmares come for any of them in what is left of the night, they do not face them alone.