She is thrashing slightly, sweating and shaking, but defiantly asleep, and he watches her, considering what his next move should be. He's taken enough psychology classes to know that there are dreams that kept you sane, dreams that made sense, dreams that didn't; and there are dreams that hold who a person is- which is exactly why he doesn't want to wake her. And while he knows that in books and movies when someone has a nightmare, you wake them up, hug them, whisper 'Shh' and 'It's alright, I'm here.' He's pretty sure that him being 'here' wouldn't be comforting at all, and anyway, he knows that if someone started leaning over him, saying 'shh!' in the middle of a terrifying nighttime experience, he'd probably scream that he'd be as fucking vocal as he wants, thankyouverymuch! But all in all, she's put up with far too much of his shit without being left like that added to the list, so he touches her shoulder; she jolts, eyes wild and bright and completely mad until she sees him. She remained silent and unmoving on the sofa for some time as the madness leaves her eyes, little by little, until it's just her, and she just stares at him, her brilliant mind whirling as fast as a Casio card shufflers. He sees her then, really sees her. There were so many things he would've, should've said to her if he had known how, and he'd known an equal number of things he knew he should never say, but right now, he couldn't tell one from the other- it's two forty-five in the morning, after all, and he's found that his brain stops working at around twelve, so he tells her the thoughts easiest to access at the moment. she then promptly tells him to go to hell and get-some-fucking-sleep-before-i-murder-you-with-my-mascara. The words are hateful, but in the crinkle of her eyes, he can see that she sees him too, and that she loves him in spite of the fact that he's a arrogant, self-centered, bastard.
She's good at that. Loving people.