He doesn’t sleep often, save for when he’s drunk so much that he can fall into something like slumber, that more likely resembles an unconscious stupor.
When this doesn’t happen, he lies awake in bed for long hours, fighting back memories and the strange thoughts that only really occur to you in the middle of the night when you simply can’t be arsed to get yourself out of bed, such as “Is the front door locked?” and “I wonder if I have any more scotch.” or even “Where’s my gun?”
Nights like this, when he’s not alone, he turns to look at her, while she sleeps, tiny and curled up next to him. So often, her hands steal close, seeking his, thin fingers curling around his. Calloused and scarred, his hands are very much a focal piece of him, capable and dextrous, quick and dangerous, deceptively hiding the shaking with nimble movement, or maybe, if need be, the other way ’round.
He’ll hold her hand in the middle of the night, when he can’t sleep, but he hates himself for the way he lets it hold him still.