Sanctuary
summary: nightmares had been Zayne’s companions for a long time; and when his son had one too, his heart ached.
tags: dad!Zayne, nightmares, comfort, fear, Zayne is such a good dad
words count: 1,562k
AO3 link🔗 | masterlist
Figures lurking in the shadows, darkness wrapping around everything, and a chill that vibrated with black hue all around.
A knot in the stomach, a lump in the throat, the need to scream that ended uselessly in an empty cry.
Vertigo, the sensation of falling, then the feeling of being trapped, as if in a timeless current where dark shadows followed him.
A mirror shattering into a thousand fragments, like branches of a snowflake, and in each of them a reflection of himself—the reflection of something unknown, yet painful.
A distant, familiar voice, breaking apart, lost in the folds of time and space.
Then, he woke up.
Sheets and body damp with sweat, ragged breathing, crystals of ice adorning both the blankets and the phalanges of his fingers.
Every night, the same nightmare.
Nightmares had been Zayne’s faithful companions for years. For a long time, every awakening had felt like gasping for air after a long and painful apnea—one he didn’t know if he would survive.
For a long time, he had wondered why, why was all that happening to him, and from wishing they would vanish, he had simply grown accustomed to surviving.
Until she came back into his life.
He couldn’t say exactly why; scientifically, there was no sensible explanation linking nightmares or dreams to the presence of another person at one’s side. And yet, on the very first night they spent together, Zayne slept. A pleasant sleep, untouched by any kind of nightmare, gently cradled by her scent and by the warmth of her naked body beside his.
Perhaps it was her touch, their hands entwined in sleep, her scent, or simply her presence—yet from that moment on, the nightmares became more and more sporadic.
On the rare nights when they returned to torment him, she took care of him, waking immediately as soon as she sensed his breathing grow labored and felt him stir in the bed.
She would try to ground him gently, holding his hand so that her touch and her warmth could comfort him.
Then she would hold him tight against her, his face on her chest so he could feel the beat of her heart, so that his, too, could return to its natural, steady rhythm.
Finally, she would whisper kind words to him, softly stroking his hair and his back in soothing motions, reminding him that he was safe, that she would protect him from anything, just as he would do for her.
And little by little, his eyes would close, as he let himself be wrapped in her and in the comfort that only she could bring into his existence.
Nightmares had been Zayne’s companions for a long time; he could recognize the sound of someone having a bad dream even from the other bedroom.
Perhaps that was the reason why, as soon as they became parents, the task of comforting their children whenever they had nightmares had almost automatically fallen to him. It was as if they sensed in him a reassuring, calm, and protective presence, which was why they would always go to him to seek comfort on those occasions.
Their firstborn, especially, was a quiet and silent child, just like his father had been when he was little; maybe, for that very reason, he seemed to be the one most prone to such episodes.
Zayne would wake at any hour when his son stood in front of his side of the bed, gently tugging at his pajama sleeve, sniffing quietly so as not to wake his mother as well.
Zayne always recognized the signs on his face—it had happened many times already: big, glossy eyes filled with unshed tears, lips pressed tightly together to keep from crying, tiny hands clutching his plush seal, a gift for his fourth birthday just a few months earlier, and his breathing broken by muffled sobs.
He immediately sat up in bed, gently gathering the little one into his arms as he soothed him with slow, calming strokes through his hair.
“Is it that bad dream again?” Zayne asked softly, searching for that big pair of eyes in the dim light of the room.
When the little one nodded, he let out a quiet sigh.
He knew too well what it felt like to have nightmares. His heart couldn’t help but ache every time his son went through a troubled sleep, just like he had when he was a young child.
He couldn’t bear to see that frightened expression, the trembling lower lip and those big teary eyes searching for reassurance from him.
He knew that feeling all too well—having experienced it himself was one thing, but seeing it on his own child? His own flesh and blood, a fragile little creature who sought warmth and refuge in his arms? He simply couldn’t bear it.
“Come on, let’s get you back to bed while your mom sleeps.”
Gently cradling his child in his arms, Zayne went back to the kids’ bedroom, soothingly caressing his son’s back as he was sobbing quietly against his chest.
The room was wrapped in the silence of the night, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the bookshelf wall. The walls were decorated with images of various animals, painted by Zayne himself during her first pregnancy, when they had rearranged the room to welcome their firstborn, then his little sister two years later, who now slept peacefully in the other bed.
Zayne turned on the small penguin-shaped lamp on the bedside table and gently laid his child in his little bed.
“Do you want to tell me about your bad dream, or do you prefer if I just hold you for a bit?”- he asked softly, keeping his voice low so as not to wake his sleeping daughter nearby.
His son remained silent for a moment, as he always did when asked something, as if carefully considering the best answer. Then he quietly began to tell his father about his dream, trying to explain through stutters and sniffles.
“There were monsters… big, big monsters…”
“Mhm, I see… what else?”
“Cold… I was alone… no mommy and daddy…”
“You were all alone?”
The child nodded softly as another tear rolled down his chubby cheek.
Zayne’s heart tightened at the sight of his son like that—it felt like being thrown back into the past for a moment, seeing himself again in that frightened, yearning gaze.
Zayne smiled reassuringly, despite his heart quietly breaking, and gently wiped away the tear with his thumb.
“All alone… you were very brave.”
“But it was so scary…”
“Do you remember what we always say about these bad dreams?”
The little one paused, trying to remember the phrase his father repeated to him like a mantra every time the nightmares returned.
“...They’re not real?”
“Yes, that’s right. They’re not real. They can’t hurt you.”
“But the monsters…”
Smiling, Zayne caressed his hair again, his warm hazel eyes filled with affection as he looked at his child.
“What else do we always say? Who’s the best at fighting monsters?”
“Mommy…?”
“That’s right. Mommy is a brave Hunter, the best one. She’ll always protect you, even in your dreams.”
His son giggled softly, imagining his mom fiercely fighting Wanderers in his dream like a superhero.
“And if you ever feel sick, scared or get hurt, who can you come to?”
“...Daddy! Because he’s the bestest doctor ever!” the little one replied, his smile growing wide as he spread his arms to emphasize his answer.
“Yes, that’s right.” With a small smile, Zayne nodded and sat beside him on the bed, gently tucking him under the soft blankets decorated with little snowmen pattern.
“Mom and I, we will always be here. You don’t have to worry. Whatever comes in your dreams, you’ll be safe.”
The little one held out his pinkie, looking eagerly at his dad, his voice soft.
“Promise?”
With a tender smile, Zayne linked his son’s tiny pinkie with his own larger one, his warm touch reassuring and gentle.
“Promise.”
Then he softly held his hand while helping him settle comfortably on the pillow.
“Now sleep. I’ll hold your hand until you fall asleep. As long as I’m here, you’ll have sweet dreams.”
A gentle kiss landed on the little one’s head as he cuddled beneath the covers, clutching his plush seal tightly, while his other hand held onto his father’s.
Zayne's eyes were on his small figure, his heart swelling with affection and protectiveness, as he whispered softly but surely.
“I’m here. I’ll always be here.”