Could you write something comforting for Alan Wake? The man spent 13 years surviving the hell of The Dark Place; he's so traumatized. But now he's with us, so we can hug him and tell him that everything is going to be alright.
ʕﾉ•ᴥ•ʔﾉ♡ It is time for Mama Bear to cosplay Rose Marigold once again and write for our dear wet sad writer! This one is a bit short, but I think it turned out pretty sweet - just a small talk at night with hurt/comfort vibes.
Enjoy!
The nightmare never ended, not truly. Not for Alan Wake. Even though his eyes were open and his body was held tightly, so tightly by you, you knew with a deep grief that he was still there, still in the Dark Place. It broke your heart to see him twitch, to hear his mumbling or find him completely motionless, eyes straining to see something in the shadows that you could never know.
“Alan,” you called for him in the middle of a night, always around 12 pm, that time when the day ends and the new begins. You could feel the man laying wide awake, body stiff, eyes still looking and searching.
“Alan,” you tried again, your hand finding his under the blanket. Usually so warm, now it felt cold. You were afraid he was having a fever, that he was lost in the darkness of his mind again, but then…
“I’m here,” you heard him whispering. “I’m… I’m actually here. With you.”
The words came out like he was learning to speak for the first time. Rough. Disbelieving. As if he had to test each syllable before he could trust it, as if speaking them was just the same as writing them in ink – once it’s out there, no way to erase them. You felt his hand twitch beneath yours - then slowly, achingly, his fingers, calloused and strong curled around your own.
"Alan…” your voice was softer now, barely a breath. "You're here. You're in bed. With me."
He blinked. Once. Twice. The searching in his eyes didn't stop, but it shifted - like a man trying to focus on something just out of reach. His throat moved as he swallowed, hard.
"The shadows," he said, and his voice cracked. "They were - they were moving. Writing themselves. I could see the words forming on the walls, and I couldn't - I couldn't make them stop-”
"Alan."
You shifted closer, your free hand finding his cheek. His skin was cold, damp with a fine sheen of sweat.
"Look at me. Look at me."
His eyes found yours in the darkness. And for a moment - just a moment - something in his face eased. The tension in his jaw softened and his breath, which had been coming in shallow, uneven quiet gasps, began to slow.
"You're here," he whispered again. But this time it wasn't a confusion. It was a realization. A quiet, trembling wonder.
"I'm here," you confirmed, your voice trembling. "I'm not going anywhere."
His hand came up to cover yours against his cheek, pressing it deeper, his stubble tickling your sensitive skin. He leaned into your palm like a man starved for warmth.
"I keep thinking..." He paused, licking his dry lips. "I keep thinking that I'm going to wake up and you'll be gone. That this is just another loop. Another version of the story where I lose you."
"You won't lose me." You said it firmly, because he needed to hear it. Because you needed to believe it too. "I'm right here. I've got you."
He let out a shaky breath. Then, slowly, he turned his head and pressed his lips to your palm.
"I don't deserve you," he murmured against your skin, slowly shaking his head.
"That's not for you to decide, mister Wake."
A huff of laughter escaped him - surprised, almost disbelieving. It was the first real sound of amusement you'd heard from him in days.
"There you are," you said softly, echoing the words he'd once said to you. He shifted closer, tucking himself against your side like he was trying to disappear into you. His head found the curve of your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck, his strong hands wrapping around your body.
"Stay," Alan whispered. "Just... stay with me. Please."
"Always."
His body was still tense, still carrying the weight of a thousand sleepless nights in a place that never let him rest. But slowly, by increments, you felt him begin to relax.
"I love you," he said quietly.
"I love you too, Alan."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then, so softly you almost missed it: "Thank you for pulling me back."
There would be many more nights like this. And you would face every single one of them because it would mean that he was still in his bed with you, still here, still real. And that was worth every nightmare.