You sprawl across the end of his bed, watching him with hooded eyes. He stares back, but he doesn't see you – he's having one of those days; when he runs himself to exhaustion just to shut his mind up, to get it to stop goddamn thinking for a moment and leave him in peace.
You're no telepath, but you have a general idea of what thoughts won't leave him alone – his father, his mother, his sisters, himself. He talks in his sleep, sometimes, mutters names and phrases and confessions and, more often than not, gobbledygook. Mostly, it happens when he's having a nightmare; nightmares which seem to come and go as often as the tides, but with less warning.
His fingers twitch, and your eyes follow them. It's hypnotising, watching Peter move. He never stops, even when he's sleeping; one morning you'd woken up with four tiny bruises in a line on your shoulder, a result of his fingers tapping all night long. He'd blushed and said sorry so many times it was annoying, but you didn't get mad because you had the same bad habit. They were a light purple-blue, but they didn't hurt. It wasn't until later that day that you realised what else they looked like – you'd worn a singlet to training like you always did, but unfortunately for both you and Peter, it was Scott who caught a glimpse of them. The wolf-whistles and waggly eyebrows that followed made Peter declare war; a war that, despite the Professor's best efforts, was still being fought.
His fingers halt, trembling ever-so-slightly on the pillowcase in front of him. You wait, too, breath held lightly in your throat. His leg, half hanging off the side of the bed, starts jiggling softly, and you can breathe again. You try to stop it, but your breath catches slightly, the barest hint of relief. His eyes focus, finding and holding your gaze. He opens his mouth, but he's so tired all he can do is grunt.
"Coming." You whisper, crawling up the bed to sit with your legs stretched along his back. He shivers, eyes sliding closed as he rolls over and lays his head on your thigh. You huff, surprised. Forcing your hand to hold still, you reach out and brush his hair out of his eyes. You can feel his leg shaking the bed, feel him start up a beat on your leg with his thumb. You smile when you recognise it, from a new record he insists he paid for (even though you know he's lying).
Running your fingers through his hair seems natural at this point, to the same – albeit slowed down - beat as his fingers. His eyes flutter in their sockets, slipping closed, his breath leaving his nose in huffs rather than composed silence.
"It's okay, Peter. I'm here now; I'll be here all night; I'll be here when you wake up. Go to sleep."
And he does.