After Angel's capture, we were required to take courses on how to escape capture. He came to me after one of the lessons. He admitted that for part of his capture he was held with zip ties. That day we had been instructed on how to escape zip ties.

"It would have been so easy," he had said, "All I had to do was put my hands up and pull down quickly. I would have been out. Do you think he knew that? When he left all those times and I was alone, do you think he liked the control he had over me, keeping me there when I could have escaped at any minute had I just known that one thing?"

I never know what to say to him. The scars that now cover his body give testament to his time in capture. I will, hopefully, never know first-hand what it was like to go through that.

He never seemed satisfied with my answer. That day was no different. He left moments after seeming angry, reserved. I always worry that I hurt him more than I help him. But what else can I do? I tried explaining in multiple ways how psychological torture works, tried telling him that it isn't his fault that he felt so angry towards the world. It never seems to do anything.

I regret using the word torture every time I say it. It is a word I stray from using. Angel always to flinches from it. I couldn't blame him. He has been through so much. I just want to see him happy. He never is. But tonight, for tonight at least he stays calm. At least, he did until his sleep is once again interrupted.

When I zone back into reality, I turn my head to the hero who lay beside me. His tan back is sliced through with scars that are highlighted in the moonlight.

We had started sleeping in the same bed years ago when we were thirteen- I have made fun of him for sleeping on his stomach since. Despite the assumptions, we didn't have any sort of intimate relationship- romantic or otherwise- but it certainly feels more comfortable when we aren't alone. Training began around that time and some days were rough. It isn't that HQ doesn't care about their heroes; they just care more about our survival than our comfort. I can't really blame them for it. Angel does. Now, at least he does. He hated them every day that we were forced to go to the Surviving and Escaping Capture Courses. He was reminded too much of his time as a prisoner.

It had been nearly a year since then. Tonight is the first night he got back in bed with me. His warmth is something I had missed. As was his soft breathing in the mornings when I wake up before him. I think more than anything I miss knowing that he trusts me to keep him safe while he sleeps. The uneven pace of his breathing tells me he isn't sleeping soundly now, though. I want to hold him. I want to let him know that I am here so everything will be alright. I just don't want to make anything worse. If he is having a nightmare or if he is on the verge of a nightmare then anything could set him off. A touch that could be seen as gentle to an outsider might very well be identical to something the villain had done.

The villain has a name, of course. Very few at HQ deem it necessary to give him enough status as a human to call him by his name. I certainly don't. He is only still alive because he believes capture to be a worse fate than death.

Angel becomes more restless in his sleep. He rolls to his side, and in doing so he bumps into me. The sudden skin-on-skin contact jolts him awake in a panic. While looking quickly from side to side, trying to get his vision to focus on whatever it was that his body perceived as a threat, he verges on hyperventilation.

"Angel," I murmur, laying the top of my head against his back, "It's okay. It's just me."

He relaxes. I've found that that is one form of physical contact that will not set him off. Apparently, his captor never saw fit to lay his head against Angel. I still have one form of contact I can offer in comfort.

"Jules?" He asks, his voice unusually clear compared to his usual "just woke up" voice.

I nod against his back, feeling the uneven texture of the scars on my scalp even through my hair. Slowly, I lift my head and he relaxes so my chest is pressed against his back. I don't say anything about the slight discomfort I feel from his weight pressing on my lungs. If he is resting and calm, I'd walk through hell and smile the whole time.

"I'm sorry if I scared you," Angel grouses, sounding more like his tired self.

"Sleep, Angel," I murmur, pressing my head into the space between his shoulder and neck.

My closest friend, the only person I have left from my childhood, scoots his way back to his pillow. I lower myself to lay my face mere inches from his and listen as he drifts off, his breathing finally calming to a cadence I'm familiar with. I watch him for what must be hours more before my eyes force their way closed as the sun peaks over the horizon.

//Author's note: I would like to say that I know that this chapter is more awkward but I'm struggling with the flow for some reason.