It's no surprise to anyone that York can sleep anywhere; the couch, the floor, inside his own armor, it doesn't really matter. When his body decides it's time to shut down, he goes with the proverbial flow and lets it happen, regardless of whether he needs to be productive. ( Or just thinks he does. )

But when the night terrors start, North can't help but to start keeping an even closer eye on him than usual. The other man never fails to wake drenched in a cold sweat, soaked to the bone and shaking, winded as though he's just been running for his very life from something that had wanted nothing more than to sink its claws into him and render him limb from limb. And he .. well. To say he feels a bit helpless in finding himself able to help him would have been putting it mildly.

One night – it can't be past 0300, it really can't – the other man is shifting fitfully in his sleep, brows drawn tight and North wakes with a small jolt, already attuned to his nightly regime of twisting and turning about, getting himself wrapped up in the sheets and thus making it worse by feeling trapped. He rolls over, warm, soft hands gently framing either side of his face, tracing the line of his jaw and murmuring nonsense, just in an attempt to wake him.

"York –" He thinks better of it, tries again. "Taylor. Wake up for me, okay?"