He always looks so peaceful when he's sleeping.

You find him, sprawled all over the small bed the two of you sometimes share. You can't help but smile at the sight, recalling the first time you ever saw him: you, observing coolly through the safety glass and steel bars of his cell; him, draped over the tiny bed, one arm hanging off the side and touching the floor. He was still under the effect of the sedative they gave him when they bought him in.

Sleep was a prominent subject in your therapy sessions, particularly those very early sessions. He's a very private person (always has and always will be), but he's more than happy to make up stories and tales to toy with whomever he happens to be conversing with. You, desperate for a subject he couldn't lie too much about, introduced the topic of sleep – you knew he had sleeping problems, it was all down in his file: insomnia, nightmares, somniloquy...
Later, he would tell you all about his dreams and nightmares. You would sit and listen attentively, making notes about how detrimental to his mental health the restrictive lifestyle imposed on him at the Asylum was and you would fight for his right to more freedoms. But, before you could make any progress, he'd somehow managed to escape.
You didn't sleep at all that week, you were so worried.

Sleep crossed your mind so often after you'd helped him escape a second time and began your life on the road. You found yourself amazed (not to mention, slightly concerned) at how little he slept; no matter how hard you tried you could never stay awake that long for that often and he would always remain awake for hours after you'd succumbed. Sometimes though, you'd only pretend to be asleep, just so you could watch him work; just so you could see the smile dance around on his face after he'd thought up another master plan; just so you could watch him be himself.

Sleep means intimacy. He dislikes physical contact and has issues with relationships – you've always known this, but to bring these issues up would ruin whatever it is the two of you have. His unconscious hours are the only hours you have him truly to yourself. They're the only times you can fantasize all you like, the only times you can hold his hand and stroke his hair. It's not your ideal relationship, but you don't care: nobody's perfect, so why should you expect him to be? Besides, you're happy this way.

Sleep means peace. During sleep there are no random violent outbursts, no fighting, no plotting, no running about and secretly filling buildings with dynamite and gasoline. Occasionally, there are nightmares but everybody has bad dreams every now and then. Sleep is the time of silence and calm.

He always looks so peaceful when he sleeps, you muse as you slide into bed beside him and drape one of his arms over you. He always looks so peaceful when he's sleeping...