I really don't have much to say about this one. I like it, though.
The restless times—those are the worst. Sarah senses them coming these days. She sees them in Jareth: in the arch of his back and the manic glint in his eyes, the quiver in his hands from energy building in the closed-circuit of his body, ineffectually ripping him to shreds. Sarah prepares for the restless times as well as she can: tries to get affairs in order, steels herself for sleepless nights. When they hit she faces them head-on, like she faces everything.
The soundtrack of her nightmares used to be the silence following Toby's last scream before he descended into the Labyrinth. Now it is the sound of barely-there footfalls across the plush carpet of the bed-chamber she and Jareth share. The periods of restlessness burn through him like a fever, one that she can do nothing to abate. This isn't about her, and she can't stop it.
The Labyrinth and the kingdom at its outskirts complete her, and she can't work up the concentration to feel homesick. She has no time for it, when Jareth is homesick for a world he barely knows.
Horror pools in her middle as the footsteps dissolve into the rustle of moving wings and a window opens—the magic strong enough to swing the glass pane inward, but not enough to stop its squeaking. Jareth will return in a few hours—she tells the time on an old human watch secreted under her feather pillow—and he will be more exhausted, yet quiver with more energy, than ever. She will coax him to rest, and wipe down his brow with a delicate touch. He will drift away into an uneasy sleep, and she will be unable to follow.
Night will bleed into morning, and the restlessness will be hers.