In sleep, Jamie looked much different than in waking. Perhaps the same could be said for most people, but the contrast was especially notable in him; laying still and with his eyes closed, gone was his scrutinizing gaze and his sense of perpetual movement. He was quiet -- at peace, to an extent -- which was a state of being that generally escaped him when he was conscious, the time some part of him had once spent as a monk too far gone to be relevant in his day-to-day life anymore, too buried under new experiences, and conflicting memories. Stripped of worry, he seemed younger, or less burdened, careless in a way he hadn't been able to afford to be in years, not since his government days, not since he first died.

And so it was that Jamie didn't wake right away, though he was dimly aware, through the haze of untroubled sleep, that Layla already had. That she was so close came as something of a surprise, but he was in no real position to note as much, instead instinctively seeking out her warmth by draping his arm over her waist. Letting out a sigh that sounded suspiciously like her name, he curled in towards her, his head bowing so that her hair tickled at his nose. A sleepy smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, and a quiet laugh lodged itself in his throat, sounding short-lived, if undeniably pleased. Without opening his eyes, he mumbled in a drowsy voice, "'Ry Christmas."