jackabbot | Polar Nightmares

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robby

Polar Nightmares

His therapist in Pittsburgh had told him once that he thought Jack preferred nights because the darkness was a source of comfort for him, and Jack didn't think he was wrong. He usually wasn't, which was the annoying part about therapy. A lot of people were scared of or disliked the dark, which he understood, but he’d never found it scary, even before he'd started working nights all the time. Jack thought it was a lot worse to see all the shit that was coming his way in the light, in a lot of ways, whether that was mortars or MVAs. All of that meant that this polar night thing Darrow suddenly had going on was just fine with Jack in terms of what he was doing and how he was doing it, but he knew that wasn’t true for most people.

Robby, in particular, had been getting incredibly fucking grumpy. He’d come over to Jack’s apartment after he finished another shift of caring for people who had been injured “running into shit because no one remembers to carry a goddamn flashlight or even just use the flashlight function on their fucking phone”. Jack had fed him huevos rancheros, given him a beer, and let him complain, then sent him off to shower and go to bed. Jack’s own body clock wouldn’t let him sleep for a few hours yet, so he read a book on the couch until he thought he could sleep.

When he went to his bed, he fell asleep easily in the new sheets Robby had given him, but he was also almost immediately dropped into a nightmare. He was back in Afghanistan but it was Sarajevo but it was Iraq. There were IEDs but there were missiles but there was friendly fire from tanks. He smelled burning cloth and hot metal and gasoline. He tasted sand and blood and sweat as he tried to tourniquet everyone and everything. He didn’t have enough supplies, enough time, enough skill. Soldiers were dying and Robby was dying and Diane was dying and neither of them should have been there. No one should ever have been there. He called out for suppressing fire, for more supplies, for anything that would slow the blood and death.

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"A less broken body and brain would be nice," Jack said faintly. He needed to get his heart rate down if only so Robby didn't try to put a 12-lead on him, but he couldn't quite get his breathing under control yet, which meant his heart rate wasn't going to go down.

The images of Robby were still behind his eyes and he closed them, hoping that would make them float away.

Even though he's awake, Jack still sounds on the verge of hyperventilating and Robby needs that to not happen. He shifts, sitting back on his heels so that he's a bit more stable.

"You need me to breathe with you?" he asks, voice pitched low and calm in the dim light.

"No, man, go back to bed. Sorry I woke you up," Jack said without opening his eyes. He'd accepted so much about how his life had changed and how much he couldn't change about it, but he still felt embarrassed by being caught in a nightmare. He always had, right back to the first ones he'd had with Diane in the bed. It was worse that he woke Robby up, though. Robby had a shift tomorrow morning. He didn't need to be dealing with Jack's mental trauma.

Robby doesn't even justify that with a response. He just straightens up, his hands coming to rest on his hips for a moment.

"Shift your ass over, man," he says. "And then we can do some box breathing."

Jack wanted to argue with that. He wanted to tell Robby again that he didn't need to be here, didn't need to see this, but even in his half-awake, still breathing too fast and moderately tachycardic state, he could tell that Robby had decided to be stubborn about this. If he were more awake, he'd be grateful for his friend. Right now he was just embarrassed.

He rolled with effort away from the edge of the bed, or at least tried to. He'd somehow gotten all twisted up in his own sheets.

"God fucking dammit," he snarled, low and angry at himself and the universe.

"For Christ's sake, that's not going to help your heart rate, is it?" Robby usually steadfastly refuses to do anything for Jack when he's not wearing his prosthetic unless explicitly asked to, but this is different. Jack hasn't entirely gotten back to himself yet. Gently, patiently, Robby helps to disentangle the sheets a little.

"Better?"

"My heart rate is not your fucking problem. I'm not your patient," he tried to argue, but he also let Robby gently free him from the knot of sheets he'd gotten himself into. He did feel much less trapped once his remaining foot was free and a sheet end wasn't wound tightly around the end of his residual limb.

He flopped back onto the pillow away from the edge of the bed and tried to breathe normally as he stared at the texture on the ceiling of the bedroom. Robby was probably going to sit on the edge of the bed and there was room for him to do that.

"No," says Robby pretty shortly. "You're not."

Jack's much more than that, and they both know it even, of lately, it has felt more complicated. Jack thumps back against his pillow and leaves room for Robby to sit down, so that's what he does, back against the headboard, one leg stretched out on the mattress.

"C'mon, asshole," he says. "Box breathing."

That actually startled half a laugh out of Jack, which was probably Robby's goal. Either that or he'd gotten frustrated with Jack's grumpiness. Maybe both. Two things could be true.

He put a hand up to half-heartedly flip Robby off, but he also closed his eyes and started doing some goddamn box breathing. He could feel the warmth of Robby's body near but not touching him, and that helped him feel a little more calm too.

He wants to touch Jack -- squeeze his shoulder, maybe, or comb his fingers through his hair -- but he settles for taking Jack's arm and pressing two fingers to Jack's wrist to take his radial pulse as he breathes. He knows that Jack's wearing a smart watch, but he'll always trust himself more.

"Keep going," he prompts.

The first few breaths were not a box. Jack wasn't sure what shape they were, but they were not a box. Gradually, though, he was able to breathe more easily and they were more of a box. Robby's fingers on his wrist helped, too, even though Jack knew Robby was only touching him so he could make sure Jack's heart rate was coming down.

The smartwatch chimed to indicate that Jack's heart rate had fallen below 100 bpm again. Robby would take his hand away from Jack's wrist any second now.

Jack's breathing evens out and his heart rate starts to settle, and Robby stays right where he is, two fingers pressed against Jack's pulse. They get to the point where he could have let Jack take his arm back, but Jack doesn't give any indication of pulling away so Robby keeps his wrist where it is.

"That's it," he says, voice still pitched low. Unconsciously, his breathing starts to mirror Jack's.

Robby hadn't let go of his wrist yet and his warm, strong fingers were still firmly pressed to Jack's pulse. Jack's awareness of the world was narrowing again. He was focusing on Robby breathing next to him. Robby was breathing. Robby wasn't injured. He wasn't bleeding out into the sand and dust and dirt, staining the ground a color that never could be mistaken for oil or any other substance.

Jack's pulse picked back up again and his breathing got rougher as the images started playing through his head again.

He hears Jack's breathing slip irregular again, feels the skip in his heartbeat. It's not all that surprising, though. Panic attacks tended to linger, and Jack's definitely on the verge of one.

"Hey," he says, fingers curling around Jack's wrist, giving him some sensory input. "Three things you can hear. Go."

Robby's hand slid around his wrist, but he still had two fingers on Jack's radial pulse. Jack tried to think about the warmth of Robby's hand, not how quickly a person could become cold after circulation ceased. He tried to focus on whatever Robby needed him to focus on right now, even though he wasn't sure why. He did know why. But he didn't know why.

"Furnace," he said faintly. "Faucet dripping. Your voice."

"Right. Good." He keeps up the steady pressure around Jack's wrist, monitoring his pulse and holding on at the same time. "Now give me three things you can feel. Physically." He wants to wrap his free arm around Jack, but he also doesn't want to overwhelm him.

Jack had been on both ends of a panic attack more times than he could count. Robby had only been on the side of trying to help with one as far as Jack knew, but he'd done it enough that he knew exactly what tone and cadence to use. Jack could recognize that he was being managed and still appreciate how it was helping. He could feel his heart rate starting to drop again.

"Fucking comfortable sheets. Air from the vent making me cold. Your hand on my wrist."

"That's it." Jack's pulse is coming down again, and, unconsciously, Robby strokes his thumb over the fine hair on Jack's wrist. "Last one. Move three bosh parts for me."

It felt good to have Robby stroke his thumb over Jack's wrist and he breathed out more easily and deeply than he had since he woke up. If he'd had his eyes open, he might have closed them, but he was keeping them closed for now.

A tiny, mischievous part of him wanted one of his three moves to be flipping Robby off again, but he wasn't sure he had the energy for that yet. Instead he wiggled his five remaining toes and the fingers on both hands. His hands and toes tingled, which happened to him during panic attacks.

"Thank you," he finally said. "I'm good. You can go if you want."

He was not good. He knew he was not good. Robby certainly knew he was not good. He was still going to give Robby another opportunity to leave.

"I'm good," echoes Robby because he's definitely not leaving Jack yet. He does loosen his hold on his wrist, though, in case Jack wants to take it back. "Can you scoot your ass over a little more, though? I don't think my back's going to thank me if I end up in a pile on the floor."

"Old man," Jack groused with just a little bit of his usual snarky asshole tone. He also scooted over, but not far enough for Robby's hand to fall off his wrist. Robby could assume that was accidental if he wanted to. It wasn't.

"How's my pulse, doc?" he asked lightly. He could feel that it was still elevated, but it didn't feel as high as it had been.

He'd been called Doc by so many soldiers over so many years, including in their last moments of life. Medics were just always Doc, even when none of them were actually doctors.

It's the most like himself that Jack's sounded since Robby woke up him, and Robby feels himself relax a little. Jack makes room for him and Robby shifts, shuffling down until he's lying beside Jack. His fingers stay loosely curled around Jack's wrist, and Jack's hand ends up resting on his chest.

"Better," he says. "Still a little quicker than I'd like."

He hadn't expected Robby to take Jack's wrist with him when he laid down, or to let it rest against his chest when he did, but if Robby wasn't going to break the contact, Jack wasn't either. At least Jack had two sets of pillows on this bed so Robby wasn't just laying on the mattress. That would really result in Robby bitching about his back.

"Yeah, it's probably gonna stay that way," he said. He still had his eyes closed. If he didn't open them, he didn't have to see the worried expression that was almost certainly on Robby's face. He didn't have to try to explain what he'd seen in his mind. He didn't have to admit that nightmares were a regular occurrence for him, even if this was the first one Robby had seen.

It would, he thinks, be the easiest thing in the world, to shift his grip on Jack's wrist and thread their fingers together instead. It feels impossible. He keeps his fingers curled around Jack's wrist, Jack's skin warm through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. He strokes his thumb against Jack's skin in slow, soft arcs.

"You want to talk about it?" he asks, his voice still low. "Or do you want to talk about any fuckin' thing else?"

If Jack wants to go straight back to sleep, that's also okay. Robby's got no plans to go anywhere.

"What's there to talk about?" Jack said with a sigh, which was usually Robby's line, but even with all the therapy he'd had, sometimes he didn't want to talk about things he probably should talk about.

"Traumatic events have caused an overactive adrenaline response, which has created neurological pathways and patterns in my brain. I have a maladaptive learning pathway to a fear response through a hypersensitive, hyperreactive, and hyperresponsive hypothalamic–pituitary–adrenal axis."

He'd read that diagnosis in his own chart and in others' enough times that he could repeat it verbatim.

"Or, if we're not being med nerds, we can just say my brain's fucked up."

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