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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"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."

Now that he's stopped actively monitoring Jack's pulse, Robby's fingers are just absently tracing circles on the inside of his wrist. He rolls his eyes at that, though he doesn't look at Jack right then.

"I'm fucked up," he says, because he can admit that much at least. "You've got PTSD. It's not the same ."

Jack was resolutely keeping his eyes closed. Normally he was the one seeking eye contact from Dr. Michael "Don't Look At Me" Robinavitch, but not tonight. Tonight Robby could avoid eye contact with assistance from Jack.

"Feels the same," he said quietly. Robby was definitely not monitoring his pulse right now, but his fingers were still on Jack's wrist, tracing soothing little circles. He wasn't even sure Robby knew he was doing it.

"I had a session with Sam today. He pushed me on some things. I'll be glad he did later, probably, but my brain decided to process some of that shit this way, which I am not glad about right now."

Jack hadn't intended to have a session this week, even, but the argument he'd had with Robby on Monday and Robby's admission that he was not only attracted to Jack but wanted to do something about it had thrown him for a mental loop. Sam had had an opening today after Jack's shift, so Jack had gone down there. Working a shift and then therapy was something Jack tried to avoid and this was why.

"See?" says Robby, gently teasing, turning his face to look at Jack's profile in the dim light. "I told you therapy was a bad idea."

His fingers stray from Jack's wrist to trace the bones of his hand. Consciously, he tries to keep his breathing slow and level. "I might be shit at talking, man, but you know I'll listen."

That gentle tease made the corner of Jack's mouth tick up just for a second. He didn't have the mental energy to go toe to toe with Robby verbally, or honestly the physical energy either. Robby had started running his fingers over the back of Jack's hands to ground him, though, and Jack appreciated it. It felt good. It felt safe. Robby was safe. Robby was safe here, and Robby was safe in general. Robby was not bleeding out in the desert. Diane was not bleeding out in the desert. Jack almost had, though.

"If I try to tell you what I saw, it won't make any sense and I'll probably go tachycardic again and then you'll make me fucking box breathe," he pointed out.

"Damn right I will," says Robby, grinning. He keeps up the slow touch of his fingers against the back of Jack's hand, tracing metacarpals and phalanges in turn. "I think I can probably imagine the gist of it. I meant it when I said we can talk about anything you like. Or we can just lie here. Offer's still there for water or a washcloth, too." He turns his head to look at Jack again. "Whatever keeps your heart rate down."

Sometimes people said they thought they could imagine what Jack had seen, and most of those people were absolutely full of shit. Robby actually could, though, which was something that Jack and Sam had talked about. There was no one in this universe who knew Jack as well as Robby did, good and bad. He knew Jack was a grumpy, nocturnal asshole. He knew Jack had only five toes. And now he unfortunately knew that Jack's PTSD sometimes manifested as nightmares, although realistically he'd probably already assumed that. Robby knew the stats for PTSD and nightmare co-occurrence just like every other ED physician did, or at least should.

"You have a shift tomorrow," he reminded Robby, as if Robby didn't know that. "You should go back to your bed and sleep, not listen to me try not to have another panic attack."

He had no expectation that Robby would do that, and honestly most of him didn't want Robby to do that, but the little embarrassed part of him was still fighting not to be seen. For that reason, he had still not made eye contact with Robby.

If Jack wanted to make him leave, he could definitely be nastier about it, and they both know it. Robby's got no real inclination to leave. Two things aren't lost on him: Jack hasn't looked at him once, and Jack also hasn't tried to take his hand away.

"I know I've got a shift," he says. "And I'd rather listen to that from in here, rather than on the other side of a door, if it comes to it."

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