Lost in the Gathering Dark
@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt - "stuck inside my head"
Cw: traumatic brain injury, depression
The inside of Trench’s head had never been a bright, happy place. Even as a younger man, he’d been prone to gloom. Depression. Taking things too seriously, at least according to others.
That gloom and depression—that darkness—had only taken firmer hold over the years. After he’d lost everything. Everything but being the Director.
And at least for now, he’d lost that too.
He’d been hurt on a mission. Hurt badly enough that he couldn’t do his job. He couldn’t even move without almost crying out, his whole body aching from the fall he’d taken while battling forces that had invaded the Oldest House.
It wasn’t the pain that was the problem. That wouldn’t have stopped Trench. He would have endured any pain just to sit behind his own desk, to work, to keep from getting lost in his own head.
His head was the problem. After driving the massive, crab-like beings back through the portal into their own realm, Trench had gotten knocked off a high ledge by one of those creatures. He’d fallen. He’d hit his head on jagged stone, and been knocked unconscious.
It had left him with a nasty concussion. He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t make decisions, couldn’t tolerate more than the faintest light. Any attempt at movement left him doubled over vomiting. His limbs were weak, uncooperative. Debilitating fatigue reduced him to aimless, constant dozing.
He couldn’t work with a concussion this severe. He couldn’t be the Director with a concussion this severe.
He could only lie in bed, useless. Stuck inside his head, with his thoughts crushing him more and more every second.
Every failure piled up. So many failures. Together, they blotted out any trace of remaining light in the horror show that was the universe.
The door creaked. No light entered. Trench almost called out to whoever it was, and then didn’t bother. It was probably an FBC doctor. Coming to examine him again.
“Trench?” a familiar voice whispered.
Trench’s breath caught. That was an FBC doctor after all. Just not the kind he’d expected.
“Darling.” Saying even that much was difficult. His thoughts clouded. But he had to speak, to be useful. “Did you, uh… I’m sorry. It’s hard to focus. Did you need something?”
“Aside from needing you to continue resting if you wish to recover from that TBI, no. I don’t need anything.” Footsteps came closer, light and careful. “I simply wished to see you, to see how you are.”
Terrible. Trench was terrible. Crushed under failure, losing more hope every second, lost in the gathering dark.
“I’m fine,” Trench said. “How is the Bureau?”
“Continuing to function quite well, in fact! No trouble at all. Everything is proceeding very calmly, including efforts to contain the new Threshold.”
“Good.” Trench swallowed hard, tears welling. “I suppose at the end of the day, I’m not even useful there.”
“I’m sorry, what? Not useful where?”
“At being the Director.” One tear escaped, then another. Trench had insisted on recovering within the Oldest House rather than a hospital or his apartment, in case he was needed. But why? “If the Bureau is fine without me, I’m not… I’m not needed. I’m useless. I don’t have anything left.”
“What? Zach, that is wholly and completely not my point!” Darling touched his shoulder, and Trench flinched. That flinch brought on a sudden wave of pain and nausea, and he groaned. “Zach, shh. Shhh, it’s okay. Hold still.”
“I-I’m sorry.” Trench squeezed his eyes shut against the tears, trembling. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“You hit your head remarkably hard.”
“A concussion’s no excuse.”
“It is, in fact, and this is more serious than a concussion. All concussions are TBIs, but not all TBIs are concussions.” Darling’s voice had assumed the didactic tone that usually cheered Trench up. “As you were unconscious for nearly four hours, this is more severe. A moderate TBI, not a mild one.”
Trench tried to keep up with that. Thinking set off sudden, crushing pounding inside his head, and he groaned again. “My head hurts.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Can I lie down?”
Was it against the rules for the Director to share a bed with a subordinate? Trench couldn’t remember. “I-I don’t know. Is that allowed?”
“There’s nothing against it in FBC regulations, I promise.” Darling settled in bed beside him, only jostling it a little. “Besides, I’m your best friend, and therefore granted greater latitude.”
Trench snorted. “That’s not how it works, Casper.”
“Well, I think it should. And yet, Bureau procedures are holding up remarkably well.” Darling snuggled closer, leaning his brow against Trench’s bandaged head and taking his trembling hands in a warm, soothing grasp. “You aren’t useless, Zach. You’ve worked for your entire tenure as Director to improve procedures, crisis management, safety. Those protocols are working precisely as you designed them, which is why things are still operating. You’ve done an excellent job.”
Trench couldn’t believe that, not really. He had improved things from the chaos of Northmoor’s regime, yes. But excellent? “There’s still more to do. More work. I have to do better.”
“Well, you can do that work when you’ve recovered. At the moment, ‘doing better’ has a wholly different connotation, that of the state you’ll be in if you actually rest for once.” Darling squeezed his hands. “I know, I know. It’s quite hypocritical of me, given that I rarely pause in my own work. And yet, I am also in need of rest. May I stay, or will that be more disruptive?”
Trench’s breath caught, and he tightened his grip on Darling. “Stay.”
That decision, at least, was easy even now. The inside of Trench’s head was dark, depressing, sad. But even in the worst times, when he was with Darling, a little light crept back into the universe.
