#fhr fic

Running a hand through your hair, you hold your cigarette in your mouth and take a deep breath...and dial Ortega’s number.

Sitting here, anxiously bouncing your leg and running your hand through your hair over and over, you know you must look a little crazy.  And maybe you are.  You’ve been so careful, but Ortega….something about him turns off all common sense.  You’re startled so bad when you hear his voice that you almost drop your phone.

“Teigue?”  He sounds...nervous.  Worried.  He always sounds worried.

You clear your throat, your voice catching when you try to speak.  “Uh...hi….uhm…” Shit, do you sound as breathless as you think?

“Are you okay?”  

You shake your head, even though you know he can’t see.  You leg is bouncing even more now, nerves alight as you gather courage to… Christ, it really has always been this hard to talk about your feelings, hasn’t it?  Your therapist appointment left you frayed and ragged, and Ortega’s kiss….his hands….it just sent you that little bit over the edge.  Feelings are...the worst.

“Teigue?  You still there?”  Ortega’s voice sounds more concerned now and you smack yourself. You didn’t want that.

“Yeah, I, uhm….I wanted to...uh…”  You pause to take a breath, to take a long, final drag from your cigarette before flicking into a puddle in the gutter.  “Sorry.”  The word sounds like a whisper.

Ortega takes a breath to reply, but you don’t let him.  You already know he’s going to tell you you don’t have to be sorry.

“I just….I wanted to talk about yesterday.”  The words are rushed and you’re not even sure you spoke them in English.  You bury your face in your free hand.  Why is talking so fucking hard?

“I’m listening,” is all Ortega says in reply, but it’s enough.  It’s what you needed to spur you on.

Taking a deep, steadying breath--as shaky as it is--and speak.  You force yourself to speak.  “It’s not your fault.  I just...wanted you to, uh...to know that first.”  He doesn’t fill the pause you leave him.  “I’m sorry, I just...I just freaked out.  I don’t...touching is….”  You sigh heavily.  Why did you think you could do this?  

“It’s okay.  I’m sorry, I crossed a line…”  You can tell he wants to say more, so you wait, but it seems he’s waiting for you to respond.  

It takes all your energy to muster a grunt.

“Are you okay?”

That’s a heavy question, now, isn’t it?  You don’t really know how to answer but something inside is yelling at you to just be honest.

“No…”  The sniffle you add isn’t fake.  Christ, of course you’re crying.  Your head hurts, you still feel like you have too much anxious energy, like your body is three sizes too big to fit in your skin…  You shake your head slowly, burying your face in the crook of your elbow, your sleeve catching your tears.  You hadn’t noticed you weren’t holding the phone to your ear anymore until Ortega’s voice is louder.  Startled, you bring it back, struggling to find your voice.

“Teigue?  Can you hear me?  Are you still there?  Please, talk to me, Teigue.  Please-”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m here, sorry…”

The sigh of relief he lets out is heavy.  “Where are you?  Are you home?”

Looking around, you suddenly realize you don’t really know where you are.  It’s not somewhere you usually go, not that you keep usual haunts these days.  But you haven’t been around here before.  “No, I uh...I don’t know where I am,” you admit slowly, trying to keep the anxiety still spiking through you from latching onto this thought.  

You try to pretend Ortega doesn’t sound even more concerned when he replies.

“Are you outside?  Can you find street names?  Buildings?  Anything notable?”  He’s jumped into crisis management mode--the next step is hero mode and you know he’d run across the whole city to keep you safe if he had to.  “I’ll come get you if you need it.”

You start walking, rubbing your eyes to clear the dryness, the itchiness your crying has left, and looking for an intersection.  As you round the corner of a larger skyscraper, you recognize the area.  “I’m uhm...I’m near Memorial Park, I think.  A few blocks away, maybe…”

“I’ll be there soon,” he promises.  

“‘Kay…” Is all you can muster before hanging up.  Despite your unease, you feel a little calmer knowing someone’s coming to your rescue.

When you finally arrive at the park, you find an unoccupied bend and nearly collapse into it.  Your body feels heavy, and you may as well have dragged yourself here.  Exhaustion sits in your very bones, and you pull up the collar of your drab olive military jacket.  You wish you’d worn a hoodie today, but you weren’t exactly in your right mind when you left your apartment.  Did you even make it back home yesterday?  You don’t really remember, and that’s disconcerting.  You’re no stranger to panic attacks.  You know how disorienting they can be.  But you can’t afford to get lost like this.  You can’t afford to lose yourself to your mind.  Not anymore.  You feel the pull of sleep dragging you into darkness when a hand rests on your shoulder.  You snap up, eyes wide with panic, arms raised in defense before Ortega’s voice fills your ears.  He brushes your hair from your eyes and you can see the worry clearly written on his face.

You can’t help it.  You practically throw yourself at him.  You’re tired and you don’t feel good and you’re still buzzing with residual anxiety and that’s what you’ve decided to blame your actions on.  

He catches you, because of course he does.  His arms are strong and tight and safe around you.  You feel safe.  You feel okay.  It’s….odd, that he has that effect on you.  

He pulls back for a moment, taking you in.  You must look worse than you thought, if the furrow in his brow is anything to go by.  “Let’s get you home, okay?”  He wraps a steady arm around you and you suddenly feel ashamed at needing help.  His help.

You shake your head, hair falling in your face.  “I don’t….I don’t wanna be alone…”  Your voice is practically a whimper.

He just holds you tighter.  “Okay, that’s all right.  We’ll go to my place, okay?  You’ve got clean clothes there still.”