#panic attack trigger

He couldn’t believe it. His slumped figure, the uncanny features of what used to be his face, his screams… Adam Murray, one of the most wanted criminals by the FBI to date, was one of them?

Thatcher, body laying on his side on the carpeted floor of the suspect’s bedroom, stared in utter shock and horror at the criminal’s screaming state, his eyes and mouth misshaped to the point he couldn’t be recognized as who he was before. He had witnessed someone’s humanity being stripped away from them. Just like his had in previous years.

Thatcher put down the camera and slid himself to a nearby wall to recover properly. His hands reached for the popcorn texture and pushed himself up, all while trying to think of some way he could calm the boy, or, if needed, neutralize the threat. He didn’t seem like a threat, however. The voice beckoning to this place had certainly not wanted to lure him for the sake of getting killed. Whoever called him here wanted him to witness someone else’s pain, to test him in his willingness to actually help others. And he gladly took that challenge.

“Murray, kid,” Thatcher tried to speak, his voice raspy from having woken up only a mere thirty minutes ago. “I… What the hell’s going on?”

“JUST LET ME DIIIiIiiEeEEE!!!!!!!!!” he screamed, the pain clear as day through his voice. He tried moving his slacked arms, sluggishly grabbing his jaw and hair in his separate hands, pulling on both of them simultaneously. He even began whispering and mumbling for the Lieutenant to “just kill him,” pleading for the sweet release of the pain he had been enduring.

Thatcher swallowed his fears and began approaching the alternate, hands hovering over the gun he had brought for protection. As much as he knew he couldn’t kill those things, it was a good distraction in case things had to get violent. He’d survived one before, what’s another?

He inched his way toward Adam, the suspect trying to crumple himself into a ball as a way to mitigate his suffering. All the while, he was still screaming at the top of his lungs. His footsteps were quiet so as to not alarm the suffering boy in front of him. His limbs had been stretched out to an impossible length as well as being skinny enough that he’d die right there and then if he were truly human. At this point, Thatcher was sure that everything he thought about Adam was a complete lie.

There was one thing on his mind as he stepped ever closer: does Sarah know? Does his ex know? Does anyone else know?

Once Thatcher had felt he had been able to get close enough, he bent down to Adam’s level, hesitating for a moment before reaching out to him. Slowly but surely, he had placed a soft hand against the disfigured kid’s knee. Adam tried lifting his head but decided he didn’t want to due to how much it would hurt for someone else to see him like this. Thatcher knew it too.

Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around the crying mess, ignoring how liquid the skin felt, how flexible it was now. It became goo in his hands as he tried gripping onto Adam for dear life, not wanting to let him go until he’d calmed himself down. Adam began to shift around a bit before uncurling himself, albeit in a very strained manner. Thatcher noticed this attempt and slightly backed away, still keeping his hands attached to Adam in an attempt of comfort.

“Why… aren’t you running…?” Adam asked, the soft whisper of his voice almost not reaching the officer’s ears. “Did… why? Why are you here?”

“That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is making sure you’re okay,” Thatcher responded in the same tone of voice as to not scare him. He had a gut feeling that him breaking down is why he’s all discombobulated. “Take some breaths with me, and hold on tight if you need to.”

With those remarks, Thatcher softly embraced Adam once more, Adam slowly returning his gesture this time. Thatcher could feel Adam’s melting hands searching for some sort of grip on him, finally setting on holding his hair a little too tight for Thatcher’s comfort. Thatcher decided to ignore the pain in favor of helping Adam in the best way he could. He leaned his head backwards to alleviate some of it at least, but it truly wasn’t his main focus at the present moment.

“Take some breaths, kid. Please,” Thatcher whispered. He began to breathe deeply, in and out, in a stable pattern to model to Adam. Adam struggled at first, the snot being sniffled back up his nose and tears running endlessly down his face - or was it blood -, but eventually finding a pattern that worked for him best. His skin began to solidify in the process - not fully, but it was definitely better than before. Adam finally found more grip in his hands and removed his hands from Thatcher’s hair to settle on his back instead.

“I’m sorry.. I’m so sorry,” Adam repeated quietly, half hoping that Thatcher wouldn't hear. Or at least that’s what he theorized.

“Don’t ever apologize,” Thatcher firmly, but gently, stated, pulling away from the boy softly. “You needed help, and that’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

Adam looked up at Thatcher, finally. His eyes and mouth had changed back into a normal, stable state along with the rest of his limbs. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, his lips quivered, and his entire body simply shook from the mere shock, pain, and horror of it all.

“Am I… Are…” Adam mumbled. He looked at his hands and flexed them a few times, unsure of if he had returned to his former self or not. “Am I real?”

“If that’s supposed to mean ‘are you normal again’ then yes, you are,” Thatcher chuckled. “However, if you’re truly questioning whether or not you’re real, then the answer is still yes. I have tons of records on you back at the station if you need proof.”

Adam chuckled softly, trying to hide his amusement in Thatcher’s words. He stared at the ground for a few moments, and Thatcher joined him. They sat in complete, awkward silence, though that silence might have been necessary.

“You need a place to stay? Or someone to stay here with you for the night? I don’t want you to be by yourself tonight. Maybe not even for the next few days. And we don’t have to talk about this right now. I understand.”

Adam nodded and began tearing up once more, lunging at Thatcher with a more enthusiastic hug. Thatcher immediately complied.

“Thank you… I’m so sorry you had to deal with this-”

“Hey, again, don’t apologize.”

Adam nodded in Thatcher’s shoulder. He had longed for physical contact for a good while, and this was the best chance he’d ever get at it. Thatcher felt it as Adam tried to get even closer to him, pulling on him even harder and even trying to nuzzle his shoulder just to get that extra sense of physical feeling. A sense of comfort and safety. A sense of humanity.

“I don’t wanna stay here,” Adam spoke up, his voice slightly muffled by the officer’s shoulder. “I need to get out of here…”

“I got you covered. Not too comfortable bringing you to my place due to… circumstances, but we can just head over to the station. I should have something there to make us comfortable.”

Adam nodded and gave a verbal indicator through hums. Thatcher slightly separated from Adam to help him stand, walking him out of the house and to his car. He led him to the passenger seat and let himself get comfortable. After he gently closed the door, he walked over to the driver’s seat, got comfortable, started the car, and drove as fast as he could to get them both out of there.

Lucas runs his hands against his eyes and sucks in a deep breath of air.  

It’s okay.  You’re okay.  Breathe.

But it’s not okay.  Lucas isn’t okay.  He’s too scared to go back there again, too afraid to see the faces of all those people staring at him.  The same people, who a few moments ago, were staring blankly at their own work while the man singled out Lucas to yell at him, tear him down, and shout slur after slur in his face.

And when the man finally left, when Lucas let his eyes drift up to the ceiling, he couldn’t stop shaking.  It’d been cold before, but not cold enough for him to be shivering, actually shaking, and unable to stop.

He couldn’t stop shaking.

The lock turns in the door.  Lucas faintly registers the sound, but he’s too far gone, too absorbed in his own mind, and he barely notices when Eliott steps in the doorframe, dropping the bag of groceries he’s carrying.  He quickly shuts the door and runs to gather Lucas in his arms.

Lucas clutches Eliott’s arm, and he buries his face into Eliott’s hoodie.  His tears seep through the dark fabric.  “I’m --”

“I know,” Eliott whispers, his fingers rubbing circles into Lucas’ back.  “Just listen to my voice, okay?”

Lucas nods, gripping Eliott tighter.  He’s still shaking, trying to stop.  But he can’t.  All he can think about is how it’s still so cold, so cold.

“You’re safe, Lu.  Just, breathe, okay?”

Eliott counts to four, gently, and Lucas tries to let his lungs expand for that long, blinking as he identifies the tightness in his chest that feels stiff, and icy, and about to break.

They do this over and over again, and Eliott’s still rubbing circles into Lucas’ back.  “Did you know I heard that song you like to play in some shop today?”

Lucas blinks.

“The song you play on the piano.  The one by Riopy?”

Lucas nods, a faint jerk of his head, and Eliott relaxes slightly.  He’s still tracing circles into Lucas’ shoulder blades, but now starts tracing other designs, like stars and hearts and letters that Lucas begins to recognize spell out his name.

L. U. C.  More stars.  A. S.  Two hearts.  L. A. L. L. E. M. A. N. T.  Another heart.  Three more stars.

“I was looking for sheet music because I thought you might like that.  And then I heard it, that song you like to play, and I stopped for a while to listen.  It’s not as good as yours, though.”

Lucas lets out a breathy sort of sound, and Eliott lets his hand drift to toy with strands of Lucas’ hair.  “How long did it take you to learn it?”

Lucas finds himself start to focus on Eliott’s voice, rather than the trembles racing up his shoulders.  “Hm?”  He breathes in again, letting his grip on Eliott’s arm lessen.  

“How long did it take for you to learn your song?  A month?”

“A week.”

“A week?” Eliott whispers this incredulously, then lets his voice fall into something more familiar.  Lucas recognizes what it is immediately.  “My boyfriend’s beautiful and talented.”

Lucas tries to get the air to fill his lungs, makes it to number two this time, and he feels a soft flush against his cheeks at Eliott’s words.

“I went to the music shop at the corner of Rue de Charonne.”  Eliott’s voice is gentle, soothing.  “It’s new, you know.  They’ve got a bunch of instruments, you’d really like it.  There’s a huge piano --”

“Grand piano,” Lucas croaks.

“A grand piano,” Eliott whispers, amused, “and there are violins hanging from the walls and there are cellos and even bigger cellos in the corner.  What are those called again?”

“Bass.”

“Right, the bass, and there’s even a drum set.  It’s red and really new, and there was someone playing it.  But,” Eliott adds in a nearly sing-song voice, “they nearly broke those cymbal things that make those really loud clashy sounds.”

Lucas smiles softly.  Clashy.

“We could go there one day, just to look.”

“Yeah,” Lucas says.

“Hopefully you won’t break anything,” Eliott teases, his thumb brushing away a tear resting at the jut of Lucas’ chin.

There’s a soft silence as Lucas breathes in again, realizing that he can make it to number three right now, and feels his heart rate start to slow.

“I think I’m okay,” Lucas mumbles, quietly.  

“We can stay here.  We don’t have to --”

Lucas feels red-hot anger underneath his collar, feels the frustration from before festering in his fists, and he clutches Eliott’s hoodie tighter, his jaw tensing.  He lets the heat unfurl from where it’s all jumbled up and thrumming inside, and he snaps.

“I thought I was going to die,” Lucas interrupts loudly.

Eliott freezes, and Lucas almost feels regret at the expression that paints itself across Eliott’s face.

“There was this man,” Lucas’ fingers tighten against Eliott’s hoodie sleeve, “and he was yelling at me.  He called me, he called me a,” Lucas’ voice breaks off, and he can’t bring himself to finish.  “He kept yelling at me, and no one did anything.  No one fucking cared.  Eliott, it was like … it was like they couldn’t even see me. And I wanted to text you, but you were thirty minutes away, and you wouldn’t have been able to do anything anyway.”  His words are all jumbled now, spilling out of his mouth with new tears filling at his eyes.  “I was thirty minutes away, and no one would have been able to do anything.  Not if, if --”

Eliott’s arms squeeze Lucas tighter.

Lucas can feel the tears tracing down his cheeks, and they’re red-hot and angry, and he wants to scream at himself for starting to shake again.  “He reached to pull something out of his, his pocket,” Lucas hiccups, “and you’ve seen the news, haven’t you?”  Lucas swallows, blinking, rubbing at his eyes.  “And some part of me thought that maybe it was going to be me now.  I thought he was going to shoot me or stab me or something, and I’d die, and you wouldn’t know.”  Lucas’ voice drops, his voice breaks.  “And then you’d be alone, and I was so scared.”

Eliott’s lips press against Lucas’ hairline, and Eliott’s trembling.  So is Lucas.  “I won’t let anyone hurt you,” is what Eliott finally says, his fingers making the familiar motion of circles, but his fingers are still shaky, and they feel more like squiggly diamonds against Lucas’ back.

Lucas sees the flaw in Eliott’s piece of logic, but says nothing, just nods and lets himself listen to the beat, beat, beat of Eliott’s heart.

“Maybe I could … maybe instead of going back to study at the coffee shop, you could take me to where you saw the music,” Lucas whispers finally.  “If you’re not busy.”

Eliott nods.  “You could teach me how to play that song on the piano.”

“Cute.  But I think they would kick us out before I could teach you anything,” Lucas tries at a joke, looking at Eliott.

But Eliott isn’t smiling anymore.  And when he speaks, his voice is somber.  Serious.  “I don’t want you to go back there again.”

“What?”

Eliott’s lower lip wobbles.  “If something happened, I wouldn’t have been able to help you.  This is my fault.”

“No,” Lucas says sternly, “it’s not.”

“But --”

“But no.  This is not your fault.  You’re going to take me to the music store tomorrow, and then I’m going back to studying.”  Lucas sucks in a breath as he realizes what he’s said, and to his horror, he feels his heart start beating fast again.  “Well maybe I’ll go back in a day or two.  But I will go back.  And we’re going to be okay.”

Eliott’s quiet for awhile, his fingers still tracing patterns into Lucas’ shoulder blades.  

“What do you think?” Lucas says finally, looking up at Eliott carefully.  “Eliott?”

“I know, but --”

Lucas narrows his eyes.  He hears the sigh escape from Eliott’s lips, feels him relent as the air leaves his chest.

“Minute by minute, then?” Eliott offers weakly, his hands reaching for Lucas’.  

Lucas’ eyes widen, he stares at Eliott with parted lips.  Lucas remembers the first time he told Eliott those same words, remembers the absolute certainty he felt that things would be okay.  That they’d be okay.  That he loved Eliott.

“Yeah,” Lucas murmurs, finally.  “Minute by minute.”

Eliott’s lips curve into a gentle half-smile, and Lucas can feel the vulnerability radiating off Eliott in waves.  Eliott’s eyes are like glass, and Lucas rests his head against Eliott’s chest, feeling his heart glow as Eliott rests his chin atop Lucas’ head.

Lucas shifts in Eliott’s grasp, then turns his gaze to land on the groceries scattered across the floor.  “Can I help you cook dinner?”

Recognition passes over Eliott’s eyes, and his voice lightens.  “Oh, right.  I was thinking about spaghetti and tuna.”

Lucas pretends to projectile vomit.  But then he looks up at Eliott, and is mildly disturbed to realize that Eliott is actually considering the idea, his irises turning glassy again in that way they always do when he’s considering something.

“How about just spaghetti?”

Eliott actually thinks about it for a few more seconds, and Lucas is tempted to kick Eliott out of the apartment.  

“Okay, I guess,” Eliott mumbles.  “Spaghetti, then?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure I can’t convince you to put the tuna --”

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” Lucas repeats, firmly.  “No fucking way.”

Eliott pouts, and Lucas sighs, wrapping his arms around Eliott’s waist.  And Eliott doesn’t need to know that the gesture is more for him than Eliott, because Lucas still doesn’t trust himself to stand on his own.  But maybe a little of it is for Eliott.  “I love you,” Lucas whispers, muffled into Eliott’s chest.  “But I hate your cooking.”

“How rude,” Eliott laughs.  “But I guess I love you enough to eat my spaghetti with just marinara sauce.”

“Just marinara sauce?” Lucas laughs, still feeling numb and a little shaky, but probably okay enough to help make dinner.  “That’s what spaghetti’s supposed to be like.  You dork.”

“You eat spaghetti with other stuff, not just sauce,” Eliott whines.  “Like tabasco.  Or cheese.”

“Yeah, other stuff.  Like spaghetti and meatballs and maybe garlic bread.”

“You’re boring,” Eliott teases, pressing a chaste kiss against Lucas’ forehead.

Lucas just smiles, shuffling over to the kitchen and still leaning against Eliott.  “I like boring, though.  Sometimes.”