No 13. BREATHE IN BREATHE OUT
Delayed Drowning | Chemical Pneumonia | Oxygen Mask
Continuity: spy!Quinn AU (continued from Day 1 and Day 6)
Whumplet by @whumpadoodle
They werenât like his usual nightmares.
Usually, there was something horrible chasing him. Or he would relive a twisted mashup of every terrifying event he had ever encountered. Sometimes, one of his teammates was in danger and he would be helpless to intervene, trapped or frozen in place. Grant or Turner, occasionally. Joseph, more often. The ones with Quinn were the worst of all.
But these were different. There was nothing he could point to, nothing he could really describe when he awoke. Nothing to name and identify as foundless and disconnected from reality. Sometimes there was an endless red haze, sometimes there were shapeless beings lurking in the corners of a darkness so thick he could swim in it.
And always, there was the fear.
Bands of panic so tight around his chest he couldnât breathe. Faceless demons stretching out their hands and brushing his cheeks with icy fingers. Terror welling up and choking him, filling his lungs and spilling out his lips. The imagery shifted and changed, but the fear was always the same.
And then he would jolt awake, heart pounding, soaked in sweat and adrenaline. Maybe fifteen minutes later. Maybe an hour. The longest he had slept, uninterrupted, since Quinn had snatched him from those forty-eight hours of agony, was three hours and forty minutes.
Now, he didnât sleep at all.
He tried, going through the bedtime ritual every night. Brushing teeth, changing into night clothes, pulling the covers over his head to block out the darkness. Then the fear leaked from his dreams into the space before sleep. His bed was no longer a refuge from the day, but an extension of the torture he had endured. Eventually, merely walking into his bedroom, regardless of the time of day, was enough to set his pulse racing. He existed on catnaps and snatches of sleep stolen on the couch before the sun went down. It was easier then, when the light of day was there at his side to push against the darkness and despair.
It was better than succumbing to the terror.
He hadnât shown up for work for a week now. Hadnât answered any texts, never picked up the phone. Fletcher was dismissive, saying only that he was due some leave after what he had been through. Grant and Turner didnât say anything, just quietly absorbed his caseload. Joseph was worried, but convinced they needed to give him his space.
Quinn wasnât having any of it.
She had held off at first, allowing herself to be persuaded that time was the best thing for Lucas right now. When his desk still sat empty for the sixth day in a row, Quinn had had enough. Ignoring the warning looks and pointed invitation from Joseph, she declined dinner plans and left early. She made a few stops and pulled up in front of Lucasâ apartment just as the sun disappeared behind the hills.
The porch light was off, but Quinn could see the flicker of the tv against the blinds. She rapped at the door, then waited. No response. She tried again, knocking louder. Then a third time, more insistently. When she still did not hear anyone stirring, she picked through her keys until she found the one Lucas had given her for emergencies. Quinn decided this qualified.
She opened the door and was hit with a blast of cold air. Despite the cool spring evening, the air conditioning was running on high, likely had been for a good long while. She set her bags down in the entryway, then turned to face the living room.
It took all her training not to react.
Lucas lay on the couch, head propped on one hand. He looked like death warmed over. The blue light washed out his skin and highlighted the dark circles under his eyes. He glanced up at her, then dropped his head back as if the effort was too much for him. Various energy drinks littered the floor around the couch, offering insight to how he was still conscious.
Quinn flicked on the living room light. The sudden brightness made Lucas flinch, and her heart ached for him. How long had he been awake? She could imagine why he wasnât sleeping. What he had been through would be enough to haunt anyoneâs dreams.
âI brought dinner,â she said briskly. âStopped by that taqueria on Third and sweet talked the owner into making tomorrowâs special for you today.â Without waiting for a response, she picked up the bags again and headed for the kitchen, adjusting the thermostat on her way.
There were no dishes in the sink other than a few glasses, and not nearly as many take-out containers as days he had been absent. A glance back at the living room told her that Lucas was upright, but hadnât made any further progress than that. Quinn pulled out the fish tacos with jalapeño lime dressing and arranged them on the table, placing the chips and salsa in the middle.
Movement caught her eye, and Quinn turned to see Lucas stumble into the kitchen. She stopped herself from reaching out to steady him and took a seat at the table instead. He dropped into a chair across from her. The brightness of the kitchen showed that the bruising under his eyes wasnât just a trick of the light. His face was gaunt, and his fingers trembled as he reached for the food.
âGrantâs office crush is back from vacation. He didnât know she would be back today, and we didnât know weâd get to see a cherry-red Grant. I was on the elevator with him when she got on. Youâve never seen that kid trip over his tongue so much.â She laughed, squeezing a lime wedge over her tacos, and was rewarded with a slight twitch at the corners of Lucasâ mouth.
âFletcher got another bee in his bonnet and has us combing our expense reports to make sure weâve been staying within our food allowances.â Quinn chattered meaninglessly while they ate, sharing nothing more than office gossip and updates from ongoing surveillance.
Lucas listened. He didnât speak, but it was enough that he was eating. Quinn kept up her monologue as she cleared the table and led him back to the living room. He followed, eyes only half open, and let her pull him down onto the couch.
âTheyâve been rerunning my favorite improv show,â she confessed, claiming the remote and switching from the national news channel. No wonder he couldnât sleep, she thought wryly, if thatâs what heâs been watching.
Lucas didnât protest, and she thought the lines around his face had softened a bit. He sat beside her on the couch, head swaying back and forth ever so slightly as the host of the show pulled blue slips of paper out of a hat. Eventually, he started to doze, but only for a moment. When she saw the panic in his eyes as he jerked his head back up, Quinn decided to adjust their positions.
With his head pillowed in her lap, Lucasâ eyes closed and stayed that way for a long minute, which stretched into another. And another. Quinn stayed curled in the corner of the couch, half watching the tv, half watching Lucas. His breathing remained even as the minutes turned to hours. The performers laughed and joked their way into the night as Quinn let her fingers drift through his hair while Lucas finally slept.
