#trigger warning: panic attacks

Cardassians don’t sweat quite like completely mammalian species do, but their breath stinks. Whether this is natural or artificial, maybe for intimidation, it’s not known. Their military armor is a noxious amalgam of rubber, false leather, and metal. It’s a distinctive combination; people who lived through the Occupation of Bajor associate it with terrible things.

DS9 was scrubbed clean of Cardassian stench when Bajor claimed it, aside from the tailor shop and quarters where one still lives. However, it seems that the Cardassian smell sunk into the carpets, slunk into cluttered corners of docking bays, insinuated itself into the cracks between light fixtures and ceilings, pervaded the very metal of certain closets and access tunnels. DS9 doesn’t smell like Cardassians anymore, but when certain places are disused for long enough, that smell creeps out of its hiding places.

Done and done! 😆

FFN II AO3

Summary: When the tabloids start hounding Logan over an interview for the 35th anniversary of the movie that made his father famous it stirs up some bad memories in the Mars-Echolls household.

Tumblr Prompt: M+O Panic attack + "I'm not leaving you like this"

Nightmares

Veronica hadn't been able to reach her boyfriend all afternoon, which wasn't entirely abnormal. It was a Saturday so Logan didn't have to be down in San Diego and, since she was deep in a case, there was a good chance he was catching a few waves with Dick. The only thing that made her pause was that it rolled straight to voicemail, but as Mac tapped on her office door to announce she'd found what they were looking for, it had been shoved to the back of her mind.

She had tried calling him again as the day was wrapping up to see if he wanted her to pick up dinner on the way home, but it rolled immediately to:

"This is Logan. It was Albert Einstein that said life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving. I'm out keeping my balance. Leave a message or don't. Your call."

Okay. Usually he wasn't that hard to reach when his feet were on solid ground. Maybe surfing had turned into video games and his phone battery had died. Reasonable enough. If so, he was in for leftover pizza when he got back.

And yet she found his car parked on the street outside of their apartment, so he wasn't at Dick's new digs at the Neptune Grande. That meant his phone was intentionally off, which didn't make sense. Even though he wasn't working most weekends, he needed to be reachable.

Veronica played over the possibilities as she climbed the three flights up to their apartment and took notice of his surfboard leaning against the railing of their patio and Pony's leash hanging on the nail at the front door. As she opened the door, the sharp sound of artillery fire greeted her from their television and she found Logan on the couch with a game controller in hand. "Hey," she shouted over the noise, dropping to one knee as an excitable puppy started climbing her leg.

"Hey," he echoed without looking around, the single word hollow, but she thought he might have turned the sound down a little.

She shot Pony a questioning look, but the puppy just licked her hand before she stood again. "Your phone's been off," she ventured.

"It's broken. New one should be in tomorrow."

Ahh. Broken phone, irritable Logan, puppy that instantly wanted Mom's attention as soon as she walked through the door like he'd gotten the silent treatment all afternoon. Things were starting to add up. "Did you eat Daddy's phone?" Veronica asked the slobbering pup.

Logan finally paused his game and she saw more than heard him inhale deeply, unfolding off the couch and he looked more strained than she expected. "Don't blame him. Not his fault the wall doesn't have any give."

Okay. That was weird. She watched him cross the room and aim for the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. "What happened?"

He grimaced, the expression so subtle she almost missed it. "Threw it."

"For sport?" she asked, trying to keep her tone light. It wasn't like the nine years of maturity while they had been apart had magically cured Logan of his temper, but he had a much better handle on it. Not just anything set him off these days.

Part One Part Two

Davy cracks a joke Claims to be alright Drinks a fifth of vodka in his kitchen every night

“Katherine!” She knew she would find him here; he was at the bar more frequently than anywhere else nowadays. Still, it was early, and he didn’t appear to be too far gone, and so she took a place at a corner table and waved for him to join her.

Racetrack Higgins dropped into the chair across from her gracelessly, and she all but rolled her eyes at him. “Hello, Race. How have you been?”

“Eh, I’s been better. Still, definitely been worse, right?” He asked with a wide grin, leaning toward her across the table. In his right hand, as expected, wasthe ever-present cigar. “What about you, huh, how’s life treatin’ our ace reporter?”

“I’ve been alright,” Katherine said. “I’ve had a few good headlines come through, which is always a plus.”

“Oh, I seen the one you had the other day, ‘bout that doctor what went off the bridge out in Brooklyn. Even Elmer could’a sold that one!” Race gestured widely with the cigar as he spoke, emphasizing his story and knocking ashes lose everywhere. Trying not to pull a face at the acrid smell of smoke, Katherine recalled their younger days, when he had chewed endlessly on Coronas without ever lighting them. Or, if he did, it was rare enough that she never saw him. “’Ey, Kath, get a load of this! I knows this fella what was out for a walk the other day, right? An’ he’s walkin’ down a street what he ain’t never been down before and he sees this ol’ chimney standin’ all crooked-like on a roof.” He held up his arm, bent at the elbow, to show what he meant. “An’ he’s wonderin’ “What’s a chimney doin’ leanin’ over like that? Don’t look busted, sos it must’a been built that way.” An’ he sees a little kid standin’ up next to the gate on the house, scruffy what like I was-” He cut himself off with a laugh. “Like I was? More like I still is!” He exclaims, grinning as if its the best joke he’s ever made.

Katherine actually does roll her eyes this time, not exactly impressed. ‘Scruffy’ applied to kids on the street, to newsies and factory girls and strays. If she had to surmise Race’s bedraggled appearance, his toussled hair and bloodshot eyes, the wrinkled shirt and the constant smell of cigar smoke, she would use the phrase “A mess.” Not that she would tell him that.

“Anyway, he sees this kid standin’ there an’ he walks up an’ he says ‘That’s a funny lookin’ chimney, do it draw any good?’ an’ the kid looks at him and says, ‘’course it do, it draws the eyes what of every idiot passin’ on the road!’” He finishes his joke with another loud laugh, smacking one hand onto the table, and this time Katherine can’t help but giggle as well. One hand came up to cover her mouth for a moment, an old habit she had never outgrown. When she sat it back down on the table was when it happened.

The ember must have fallen off his cigar when he hit the table, the offending speck glowing bright orange against the polished wood, unnoticed by both of them. Katherine’s hand came down precisely on top of it. It was less than a second before she snatched it back up with a small cry.

“Kath!” Race was out of his chair in less than a split second, reaching for her hand. “What happened? Is you alright?” He turned her palm up to check for any injury. Sure enough, there was a small red burn just below her index finger. It was nothing to truly be concerned over; she had received worse scaldings in kitchen mishaps. She tried to wave him off.

“Oh, its nothing, I was more surprised than anything...” she trailed off, catching sight of his expression. Racetrack’s face had faded to an ashen grey color. He was still holding tight to her hand, his eyes locked on the mark. Katherine felt her concern grow when she realized that he was hardly breathing. “Race? Racetrack?”

“Christ,” he breathed, and she had a feeling it wasn’t because he had heard her. “I... I hurtch’a, I didn’t mean... I ain’t... I’s sorry...” His grip on her hand grew tighter and tighter as he spoke.

“Anthony!” Katherine finally shouted. Race jumped violently, broken out of his trance. He released her hand, practically throwing it down onto the table, and jumped back into his seat. She watched him carefully, worry in her gaze, but he refused to meet her eye. After a moment, he forced out an awkward laugh.

“Sorry about that, Katherine, I really should gotta watch out for where I toss these things,” he said, reaching into his pocket and drawing out another cigar. His previous one lay in the ashtray, abandoned in his initial concern for her. Race’s hands shook as he lit it and took a deep breath. It was several more heavy drags before he spoke again.

“Look at me, getting spooked when it’s you what got hurt,” he said with another weak laugh at himself. “I really is sorry; is you alright?”

Katherine nodded. “I’m fine; its nothing, I promise,” she assured him. “Are you alright? What happened?”

Race shrugged. “I’ll be fine, just got nervous is all. Ain’t too fond of seein’ burn marks like that on folks nowadays. Saw it plenty on the fellas, over in Europe.” Katherine opened her mouth to say something, to offer some kind of comfort, but he rushed on before she could. “I mean, don’t worry none over it. Few drags of one’a these and I’m right as rain,” he said, gesturing again with his cigar. His motions were much more controlled now, however. Katherine wasn’t quite sure if she believed him, but she didn’t argue his point. “‘Sides, you didn’t come here just to listen to me gripin’. You was probably lookin’ for some sorta pleasant conversation.”

She shot him a dry look. “Race, if I were looking for pleasant conversation, I would have gone to someone else.”

Angsty headcanon based on Killian’s traumatized face after Emma defeated Gideon.

*****

She fails to notice. When she leaves their house claiming to have to pay a quick visit to August, she doesn’t notice the way he clasps at the hem of her jacket as she slips out the door. She doesn’t notice that when she shouts that she’ll be right back, he doesn’t answer; just watches her go down their front steps with a face that’s a mask to hide his anguish. She doesn’t notice that he reaches for her, that he tries to speak but can’t, and then she’s in her bug, pulling out of the driveway, leaving him all alone on their porch, all alone to face the demons running rampant through his mind. 

*****

When she gets back 45 minutes later, he isn’t on the porch. She slips quietly into the house, and is genuinely surprised he isn’t in the kitchen with fresh cocoa, or even in the living room waiting for her on the couch. It’s eerily quiet, actually, and for a moment fear bubbles up in her chest as she gets the feeling that something is wrong. But after only seconds she’s settling, because she’s home now, they’re safe, and he’s obviously around here somewhere. 

As she kicks off her boots and heads for the staircase, her heartbeat decreases back to normal speed when the sound of the running shower comes into earshot. See? Nothing’s wrong, silly, she shakes her head, climbing up the stairs. He’s safe.

The master bedroom is connected to a full bathroom, and steam is creeping out from under the closed bathroom door. “I’m home!” she shouts, unbuttoning her maroon-coloured coat and heading to their closet for a hanger. “Killian?”

The coat goes on the hanger, and he doesn’t answer her. She crinkles her nose in confusion, and suddenly the feeling she had downstairs is back with raging force. Something’s wrong.

She drops the hanger and bolts to the bathroom door, throwing it open and calling his name again. Still, he doesn’t answer her. Steam billows out at her and she bats it away, heading straight for the shower. The glass is frosted, but she can see the rough outline of his hunched form in the corner of the small space and she doesn’t even think, she just moves. 

She slides the door of the shower open and he’s there, soaked under the scalding water, arms wrapped tightly around his knees. She repeats his name and crouches down immediately in front of him, soaking herself and her clothes in the process and holy shit the water is hot. His face is contorted and his eyes are open wide but she can tell he’s far, far away. 

Her heart breaks in that instant, when she realizes it. She almost fucking died in front of his eyes and the first thing she did afterwards was leave him all by himself to try to process what just happened and Christ she’s a fucking idiot. 

Tears burn in her eyes but she grips his shoulders and speaks as calmly as she can, meeting his faraway gaze. “Killian? Hey, I want you to focus on my voice, okay? I think you’re having a panic attack, but I’m right here. I promise you, I’m right here. Just focus on my voice, okay? I’m here. I’m just gunna switch the water, okay? It’s pretty hot and I don’t want it to hurt you.” 

He still hasn’t responded, but when she reaches up and yanks the water from hot to cold he startles, his whole body shivering and his face breaking and all at once he lets her pull him into his arms and he cries.

He cries and he cries because that was the moment. Before his mother, before Liam, and then before Milah. The moment just prior, when you know that it’s over. Where that’s it, there it goes, the whole life you’ve envisioned. That street and that sword and that hood and his Emma. It was over, he'd felt it, that sharp twist of fate he’d tried and failed to beat back. Swords clanged and magic swirled and there was nothing he could do. Another life ending, another lost future, another person he loved being ripped straight away from him. That was the moment.

But then that moment ended, except it wasn’t the same. Not like before. She was standing, he could move again, but...that was the moment. That had been the moment, because for him the moment always came...didn’t it?

Emma holds him under the freezing water, cursing her drenched clothes for getting in the way of pressing her skin to his skin. She holds him as tightly as she can and he clings to her for dear life, trying his best to focus on the soft cadence of her voice telling him that she has him, that she’s safe, that she’s sorry. She urges him to take breaths with her and he tries, he really does, but then his mind takes him back to the dark of the street and the glint of the sword and his breathing goes back to ragged and he shakes his head, trying to tell her with his eyes that he just can’t.

She gets it, and then they’re surrounded by magic, and suddenly they’re warm and tucked in their bed. She cradles him against her, her forehead gently pressed against his. She has one hand in his hair and the other on his cheek, wiping at his tears while she whispers. She’s whispering that she loves him, that she’s here, that they’re home, and it seems to take hours but he finally feels himself start to calm down. His lungs start to fill with a normal amount of air, his eyes can finally focus on her face, and he realizes that he’s holding onto her tightly enough to break her bones. He loosens his vice grip but by no means lets go, hyperaware of her fingers caressing his jaw and the way the wispy soft ends of her hair tickle the hollow of his neck. She’s here and she’s safe. She’s here and she’s safe. 

He lets out a powerful exhale, and she sighs in relief as she feels the waves of tension and terror start to wash away from him.  She massages his scalp as he settles, taking more breaths and relaxing into her arms. He thinks fleetingly of how he’s never letting her out of his sight again, of how she’s the only one who made it through the moment, of how he loves her and loves her and loves her. 

So, I had therapy today (like I do every 2 weeks) and I knew I had to talk about some super heavy stuff.  I say this because I was talking to my mom about my childhood on the phone because I had written about it for my creative writing class. And this led the conversation to why I moved out of my mom’s house when I was fifteen. All I’m really gonna say about it is that if CPS or any authority/law figure saw the state of the house I was living in with my mom then, she would’ve been arrested for child abuse (if you really want to know the specifics I’ll tell you, but it’s disgusting). So that’s what the conversation led to, and she wasn’t saying anything bad because she understands that what happened there truly traumatized me. But I felt/still feel guilty about feeling hurt by what happened even though I understand why it happened. And I couldn’t say the word aloud, I physically couldn’t say it- I couldn’t just say the truth, that my mom abused me.

I was full-on breaking down, sobbing, and about to have a panic attack because I couldn’t admit out loud that my mom was my abuser. And when I talked about it in therapy today (yesterday I guess, it was Tuesday) I once again sobbed so hard I could barely speak and almost had a panic attack. I still couldn’t say it out loud, but both my therapist and my mother knew what I was thinking. I told my therapist about my feelings on the matter, the guilt I feel for still feeling hurt despite understanding why it happened, the shame I feel for still loving my mother despite what happened, how I feel that what I went through doesn’t qualify as abuse because it wasn’t physical (I know and accept that verbal and emotional abuse are things, I just struggle with accepting what I went through, it has nothing to do with me invalidating those forms of abuse), & how I couldn’t even say it out loud.

What my therapist told me is that I need to find my own truth and that I need to acknowledge what happened and come to terms with it. She said that trying to say it outright is like trying to walk right after being born, that it’s something I need to build up to.  Since she knows I like to write and it’s healing for me, she suggested that once I’ve found my own truth and come to terms with it without feeling guilty for feeling hurt, then I should write about it. And I should keep writing about it and my feelings on it until I feel ready to say it out loud.