Says Quentin, as he comes over with a cup for him, to fold into his hands.
"Okay, so first of all, let me say, one of the most common pitfalls of PTSD is this thing that happens where you lose a little control, and your brain reacts because it knows what this means, so you start experiencing all the emotional fallout from what happened last time, the big time. I don't actually know if you've got an official diagnosis, but I do, and you look a lot like how I get. So right now that means you've got to try to remember that the way you're feeling, while real, and deserving recognition, might not be a good barometer of the actual threat level."
Settling down cross legged with him, knee to knee.
"Can you tell me if that intellectually makes sense?"
Jedao works very hard to keep it convincing - even, most of the time, for himself, which is the best cover of all.
"I decided to go to his world when I'm free at the end of September. He moved into my cabin in August." When Obi-wan arrived, when Fives didn't trust himself not to give into his conditioning if he were alone. "I've been."
His hands are unprofessionally tense around the teacup. He wishes he were holding a gun. His face is almost paper-white with shame. He doesn't want to have to say this.
"I started letting him kiss me in December. None of this is your problem." No matter how much the steady questions make him feel like he has a handler again, a proper one, Quentin is just a friend. This is Jedao's fault, his transgression, his blindness.
He gives him an arch look, then realizes, he actually does believe this, he's not just being willfully blind.
"I asked to talk to him because being with a person, bringing another person into the situation, is a very normal trigger for feelings of nervousness, insecurity, and turmoil. I wanted to talk to him to make sure he was comfortable with me going to bed with you. Obviously something about that scares him."
Reaching down, he rests a gentle hand on Jedao's knee.
"I believe you that he's not sexually possessive, but I didn't really talk about you like you were just a lay. I'm- sentimental. Even if I'm priority number four. And something about the whole thing made him scared. It's not too much of a jump to say probably scared that he'd lose you."
It isn't much of a jump. But it's one Jedao was steadfastly, desperately ignoring, even though he saw Fives reaction when Jedao got scared after the breach, even though he knows, really. He doesn't know how he could love Fives more, how he could be committed to him any more than he was after their traitor's oaths, only the third time they ever spoke together. Fives and his brothers and his mission is Jedao's first and best and only real reason for wanting to live again. Jedao doesn't know what else he could possibly do to convince Fives he won't lose him, not by any choice of Jedao's -
- except that Fives will lose him. He has to put an end to the kissing, the touching - fire and ash, he thinks, slick intolerable selfishness, he was so close. He doesn't want to stop. He doesn't want to stop trying, doesn't want to give up the hope of going to bed in messy earnest someday. But it's wrong, it was always wrong.
And Quentin is touching him, simple warm human kindness, and Jedao has always fought not to think about a life where he might be allowed to be sentimental -
He can't move, and he can't speak. He blinks rapidly, otherwise frozen rabbit-still. The sound of tears sliding off his chin and going plink in the teacup sounds horribly, unbearably loud.
Says Quentin, and does so, rescuing the cup then leaning back and away to set it on the end table, before coming back over. He slides in right next to Jedao and pulls him down, curving him into his shoulder, putting warm arms around him to hold on.
"You're going to be okay. You're going to be okay. The stakes feel scary because you both love each other, you have a lot to lose, but you're going to be okay. He's so devoted to you and now you know. Now you know, you can either keep having just-sex, or you can work with him and build such a solid foundation together that neither of you will ever be scared like this again."
It takes a few seconds for him to force his fingers to release the cup, cramped with tension, coiled like claws. When Quentin holds him, he crumples, clings, hides his useless face.
"We weren't. I was trying. But I didn't, I swear I didn't. We have to stop. You don't understand, he's my lieutenant, we have to stop." His voice sounds - not calm, but not properly broken either, an urgent middling distress that doesn't match the way he shudders, the way hot wet tears soak the fabric of Quentin's shoulder. He had a long time to practice controlling his voice, when he was just a ghost.
Quentin folds him in tighter, cradles the back of his head, kisses his ear, closes his eyes, and just hangs on. He even rocks him, a gentle, slow motion, in time with his breathing, waiting for it to pass, holding on tight.
"You're scared right now. You're scared right now, but you're not going to make a decision ruled by fear. I'm here, and we're going to hold on until the worst of it passes."
Jedao spent most of his life ruled by fear; and his fears were never unjustified, and often insufficient to the real magnitude of his dilemmas. And in the black cradle - he could scream for a year, or thirty years. For a week or a month or a half-year campaign he might seize a bloody reprieve, but then he went back.
There's a stinging, numbing pressure, nerve strikes, and Quentin's arm is hanging limp and Jedao is halfway across the room, a small pistol in his left hand, aimed responsibly at the floor in one point of steadiness while the rest of him lurches and lashes on his feet, trying to balance like a fencer but he doesn't have his fucking sword. He misses it more than he missed his arms, in the cradle. His hand grips the edge of the dresser and it rocks, just shy of Jedao shoving it over, but he doesn't quite have the strength right now, ends up half slumped against it.
"It never passes," he hisses, a feral animal noise. His cheeks are bright red now with adrenaline and exertion, the tear-trails stark on his face. He chokes. The dark is always, always there behind his eyes; his poison heart is always there in his chest. Wherever you go, there you are. He shoves the muzzle of the barrel against the lump in his throat, and it's a slim comfort. Even that wouldn't work, as all his aches attest. Even that. "Nothing ever passes, Quen-shei," he whispers, and he sounds human again, voice thick with hopeless sorrow, all the moreso as it curves around the endearment, reserved for lovers. But he wants to say it, just for himself, and Quentin doesn't have to know. Even alone in the dark, he has his own feelings, at least for as long as he can remember them.
He blinks, and skitters back, going into the corner between the headboard and the wall and staring at him, the gun, and registers the throbbing in his arm. His hand curls over his shoulder, pressing it to make sure it's not bad, to try to get the feeling back.
"That's not okay Jedao."
He says, very quietly, and completely uncompromisingly.
"You need to put the weapon down, or you need to go. You can't be here and be like that, okay?"
As much as he adores him, as much as it'd hurt to see him go, there are lines that he is not going to cross. There is also a part of Quentin, a rusty, disused part, that was the after all king of Fillory. The weight of that experience, that authority, touches his voice now. There is dignity, and the expectation that Jedao will hear him, and respect what he's saying. He's not, or maybe not just a scared young man.
It won't be long; none of the strikes were the kind to do serious damage. The kind to make an enemy drop a weapon in a single moment - or drop him, in this case - not to cripple them for any duration.
His hand tightens for a second on the grip. He doesn't want to be here. He doesn't want to be anywhere. He could be gone, for a few hours, at least. But he knows there's no rest there, and he doesn't want to do that to Quentin. A twitch, as he tries and fails to summon the coherence to holster it again properly, tucked in the small of his back under the uniform, but he doesn't manage it. He lets it drop onto the top of the dresser and shoves himself away, stumbles, scrubs one hand over his face and then stares at one of the crystal lamps and pulls in gulps of air.
Nothing ever passes, unless it gets worse, or someone makes it change. (The joke is that these are the same thing). Nothing ever passes, but he can endure.
"I'm sorry," he says, his voice careful and distant and small.
"When I feel like this, usually there's nothing to do. I just hurt until I don't remember why. I don't really remember what I did when I was alive, either. It wasn't safe to feel like this at all. Sometimes I just went away. I don't know why I can't do that anymore."
He's been scared, since coming on the ship, felt self-loathing and desperate hunger to stop. But not this, not the full crushing inescapable horror of the cradle.
Which is echo damage, he recognizes, very suddenly and as if through a rifle scope: tiny and far-off and perfectly clear. The cradle isn't here.
He sits in the chair this time, pulling his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. He isn't crying anymore. He's just so tired, and his heart feels heavy in his ribs.
That makes his face heat up a little- but he just goes and digs out the book, pulls off the wrapping paper (homemade, doodled with foxes and snowflakes, he shoves that into the dresser drawer quickly) and opens up the book, clears his throat, and reaches for his own tea. One deep swallow, then he settles in, and begins.
He loses himself. He will absolutely read to him until he's hoarse.
Time runs strange for Jedao, sometimes, and this - a voice, tea, light - feels as close to safety as he could bear, right now. No promises for the future, but an abeyance of the worst of the present. Sometimes he pays attention to the words and sometimes he can't, but that doesn't really matter. He can read it again.
"You should. Have some more tea too," he says, in a lull an hour or two on, when Quentin is indeed starting to rasp slightly.
"Oh-" Says Quentin, and gets up to go do that, folding a corner of the book down, then going to get them both another cup in silence, content and very companionable.
He brings Jedao's first, using the opportunity to look into his eyes, check in on him, be sure he's a little more back with them.
Certainly he's better than he was: he focuses, meets Quentin's eyes, is neither terribly stiff nor trembling nor wild. He seems to have settled into the smallness of his posture, peers out from it, like a bird from its nest.
He says, gently, and sinks down, sitting cross legged on the floor by Jedao's chair. He doesn't touch him, but does look up at him, soft and somehow faithful, sipping his own tea.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Says Quentin, as he comes over with a cup for him, to fold into his hands.
"Okay, so first of all, let me say, one of the most common pitfalls of PTSD is this thing that happens where you lose a little control, and your brain reacts because it knows what this means, so you start experiencing all the emotional fallout from what happened last time, the big time. I don't actually know if you've got an official diagnosis, but I do, and you look a lot like how I get. So right now that means you've got to try to remember that the way you're feeling, while real, and deserving recognition, might not be a good barometer of the actual threat level."
Settling down cross legged with him, knee to knee.
"Can you tell me if that intellectually makes sense?"
no subject
"We call it echo damage. It's treatable, but of course I couldn't report anything. One Rahal wandering around my dreams unimpeded and I'd be exposed."
He sips again.
"In my experience, this particular threat is always real." But sure. Intellectually.
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He says, and looks up at him, curious how he didn't see how precarious that confident smile was.
"How long have you and Fives been together?"
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"I decided to go to his world when I'm free at the end of September. He moved into my cabin in August." When Obi-wan arrived, when Fives didn't trust himself not to give into his conditioning if he were alone. "I've been."
His hands are unprofessionally tense around the teacup. He wishes he were holding a gun. His face is almost paper-white with shame. He doesn't want to have to say this.
"I started letting him kiss me in December. None of this is your problem." No matter how much the steady questions make him feel like he has a handler again, a proper one, Quentin is just a friend. This is Jedao's fault, his transgression, his blindness.
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"I asked to talk to him because being with a person, bringing another person into the situation, is a very normal trigger for feelings of nervousness, insecurity, and turmoil. I wanted to talk to him to make sure he was comfortable with me going to bed with you. Obviously something about that scares him."
Reaching down, he rests a gentle hand on Jedao's knee.
"I believe you that he's not sexually possessive, but I didn't really talk about you like you were just a lay. I'm- sentimental. Even if I'm priority number four. And something about the whole thing made him scared. It's not too much of a jump to say probably scared that he'd lose you."
no subject
- except that Fives will lose him. He has to put an end to the kissing, the touching - fire and ash, he thinks, slick intolerable selfishness, he was so close. He doesn't want to stop. He doesn't want to stop trying, doesn't want to give up the hope of going to bed in messy earnest someday. But it's wrong, it was always wrong.
And Quentin is touching him, simple warm human kindness, and Jedao has always fought not to think about a life where he might be allowed to be sentimental -
He can't move, and he can't speak. He blinks rapidly, otherwise frozen rabbit-still. The sound of tears sliding off his chin and going plink in the teacup sounds horribly, unbearably loud.
no subject
Says Quentin, and does so, rescuing the cup then leaning back and away to set it on the end table, before coming back over. He slides in right next to Jedao and pulls him down, curving him into his shoulder, putting warm arms around him to hold on.
"You're going to be okay. You're going to be okay. The stakes feel scary because you both love each other, you have a lot to lose, but you're going to be okay. He's so devoted to you and now you know. Now you know, you can either keep having just-sex, or you can work with him and build such a solid foundation together that neither of you will ever be scared like this again."
no subject
"We weren't. I was trying. But I didn't, I swear I didn't. We have to stop. You don't understand, he's my lieutenant, we have to stop." His voice sounds - not calm, but not properly broken either, an urgent middling distress that doesn't match the way he shudders, the way hot wet tears soak the fabric of Quentin's shoulder. He had a long time to practice controlling his voice, when he was just a ghost.
no subject
"You're scared right now. You're scared right now, but you're not going to make a decision ruled by fear. I'm here, and we're going to hold on until the worst of it passes."
no subject
There's a stinging, numbing pressure, nerve strikes, and Quentin's arm is hanging limp and Jedao is halfway across the room, a small pistol in his left hand, aimed responsibly at the floor in one point of steadiness while the rest of him lurches and lashes on his feet, trying to balance like a fencer but he doesn't have his fucking sword. He misses it more than he missed his arms, in the cradle. His hand grips the edge of the dresser and it rocks, just shy of Jedao shoving it over, but he doesn't quite have the strength right now, ends up half slumped against it.
"It never passes," he hisses, a feral animal noise. His cheeks are bright red now with adrenaline and exertion, the tear-trails stark on his face. He chokes. The dark is always, always there behind his eyes; his poison heart is always there in his chest. Wherever you go, there you are. He shoves the muzzle of the barrel against the lump in his throat, and it's a slim comfort. Even that wouldn't work, as all his aches attest. Even that. "Nothing ever passes, Quen-shei," he whispers, and he sounds human again, voice thick with hopeless sorrow, all the moreso as it curves around the endearment, reserved for lovers. But he wants to say it, just for himself, and Quentin doesn't have to know. Even alone in the dark, he has his own feelings, at least for as long as he can remember them.
no subject
"That's not okay Jedao."
He says, very quietly, and completely uncompromisingly.
"You need to put the weapon down, or you need to go. You can't be here and be like that, okay?"
As much as he adores him, as much as it'd hurt to see him go, there are lines that he is not going to cross. There is also a part of Quentin, a rusty, disused part, that was the after all king of Fillory. The weight of that experience, that authority, touches his voice now. There is dignity, and the expectation that Jedao will hear him, and respect what he's saying. He's not, or maybe not just a scared young man.
no subject
His hand tightens for a second on the grip. He doesn't want to be here. He doesn't want to be anywhere. He could be gone, for a few hours, at least. But he knows there's no rest there, and he doesn't want to do that to Quentin. A twitch, as he tries and fails to summon the coherence to holster it again properly, tucked in the small of his back under the uniform, but he doesn't manage it. He lets it drop onto the top of the dresser and shoves himself away, stumbles, scrubs one hand over his face and then stares at one of the crystal lamps and pulls in gulps of air.
Nothing ever passes, unless it gets worse, or someone makes it change. (The joke is that these are the same thing). Nothing ever passes, but he can endure.
"I'm sorry," he says, his voice careful and distant and small.
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He says sitting up, cradling his arm in against his chest, coming forwards on the bed to put his feet in the ground.
"When you feel like this, what are some of the things that can help you through it?"
He won't reach for him again, or come any closer yet, just watches him, trying to read where he is, whether it's still dangerous.
no subject
He's been scared, since coming on the ship, felt self-loathing and desperate hunger to stop. But not this, not the full crushing inescapable horror of the cradle.
Which is echo damage, he recognizes, very suddenly and as if through a rifle scope: tiny and far-off and perfectly clear. The cradle isn't here.
"May I have my tea again, please."
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He says, and smiles up at him, quick and shy and tentative.
"Of course, Fantastic Mister Fox. Why don't you sit down, I'll add some warm water."
He gets to his feet to go rescue the cup, and go pop the kettle down again, to give him a second without scrutiny.
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He sits in the chair this time, pulling his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. He isn't crying anymore. He's just so tired, and his heart feels heavy in his ribs.
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He admits, and comes back with the tea for him, gentle and serene, already beginning to flex and test his fingers, as feeling returns down his arm.
"How would you feel if I just read to you a bit, Jedao?"
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He loses himself. He will absolutely read to him until he's hoarse.
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"You should. Have some more tea too," he says, in a lull an hour or two on, when Quentin is indeed starting to rasp slightly.
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He brings Jedao's first, using the opportunity to look into his eyes, check in on him, be sure he's a little more back with them.
IGNORE THE GUN PLEASE
"Thank you," he murmurs.
lol yes good
He says, gently, and sinks down, sitting cross legged on the floor by Jedao's chair. He doesn't touch him, but does look up at him, soft and somehow faithful, sipping his own tea.
"Few more chapters?"
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"What are my alternatives?"
He's coherent enough now to start being nervous about whatever might next.
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He proposes, leaning back, resting on the heels of his hands and smiling up at him, crookedly.
"We could go see Brooklyn in the Enclosure, or we could- play poker, but I'm terrible? The world is our oyster, Mister Fox."
'Fantastic' goes unspoken, but it's still written all over his face.
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