Even The Waking Sleep
Fandom: 24, for ws_scribe
Title: Even The Waking Sleep
Word count: apx 1400
Characters: Jack/Renee
Warnings: Spoilers for the series.
Author's notes: Under the cut
Author's notes: This is for ws_scribe, who requested “something longer/their version of normal” for December 26-28. This is set in an AU in S8 -- Really early on in Renee's recovery (and I made it Christmastime, just for kicks). The prompt post for Christmas fic is here! Merry Christmas, Happy New Year (and happy belated birthday to ws_scribe!!! ) I know I am behind on prompts and still have four (I think) more of these to write. I will finish them all! I just don’t know when. The title is from the Katie Herzig song called The Waking Sleep, the title track for her new album.
Thanks, leigh57 for the read through/beta. ♥
+++++
The concept of a level playing field isn’t in the ballpark of reality, at first.
She’d wanted the give-and-take to be equal; that was her initial thought when she’d allowed herself to imagine their relationship as a possibility, sometime after the slit wrists and before the bullet that rearranged the internal and external alike.
But since the shooting she’s found herself taking a lot more than she’s giving, which adds as efficiently as a calculator to the core of her insecurity.
The way everything had worked out, the trajectory of this madness…this handicap…has them living together, of all crazy fast-paced things. It’s made it impossible to silence the rumbles of self-consciousness.
When you said that I have you…
Jack’s low whispers are on instant replay in her head.
I meant it like it sounded.
(It was the kiss and then more. It was the fraction away from fatal experience that she doesn’t much remember. It was Jack’s hands on her, the feeling of her dead weight being carried.
We’re gonna make it. I promise you. )
And since she woke up, he’s treated her like a recovering goddess; if she so much as blinks funny he’s there, asking what he can do to make it better, and she just…
Well the only part of it that bothers her is the idea that he might feel obligated to…be there.
Here.
Wherever she is.
But it’s Jack, is the thing she’s been telling herself all along to shut up the fucking voices.
She knows, logically, that he wouldn’t be doing this if he didn’t want to be. She knows, logically, that he’s not just helping her because she can’t make it two feet without wincing, digging her fingernails into her forearm as a futile and pathetic attempt at distraction.
They haven’t talked much about the relationship -- where it went and where it might be headed - so despite her appreciation of logic and her knowledge of Jack, she finds herself reluctant to categorize whatever this is as a constant in her life, something that’s there when she allows herself to imagine the future.
She just wants to give him something back.
So, this is what’s on her mind when she’s trying to go to bed. It’s the reason that, haze of painkillers and lull of tea aside, she’s still not quite sleeping after a half an hour, her eyes closed and heavy when she hears Jack come and sit by the bed.
+++++
There’s a stool by the bedside that he leaves around for when he’s keeping her company, chatting or playing travel-scrabble or gin rummy, careful not to crowd her on the bed.
He sits there a while, his heart in his damn throat, watching the rise and fall of her chest.
It took him half an hour or so to allow himself in here. This room.
With her.
Just to watch until he manages to convince himself of what didn’t happen.
Today, he believes it with his mind only, his body in conflicting disarray.
And he needs to do this like he needs air right now, but it feels wrong, like he should ask her, but how exactly would one phrase that?
Can I look at you for a few minutes while you sleep tonight? I can’t seem to convince…
Yeah, he can’t even finish that request in the hypothetical scenario he’s built in his head. The one in which he gathers together what it would require to ask permission.
(This afternoon he was in the shower when the thud of something outside sent him into full-out panic, sharp bursts of breathlessness and a towel around his waist within seconds, every pulse point alive.
Just the damn alarm clock that dropped when she went to set it.
Just his PTSD that seems to be latching onto him like super glue, not going away without some serious work.)
He sucks in oxygen, trying to control the quiver of his lip, trying to be quiet so he doesn’t wake her.
When he feels his eyes getting glossy and his hands starting to shake, he risks a hand in her hair, barely a touch, sure to be gentle.
(If she wakes up and sees him like this, at least it’s more honest.)
She looks peaceful, her eyelids relaxed, like she’s not in any pain right now; he hopes this is true.
In his mind, there’s a list of things he tries not to think about, all of which storm into his head in simultaneous cacophony.
Everything is loud inside.
If something had been different.
One centimeter in either direction…
And he’d promised her.
Oh, god.
+++++++
She makes herself still.
Allows him this quiet.
She’s not sure why, but it feels like giving.
It’s when he’s maybe crying that she contemplates opening her eyes and reaching out.
She listens, feels the soft brush of his thumb at her hairline, barely there.
His breathing grows heavy before the whispering starts.
“If anything had happened…”
His voice cracks. She hears him swallow.
“I love you.”
Her chest burns with life; it becomes clear to her that this is the moment when giving means touching.
Jack doesn’t need quiet. For the first time in these last two weeks, she feels like he needs her.
She can sense the tremble of his hand where it grazes her forehead. The room is a whirl of blur, the act of opening her eyes a heavy effort.
“Jack,” she whispers, her voice cloudy.
“Honey,” he says, choking on his words as his eyes find hers, his hand fully stroking her hair with the knowledge that she’s awake.
When she blinks away the dizziness, adjusting to the low glow of the Christmas candle in the window, she sees that his face is wet and shiny.
His upper body sways back and forth; he’s not trying at all to hide whatever’s happening.
“I woke you.” His eyes are wide. Apologetic.
“No,” she manages, shaking her head, moving her hand to his face and brushing off the tears that reside there.
Whatever he might have been trapping inside comes out when her skin touches his. He clutches her hand on his cheek, holding it there and leaning forward as he squeezes his eyes shut.
“Jack, breathe,” she whispers, the lump in her throat like a boulder now. “I’m right here.” She shifts forward until she can put her other hand through the shortness of his hair. “Shhh. I’m okay. I’m right here.”
“I’m sorry,” he breathes, quick gasps. She shakes her head until he’s looking at her.
“Come lay next to me,” she says.
“I’ll hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
“I can’t hurt you again.”
The rawness of his words makes her lose her breath, makes her desperate to find out how it is she can give him what he needs.
“I need you to hold me,” she says, rephrasing, same end in sight, and at that he’s moving closer, nodding.
Jack crawls over her, careful not to move her body, his hand never leaving hers.
She can pinpoint the exact moment when Jack refocuses, when it becomes about her again. It’s not what she wants, but it’s the only way he’ll accept comfort.
It takes a couple of minutes to find a position that’s both comfortable and close enough. When she does she kisses his damp cheeks, forehead, jaw-line. His mouth is soft and still; he lets her explore as he moves in closer, palm of his hand clenched around her shoulder. It feels safe, like what they’ve been missing.
She stares at the alarm clock on the night stand, the one she dropped today while stretching a bit too far. It takes four minutes for his body to relax, six before his breathing evens. Since she knows he won’t sleep until she does, she can’t quite say how long that takes him.
Before she succumbs to the warmth of his breath on her neck and the heavy pull of Percocet, she thinks about clocks and second hands, his pulse points against hers. About how long it will be before she can return all these favors. How long it will take her to muster up the courage to tell him how she feels.
“I love you, too,” she whispers. His arms tighten around her, his lips brushing against her temple.
(Not very long, it turns out.)
+++++
P.S.
Dear everyone,
Hope you have a safe and happy New Year’s Eve! I will drink champagne tonight and toast you guys in my head!
Love, A
Title: Even The Waking Sleep
Word count: apx 1400
Characters: Jack/Renee
Warnings: Spoilers for the series.
Author's notes: Under the cut
Author's notes: This is for ws_scribe, who requested “something longer/their version of normal” for December 26-28. This is set in an AU in S8 -- Really early on in Renee's recovery (and I made it Christmastime, just for kicks). The prompt post for Christmas fic is here! Merry Christmas, Happy New Year (and happy belated birthday to ws_scribe!!! ) I know I am behind on prompts and still have four (I think) more of these to write. I will finish them all! I just don’t know when. The title is from the Katie Herzig song called The Waking Sleep, the title track for her new album.
Thanks, leigh57 for the read through/beta. ♥
+++++
The concept of a level playing field isn’t in the ballpark of reality, at first.
She’d wanted the give-and-take to be equal; that was her initial thought when she’d allowed herself to imagine their relationship as a possibility, sometime after the slit wrists and before the bullet that rearranged the internal and external alike.
But since the shooting she’s found herself taking a lot more than she’s giving, which adds as efficiently as a calculator to the core of her insecurity.
The way everything had worked out, the trajectory of this madness…this handicap…has them living together, of all crazy fast-paced things. It’s made it impossible to silence the rumbles of self-consciousness.
When you said that I have you…
Jack’s low whispers are on instant replay in her head.
I meant it like it sounded.
(It was the kiss and then more. It was the fraction away from fatal experience that she doesn’t much remember. It was Jack’s hands on her, the feeling of her dead weight being carried.
We’re gonna make it. I promise you. )
And since she woke up, he’s treated her like a recovering goddess; if she so much as blinks funny he’s there, asking what he can do to make it better, and she just…
Well the only part of it that bothers her is the idea that he might feel obligated to…be there.
Here.
Wherever she is.
But it’s Jack, is the thing she’s been telling herself all along to shut up the fucking voices.
She knows, logically, that he wouldn’t be doing this if he didn’t want to be. She knows, logically, that he’s not just helping her because she can’t make it two feet without wincing, digging her fingernails into her forearm as a futile and pathetic attempt at distraction.
They haven’t talked much about the relationship -- where it went and where it might be headed - so despite her appreciation of logic and her knowledge of Jack, she finds herself reluctant to categorize whatever this is as a constant in her life, something that’s there when she allows herself to imagine the future.
She just wants to give him something back.
So, this is what’s on her mind when she’s trying to go to bed. It’s the reason that, haze of painkillers and lull of tea aside, she’s still not quite sleeping after a half an hour, her eyes closed and heavy when she hears Jack come and sit by the bed.
+++++
There’s a stool by the bedside that he leaves around for when he’s keeping her company, chatting or playing travel-scrabble or gin rummy, careful not to crowd her on the bed.
He sits there a while, his heart in his damn throat, watching the rise and fall of her chest.
It took him half an hour or so to allow himself in here. This room.
With her.
Just to watch until he manages to convince himself of what didn’t happen.
Today, he believes it with his mind only, his body in conflicting disarray.
And he needs to do this like he needs air right now, but it feels wrong, like he should ask her, but how exactly would one phrase that?
Can I look at you for a few minutes while you sleep tonight? I can’t seem to convince…
Yeah, he can’t even finish that request in the hypothetical scenario he’s built in his head. The one in which he gathers together what it would require to ask permission.
(This afternoon he was in the shower when the thud of something outside sent him into full-out panic, sharp bursts of breathlessness and a towel around his waist within seconds, every pulse point alive.
Just the damn alarm clock that dropped when she went to set it.
Just his PTSD that seems to be latching onto him like super glue, not going away without some serious work.)
He sucks in oxygen, trying to control the quiver of his lip, trying to be quiet so he doesn’t wake her.
When he feels his eyes getting glossy and his hands starting to shake, he risks a hand in her hair, barely a touch, sure to be gentle.
(If she wakes up and sees him like this, at least it’s more honest.)
She looks peaceful, her eyelids relaxed, like she’s not in any pain right now; he hopes this is true.
In his mind, there’s a list of things he tries not to think about, all of which storm into his head in simultaneous cacophony.
Everything is loud inside.
If something had been different.
One centimeter in either direction…
And he’d promised her.
Oh, god.
+++++++
She makes herself still.
Allows him this quiet.
She’s not sure why, but it feels like giving.
It’s when he’s maybe crying that she contemplates opening her eyes and reaching out.
She listens, feels the soft brush of his thumb at her hairline, barely there.
His breathing grows heavy before the whispering starts.
“If anything had happened…”
His voice cracks. She hears him swallow.
“I love you.”
Her chest burns with life; it becomes clear to her that this is the moment when giving means touching.
Jack doesn’t need quiet. For the first time in these last two weeks, she feels like he needs her.
She can sense the tremble of his hand where it grazes her forehead. The room is a whirl of blur, the act of opening her eyes a heavy effort.
“Jack,” she whispers, her voice cloudy.
“Honey,” he says, choking on his words as his eyes find hers, his hand fully stroking her hair with the knowledge that she’s awake.
When she blinks away the dizziness, adjusting to the low glow of the Christmas candle in the window, she sees that his face is wet and shiny.
His upper body sways back and forth; he’s not trying at all to hide whatever’s happening.
“I woke you.” His eyes are wide. Apologetic.
“No,” she manages, shaking her head, moving her hand to his face and brushing off the tears that reside there.
Whatever he might have been trapping inside comes out when her skin touches his. He clutches her hand on his cheek, holding it there and leaning forward as he squeezes his eyes shut.
“Jack, breathe,” she whispers, the lump in her throat like a boulder now. “I’m right here.” She shifts forward until she can put her other hand through the shortness of his hair. “Shhh. I’m okay. I’m right here.”
“I’m sorry,” he breathes, quick gasps. She shakes her head until he’s looking at her.
“Come lay next to me,” she says.
“I’ll hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
“I can’t hurt you again.”
The rawness of his words makes her lose her breath, makes her desperate to find out how it is she can give him what he needs.
“I need you to hold me,” she says, rephrasing, same end in sight, and at that he’s moving closer, nodding.
Jack crawls over her, careful not to move her body, his hand never leaving hers.
She can pinpoint the exact moment when Jack refocuses, when it becomes about her again. It’s not what she wants, but it’s the only way he’ll accept comfort.
It takes a couple of minutes to find a position that’s both comfortable and close enough. When she does she kisses his damp cheeks, forehead, jaw-line. His mouth is soft and still; he lets her explore as he moves in closer, palm of his hand clenched around her shoulder. It feels safe, like what they’ve been missing.
She stares at the alarm clock on the night stand, the one she dropped today while stretching a bit too far. It takes four minutes for his body to relax, six before his breathing evens. Since she knows he won’t sleep until she does, she can’t quite say how long that takes him.
Before she succumbs to the warmth of his breath on her neck and the heavy pull of Percocet, she thinks about clocks and second hands, his pulse points against hers. About how long it will be before she can return all these favors. How long it will take her to muster up the courage to tell him how she feels.
“I love you, too,” she whispers. His arms tighten around her, his lips brushing against her temple.
(Not very long, it turns out.)
+++++
P.S.
Dear everyone,
Hope you have a safe and happy New Year’s Eve! I will drink champagne tonight and toast you guys in my head!
Love, A