Early Mornings and Late Nights Under Overcast Sky (Jensen/Jared RPS) -- 28/? (WIP)
Title: Early Mornings and Late Nights Under Overcast Sky
Characters/Pairing: Jensen Ackles / Jared Padalecki; Jensen Ackles / Luanne (OFC); stated Jared/Sandy; stated Jared/Rebecca (OFC) and stated Jared/Ryan (OMC)
POV: Jensen Ackles
Author's Notes: It’s fiction. That means it’s not real, folks. Jensen and Jared are real people. So is Eric Kripke. The show “Supernatural” is a real TV show on the WB11. If anything else in this is real, I wasn’t aware of it.
I'm not going to say when or if the next chapter will be posted...
I just now (after twenty-five chapters and nearly 60,000 words) admitted to even writing this. Yes, I am responsible for this epic debacle!
But really, it took on a mind/life of it's own... So... read at your own risk. I would enjoy feedback, but I'll understand if you don't want to start reading a WIP with no end in sight or in the works. I really have no idea what's coming next here.
Summary: Jared’s girl (Sandra) breaks up with him. Jensen tries to help. Things go (rapidly) downhill from there…then fester… then get better?
*Holds out handbasket if you'd like to join us. It's getting cozy in here*
Spoilers: Nothing to see here, folks...
-------------------------
Chapter Twenty-Eight: For Better or Worse
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jensen/Jared, but not yet… but there’s an important, special line in this one. Comment if you catch it!
Word Count: 2,973
Chapter Twenty-Eight: For Better or Worse
I sleep fitfully, waking often and dreaming of the dark, sharp night, where things are never what they seem and reality is twisted and veiled, but not enough to pretend its just fantasy. Jared’s mom tells me again that I’ll hurt her son, that I’m not good enough for him, that I don’t know what happened to him-but I’m lucid enough at times to know that’s my own subconscious talking in some ways.
Come morning, I’m not sure if its Jared’s grating cough or the loud and jarring sound of something crashing against the wall that wakes me. All I know is that I was nodding morosely to something Mrs. Padalecki was telling me on the phone one minute-’You’ll never be good enough for him…’ … ‘You’ll hurt him. You don’t know what he’s been through’…-and the next I was sitting bolt upright in bed, breathing hard.
Nightmares.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, flatten my feet against the floor and rub my eyes, run my hands through my hair before standing. I remember the preventative care for panic attacks-the list the doctor gave me-and all the symptoms, as if I’m reading them off the chart, the informational pamphlets I’d been given over the years. Nightmares and feelings of anxiety, a lack of control… Sleeping and sufficient rest and maintaining a steady diet, eating healthy…
I haven’t been getting enough sleep lately, with Jared here and my concern for him, and what sleep I’ve managed has been plagued by nightmares, tossing and turning all night-restless at best. I eat, though not enough, and not what one might consider healthy. And I haven’t been taking any vitamin supplements to counter the dietary losses.
I know I can’t control everything, but lately it’s felt as though my entire life has been spinning out of and beyond my control. I feel like I don’t have a say in anything. And it’s my apartment, my life. But it’s not.
Finally, I take a deep breath that’s interrupted by a yawn, and I listen for further disturbance from the guest room, but all is peacefully quiet. I’m about to step into the bathroom to shower, shave-I’m looking pretty scruffy lately-and dig out the new bottle of Listerine, when I hear it. It’s faint, barely audible, but it’s there, and after hearing it the first time, I pause, listen closely, and it comes again.
A soft hitching of breath from beyond the walls separating the bedrooms, and my chest tightens, because I know it’s Jared. But I don’t know why. And I don’t know if I should go to him or not-I’m sure he’s being intentionally quiet, doesn’t me to hear him.
I think and debate as I piss, stretch and yawn some more, find the Listerine and put it to good use, finally deciding on checking on Jared prior to showering. I spit out the Listerine and head towards the guest room.
A louder whimper greets me from beyond the still-closed door, and I pause, my hand on the metal doorknob. It’s followed by a sharp intake of breath, a slower, more hitched and staccato exhale, and the low whine that accompanies it makes me open the door.
Jared’s sitting, curled on the bed, knees drawn to his chest, chin pressed to his knees, and he stares straight ahead, eyes half-closed and rimmed in red, lids puffy and pink. His arms are crossed around his shins, and he rocks slightly, the motion barely noticable. There are streaks along flushed cheeks that further stain the stark opposite pale of the rest of his skin. His lips are bowed and slicked with what has to be a mix of spit and tears. His shoulders jerk, tremble, and his breath is similarly broken-uneven and irregular. That he’s been crying is obvious.
“Jare?” I whisper questioningly from the door where I stand. I haven’t yet made a move towards him. I’m not sure he knows I’m there. I’m not sure he wants me here. “Jare?” I question again, just slightly more loudly than before.
He lifts his head to look at me, tears streaking his face, snot hanging from his nose and blood trickling from the corner of his mouth with a generous bit of saliva. He’s so far from attractive, it’s not funny.
I grab tissues as I hurry across the room to his side, push past his hands that futilely attempt to ward me off and cup his head in my hand. My other hand comes up with tissues to wipe his nose. I hold the tissues there. “Blow.”
He manages to roll his eyes at me, but does blow, lets me wipe his nose afterwards.
“You’re so hot right now, Jared, you have no idea.” I say dryly. “I want to jump your bones.”
He laughs, which is what I was hoping he’d do, then shoves lightly at me with a hand. “You’re such a bad liar, Jensen.” He sniffles, coughs, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, and I hand him another tissue, which he takes gratefully to wipe at the pale streak of crimson.
I reach up to feel his forehead with the back of my hand. “You’re still warm, Jare…”
“Saturday night, Jensen.” He says, reminding me of our agreement.
“And you’re still coughing up blood.” I plow forward, ignoring him.
He hacks up more phlegm-blood in response, which has me holding a napkin to his lips as I fumble for his cough medication on the bedside table. “Just take it, Jared.” I snap when he shakes his head ‘no’ at me, cup the back of his neck with my hand and push the proper dosage at his mouth.
He swallows it, glaring at me. I just hope it works. The harsh grating of his cough, the sound it makes, tearing from his throat, goes right through me-it hurts.
“Saturday night.” He repeats finally, a low, wet cough rumbling in his chest, throat, finally pulling at his shoulders. “If I still have a fever Saturday night…” He hacks into a tissue. I don’t see any red this time, but then, I didn’t get a good look.
I sigh heavily, and sit down on the edge of the bed. “So…” I start uncomfortably. “…what’s wrong?”
He smiles. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”
“The fact that I just walked in on you crying?” I point out the obvious, less than kindly. Jared flinches, and the smile disappears from his face quickly.
“I wasn’t crying.” Denial. It’s the old standby response of any child who’s been caught red-handed. It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it. I wasn’t… “I wasn’t.” He insists, but his voice is soft and he doesn’t look at me when he says the words. His eyes are puffy, but that could be because he’s tired.
I just nod. I don’t have the energy to argue with him, thanks to nightmare-plagued and sleepless nights, concern for his health and mine now with the panic attacks an ever-present possibility (fear) in my mind. “Okay, Jared.” I whisper, but not in a sarcastic way. I don’t want a fight, don’t want an argument. I stand up, move towards the door. “I’m going to shower.” I say, before he can ask where I’m going.
Half-way to the door, I turn. “You should shower too… I’ll make breakfast later.”
He nods, flops back on the bed with a cough. I retreat to my room, my bathroom, the sanctity, warmth and safety of my shower. I take clean boxers with me. They’re the last pair in the drawer. I need to do laundry.
Before showering, I grab my cell phone from the counter, dial the number of an old friend-one from my high school days in Texas-who knows about my panic attacks, and about Xanax, other drugs and methods of treatment/prevention. For panic attacks and other medical issues. Edward McKayne. I graduated high school with him, lived up the street from him. We used to ride our tricycles with plastic colt .45s and pretend the barn on his property was the Alamo.
He’s a doctor now. He’s the one who wrote me my first prescription for Xanax after other medications didn’t work, and he keeps my Xanax prescription current without me having to visit a doctor every year.
“Eddie…” I groan into the phone after he greets me, his voice too happy and perky for a Saturday morning. Especially a Saturday morning where I’m awake before eleven, haven’t slept well, have an ill houseguest who’s never far from my thoughts and towards whom I’m having feelings of the warm-and-fuzzy variety, and have been worrying about having another panic attack for the last day or two.
“Let me guess. Rough night drinking with your latest conquest? Asprin works great, you know.” He says cheerily, but when I groan again, and murmur a quiet ‘no’ into the mouthpiece of my phone, he continues, his voice becoming serious almost instantly, sobering. “Oh. Your panic attacks started back up.” It’s not a question.
“How’d you know?”
“You never call me unless it’s something about those panic attacks of yours. I thought you had them under control. Haven’t heard from you in damn near three years.” That’s not true. We chat all the time, and he’s known to exaggerate. Mountains out of molehills. I can hear him moving papers around, shuffling them, flipping them, sliding them over each other as if searching for one all-important slip.
“Yeah well… they’re back.” I sigh, cradling the phone between my shoulder and ear as I rest my palms on the lip of the sink, grip it tightly and lean on it.
“You taking the Xanax?” He asks.
I nod, look at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are rimmed dark and red, I look hollowed, empty, tired. Tired. So tired. But I can’t sleep, and when I do, the nightmares wake me up, and they’ve been bad lately.
“Jensen?” He asks.
“Huh?” I blink several times, take the phone in hand and turn to lean my ass on the ceramic of the sink. “Oh… yeah… Yes…. Yes I’ve been taking the Xanax… I just… I don’t want to take too much… don’t… want to get too spacy.”
“Jensen, you sound like you’re already there.” He says with a chuckle. “Jen, it’s okay to take them. Just, you know… follow the instructions on the bottle. And I wouldn’t recommend taking it more than twice a day.”
“I know…” I run the fingers of my other hand through my hair and sigh heavily. “I know…”
“So take them. And try to relax. Let them do their job, Jensen.” He pauses. “Do you need another prescription? I can call your pharmacy.”
“No… no…” I don’t. I have a refill remaining on this one, and about half a bottle of the small blue pills left. “I’m tired… I haven’t been sleeping well.” I tell him. “They’re back like they were in Los Angeles, Eddie.” I admit nervously. “Bad nightmares… and just… feeling like everything’s spinning out of control… the Xanax helps, but even with it… I feel edgy and… raw. Just… not right.”
“You been eating okay? Working out?” He starts running down the list of things I can do that might help prevent the panic attacks. When I snort, he figures out pretty quickly that I haven’t been exactly diligent in that department. “Get back to the gym… Start eating better. You know what you have to do there. Take the Xanax. It’s not going to hurt you. And if you really think you need it, I’ll call in a prescription for Lunesta for you. It’s non-habit forming. If it’ll help you sleep…”
“No…” I cut him off. “No… I think I’ll be okay.”
“You need to sleep. Really sleep, Jensen. Rest.” He says reproachfully. I can hear him walking around his office, checking voicemail messages. Patients who need refills and his lab calling about the results on the two samples he sent in.
I know he’s right, I just don’t want another pill to take. “I’ll try… if… if I…”
He cuts me off. “And for God’s sake, cut down on the coffee.”
I hear him, but it goes in one ear and out the other. I know it’d probably help, but giving up coffee is like giving up life blood. “…I’ll call if I think I need it… to sleep… if the nightmares… if it doesn’t get any better… I’ll call you. And you can call my pharmacy here…”
“Okay.” There’s really not much else he can say. It’s up to me whether I want the prescription or not, and even if he calls it in without me asking for it, it’s up to me to pick it up, to use it. I can almost see him shrug-‘whatever’.
We shoot the breeze about the Mavericks… a little about the Stars and how their new season looks starting up with a few injured players. Modano’s still Captain, of course… Yes, Marc Cuban is as gay as ever, no he hasn’t seen him with Modano lately maybe they broke up. He says I should come down for a Mavs game. I agree, but tell him with recent developments, getting any time off from the set before our break for Christmas will be hard.
“So what about football?” He asks. Turns out the Texans are playing at home at Christmastime, he could get us tickets. I tell him yes, and to get an extra for a friend of mine who I’m sure would love to go.
Five or ten minutes later, he tells me he has appointments, and he has to go. We say our goodbyes, and he reminds me to use the Xanax when I need it, not to be afraid of it, and that if I can’t sleep, to call him and he’ll get me a prescription for something to help.
Not something I want to happen. Something’s got to give. I’m not taking something else to help me sleep. And it’s got to give soon. It’s Saturday, and we’re due back on set Monday morning at eight o’clock.
I shower, a long, hot shower that ends abruptly when the water suddenly goes cold. From beyond the walls and doors of my apartment, I can hear Jared’s voice-“God… Damn it!”-and his shower cuts off. I have to chuckle as I turn off the water-luckily I’d been done washing and had just been standing under the steaming stream of water-and step out of the shower.
I towel myself dry, eye the yellowish prescription bottle of Xanax sitting on my counter with a mix of dislike and appreciation, pass it by without picking it up. I can feel the twisting inside my belly, the unnatural-faster-than-usual beat of my heart… I try to keep my mind from thinking about too much all at once, but I have an odd feeling the minute I see Jared… or at least the minute we sit down, the panic attack is going to start.
It’s the fear of having another one.
I need to eat. And Jared should try eating something too. I think of what’s in my refrigerator and is easy to make, settle again on scrambled eggs. I have frozen hash brown potatoes in the freezer that are easy enough to make, and I can smell the coffee from the automatic coffee maker drifting through the rooms already. I think I still have orange juice left in the half-gallon Tropicana container I bought a while back. Hopefully it’s still good, and we have instant breakfast.
I tug on boxers and jeans, then stumble out to the kitchen and start making breakfast after pouring myself the all-important first cup of coffee.
As I’m taking my first sip, Jared wanders into the kitchen, and upon seeing me with the coffee cup to my lips, reaches out with impossibly long arms and snatches it away from me. “Jenny… no.” He says quietly, and pours the coffee down the drain of the sink. He gets me orange juice, pours himself a glass at the same time. “Drink.” He says, pushing the glass of juice at me.
I’m still too shocked to say anything. He just took my coffee. And poured it down the drain. “Jared.” I manage. “Jared, that was my coffee! You don’t mess with another man’s coffee!”
He stares at me wordlessly, and I know I return the gaze, still completely flabbergasted. He took my coffee. My coffee. He suddenly smiles, laughs. “You should see the look on your face right now, Jensen.” That he’s back to the use of my full name doesn’t escape me. He’s see-sawing between my nickname and full name. He stops laughing when I don’t say anything, speaks gently. “It’s just… caffeine contributes to panic attacks, Jensen… and… I know you haven’t been sleeping well… and you’ve been having nightmares...”
When I still say nothing, he continues nervously. “…you can… stop with the caffeine, Jensen… I just… The caffeine’s something you can control…”
He’s right.
“That doesn’t give you the right to… dump my coffee in the sink!” I protest, and pour myself another cup of black coffee, but I don’t take a sip right away.
“Jensen…” He trails off, then shrugs, stirs the eggs in the frying pan and flicks the oven light on. “Your choice…” He whispers, then, more loudly, “I thought I smelled hash browns.”
I smile, retrieve plates from the cupboard. “Nothing but the best.”
We sit down at the kitchen table and eat. I drink my coffee, aware of the fact that my heartbeat is fast and my hands are clammy, but refusing to acknowledge either. I don’t know what to do anymore.
-------------------------
Characters/Pairing: Jensen Ackles / Jared Padalecki; Jensen Ackles / Luanne (OFC); stated Jared/Sandy; stated Jared/Rebecca (OFC) and stated Jared/Ryan (OMC)
POV: Jensen Ackles
Author's Notes: It’s fiction. That means it’s not real, folks. Jensen and Jared are real people. So is Eric Kripke. The show “Supernatural” is a real TV show on the WB11. If anything else in this is real, I wasn’t aware of it.
I'm not going to say when or if the next chapter will be posted...
I just now (after twenty-five chapters and nearly 60,000 words) admitted to even writing this. Yes, I am responsible for this epic debacle!
But really, it took on a mind/life of it's own... So... read at your own risk. I would enjoy feedback, but I'll understand if you don't want to start reading a WIP with no end in sight or in the works. I really have no idea what's coming next here.
Summary: Jared’s girl (Sandra) breaks up with him. Jensen tries to help. Things go (rapidly) downhill from there…then fester… then get better?
*Holds out handbasket if you'd like to join us. It's getting cozy in here*
Spoilers: Nothing to see here, folks...
-------------------------
Chapter Twenty-Eight: For Better or Worse
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jensen/Jared, but not yet… but there’s an important, special line in this one. Comment if you catch it!
Word Count: 2,973
Chapter Twenty-Eight: For Better or Worse
I sleep fitfully, waking often and dreaming of the dark, sharp night, where things are never what they seem and reality is twisted and veiled, but not enough to pretend its just fantasy. Jared’s mom tells me again that I’ll hurt her son, that I’m not good enough for him, that I don’t know what happened to him-but I’m lucid enough at times to know that’s my own subconscious talking in some ways.
Come morning, I’m not sure if its Jared’s grating cough or the loud and jarring sound of something crashing against the wall that wakes me. All I know is that I was nodding morosely to something Mrs. Padalecki was telling me on the phone one minute-’You’ll never be good enough for him…’ … ‘You’ll hurt him. You don’t know what he’s been through’…-and the next I was sitting bolt upright in bed, breathing hard.
Nightmares.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, flatten my feet against the floor and rub my eyes, run my hands through my hair before standing. I remember the preventative care for panic attacks-the list the doctor gave me-and all the symptoms, as if I’m reading them off the chart, the informational pamphlets I’d been given over the years. Nightmares and feelings of anxiety, a lack of control… Sleeping and sufficient rest and maintaining a steady diet, eating healthy…
I haven’t been getting enough sleep lately, with Jared here and my concern for him, and what sleep I’ve managed has been plagued by nightmares, tossing and turning all night-restless at best. I eat, though not enough, and not what one might consider healthy. And I haven’t been taking any vitamin supplements to counter the dietary losses.
I know I can’t control everything, but lately it’s felt as though my entire life has been spinning out of and beyond my control. I feel like I don’t have a say in anything. And it’s my apartment, my life. But it’s not.
Finally, I take a deep breath that’s interrupted by a yawn, and I listen for further disturbance from the guest room, but all is peacefully quiet. I’m about to step into the bathroom to shower, shave-I’m looking pretty scruffy lately-and dig out the new bottle of Listerine, when I hear it. It’s faint, barely audible, but it’s there, and after hearing it the first time, I pause, listen closely, and it comes again.
A soft hitching of breath from beyond the walls separating the bedrooms, and my chest tightens, because I know it’s Jared. But I don’t know why. And I don’t know if I should go to him or not-I’m sure he’s being intentionally quiet, doesn’t me to hear him.
I think and debate as I piss, stretch and yawn some more, find the Listerine and put it to good use, finally deciding on checking on Jared prior to showering. I spit out the Listerine and head towards the guest room.
A louder whimper greets me from beyond the still-closed door, and I pause, my hand on the metal doorknob. It’s followed by a sharp intake of breath, a slower, more hitched and staccato exhale, and the low whine that accompanies it makes me open the door.
Jared’s sitting, curled on the bed, knees drawn to his chest, chin pressed to his knees, and he stares straight ahead, eyes half-closed and rimmed in red, lids puffy and pink. His arms are crossed around his shins, and he rocks slightly, the motion barely noticable. There are streaks along flushed cheeks that further stain the stark opposite pale of the rest of his skin. His lips are bowed and slicked with what has to be a mix of spit and tears. His shoulders jerk, tremble, and his breath is similarly broken-uneven and irregular. That he’s been crying is obvious.
“Jare?” I whisper questioningly from the door where I stand. I haven’t yet made a move towards him. I’m not sure he knows I’m there. I’m not sure he wants me here. “Jare?” I question again, just slightly more loudly than before.
He lifts his head to look at me, tears streaking his face, snot hanging from his nose and blood trickling from the corner of his mouth with a generous bit of saliva. He’s so far from attractive, it’s not funny.
I grab tissues as I hurry across the room to his side, push past his hands that futilely attempt to ward me off and cup his head in my hand. My other hand comes up with tissues to wipe his nose. I hold the tissues there. “Blow.”
He manages to roll his eyes at me, but does blow, lets me wipe his nose afterwards.
“You’re so hot right now, Jared, you have no idea.” I say dryly. “I want to jump your bones.”
He laughs, which is what I was hoping he’d do, then shoves lightly at me with a hand. “You’re such a bad liar, Jensen.” He sniffles, coughs, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, and I hand him another tissue, which he takes gratefully to wipe at the pale streak of crimson.
I reach up to feel his forehead with the back of my hand. “You’re still warm, Jare…”
“Saturday night, Jensen.” He says, reminding me of our agreement.
“And you’re still coughing up blood.” I plow forward, ignoring him.
He hacks up more phlegm-blood in response, which has me holding a napkin to his lips as I fumble for his cough medication on the bedside table. “Just take it, Jared.” I snap when he shakes his head ‘no’ at me, cup the back of his neck with my hand and push the proper dosage at his mouth.
He swallows it, glaring at me. I just hope it works. The harsh grating of his cough, the sound it makes, tearing from his throat, goes right through me-it hurts.
“Saturday night.” He repeats finally, a low, wet cough rumbling in his chest, throat, finally pulling at his shoulders. “If I still have a fever Saturday night…” He hacks into a tissue. I don’t see any red this time, but then, I didn’t get a good look.
I sigh heavily, and sit down on the edge of the bed. “So…” I start uncomfortably. “…what’s wrong?”
He smiles. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”
“The fact that I just walked in on you crying?” I point out the obvious, less than kindly. Jared flinches, and the smile disappears from his face quickly.
“I wasn’t crying.” Denial. It’s the old standby response of any child who’s been caught red-handed. It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it. I wasn’t… “I wasn’t.” He insists, but his voice is soft and he doesn’t look at me when he says the words. His eyes are puffy, but that could be because he’s tired.
I just nod. I don’t have the energy to argue with him, thanks to nightmare-plagued and sleepless nights, concern for his health and mine now with the panic attacks an ever-present possibility (fear) in my mind. “Okay, Jared.” I whisper, but not in a sarcastic way. I don’t want a fight, don’t want an argument. I stand up, move towards the door. “I’m going to shower.” I say, before he can ask where I’m going.
Half-way to the door, I turn. “You should shower too… I’ll make breakfast later.”
He nods, flops back on the bed with a cough. I retreat to my room, my bathroom, the sanctity, warmth and safety of my shower. I take clean boxers with me. They’re the last pair in the drawer. I need to do laundry.
Before showering, I grab my cell phone from the counter, dial the number of an old friend-one from my high school days in Texas-who knows about my panic attacks, and about Xanax, other drugs and methods of treatment/prevention. For panic attacks and other medical issues. Edward McKayne. I graduated high school with him, lived up the street from him. We used to ride our tricycles with plastic colt .45s and pretend the barn on his property was the Alamo.
He’s a doctor now. He’s the one who wrote me my first prescription for Xanax after other medications didn’t work, and he keeps my Xanax prescription current without me having to visit a doctor every year.
“Eddie…” I groan into the phone after he greets me, his voice too happy and perky for a Saturday morning. Especially a Saturday morning where I’m awake before eleven, haven’t slept well, have an ill houseguest who’s never far from my thoughts and towards whom I’m having feelings of the warm-and-fuzzy variety, and have been worrying about having another panic attack for the last day or two.
“Let me guess. Rough night drinking with your latest conquest? Asprin works great, you know.” He says cheerily, but when I groan again, and murmur a quiet ‘no’ into the mouthpiece of my phone, he continues, his voice becoming serious almost instantly, sobering. “Oh. Your panic attacks started back up.” It’s not a question.
“How’d you know?”
“You never call me unless it’s something about those panic attacks of yours. I thought you had them under control. Haven’t heard from you in damn near three years.” That’s not true. We chat all the time, and he’s known to exaggerate. Mountains out of molehills. I can hear him moving papers around, shuffling them, flipping them, sliding them over each other as if searching for one all-important slip.
“Yeah well… they’re back.” I sigh, cradling the phone between my shoulder and ear as I rest my palms on the lip of the sink, grip it tightly and lean on it.
“You taking the Xanax?” He asks.
I nod, look at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are rimmed dark and red, I look hollowed, empty, tired. Tired. So tired. But I can’t sleep, and when I do, the nightmares wake me up, and they’ve been bad lately.
“Jensen?” He asks.
“Huh?” I blink several times, take the phone in hand and turn to lean my ass on the ceramic of the sink. “Oh… yeah… Yes…. Yes I’ve been taking the Xanax… I just… I don’t want to take too much… don’t… want to get too spacy.”
“Jensen, you sound like you’re already there.” He says with a chuckle. “Jen, it’s okay to take them. Just, you know… follow the instructions on the bottle. And I wouldn’t recommend taking it more than twice a day.”
“I know…” I run the fingers of my other hand through my hair and sigh heavily. “I know…”
“So take them. And try to relax. Let them do their job, Jensen.” He pauses. “Do you need another prescription? I can call your pharmacy.”
“No… no…” I don’t. I have a refill remaining on this one, and about half a bottle of the small blue pills left. “I’m tired… I haven’t been sleeping well.” I tell him. “They’re back like they were in Los Angeles, Eddie.” I admit nervously. “Bad nightmares… and just… feeling like everything’s spinning out of control… the Xanax helps, but even with it… I feel edgy and… raw. Just… not right.”
“You been eating okay? Working out?” He starts running down the list of things I can do that might help prevent the panic attacks. When I snort, he figures out pretty quickly that I haven’t been exactly diligent in that department. “Get back to the gym… Start eating better. You know what you have to do there. Take the Xanax. It’s not going to hurt you. And if you really think you need it, I’ll call in a prescription for Lunesta for you. It’s non-habit forming. If it’ll help you sleep…”
“No…” I cut him off. “No… I think I’ll be okay.”
“You need to sleep. Really sleep, Jensen. Rest.” He says reproachfully. I can hear him walking around his office, checking voicemail messages. Patients who need refills and his lab calling about the results on the two samples he sent in.
I know he’s right, I just don’t want another pill to take. “I’ll try… if… if I…”
He cuts me off. “And for God’s sake, cut down on the coffee.”
I hear him, but it goes in one ear and out the other. I know it’d probably help, but giving up coffee is like giving up life blood. “…I’ll call if I think I need it… to sleep… if the nightmares… if it doesn’t get any better… I’ll call you. And you can call my pharmacy here…”
“Okay.” There’s really not much else he can say. It’s up to me whether I want the prescription or not, and even if he calls it in without me asking for it, it’s up to me to pick it up, to use it. I can almost see him shrug-‘whatever’.
We shoot the breeze about the Mavericks… a little about the Stars and how their new season looks starting up with a few injured players. Modano’s still Captain, of course… Yes, Marc Cuban is as gay as ever, no he hasn’t seen him with Modano lately maybe they broke up. He says I should come down for a Mavs game. I agree, but tell him with recent developments, getting any time off from the set before our break for Christmas will be hard.
“So what about football?” He asks. Turns out the Texans are playing at home at Christmastime, he could get us tickets. I tell him yes, and to get an extra for a friend of mine who I’m sure would love to go.
Five or ten minutes later, he tells me he has appointments, and he has to go. We say our goodbyes, and he reminds me to use the Xanax when I need it, not to be afraid of it, and that if I can’t sleep, to call him and he’ll get me a prescription for something to help.
Not something I want to happen. Something’s got to give. I’m not taking something else to help me sleep. And it’s got to give soon. It’s Saturday, and we’re due back on set Monday morning at eight o’clock.
I shower, a long, hot shower that ends abruptly when the water suddenly goes cold. From beyond the walls and doors of my apartment, I can hear Jared’s voice-“God… Damn it!”-and his shower cuts off. I have to chuckle as I turn off the water-luckily I’d been done washing and had just been standing under the steaming stream of water-and step out of the shower.
I towel myself dry, eye the yellowish prescription bottle of Xanax sitting on my counter with a mix of dislike and appreciation, pass it by without picking it up. I can feel the twisting inside my belly, the unnatural-faster-than-usual beat of my heart… I try to keep my mind from thinking about too much all at once, but I have an odd feeling the minute I see Jared… or at least the minute we sit down, the panic attack is going to start.
It’s the fear of having another one.
I need to eat. And Jared should try eating something too. I think of what’s in my refrigerator and is easy to make, settle again on scrambled eggs. I have frozen hash brown potatoes in the freezer that are easy enough to make, and I can smell the coffee from the automatic coffee maker drifting through the rooms already. I think I still have orange juice left in the half-gallon Tropicana container I bought a while back. Hopefully it’s still good, and we have instant breakfast.
I tug on boxers and jeans, then stumble out to the kitchen and start making breakfast after pouring myself the all-important first cup of coffee.
As I’m taking my first sip, Jared wanders into the kitchen, and upon seeing me with the coffee cup to my lips, reaches out with impossibly long arms and snatches it away from me. “Jenny… no.” He says quietly, and pours the coffee down the drain of the sink. He gets me orange juice, pours himself a glass at the same time. “Drink.” He says, pushing the glass of juice at me.
I’m still too shocked to say anything. He just took my coffee. And poured it down the drain. “Jared.” I manage. “Jared, that was my coffee! You don’t mess with another man’s coffee!”
He stares at me wordlessly, and I know I return the gaze, still completely flabbergasted. He took my coffee. My coffee. He suddenly smiles, laughs. “You should see the look on your face right now, Jensen.” That he’s back to the use of my full name doesn’t escape me. He’s see-sawing between my nickname and full name. He stops laughing when I don’t say anything, speaks gently. “It’s just… caffeine contributes to panic attacks, Jensen… and… I know you haven’t been sleeping well… and you’ve been having nightmares...”
When I still say nothing, he continues nervously. “…you can… stop with the caffeine, Jensen… I just… The caffeine’s something you can control…”
He’s right.
“That doesn’t give you the right to… dump my coffee in the sink!” I protest, and pour myself another cup of black coffee, but I don’t take a sip right away.
“Jensen…” He trails off, then shrugs, stirs the eggs in the frying pan and flicks the oven light on. “Your choice…” He whispers, then, more loudly, “I thought I smelled hash browns.”
I smile, retrieve plates from the cupboard. “Nothing but the best.”
We sit down at the kitchen table and eat. I drink my coffee, aware of the fact that my heartbeat is fast and my hands are clammy, but refusing to acknowledge either. I don’t know what to do anymore.
-------------------------