Chapter Text
The first thing he noticed as he was dragged unwillingly into consciousness was that the alarm sounded hostile today. Not its usual petulant whine, or the rare cajoling “come on jerk, you’re gonna be late” beeps that always made his lungs tighten up and heart hurt for reasons he never understood. No, today it was a demanding GETUPGETUPGETUP screaming in his ear, his left one of course, so side swiping the damn thing off the bedside table was not an option because like a drunk moron he’d left that arm the living room last night.
“Fuck. My. Life.” The mantra, gritted out from a throat that sounded like he's spent his night gargling rocks, was probably not what his therapist had in mind when he recommended he get one but what Dr. B didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
Jim scrubbed his hand across his face, fingers catching on stubble as he chased away the scraps of his dream. Same one he always has when it wasn't a PTSD nightmare, a voice calling him by something he thinks is his name. A smile without a face, his hand on a shoulder that was too slight and too broad at the same time, waking up aching and lost. Jim almost preferred the nightmares, as bad as they were he could always shake them off faster than those damn dreams even if he could never remember them. God dammit. He did not want to get up today, but his sleep fogged mind was kinda hazy on the facts as to whether or not he had to. Screwing his eyes shut against the gentle morning sun peeking through his fucking lace curtains, thank you Natalie, Jim forced his recall back past the six-pack of winter ale, three shots of home brew and the five hours spent binge watching Friends last night and tried to figure out if he had to get outta bed NOW THIS VERY MINUTE in order to make it across town to The Pott for coffee before heading into work or if today was one of those blessed days when he got to sleep in a whole extra hour before starting his day.
Wait. Yesterday was Thursday, which meant today was Friday and he still had one more day to go before he could wallow in misery to his heart’s content. Of course it was, like Jim could ever fucking catch a break in his entire life.
Using his one good arm to throw back the covers Jim took a deep breath to ground himself before throwing himself to the mercy of the day before him and heading to the bathroom to take a shower. If he was fast about getting himself decent he might even be able to work it so he could have an actual breakfast at The Pott before work, instead of his usual coffee to go guzzled down on the short walk from The Pott to his job. It would be nice to actually sit and eat with other people for once, instead only having Netflix and the stack of work he’d brought home for company.
People were social creatures, as Dr. B liked to keep reminding him, constantly hammering at the point until Jim wanted to cry uncle, and Jim’s tendency toward self-imposed solitary confinement was not healthy. PTSD or no PTSD Jim had to get out there and connect with the world around him or he was going to go nuts. Well, Dr. B had not put it quite like that but Jim was a smart guy, he could read between the lines.
Thing was Jim could be social, that was not the problem, never had been. If he wanted to he could charm the pants off of the Mayor and that there? Was saying something. Even after he came back from the war missing an arm and so shut down he might as well have been frozen solid, he still managed to pull his shit together and start a life for himself in small town hell. He got a place and a job and even a few people he would, if pressed, call more than acquaintances; even if they not quite worthy of the label friends. Buddies, that’s what he had and he actually did have more of them than he could on his one hand, if he included Dr. B. So yeah, socializing he could do, easily. The only problem was everything he did felt empty, like there was something missing, something important, and for the life of him he could not figure out what it was. It haunted him, this missing undefined thing and it was that lack, the void created by this missing undefined essential thing, which kept him heading into therapy every week; not the ongoing one armed vet with PTSD drama everyone one assumed it to be.
Maybe it was this place, this ass end of nowhere town so far away from the city that had born and raised him he might as well be in Timbuktu. After he’d gotten discharged the idea of moving home and living with his sister in her cramped fourth floor walk up had filled him with utter panic. Wandering those familiar streets with the huge hole in his life was more than he could bear, so he’d hit up the web and found a job way up north, as far from Coney Island and the streets of his old stomping grounds as he could get without needing a passport. It’d seemed like a good idea at the time but as the years had passed, and things maintained their unchanging grind, Jim had to ask himself why the hell he ever left life in Brooklyn for freaking Storybooke Maine in the first place.
**********
The Pott was busy with the morning rush when Jim got there but he managed to find a booth in back and slide in before anyone else could claim it, missing an arm or not, he was still ex Special Forces and that was a useful skill set to have. He was just detangling himself from his messenger bag because, damn it all, the stupid thing kept getting hooked on his prosthetic, when a menu slapped down on to his table followed by the distinct thunk of porcelain on Formica as white mug baring the stylized teapot the was The Pott's logo joined it.
“So I could totally fix that for you, just saying.” Tony looked up from his order pad and wiggled his eyebrows at Jim while glancing meaningfully at the hunk of metal and medical grade silicone attached to his left side. Jim followed his gazed and let himself be tempted for about three seconds as he freed it from the unwieldy canvas strap.
Stupid piece of shit, he really should go back to the VA and yell until they gave him a new one. Only problem was the closest VA was a good three hour drive away and Jim had neither the time, nor the car, to get there. That said? There was no way in God he was letting Storybrooke’s worst waiter anywhere near it. That Tony had delusions of genius was a well chewed bit of town gossip, he’d apparently been that way since grade school, but after the last time he’d blown up Dar’s car trying to “improve” it everyone had learned to steer well clear of him and his offers to “fix” things.
“Nah, I’m good.” Jim threw as friendly a smile has he had in his arsenal up at the notoriously temperamental man who was about to handle his food to go along with the rejection.
“Whatever you say there tin man, I'm just putting the offer out there. You wanna keep on trucking with that antique? No skin off my nose. So what can I get you?”
“Who’s in the kitchen today?” It paid to ask, if it was Happy than you could be sure that whatever you got was going to not just be edible but that after your last bite there would be a lingering regret that you did not have anymore. If it was Fitz on the other hand….
“Fitz.”
“Ah, crap.” Seriously, it was like the universe was out to get him. He finally gets here in time enjoy an actual breakfast and Lenny “I don’t understand the point of food, we should all live on nutrient paste” Fitz was on the grill. Ah well, it could be worse. Jim had finally learned to ask in advance after he’d choked down one too many meals made up of what was once food before it fell into that guys mitts. He’d have sent back his plate in protest but it’d just have gotten tossed and something about wasting food, even that crap, made a part deep down in Jim squirm in very uncomfortable ways he could never explain.
Tony clucked at him in rebuke even as he winced in sympathy, “He’s not that bad.”
“Yes, he is. Seriously, what he does to eggs is a cry’n shame. How can you ruin eggs?”
The eye roll he got in reply was standard, the one supplied on demand every time Jim dared to voice his complaint because while Tony did not like anyone talking smack about his guys, there was also nothing he could say to defend what Fitz did to food.
“You going to order or not?”
“What are my options that don’t include anything coming outta the food gulag?”
Tony gave him an aggravated look that slid into sympathy when it glanced over his arm. Jim hated that, the way people checked themselves around him whenever they remembered he was a vet. Pity for the poor one armed guy with PTSD made sure that the kid gloves would inevitably come out even when he was being a jerk. Still, if it got him food this morning that would not be considered a war crime…
“Tell you what, we have some pie left over from last night. Happy made it.” Tony injected before Jim even finished opening his mouth to ask. “How about I bring you a couple of slices?”
Jim grinned and flipped the menu shut before handing it back to him. “That sounds perfect pal.”
“Pal?” Tony took back the menu, giving Jim about as fake a look of concern as you could find outside of closing time at the DMV, “Anyone ever tell you your slang is a little on the archaic side there, Pops? What do you have against the 21st century Barnes? Did it bite you as a child?”
“Eh, I am who I am.”
“Whatever, I'll be right back with your coffee. And I know,” The exasperation was so thick you could spread it on toast when you ran outta butter, “black. No cream, no sugar, none of that weird foam crap.” Tony rattled off Jim’s usual instructions, given daily, with the air of some catering to the insane as he walked away, clearly done with Jim and his odd, old timey ways.
The counter that held the seldom used drip machine was across the diner from Jim’s booth, which itself was back corner, facing the door. The machine was old and sad but still worked just fine if you asked Jim, even if it seldom saw much action these days. That would be because it was parked next to an enormous red and gold monstrosity of a espresso machine that so many others in this damn place seemed to think was the way you drank coffee. Ever since The Pott had made the grand reveal and Tony had started working that damn machine like some sort of caffeine dispensing evil magician, everyone seemed to think that orange mocha cappuccinos and latte art were what you drank, all milk and foam and signifying a level of pretension that made Jim’s eye twitch.
The only other person who seemed immune to the church of espresso was the sheriff and she drank her stuff so dark and thick it could be used to repair roofs. Jim was the only other person in town who could actually stand to drink the stuff she kept in the pot at the sheriff station, which was seen by most as so bad it was a crime deterrent. No one wanted to get stuck there over night because they all knew that a Styrofoam cup of black death masquerading as coffee would be waiting for there for them in the morning, served with a stale muffin and something that no one, not even the craziest fool in town, would call a smile. Well, okay, maybe that guy would, but he also had it bad for the sheriff. Which everyone seemed to know, expect maybe the sheriff.
Shaking himself outta thoughts of small town unrequited love, Jim pulled out the newspaper he’d picked up on his way to The Pott and opened it up with a satisfied sigh. No one could tell him that print was dead, not when the sound of the paper rustled in his ears and reminded him of mornings long lost to the past, filled with messy hair and soft skin accompanying a face he could never quite make out, and the smell of the India ink settled him in the here and now the way nothing else seemed to do these days.
“You’re a relic Barnes!” Tony hollered at him from across the diner as he sliced up Jim’s pie.
“Bite me Stark!” Jim yelled back not even looking up as his eyes scanned the headlines, like he did every morning, looking for something that he knows is never there even if he does not know what it is.