Chapter Text
Whoever said dreams can’t hurt you was a damned liar, Helmeppo thought.
First there was the practical aspect. Nightmares could interrupt sleep, leaving you groggy and unable to effectively do what you needed to during the day. Inattention had cost him more than a little blood over the years. So there was that.
And then there was the other part.
The part that had him out in the byways of the base, one of maybe two or three people out and about who weren’t on guard duty at, oh, three in the morning. All the buildings around him lay silent and mostly dark except for the spare light or two where some unfortunate soul struggled to finish a report or tried to wind down after getting in late. The sound of the surf overwrote everything except the sounds of himself -- the tmp-tmp of his feet on the walking path, the muted rustling of his clothing as he moved, the rasp of his breathing as he eased into the sixth mile of his run, by his own loose estimation. He admittedly wasn’t paying too much attention. The distance wasn’t the point.
He came around the corner, to the side of the base where the wind poured over the wall and ripped down each road like a hand trying to shove him back. He felt his pace slow down and forced himself forward -- urging his arms to move faster, which dragged his legs along. The first hints of a storm drove the air currents harder, carrying more of the sea on every gust. An almost imperceptible spray of ocean mist joined the sweat on his face. The waves must be massive tonight.
This probably wasn’t the smartest thing. God knew he’d need to keep up appearances tomorrow, and for that he needed at least some sleep. But before he could sleep, he needed to shut down his mind. And while the world offered many, many ways to do that, most of them would probably get him in a different sort of trouble and the rest required giving too much information to people he didn’t trust.
Hence, midnight runs that lasted into the wee hours.
His mind kept putting things in logical terms, as though that made the thoughts themselves logical. He knew rest could be vital for proper daytime function, and that laying in bed awake served as rest, but that actually sleeping would be more restful. If his mental disturbances could not be overcome by his own meager willpower, then the healthiest way to overcome them had to be exhaustion. That would put him into deeper sleep sooner as well, resulting in a better overall outcome.
A long-winded explanation, but it beat the hell out of admitting the blunter answer.
He reached another corner and turned, passing the mechanic’s area on his left and a massive materials stockpile on the right, tall stacks of metal and wood illuminated with sporadic lights. Helmeppo glanced skyward, toward the tops of the racks, and in the moment of inattention, his toe caught an uneven spot in the road. It took four stumbling steps to catch his balance. Wearily, he took that as a sign and looped around through the back streets toward the barracks, and his room, and hopefully a sound three hours of sleep.
“Come on! Are those weapons just for show, or are you going to hit me?” barked Bogard.
Helmeppo’s lip curled in a slight sneer as he reset his stance and eyed Bogard, who stood across the small yard so casually he may have been observing this practice session instead of leading it.
There was no point in waiting for his opponent to make the first move, so Helmeppo charged in again. Trying the usual opening gambit -- a strong overhead strike with both weapons, which should force Bogard to make one of a few moves. And from there, Helmeppo could let instinct and experience dictate the best way to follow up.
It turned out to be a block, and Helmeppo didn’t get a chance to put his half-plan into motion because, as happened before, as happened every time eventually, the ringing contact of his weapons against Bogard’s sword reverberated oddly into his fingers and across his right palm. A sensation of something twinging and hovering on the edge of giving out lanced through his hand and up his arm.
He didn’t drop the kukri this time -- he’d learned that much at least -- and used the follow-up swing from Bogard to help propel himself backward, away from the other man. Not a safe distance, but enough of one to indicate a halt in the moment.
Bogard lowered his sword. “The hand again?”
At Helmeppo’s nod, he strode forward, sheathing his weapon. He reached for Helmeppo’s right hand, only to have it pulled out of his reach at the last moment. Bogared looked up at him.
“If you won’t let me look, then get back to the infirmary,” he said. No nonsense, as ever.
Helmeppo hesitated, debating between the two evils, then sheathed his weapon and held the injured hand out obediently. Bogard took a look, prodding at a couple scarred spots with careful, probing fingers. On the second press, Helmeppo winced, but he resolutely waited through the rest of the examination.
At last, Bogard released him. “Everything seems to be holding up OK,” he said. “But we’re going back to no-contact drills until you can focus better. We’re done for today. You’re resting tomorrow..”
“But-”
Bogard fixed him with one baleful eye. “You want my help, you’re agreeing to my rules,” he said. “Or you can go back to the original treatment plan.”
The original treatment plan was for them to ship him off to some podunk backwater island with relatively little to do, until he “felt better.” The doctor explaining it tried to make it sound like a vacation. To Helmeppo, it sounded like hell -- for a few reasons. Garp had sent a letter with an alternative that Helmeppo jumped at, at the time. Bogard needed to wait at headquarters for several people traveling there to give testimony on a new band of pirates threatening the East Blue. Except the travellers had been delayed. He agreed to take Helmeppo’s recuperation as part of his daily routine in the meantime.
Helmeppo hadn’t been sure at the time what that would look like. He only knew it wasn’t the weighty uselessness of being cast off and abandoned for his mistakes, so he’d agreed as well.
But Bogard hadn’t even let him fight for the first week, even though he was out of the infirmary and the hand was basically normal again. It had been all exercise, running and chin-ups and everything else that he’d done back as a chore boy. “To build your stamina back up,” he’d said.
They’d reintroduced fighting slowly -- just drills the first day, then actual hand to hand the next, and eventually weapons. But every time, every damn time, after a day or two something like this happened. Then it was back to hand to hand, or plain exercise.
Plus, he couldn’t shake the feeling Bogard had taken it easy on him. Again. And still…
“No,” he said, trying to sound indifferent but only managing something in the neighborhood of petulant. “Day after tomorrow it is.”
“And remember to see Jassin.”
“Yes sir.”
The men parted ways, Bogard to who knew where and Helmeppo off to find some corner of the base with empty space to just … sit. Just sit and think. As he walked, he unconsciously laced his fingers together, the thumb of his good hand absently rubbing circles over the rough, raised scars of the other one.
It’s always a pain to tell, when someone decides to dual wield. So tell me. You left handed? Or right handed?
His right hand closed painfully around his thumb. The movement still caused a strange internal stretching sensation, as the muscles still struggled to regain their old dexterity.
He turned his attention resolutely on the road ahead and forced his hands to his sides. Time to rest. And try to control his thoughts.
One thing he tried not to think about was how Coby and the rest of the guys weren’t around.
Coby wanted to be here -- Helmeppo had seen it in his friend’s face before they left. The running was actually partly because or Coby -- or rather, the lack of Coby. Once he’d been released from direct medical supervision (a change that took entirely too long), the nightmares had plagued him. At first he’d tried to ignore them, but that proved impossible. And no way was he asking the doctors for help. So one night, exhausted and desperate, he’d gone to Coby’s room. The sleep in Coby’s eyes had blinked away quickly once he saw Helmeppo’s face, and he’d invited him into his own warm, cozy room. They chatted about things -- often inconsequential nonsense -- and it kept the fear at bay long enough for Helmeppo to eventually drop off to something like real sleep in a chair there.
But despite the captain’s pleading on his behalf, Helmeppo had been ordered to remain off the ship until his recuperation was deemed complete. And while Coby tried to steer the crew toward missions that kept them in the area and took less time, they still spent far more time on the sea than at HQ. Which often left Helmeppo here alone with his treatment plan. And with no respite in his own quarters, running turned out to be the only refuge he could find in the depths of the night.
The ship had left two nights ago, and weren’t expected back for another six. An endless stretch, it felt like.
He needed to go talk to Jassin. Bogard told him to, and he’d check. He always checked. He seemed to be taking his position as the overseer of Hellmeppo’s recovery seriously. Helmeppo wished he’d let up just a little. After all, a lot of the plan felt like useless time-wasting, designed not to help him but just to delay him from getting back to normal. And that was where Jassin fit into the puzzle.
He tried to solve problems with talking, which ordinarily was a good idea. But the problems he tried to solve were other people’s. By making them talk, mostly. And while he made some overtures toward other topics, mostly he just wanted to talk about old, bad stuff that lived well in the past.
Helmeppo sat on a curb in an out-of-the-way corner of headquarters for as long as he dared. But once the sun started heading significantly toward the horizon, he knew Jassin wouldn’t be in his office much longer and began making his way slowly to one of the small buildings on the north side.
The young man at the reception desk sent him right in, with a pleasant, plastic smile and a narrowing of the eyes that suggested he’d been about to leave when Helmeppo showed up and extended his work shift. Then it was across and into the worst place at headquarters.
Jassin liked green. A plush emerald carpet covered most of the floor, and the cushions on all three chairs nearly matched. The tchotchkes on his desk -- a handmade tea cup, a wooden box full of pens, a strange little statue carved from wood -- all sported different shades. Even the curtains were a middling forest green, tinting every inch of sunlight that tried to pierce through the window. It made Helmeppo uneasy, though he assumed that wasn’t the intended reaction.
As he entered, the counselor stood up and crossed to greet him. “Helmeppo!” he said with what sounded like genuine enthusiasm. He reached out a hand and Helmeppo shook it, biting back a grimace. It didn’t hurt, not something this simple, but he knew what the man was doing with these handshakes. Always leading with the right hand. Always looking Helmeppo straight in the eyes, as though daring him to flinch or look away.
Helmeppo met his eyes and squeezed his hand, maybe a little too hard. I’m not an invalid and you aren’t in control here.
If the pressure bothered Jassin, he gave no sign. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t be joining me today,” he said, returning to his desk and gesturing for Helmeppo to take one of the two chairs on the other side.
Settling in, Helmeppo responded, “if I didn’t come they’d kick me back to square one, right?”
“That’s right,” Jassin said, folding his hands together on his desk. “But I hope that’s not the only reason you come here.”
“If it is, does that reset my progress?” Helmeppo asked.
Jassin shook his head. “Unfortunately no. You have to attend, but no one can make you engage. Still, I wish you would at least try to take this a little more…”
“Seriously?” Helmeppo asked.
“Personally,” Jassin settled on. “Our time here isn’t about what the brass wants. It’s about you. About helping you process everything so you can move forward, like you have before.”
“By spinning my wheels and talking about things that are already over and done with?” Helmeppo asked.
Jassin shook his head. “We’re not having this discussion again,” he said with maddening calm. “You already know my thoughts on the topic. If you have something new to add to your objections, I’m happy to listen. But if it’s going to be the same conversation again, I think we’ll be best served by moving on.”
Helmeppo made a lazy as you wish gesture. “Ok. Then what would you like to badger me about today?”
He thought Jassin would object to his use of the word “badger,” but the man just stared at him quietly for a few seconds, then asked, “Did you have another setback in your physical recovery today?”
Helmeppo glanced at the door, even though there was no way whoever had gossiped about it would be there. “Who-”
“You told me,” Jassin interrupted him. When Helmeppo narrowed his eyes at him, he said, “When you have a full training session with that gentleman, you arrive here more tired. Still kind of sweaty from the exertion, no offense. And when something goes wrong, you show up here looking more put together.”
Well, that made him feel like an idiot.
“Just a twinge,” Helmeppo said, shrugging it off. “Bogard is just being overly cautious.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Because he doesn’t want my hand to regress.” What kind of stupid question was that.
“And that’s all?”
“Yeah.”
Silence fell between them. Jassin liked this little trick too -- he thought if he let the quiet linger long enough it would guilt or embarrass Helmeppo into saying more, saying things he didn’t intend to. He thought, with a rueful smile, that it would definitely work on Coby. Tashigi too. But not him. He’d-
“Did something good happen today?”
“Hm?” He pulled back to the present.
“You just looked like you were thinking about something positive.”
Helmeppo brought back the neutral expression. He knew it wasn't friendly -- the phrase resting bitch face had, in fact, come up in the past. But it was easiest to maintain. “Not really.”
Another long silence. Testing him.
Again, he managed to force Jassin to break it. “Helmeppo, I am trying to find a way to help you. And I don’t want to keep you too long today if you’ve had a long day already-”
“Good.”
“-but,” he said, tone quietly warning. “First I want to ask. How are you sleeping?”
“Fine.”
This time there was something watchful and expectant in the silence. For the first time since their handshake, Helmeppo chanced a look at his counselor and saw him staring across the desk. He looked almost sad. What the hell did he have to be sad about? And everything about his pose said he didn’t believe that one word.
“What?” Helmeppo demanded.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. I’d know, right?”
“So if I were to contact Bogard, he would tell me late night runs are part of your current training regimen, correct?”
What the hell? Helmeppo sat up, stopping just short of lurching from the chair. “Have you been spying on me?”
“Not in the way you’re thinking. But when my colleagues notice one of our mandatory reports behaving in worrying and erratic ways, word gets back. Last night, one of them called me. And then yes. I did watch. To see how long you’d keep pushing it.”
Helmeppo fumed silently. Was this what counselors were supposed to do? Spy and accuse and belittle and...
“Helmeppo. I know you know staying up half the night running isn’t going to help.”
“If that’s what you think then I guess you may as well give up on trying to help me,” Helmeppo snapped before he could stop himself. “You clearly don’t get it.”
“I don’t,” Jassin agreed, to Helmeppo’s surprise. His tone sounded a little hopeful as he added, “But I want to. How do the all-night runs help you?”
For just a moment, he considered saying it. Throwing it in the man’s face, just to see his expression. He wanted to hear the details? To be a licensed voyeur?
But no. Helmeppo didn’t feel like saying it. Not for this. Not for anything.
“It’s great cardio,” he said instead, and watched the kindling hope in the counselor’s face snuff out.
Oh good, you’re awake. I was starting to get bored.
The words followed Helmeppo out of his dream and into his moonlit bedroom. He could feel every beat of his heart painfully against his ribs. He clasped both hands over the spot, the left one pushed flat against his sweaty shirt and the right one in a slight arc over it. Then, in a mad scramble, they felt at his wrists. Only when they encountered nothing but flesh did his heart begin to calm back down again.
Just a dream. Just being stupid. He could see every inch of his small room. The door locked from the inside, not the outside. Everything normal. Everything fine.
Climbing out of bed on shaky legs, he hunted around until he found this afternoon’s training clothes and shrugged them on. Checked the clock. Almost three a.m. Better than before, he supposed.
Swiping his hair into a hasty ponytail, he headed out the door and into the dark streets once again.