Work Text:
It was an especially bad night for Charlie. Mac was out doing god knows what, completely forgetting they had plans, and he was sat in Dennis’ room, on his bed, in a pair of fresh, loose fitting clothes. He was grateful of Dennis’ kindness to him when they were alone because he was more than certain that if he hadn’t been just in the adjoining bathroom with the door open, Charlie would have freaked out and let his mind get the better of him.
Rain was coming down heavily outside, accentuated by loud cracks of thunder and strikes of lightning so bright that you could see it under Dennis’ closed bedroom door, scaring him thoroughly every time.
Logically, he knew it was just a little rain, but it didn’t stop him from yelping out quietly when a particularly loud crack sounded, and imagining the worst.
The rain was no better. It beat down outside, waxing and waning in intensity, but always staying loud enough to cover the quieter sounds and make him feel like he was in a horror film.
Another loud clap of thunder came, causing him to retreat into himself more. His thoughts were spiraling and making his anxiety race.
What if someone had begun to break in and they couldn’t hear and they’d wind up in a home invasion and both be shot and killed? What if they decided to slowly torture them instead, inflicting blunt force trauma to maim, but never kill. What if one of them died and the other was left alive with survivors' guilt? What if Charlie had his neck nicked, letting the blood flow out slowly until he eventually bled out as Dennis was forced to listen, hearing his pleas and pain?
Wrapping his hands around the back of his neck, he squeezed the skin up like you would scruff a cat, trying to soothe himself. It ultimately was painful, but it kept him present and grounded and okay.
Glancing over at Dennis, he just watched him do his all too complicated skincare routine, glad that Dennis was such a huge source of calm for him. He was grateful that around him, Dennis didn’t try to hide under a bunch of makeup to make himself pretty because he looked just fine without it.
The thoughts slowly began creeping back in as a flash of lightning illuminated under the door, making a rectangle of dark blue-white light appear. What if someone had set off an explosion or a bomb had dropped? Was Mac okay? Did Mac survive it? Maybe it was a targeted attack at a gay club and it happened to be the one Mac was at and he died. Maybe both he and Frank had died. Maybe The Rainbow had been blown to bits with Mac inside and his flesh was being burned with the rubble and they’d have to have a closed casket funeral for him because he’d be so deformed and it would be too painful to see him. Maybe Frank had gotten his hands on a bunch of C4 and had blown himself up outside their building.
His breathing was ragged and gripping himself wasn’t helping him. He felt like he was going to vomit.
Charlie felt disconnected from himself, as if the logical part of him left and was just letting this play out, not intervening, and just allowing him to have a panic attack.
When Dennis left the bathroom, he was on his phone, standing in the doorframe and talking, not that Charlie proceeded much, if any, of what he said.
Letting a strained, shuttering sob leave his lips, Dennis looked up, seeing the state Charlie was in, and rushed over, abandoning his phone on his bookshelf to kneel next to Charlie, cupping his cheek gently.
“Hey, buddy. Are you okay?” Dennis took on the voice one would with a small child, making sure it was clear he was there for him.
Charlie couldn’t look at him, though, averting his eyes to his lap and aggressively wiping his tears away, not wanting to be perceived as weak. He didn’t like everyone thinking of him like a helpless child.
Taking on a new approach, he tried again, still trying his hardest to soothe Charlie, “can I do anything for you, Charlie? I know the storm is scary, but I promise it’s going to be okay.”
His intrusive thoughts were racing at this point, not ebbing and flowing anymore, just a steady, fast paced stream.
What if Mac had done something and blown himself up? Maybe Mac failed a Project Badass and that’s what happened. What if he actually died intentionally? Maybe he was depressed. Was he depressed? More than usual? He hadn’t noticed anything. Oh god, did that make him a bad friend? Was he awful for not seeing the signs? Maybe he had driven Mac to suicide.
Dennis got up, sitting next to Charlie on the bed, wrapping his arm around his shoulders as the smaller man sobbed. Charlie keened into him a bit, burying his face in Dennis’ cotton t-shirt before wrapping his around his torso, knocking Dennis onto the mattress with him.
Charlie had little to no awareness of how rough he was being when he was feeling this bad, so Dennis was thankful they weren’t knocked to the floor.
Running his fingers through Charlie’s hair, he whispered to him that he was safe and okay, knowing that hearing someone talk helped ground Charlie as well as physical contact. It was obvious that he was having intrusive thoughts — hell, they came pretty regularly with thunderstorms and high winds — so he was glad he made mental notes on what Charlie did or didn’t like.
His breathing had begun to even out a bit and clearly, just as the storm was leaving, he was getting more tired. Reaching over to the bedside table, Dennis grabbed Mr. Tibbs from on top, offering it to Charlie quietly.
He was heavier than when Dennis was small, but that was only because Charlie had added a small pouch of lavender inside when he had fixed it all those years back to calm Dennis on his especially bad nights where he relied on Mr. Tibbs for comfort. Pulling his arms away and out from under Dennis, he held Mr. Tibbs close, burying his face right in the fluffy chest of the stuffed elephant to be closest to the lavender.
“Can you tell me a story, Dennis?”
The request was quiet, almost as if he was ashamed to ask it or as if it made him seem any less masculine or adult than he was.
Dennis obliged, glad that his son had made him reread the same 5 books to him for bedtime while he was in North Dakota. Knowing he at least remembered most of the first part of Fairy Dust and the Quest for the Egg. Part of him wondered if reciting a book marketed towards little girls would make Charlie feel bad, but his worries melted away as Charlie nuzzled more into him, falling asleep gently.
He didn’t stop parroting the book until he was positive Charlie had fallen asleep and he had begun to feel tired himself.