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Laswell's office might be his least favourite place on earth.
For one, it's absolutely freezing. Maybe he's gotten too used to staying by Price's desk at the 141, where the older man wacks the strange portable heating system (a gift from a soldier, Price had told him) as high as it can go, almost giving them both heatstroke in the process. Either way, Laswell keeps the room far too cold and has the fan on all year around.
Which would be fine, if the fan wasn't so goddamn loud.
At first, it is bearable. He can drift in and out of the conversation, just about registering the wails of the fan's blades as they slice through the air. He smiles, and tries to keep up with what Laswell says for the sake of not being a great embarrassment for the region than he already is. He's lost track of the number of times he's been pulled into a meeting with Price for his antics, even if he wasn't technically the one that started it.
It gets louder.
He can hardly make out a word she says. It screams over her, going faster and faster- it reminds him of a helicopter, trying to take the whole room into flight. She can tell he's not listening to her; he's already miles away, in a much different setting.
He's falling.
The wind is sharp against his skin, slashing over him like knives, blowing dust into his eyes to blind him from the rapidly-approaching ground. He can hear Price yell his name as he falls, three seconds from being a red puddle on the road below. When he was younger, he would pretend he could fly- though he never thought it would be this terrifying.
This is going to hurt. His cousin broke his arm when he was seven. He's cried for hours, having nightmares of hearing the snap of bone for weeks after. He can't even imagine what it would feel like to have your skeleton smashed over the pavement like glass- though he supposes he won't be able to feel it, just one quick jolt as his brains go splattering over the floor. Silence. Price would scoop what's left up, deliver him to his sister.
He screams. He doesn't know why. Screaming won't save him now, no amount of struggling will prevent the inevitable destiny of his body against the wrath of gravity. HE hopes they'll be very gentle with him, and keep his wounds shielded so his nephew wouldn't see.
He's falling. He's going to die.
"Gaz?" Laswell's voice sounds- but he can barely hear her. It feels like his whole head has been submerged in water, like Laswell is a thousand miles away instead of so close that he can feel the look of concern on her face.
When did he stop breathing? His lungs ache, more than the times he would be waterboarded on various training courses. Spots dance in his vision, his legs crashing out from beneath him- Laswell must be a lot stronger than she looks if she could stop him from collapsing to the floor and losing any more dignity than he already has. This must be what dying really feels like.
It's terrifying.
"Garrick, can you hear me?" Laswell presses further.
He can still taste the dirt in his mouth. The choking dryness, heavy on his tongue and slipping down his throat until it's far too late to try and get it out. Falling out of the helicopter. Price yells his name. The snap of bones. He imagines death so much that it feels real as if he was never really saved from his fate and had been plummeting ever since.
He's pushed down onto one of the chairs. His vision is blurry; yet he can still see Price, keeping watch outside the door. He needs to hide. No one can see him like his, crying over a fucking ceiling fan- they'd think he was nothing but a stupid kid. He couldn't handle it if Price thought about him like that; his need to impress his captain was too desperate.
"This is so pathetic." He gasps, practically doubled over in his seat. He's never felt more humiliated in his entire life, sobbing and panicking over a simple helicopter journey like he isn't a sergeant for fuck's sake. He can barely look Laswell in the eye anymore for fear that she'll be giving him that stupid pitying look, the kind teachers used for kids too emotional to get through a school day.
"I can promise you that it isn't," Laswell says firmly. He daren't turn his head to face her. She tries to reach out to him, but he flinches away under her touch.
He can't believe he's acting like a scared toddler in front of Laswell- Christ, she'll never respect him now. He digs his fingernails into his arm so hard that the skin breaks, hoping the pain can drag him out of this whole ordeal- he'd beginning to hope that the ground will open up and eat him alive, so he'd never have to come to terms with the fact he's throwing a fit in the presence of the two most important people in his life.
"Do you want to get some air outside?" She asks him.
The thought of walking past everyone makes his stomach churn. He shakes his head, trying to wipe some of the tears- fuck, was he really crying?- off his face so he can pretend like the last few minutes weren't real. Laswell puts a hand on his back, and this time he doesn't try and move away. He can't remember the last time someone touched him in a way that wasn't dangerous.
If he were any younger, he would have been clinging to her already and begging her not to let him go. He'd probably be worse off for it, forced to reveal to her that he wasn't actually a good soldier, just a loser with an ounce of training and a gun.
"I'm sorry." He says, rather uselessly, after a short pause. Laswell looks like he'd just shot her cat.
"Don't you ever apologise to me, Kyle Garrick." She says. She sounds absolutely scandalised, and Gaz can't help but laugh. "It's not your fault. Do you have panic attacks often?"
"Panic attacks?" Gaz asks. His little freakouts had been described as many things; most often his father would call them 'tantrums' and glare at him until he got his breathing back in control. Staying at home was a nightmare. "That wasn't-"
"It was." Laswell cut him off sharply. "Do you have them a lot?"
"Sometimes." Liar. It's every night, waking up with a scream still in his throat, panting and shaking. His system runs on sleeping medication and caffeine- he never sleeps in the night, and is never awake enough during the day. It's a vicious cycle.
"Do you see anyone about it?"
"No. You can't tell Price though, I said I'd look for a therapist-"
"And?"
"I never got around to it."
Laswell just chuckles. Gaz has no idea how reliable she is when it comes to spilling secrets to Price- he knows they gossip all the time, and he's already starting to think that he might have to grovel further if he really wants her to keep it a secret.
"You're too stubborn, Gaz." She says simply. She stands up, and he does too, before he's pulled into the tightest hug he's ever received.
"I am sorry, for wasting your time." He tries to apologise again, but she just waves him off.
"You'd never waste my time."