Work Text:
You are a young boy standing on the edge of sixteen. It's the middle of the night, and you're sitting on the side of your bed, unable to sleep. It's raining outside, and the air is thick and heavy in your chest as you breathe it in.
Something is keeping you awake. It's a tad annoying, if you're honest. You're well past the amorphous suggestion of your self-instated bedtime. Really, you tend to retire for the night whenever your good chums log off for the night, and use that as your sign to go shake hands with the honorable Mister Sandman yourself. It's led to some truly astoundingly late nights before, being dependent on the habits of your friends.
Tonight, you can't well blame anyone for your wakefulness. You bid Jane adieu over two hours ago. And yet, here you are, awake and... feeling funny.
It's raining. You can hear it muffled outside your jungle sphere. The white fuzz of noise makes it difficult to pick out anything beyond. Are those footsteps? Is one of the monsters wandering close to your stubby tower home?
It's happened before. This is the first time it's bothered you so much, though.
Straining to hear beyond the rain is making your head hurt. Yet, you can't stop. You're certain you hear something outside and jump to run to the window, pealing back the corner of a poster so you can glance out.
Light flashes. A clap of thunder goes off what feels like right in your dangnabbed skull and the noise you let out is not brave or dashing.
At least the lightning illuminates the area around your house. There's nothing out there. That should be enough reassurance for you to go to damned sleep.
You make it halfway back to your bed before everything goes bad. Bad, bad, bad, your chest hurts when you next take a breath. And the next hurts more. Right then, relax, you're just startled from the nothing outside giving you a fright, you just have to catch your breath.
But doing that pinches something terrible, like your lungs are getting jabbed merrily by your ribs with every inhale. That can't be right, that isn't a thing that happens, is it? You feel like you should know this, but as you try to puzzle it out, the pain settles in like a great gargoyle sitting awful sentry right on your chest. Heavy bastard it is, too.
You are alone and your chest hurts. The realization makes your throat clench in sudden fear. You need help. There's no help. No one for thousands of miles.
Leaning on your work bench helps a little, and your hand is numb, but you feel it when your fingers bump into your skulltop. Not a person, not a solid body to take care of you and make sure you're going to be okay, but the next best thing. You have remarkable friends, brilliant lovely minds that shine like chipped glass. You just need to catch one of them.
Your skulltop has never felt heavier than now, but you manage to lift it and get it on your head. There, it feels even heavier, pushing your head down. Your neck bends. Blimey fucking shit, is it harder to breathe now? You can't tell, but it feels like it. You keep your hands pressed against the cool green casing of the skulltop, supporting it, and take a few gasping breaths. You can do this. You have to do this.
Jane's icon is dim on your pesterchum. No surprise there, really, but having one of your options taken from you makes your eyes sting, vision swimming. Blinking quickly, you read on.
Roxy's on, but set to busy. Cripes, she had mentioned pouring herself a nightcap a few hours ago, she could be... rather far gone by now. Another option off your list, and by now the effort of putting on the skulltop is starting to feel worthless.
Good old timaeusTestified is set to busy, but at least with Dirk, there is a contingency. A contingency you bloody fucking cannot stand most days, but tonight floods you with relief like cool water in your tight, overheated skin.
GT: Dirk i know the hour is far beyond late
GT: But I need assistance immediately and everyone else is offline.
GT: Please this is important.
TT: Given the time, it seems what's "important" is the state of your antiquated relic of a DVD player.
TT: I warned you that if you didn't do some basic maintenance on that thing, it would break in the middle of one of your shitty movie marathons.
GT: My chest hurts, shut up and put Strider on.
You are a little surprised that you've gotten a word in edgewise on the auto-responder before it really dug into one of its long, vaguely insulting tirades. Any other time, you'd give yourself a hearty pat on the back. Instead, you add:
GT: Please.
TT: Stand by.
For the moment, you shut your eyes, focusing on breathing. Figuring out how deep you can inhale is hard; too deep and that pinch cuts into you like a knife. Too shallow and you don't get enough air, gasp, and fuck that hurts a lot more. The balance is precarious and terrible, and you want to cry.
You only open your eyes after your client beeps at you, the message alert sound, the most wonderful noise you've ever heard in your life.
TT: I'm here.
TT: What's happening? Are you hurt?
TT: Where are you? I can deploy the brobot to get you back home.
GT: I am home. I dont know whats going on but my chest hurts.
GT: Out of nowhere! I dont know why but breathing too deep hurts and my head hurts.
GT: Dont suppose youve got some medical knowhow stashed in that giant melon of yours?
GT: Please no tangents about that, i know i left myself wide open but i cant right now
TT: Wasn't going to.
TT: Time for lightning round. Yes and no answers only:
TT: Are you injured to your knowledge?
GT: No.
TT: Did you go out today or exert yourself in any way?
GT: I stayed home. Its raining.
GT: And no i dont think so?
There is a pause. It can't be more than three seconds, but compared to Dirk's usual rapidfire messaging style, it feels like eons.
TT: Are you standing right now?
GT: Yes im leaning on the table.
TT: Are you using your skulltop?
GT: Yes.
TT: Good. Lay down. Right there, don't bother going for your bed, just lay on your back.
You are more than happy to comply. Dropping down feels... not good, but better. Less heavy. Being able to stop holding your own head up feels amazing, and your arms flop against the floor with an audible slap as your palms hit the smooth ground. It's cold under your back, and that's less pleasant, makes the pinching worse, but it feels like a net gain regardless.
TT: Jake?
GT: Im successfully horizontal.
TT: You're doing great.
That... makes you gasp, which hurts, but the flood of warmth in your chest is worth the reminder of the fact that you can't breathe. But you still can't breathe. Even if you're feeling better about it, it's still a problem.
Staring into the comforting glow of orange, you ask the question that's dogging your thoughts.
GT: Am I having a heart attack or something?
TT: No.
TT: Or, I don't think you are. Just hang in there for me, okay?
The rush of relief makes you gasp again. Ow. You've got to stop doing that.
GT: Then for goodness fucking sakes why cant i breathe?
TT: Can't you?
TT: Your chest hurts. I imagine it hurts especially when you take a breath. But you can breathe, right?
GT: Im not sure. I suppose so? Its hard to tell since it never feels like enough.
GT: I just cant get enough air and it hurts every time i take a big breath and im trying to keep my cool strider but right now its quite difficult!
GT: If youre so bloody informed on whats going on then tell me!
TT: Breathe, Jake.
GT: YOU BREATHE!
This is not how you intended this to go. You wanted Dirk to use his phenomenal brain to diagnose what the christ was going on and tell you how to stop it, but it's taking so long and all the little beeps of his messages are starting to make things worse. Your heart's racing, you realize. It's getting worse. You drag a heavy arm up and press your numb fingers against your neck, letting out a tight cry when you can't locate your friggin' pulse.
GT: my hearts going too fast
You put both hands to your neck, trying to find your pulse. Your fingertips are tingling and you can't find it, what if Dirk needs your BPM or whatever-the-fuck, and you can't?
You hear more beeping, and sort of want to rip the skulltop off, but then you'll be on the floor without your lifeline, your one tenuous connection to another human being. And how goddamn sad is it? That your life's apparently in the hands of an insomniac who not only lives an ocean away but a few hundred years in your future? If you died, it'd be before Dirk was even born. He can't reach you, not really.
You squeeze your eyes shut, and let out a painful sob.
There's another sound, breaking through the cacophony of the thunder and the rain and the pester beeps. A melody, pulsing like a wave, tinny but clear in your ears.
It takes a few more seconds for you to open your eyes. You can't see, so you drag a hand up to rub your damp eyes under the lenses of the skulltop.
TT: It'll settle, it's okay.
TT: You're okay, Jake.
TT: More yes/no answers: Do you feel overheated?
TT: Jake?
TT: Jake, stay with me, it's going to be fine. I've done this before.
TT: Come back, we'll figure this out.
TT: Jake.
timaeusTestified wants to initiate a voice call! [Accept] [Decline]
TT: Jake, pick up the call or I will wake up Roxy's drunk ass to hack your skulltop.
TT: Are you gonna subject your best bro to Roxy during happy hour?
You flick your eyes to the Accept option and blink.
At first, it's just more white noise over your ears, and you shut your eyes against the additional static that folds around your head. Pressing your lips together muffles the tense, unhappy noises that want to claw out of your chest, but makes breathing harder. Through your nose, you just do not get enough oxygen. So you gasp again. Wince.
"Thank fuck," you hear at a distance, and a sound like a spring compressing, air rushing out. Dirk dropping into his chair heavily. "I knew you wouldn't leave me hanging."
The first time you did this, you assumed that the connection was bad, that an audio link stretched across time and space was tenuous at best and was making Dirk's voice sound flat.
Then, you had a voice call with Roxy, and realized it was just Dirk. Just his low, overly steady voice. His voice could be used to fix a shelf, it was so damn level.
"Hi," you rattle out, and cough around your instinctive embarrassed laugh. You don't want to talk, you want to...
Your eyes flick back to the chat window.
GT: I dont know if i can speak.
GT: Dont leave.
It's wild, to hear the little inhale Dirk takes when your message reaches him. You can even dimly hear the pester ping from his machine. "I'm not leaving you, Jake. I'm right here. And use the client, that's fine. We can work with this."
GT: Can you explain now?
GT: Please?
Dirk sighs. You're filled with blinding envy for a second. "I'm pretty sure I know what's up with you. Stop me if this song sounds familiar. It comes on real sudden, maybe right after something startles you. Sometimes right out of nowhere. Feels like a vice around your chest or like something sharp that keeps poking at you. Got to get your shoulders rolled back so you have room to breathe. You feel a little dizzy, a lot frantic, so you need to lay your fine ass down before you pass out. But you want to stand up, to pace until your legs fall clean off. It's like an adrenaline shot you can't fuckin' indulge or you'll hurt yourself."
You blink fast, eyes swimming.
GT: Yes!
GT: Christ i want to get back up but i dont even think i have the energy to sit up right now. But my legs are desperate for a wander.
"Yeah, ignore that shit. Stay down. Wait it out."
GT: Youve done this before?
"Every so often, yeah. Attacks out of nowhere, usually at night."
"Attacks," you whisper.
"Panic attacks. Either you're the most unlucky fifteen year old in the known universe and have an extremely unlikely early onset heart condition, which sounds improbable considering you're an accidental health nut who overexerts himself on the regular, and I think we'd have gotten some kind of hint before now," he pauses just to take a breath, "or you're having a panic attack."
"Oh."
"Mmhm," Dirk hums in your ears, tinny but warm like hot molasses. "You still feeling up your neck like your hot date after prom? 'Cause quit that. Spread your arms, lay 'em on the floor."
"Worried," you murmur.
"It's fine. Yeah, your hearts going like a timpani right now, but trying to monitor it will only stress you out more and make it worse. Just do what I say, and I'll get you through this. You trust me?"
"Unequivocally." Your voice sounds thing and trembling. It's hard not to feel pathetic. Laying on your bedroom floor, your bro talking softly in your ear because... because you're having a merry friggin' freak out over nothing? As soon as you realize this-- this is Strider, you suck in a gulp of air and let out a noise that's a kissing cousin to a whimper, and feel your face flush all over.
"Hey," Dirk calls. "Jake. It's okay."
You flick your eyes back to your client.
GT: If im not in immediate danger then i think ill be all right.
"Jake," Dirk sighs.
GT: It must be late as plum fucking dickens for you.
"Yeah, because time differences really matter between the two of us, dude. Stop it, I can hear you. You need to calm down." There's more background sounds, and the microphone on Dirk's side pops for a moment before Dirk's voice returns, noticeably louder. His voice still curls around your ears, as gentle as a self-professed southern boy's should be. Though, you're not sure how that works when he lives in Waterworld. And you have no memory of ever being in America besides, let alone the southern part of it. "Can you hear me? Am I ASMR to the max?"
"I don't know what that means," you say quickly, shallowly.
"I'll explain another time. Can you hear me breathing?"
He takes a demonstrative deep breath. You nod uselessly before managing, "Yes."
"Follow me," he tells you, and just... inhales. Exhales slowly. Waits a second, then inhales again, exhales even more slowly.
You grasp onto the sound like a life raft in the middle of choppy waters. Your throat keeps ruining it, seizing up as you attempt to mimic him. He breathes so deeply, and it's so far out of your grasp. In the time it takes Dirk to complete one cycle, you do two, then three. It's slipping further away from you and you sob, curl a hand around your neck. This time, by perfect terrible chance, you find your pulse and feel how fast your heart's going. It's running a marathon, fast and thready. What if Dirk's wrong? He's just human, and so very, very far away from you. He can't know for sure you're not dying. You feel like you're dying.
"Hey," Dirk says. "Come back, come back. Jake, you're okay. It's just spiking on you. You're okay."
You want to tell him that he's wrong, that it hurts to try and follow along, that you're sorry you're not capable like he is. That you wish he were here with you, if only to hold your damn hand, and even if you do survive this, how are you ever going to speak to him again after crying into his ear all blasted night like a child?
"Jake, I need you to listen to me. I need you to come back. If I could sendify myself to you, I would, bro. But I'm still here. And you've got this, you just have to breathe through it."
Because you haven't made enough of a fool of yourself, you start crying for real. Roll onto your side and wrap your arms around your head, hiccuping for air as you let out heavy peels of crying. You can't even see your screen enough to kill the call. You wish Dirk would take pity and do it himself, leave you alone.
Instead, he stays on the line, quiet but present.
Dirk's voice is there, but distant. Or, you're distant. You feel very far away from the world as you come out of whatever hysterical state you've put yourself in. The sound of his voice, startlingly deep and solid as the tectonics, pours like syrup into your ears. It covers the rain, the growl of thunder, just Dirk's voice reaching across the centuries like a rolling wave lapping at your parched, dry, cracked shores.
God, you're so thirsty, you think you might expire from that before your heart manages to burst.
"Dirk," you choke out.
Whatever he's talking about, whatever words he's using to fill the space, he drops them immediately. "I'm here."
You don't have anything beyond that. It's reassuring, that he's listening to you. Even if whatever he's hearing if absolutely mortifying.
"I can't breathe," you say, take a breath, "like you do."
"Oh. Recovery breathing. Yeah, you wouldn't know. Sorry, I got ahead of myself there. Listen, it's simple but you have to do it right. Ideally, you only breathe through your nose, but that's fuckin' impossible if you ask me. Instead, you inhale through your nose, deep as you can, fully expand your lungs." You hear him do it before he goes on. "Which is why you should be on your back for this. Then, hold it, and exhale through your mouth as slowly as you can."
"Oh, right," you mumble.
"You're not going to be great at it at first. But it does get easier. Want to try again?"
You nod, and roll yourself onto your back again, one hand on your chest. Even the weight of your own arm feels like lead against your chest, but you don't have the energy to move any more right now. "Yeah."
Just like before, you're awful at it. You can't follow him, his easy slow breathing, and it makes you want to cry again. But you don't really have the energy for that either anymore. So instead, you close your eyes and keep trying.
It takes an embarrassingly long time, and really you never quite match Dirk, his lungs as broad and steady as a bellows. When you shoot him a message, pointing this out, he lets out something that sounds like a distant relative to a laugh, and says, "I can hold my breath forever, Jake. Living in Waterworld demands some Herculean lung capacity. Or, whatever the adjective form of Poseidon would be, that kind of lung capacity. I'm a few scales and fins away from aquatic."
It's not funny, but you laugh, and then marvel that you don't start coughing or feel your chest hitch. After the last... last hour, according to your client, it's a revelation. You feel like absolute trash, but you're breathing again.
"Listen to that," Dirk murmurs, a very muted note of awe in his tone. "Jake English, welcome back."
"Jesus H Knickerbocker Christ," you manage.
"Don't know about him."
That was even less funny, but you smile around the relieved chuckle. "I feel... Bloody friggin' dickens, I feel..." You take a breath. No sense in losing it again right after you've got it back. You don't want to weather another spike. "Like I'm one giant throbbing bruise."
"That's normal." You hear Dirk shift. His voice is still amplified thanks to whatever he did on his end of the call, but you get the impression he's not sitting on top of his mic anymore. "We're going to take this nice and slow, okay? Put your elbows back and sit up. If you start to feel sick or dizzy, stop and lay right back down."
You comply, gradually. It's harder than you expect. Your arms don't feel right, like they're just gelatin poured into an arm-shaped mould. After two false starts (that Dirk is graciously silent during), you manage to sit up. Your head feels heavy, but not like before. "Check," you tell Dirk.
"Feel good?"
"No, but I'm less horizontal now."
"More's the fucking pity. If you can handle it, go climb into bed. Under the covers, if you can stand it. Your body might do some weird shit now, temperature-wise."
It's even more of an effort, getting up. You grab hold of the table to use it as leverage, pulling yourself up. Whoever the sneakthief is who swapped out your arms, they've made off with your legs too, and you wobble on jello'ed gams as you stumble to bed, barking your shin on one of the posts on your way.
"Ow," you report back as the spring creak under you.
"Yeah. Heads up, you are gonna be famished in the morning. Panic attacks use up a lot of energy." His voice softens, getting quieter. "How're you feeling now?"
"Exhausted," you answer truthfully. Your eyes are already shut again. "How do I make sure this malarkey doesn't happen again?"
"When you learn that secret, you let me know."
"You..." You lick your lips. They are horribly chapped. There's a bottle of lukewarm water next to your bed, and you take a moment to down the majority of it. It's more rejuvenating than the coolest water right from the spring. "You've done this a lot?"
"Often enough."
"You should've told me."
"Nah, it's..." He trails off, and you wait for him to vocalize it, that he can handle it. It's such a Strider thing. Capable, stoic, perfect Strider, able to weather the typhoon in his body better than you can. It's not a big deal to him.
You should not be so harsh, not after he's talked you through this so sweetly.
"Maybe," Dirk finally says. "But you're the brave one, right?"
"Hm? What?"
"Nevermind. You should be okay now, but sometimes you'll get another attack after the first, like a shitty aftershock. If that happens, just message me. I'll tell AR to keep an eye out and put you through."
Your ragged, threadworn comforter twists in your fingers, hard enough you nearly put another hole through it. "You're going to sleep?"
The stillness over the line is palpable, has you holding your breath. "You want me to stay on?"
Yes. Desperately. Your voice was my lifeline back into my own body and I don't know how to pry my own fingers off the rope now.
"I'll let you sleep. Maybe you'll get a few winks in before sunrise."
He's quiet again. You fear he's going to call you on it. He can hear it in your voice, you know he can.
But for once in his damned life, Dirk Strider doesn't make things harder than they have to be. He sighs across oceans and centuries and electricity. It has more emotion in it than any of his words, like something secret leaking through to drip sweetly into your ears. You don't do this often enough, hear his voice.
"Call me if you need. Goodnight, Jake."
You bid him goodnight, and do nothing to end the call, listening to his steady inhale-exhale until he finally cuts the connection.
You push your skulltop off your head, let it roll onto the pillow next to yours, and sink into a bone-deep, weary slumber.