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His therapist says he finds comfort in the darkness. And at three in the morning, listening to a police scanner to soothe his frayed nerves, maybe he’s right. It’s not that it’s quiet. Jack struggles with silence. It’s more that it feels realer. Honest in a way the day never could. Not when people wandered around looking their best and plastering on their best smiles.
Night provides an honesty, good or bad. People are their most base selves, be they getting too drunk at a bar, or having the kind of sex that ran the risk of injury, or just being violent toward someone else. There was no pretense to the night and that small fact meant that he didn’t have to pretend either.
That permission to be himself—his real self—didn’t exist in many places during the day. But after the sun went down? He had free reign.
Not that he would ever tell his so-called therapist as much as he watches the guy try not to fall back asleep in his chair. Yawning between statements about how the wee hours provide him better odds to feed his worse impulses since nothing good happens in the dead of night. Not in their line of work. The darkness has a way of weeding people out the needy from the desperate and Jack, according to Caleb, likes desperate people.
Which might be true, but Jack never likes the way Caleb says it. It makes him squint at the barely conscious man as he yawns once again. Reaching out across the table to take Caleb’s hand just to run his fingers over the matching metal band he wears. Watches as Caleb looks between that connection and Jack. Sighs because Jack doesn’t have to say that Caleb was never one of those desperate people he took pity on for him to know.
After so many years, they have it down to a look.
A touch.
The reluctant way Caleb laces their fingers because he will always harbor the thought that he was somehow better before the accident. It has never been true but Jack gets its. Not in the abstract way he did at the start—filled with reassurances that he would always love Caleb regardless. That it wasn’t his legs that made him fall in love with the guy. That he wasn't going to leave him just because Caleb's life had been fundamentally changed.
No. He got it in a stark, brutal, below knew amputation kind of way. In the nerve pain that makes you grit your teeth and steals your breath. In the adjustments that have to be made, not just personally, but in the space they occupy. The thought and consideration that never used to cross his mind.
After all, the Jack of before, with the two functional legs, would’ve been able to carry Caleb to bed rather than curse himself for opting for his crutches instead of putting on his prosthetic just to go to the kitchen. Because that thought of wanting to carry Caleb off hadn't been top of mind when his PTSD forced him out of bed and now it was no longer an option.
Instead he finds himself letting go of Caleb’s hand. An act largely unnoticed because Caleb's almost entirely asleep. Jack turned off the scanner before grabbing his crutches. Smacks it against the metal of Caleb's chair hard enough for either the jostling or noise to snap him awake. The startled look on his face is hard not to laugh at, but Jack managed. Tells him, “Well if you’re playing doctor, so am I.” Because Caleb shouldn’t be awake. He has work in a few hours and his recent insomnia is almost a concern worth noting.
Something he lets him know in no uncertain terms.
And like any terrible patient, Caleb rolls his eyes. Rolls away from the table to their room, arguing about how Jack was the one who woke him up when he went to lurk in the kitchen like a creep to every one of Jack's concerns about what's suddenly got him sleeping in two and three hour intervals. It’s only when they’re back in bed with Jack cuddles up to Caleb—his forehead pressed to his husband’s shoulder while Caleb massages his scalp—does he let silence reign. Those few seconds absolute murder.
“Do you think I should switch back to days?”
Caleb takes a deep breath. Stays silent as he considers it. “No. You’ve been more relaxed and you seem to sleep better during the day. But even Batman had a life during the day.”
“I need to cultivate my Bruce Wayne persona, huh?”
“More like a hobby that doesn’t include drinking beers with Michael. Neither of you need more depressants in your life.”
Jack nods. Knows he’s not giving up alcohol or Michael, since he likes those depressants, especially when paired together. But a hobby? It sounds awful. Especially when Caleb will want him to do it during the day. To find something he can stick to long term. But they’ve known each other long enough for Jack to trust his opinions on mental health.
Sports teams and dinner ideas, not so much.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a good therapist?”
Caleb snorts. Turning to smile into Jack’s hair. It’s with a playful growl that he says what he always says, “No because I’m a psychiatrist. Not a therapist.”
Which might be true, but Jack can't tell people he's listening to advice from his psychiatrist. That just makes him sound all kinds of unwell.