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after much trial and tribulation, i.e. getting an earful from hunnigan and claire (and some added pained looks from ashley whenever they met at the headquarters where she’s been temporarily assigned to serve as a collaborator-pathologist as representative for dr. chambers, her boss who’s in chicago), leon finally resorts to therapy because he’s getting panic attacks and quite literally can’t sleep and occasionally experiences what could only be identified as auditory hallucinations.
CBT works, but can only do so much, and so he begrudgingly acquiesces to the recommendation of pharmacotherapy.
it endangers leon’s line of job because of the side effects.
over their occasional lunch-outs, ashley checks in with leon on how he’s doing with his medication. he says he tried taking it as religiously as the doctor suggested, but “only after like, two weeks”—thinking that since it’s affecting his performance at work, he should be able to go about without it. so he stops. he’s seemingly okay. highly functional, deceivingly like the usual.
it’s not always the case.
this ashley finds out one saturday morning when she picks him up at his place for a previously-agreed-upon grocery run. she knocks on his door, and, worried that no one’s answering, lets herself in—only to find him curled up and heaving for breath on the floor right next to his bed.
get out, ashley, leon says through gritted teeth, hands cupping his ears, his old knife—distractingly, alarmingly—in one hand. you can’t see me like this.
if you don’t want me to see you like this, replies the person who’s also too familiar with the horror he’s faced, take your meds. don’t rush your healing.
later, when the tsunami has subsided into a calm sea, ashley asks him, what was with the knife?
dunno, croaks leon through a parched mouth, fingertips and nose bridge still faintly buzzing, idly turning the blade over with his wrist. helps me ground myself. just in case it’s not just in my head and someone’s actually there.
there’s an awkward lull, the air weighing with the solemnity of a funeral. ashley punctures it with: no one is screaming, but it’s so loud.
what?
for me, when i get those. she sounds subdued and sad. the flashback is so intense that i can almost smell the blood and rain again.
leon doesn’t even have to imagine. but it’s not only spain for him. it’s the everything and the everywhere he has ever been.
so he just nods.
for you? how does it feel like?
it’s like… being tied on a railway, he ponders. hopes that this would make sense. you hear it chugging, can feel it coming because the rails are rattling. and…you know it’s so close. it’s gonna run you over dead any time now…but it never comes.
since that day leon would always get texts at 9:30pm telling him the same sentence in different words:
“don’t forget your meds! :)”
“have you taken your meds today?”
“leon, take your meds and take care of yourself”
“i’ll be going back to chicago soon, but don’t think you’re escaping these reminders, mister 🫵 take your meds!”
this becomes a habit for nearly two years. leon, comically, becomes somewhat pavlovian-conditioned to wait for a text at around 9pm.
this habit only stops when there’s an outbreak at dr. rebecca chambers’ laboratory, and among the casualties are the head of the facility herself, some undergrad interns, and its only resident pathologist.
after the funeral, some idle part of his mind wonders who’s going to text him now to take his meds.
later that night, though, he starts a private habit of his own. he keeps this on until his doctor weans him off his meds.
the number has no user. but he texts it every 9:30pm, anyway.
“i’m taking my meds tonight, ashley.”