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Henry's woken up by the sounds of pained wheezing and laboured breathing next to him. He doesn't know how late it is—must be early morning—but he immediately understands what's happening. This is far from the first time he has been woken up in such a manner, so he knows it must be Driver having another panic attack without even needing to turn around and look.
Henry peels his eyes open with tremendous effort. He's so exhausted he just wants to go back to sleep, but he can't. He might be fucked up, but not so much that he can just ignore it when Driver is clearly distressed.
He turns onto his back and pushes himself up onto his elbows so he can get a better handle on the situation.
Next to him Driver sits on the bed doubled over. He clutches at his shirt as he gasps for air, his whole body shaking.
Henry never asks question, he knows better than to do that by now. Driver never wants to talk about what's causing these, but Henry can make an educated guess. He's no stranger to not wanting to talk about the bad things so he never pushes, just waits for Driver to open up if he wants to, when he's comfortable enough to do it. Still, Henry can't help wanting to help in some way. He doesn't like feeling so useless—he feels useless all the time already—so he lends support in whatever little ways he can.
Henry shuffles on the mattress, sitting up even as his aching limbs protest the movement.
"Hey," he says, but Driver can't seem to hear him, too caught up in whatever it is that shook him up so badly. Henry tentatively reaches out, tries to put a reassuring hand on Driver's cold, clammy arm, but immediately realises his mistake when Driver violently flinches and turns away from the touch.
"Shit, sorry," Henry curses, immediately withdrawing his hand. He should've known this would happen, has done this countless times already, but somehow he keeps forgetting that Driver does not want to be touched in moments like these. Henry can guess why that is, but he supposes he'll never know for sure.
He grabs a throw blanket from where it lies bunched up at the foot of the bed and carefully drapes it over Driver's shoulders, pulling it tight. He knows Driver can't stand having his skin touched during these attacks, but as long as it's through a barrier like the blanket, it seems to be fine.
Henry inches closer and very slowly, very carefully, places his hand on Driver's back. He can feel the way his chest is heaving from there and when Driver doesn't flinch or shove him away, he tentatively tries to rub soothing circles against the blanket.
"I need you to breathe, okay?" Henry says. He's mostly working off of his own experiences with panic attacks here, but even so he barely knows what the hell he's doing. Still, he tries his best; he's had about enough of seeing the people he cares about struggling.
Driver still hasn't really registered what he's saying, so Henry moves closer to his ear and tries again.
"Breathe. Just breathe. In through your nose for four seconds, hold it for seven, then out through your mouth for eight. Can you do that?"
Driver knows this routine well by now, but he's still not reacting. Henry grabs some of the blanket in both hands and cups Driver's face, the fabric providing a barrier between his palms and Driver's cheeks.
Driver's eyes are unfocused and red like he might have been crying, but they finally lock with Henry's after a short few moments. Driver looks quite awful, pale and sweaty, the dark circles under his eyes standing out even more in the dim moonlight that falls into the bedroom through a gap in the curtains.
"Good, there you are," Henry hums, holding Driver steady. He's still gasping and wide-eyed, but Henry seems to have his attention now.
He repeats his instructions again and after a few failed attempts, Driver finally takes a deep breath, holds it, then exhales.
With every breath, he seems just a little calmer. "Good, keep going like that, okay?" Henry encourages and Driver blessedly does as he's told.
His breaths are still shaky, but they come more regularly now, which is good.
Henry gives him a weak smile, trying to stay as calm as he can himself, though his own pulse feels like it's going through the roof. Things like this unnerve him, no matter how often they happen, but if he lost it too, they'd both spiral out of control.
He finds himself doing the breathing exercise alongside Driver, hoping that might make it easier for him.
"There we go," he rasps when the worst of the panic attack seems to have passed.
"Can you sit back against the headboard for me?" he inquires, but Driver seems to stare right through him once more.
"Can you do that?" he asks again, letting his hands fall down into his lap and Driver wordlessly slides back on the bed until he sits against the headboard as instructed.
"Good, okay," Henry sighs.
Driver is still trembling like a leaf, now clutching the blanket tightly around himself.
"I'll go get you some water and a washcloth. I will be right back, okay? Don't go anywhere," he say, though it's unlikely Driver will move at all for a while yet.
Henry doesn't particularly want to leave him alone right now, not when Driver's still so shaken up, but this is important. So Henry at least needs him to know that he will be back, that he won't be by himself for long. Henry knows how horrible it is to be all by your lonesome right after such a bad panic attack.
Driver says nothing, just stares ahead of himself like he's still stuck somewhere else entirely.
Henry gets up off the bed and onto shaky legs, then limps into his tiny kitchen. He doesn't bother grabbing his cane, there's no time to fish for it in the dark, so he goes without.
Once in the kitchen, Henry turns on the tap and fills a glass of water, then sets it on the counter.
He ponders for a second before he rifles through his cupboards for something to eat. He knows that Driver has been skipping meals again, so he'll make him eat something now, though he likely won't want to. Even a little bit is better than nothing, though.
That man has an astounding inability to take care of himself, not that Henry is one to talk.
He grabs a bag of instant oats—it's the only thing he has on hand, he'll have to go out for groceries tomorrow—and puts the kettle on. While he waits for the water to boil he pops into the bathroom, grabs a washcloth and wets it with lukewarm water.
He catches his own reflection in the bathroom mirror; he doesn't look much better off than Driver, but this isn't about him. He can worry about that some other time. Or preferably never.
Henry turns away and returns to the kitchen just as the kettle clicks off.
He pours the oats into a bowl and pours the hot water over them, watching as they swell up.
He sticks a spoon into the bowl, slings the washcloth over his arm, then grabs the glass in one hand and the bowl in the other. He quickly makes his way back to the bedroom, careful not to spill or drop anything.
Driver hasn't moved at all since he left, still staring off into space. Henry rounds the bed, placing the glass and bowl on the bedside table before he sits back down on the mattress next to Driver.
He grabs the washcloth off his arm and carefully raises it until it hovers in front of Driver's face.
"Is it okay for me to wipe down your face?" Henry asks. He's not usually a very patient person, but still he waits as long as it takes until he sees a tiny nod. Driver still doesn't look at him, but that's fine with Henry, he'd rather not have Driver notice how stressed out he feels.
"Alright. I'll just wipe off the sweat, okay?" Henry explains. He has no idea if narrating everything he does actually helps at all, it's not like they ever speak of any of this come the next morning, but he does it anyway. Perhaps it's more so to ground himself, but he hopes it's somewhat comforting for Driver too. That it might take some of the fear away.
Henry gingerly dabs the cloth over Driver's forehead, then his cheeks, nose and upper lip. His eyes close as Henry wipes off the sweat and his breathing slowly but surely get less shaky.
Once he determines that he's done a good enough job, Henry puts aside the washcloth and grabs the glass of water instead.
He raises it to Driver's mouth, but Driver doesn't make a move to drink any of the water.
"You have to drink something," Henry says. After a few moments of hesitation, Driver inches closer to the glass, taking the rim between his lips. His hands are still grabbing onto the blanket tightly, so Henry lifts it and helps him drink. He doesn't down much of the contents, but it's good enough.
"Okay," Henry says when Driver abruptly pulls away and he nearly spills the rest of the water onto his lap.
He places the glass back onto the bedside table with a thunk and picks up the bowl of oatmeal next.
"Are you okay to eat something?" he asks as he stirs through the bland, beige mass.
Driver shakes his head, he probably feels rather nauseous, but Henry can tell his body needs it. Driver is still trembling badly and he has an inkling it's not just from the panic attack. The last time Henry saw him eat was probably two days ago. Driver might not like it, but his body needs the energy.
"Please? Just a little is fine, but you need to eat something," he urges. He doesn't like begging, but that's unimportant right now. He needs to take care of Driver.
Driver reluctantly opens his mouth and Henry lifts up a spoonful of oatmeal.
Driver takes the spoon into his mouth with no regard for how hot it probably still is and swallows it.
He tolerates two more spoonfuls before he turns his head away, refusing the rest of it.
"That's fine, that's better than nothing," Henry huffs, placing the bowl aside.
He doesn't quite know what to do next, just hovering uselessly nearby. He hates not knowing what to do.
Henry gets up and walks back around to his side of the bed, sitting down against the headboard next to Driver.
He wants Driver to decide what happens next, not wanting to upset him any more than he is already.
To his surprise, Driver shifts closer to him, leaning into Henry's side. Henry holds perfectly still, unsure of how to react. He doesn't want to spook him.
Driver lays his head on Henry's shoulder, exhaling a deep breath. They stay like this for a while, neither of them moving. Henry decides to spread his arms in a silent invitation and is secretly quite pleased albeit surprised when Driver takes it. He readjusts so Driver can place his head on his chest, then slowly wraps his arms around Driver's torso.
"Is this okay?" Henry asks, just to be sure, and when Driver nods, he relaxes a bit.
Silence falls over the room once more and they stay like that, just breathing. Henry rubs his thumbs over the blanket in what he hopes is a calming gesture, and considering that Driver doesn't protest, he guesses it must be.
"Do you…want to talk about it?" Henry asks, even though he already knows the answer.
Predictably, Driver shakes his head. "Alright, just wanted to make sure," Henry says. God, he really needs a smoke right about now, but Driver's well-being is much more important than his nicotine addiction. He had almost forgotten what it's like to care for people until Driver came along, too busy shutting everyone out to avoid getting hurt again.
"You'll be okay," Henry mumbles. He knows it's probably a stupid, unnecessary thing to say, but he feels the need to say it anyway.
Time passes at a sluggish pace and Henry cannot tell how long it has been when he feels the pad of a finger on the skin of his forearm.
He startles a little, his breath catching, but he quickly calms back down.
Driver draws shapes onto his arm and it takes Henry a minute to figure out what it is he's drawing.
Only it's not a drawing, he's writing something.
Thank you.
It's not unusual for Driver to go non-verbal, especially during a night like this one, but this is the first time he's done that. Henry can't help the small smile tugging on his lips.
Henry moves a hand up to Driver's hair, playing with the short, damp strands.
"Is this okay?" he asks and Driver nods, slowly but surely relaxing against Henry's chest. Henry presses a gentle kiss to the crown of Driver's head.
His other hand continues to trace idle patterns on Driver's ribs and he finds that this is relaxing him too.
His own exhaustion's starting to catch up to him now and his lids grow heavy.
Henry unconsciously starts to hum a song his mother used to sing to him when he was a child, and though the memory stings after everything that has happened, it fills him with warmth at the same time. He really misses her. All of them. He focuses all of his attention back on Driver, scared he'll get choked up if he keeps thinking of all the people he failed. Maybe by taking care of Driver he can do something right for once.
Soon enough Driver's breaths finally even out. He must have fallen back asleep.
Henry lets out a relieved sigh and finally allows his eyes to shut.
He must have been more tired than he thought, because Henry's out like a light not a minute later, still holding Driver close in his arms.
He hopes they both have sweeter dreams this time around.