#v...volatile? explosive? idk whatever you'll see

[cambria-writes]

good day! been a little while since i updated this one too. honestly it's just because i forgot; the chapter was written and everything lol. the one after this is still in the work though, so that... might take a little bit. it starts to get spicy so i'm trying by best to not be a cowardly little ace and just get in there.

word count: 2,722 rating: M warning: people are shirtless and pantless/trouserless, mention of a panic attack, age gap but left up to interpretation, getting cockblocked by a phone call, swearing, so scarcely proofread it might as well be whiteclaw, let me know if there's anything else!

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𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕾𝖎𝖝𝖙𝖊𝖊𝖓: 𝔏𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔫 𝔚𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔯

Waking up is a slow process.

The first thing you notice is that the pillow is softer than what you normally have at home. Your face is half engulfed in it in the best of ways. Like your head is cradled by a temperature controlled cloud.

The second thing that you notice is that, though the air should still be cool from early morning, half of you is warm. Almost too hot to bear; you can feel sweat beading on your collarbone.

The third thing that registers is that you’re very much not wearing your own clothes. It feels different, and definitely isn’t a dress, or whatever oversized shirt you’d otherwise be wearing to bed. And everything smells different. In a pleasant way your brain is still trying to make sense of.

You crack open an eye to look at what you think is the nearest window and take a second. Patrick Jane’s face is mockingly close. And you’re well on your way to being half on top of him; one arm holding onto his left shoulder and your right leg thrown over his left thigh. It wouldn’t even have been that bad, really, if his hand wasn’t also on your thigh.

Not entirely the development you expected after getting entirely too-violent flashes of someone else’s traumatic experiences. But also, unfortunately, not the strangest thing that’s happened to you in recent history.

You’re halfway back to sleep–there’s no way you’re going to stay awake to chance a conversation about all of this when you still have a raging headache–when you feel the hand on your thigh give the slightest of squeezes. Well fuck.

“There’s Tylenol and water on the chair,” Jane says quietly. His eyes stay closed. For all anyone could tell he still looks like he’s asleep.

You make a sound between a grunt and scoff. Pull your arm and leg away and turn around in bed like it’s no big deal. There is, in fact, a metal water bottle and two Tylenol on the chair Jane had pulled up the night before. You pop the pills in your mouth, unscrew the bottle and–

“Oh my fucking god,” you say, approximately, around a mouthful of lemon water and pain killers. Swallowing is almost painful and you can’t help but gag as the pills go down entirely wrong. Immediately try to flush them down further with more water and sputter and cough once you swallow. “Lemon? God, do you hate me?”

“You mixed your drinks last night. You’re dehydrated.” Jane takes a deep breath, almost a yawn, and runs a hand through his hair. His eyes are still closed. “You’re dehydrated,” he repeats patiently. “You might hate it but it’ll help. Drink.”

Throw your legs over the side of the bed and eye the bottle in your hands with utmost contempt. There’s no sugar in there, it’s just straight lemon juice in water. Maybe some salt. You’re pretty sure you felt pulp in there too. You swallow your pride and personal preference with another gulp of citrus water.

“Good gi–”

“No, nuh uh,” you cough and turn around, point a very tired finger at the man next to you. “You don’t get to call me that. Stop that.”

Jane finally opens his eyes, one arm thrown casually over his head and the other resting across his chest. The look on his face could only be described as a shit eating grin.

“Funny, I got the impression you liked that.” You scoff and take another drag from the bottle. “Do you remember what happened last night?”

It takes a second for you to bring the bottle back down from your lips. Yes, actually, despite how apparently very drunk you were, you remember everything very clearly. A little bit too clearly.

“You’re going to have to be a lot more specific than that,” you reply slowly, bringing your legs back up to sit cross-legged on the bed. You stare at the wall in front of you; get the feeling that looking Jane in the face is going to make you lose whatever little nerve you still have left.

“The panic attack,” Jane says simply. “Can you tell me what caused it?”

“You wouldn’t believe me,” you mutter, fidgeting with the near-empty bottle before screwing the cap back on. “It’s not the kind of thing you’d take seriously.”

This is when Jane slides himself up the bed to rest against the headboard. Reaches out to brush hair behind your ear to see your face.

“You wouldn’t lie to me. And with what you’ve been seeing and doing lately...”

It’s rare that he trails off like that, but you still resist the urge to turn and look at him. Take a deep, measured breath, and lean over the side of the bed to put the water bottle down on the floor.

“When I touched your hand when I was on the couch, I... It’s like I saw what you did. Back then. When you came home to...” It’s your turn to trail off. Wring your hands in your lap and screw your eyes shut. “I remember what the note said–the one on the door. I remember the lamp, how they were–how he displayed them. I panicked cause I thought, I mean, it’s crazy, right? Like, I have to have heard about this in the news, right? Or something? I’ve never experienced that before. So I just kind of...”

“Panicked,” Jane finishes, and you don’t like his tone. You can’t pinpoint what, exactly, it carries, but none of the options available sound good. Pain? Anger? Disbelief? Offense? Christ, this is so messed up.

“Yeah. I panicked. And then I tried to see if I could, like. See more? And I saw you driving up here. Jane, I saw the fucking mail in your hands. I could tell you which bills had come in.” When your breathing starts to speed up again, you feel a warm hand at the back of your neck. Makes you flinch, at first, but you lean your head back into it.

“Okay,” Jane says after a while, digging his fingers into the muscles around your spine to try and loosen them up. “Alright. What was in the mail?”

You scoff and open your eyes to blink away tears.

“One of them was the license renewal for your car. There was a phone bill in there too, and a notice from one of the private schools you’d looked into. And something from a relative, I think,” you list, trying to remember the return addresses you saw. “And a letter from Europe. I remember there were like, twenty stamps on it.”

Jane releases a rushed exhale. Like he genuinely can’t believe what you’ve said. Neither can you, honestly; it feels like it’s all just a big, surreal joke. Like someone’s going to bust through the guest bedroom door–which was left blessedly open–and say that you were actually hypnotized and that everything you think you saw was just a production of suggestion.

No one runs into the room. Jane scoot closer to you. The hand at the back of the neck moves to your shoulder.

“Skye. Look at me, please.” You keep your head tilted towards the ceiling and refuse to look down. “I’m not mad, I promise. Please just look at me.”

Though you don’t bring your head back down, you do tilt it to the side just enough to see his face. The calm smile on Jane’s face makes you want to scream. Turn the other way and wrap your arms around yourself.

“This is so fucked, I’m so sorry. Can we forget any of this happened? God, this is so fucked, this is so fucked.” You bite your lip and rock back and forth. This is absolutely another panic attack, god dammit. Try your best to keep your breathing steady.

When Jane tries to pry the arm closest to him away from your body, you put up a very cursory fight against it. Eventually, he just firmly takes a hold of your arm, puts a hand to the back of your neck again, and pulls you into him. It takes a few laboured breaths before you completely lose it. Grossly sobbing was not how you planned on spending your morning.

None of this is, actually, how you planned on spending any morning. But here you are.

Jane pets the back of your head and whispers things in your ear; you can’t hear much beyond the sound of your own sobbing and the blood flow roaring in your head. You vaguely, distantly realize that he’s not wearing a shirt when you ball your fists against his chest.

“That’s it, just keep breathing,” he says, eventually, a little bit louder, once you’ve been able to stop crying and at least try to breathe right. Feels like there are starbursts in your eyes. “You’ve been through a lot. This doesn’t help.” Puts his hands on your shoulders to pull you away just enough to look at you. “Have you talked to anyone at all?”

Shake your head and clear your throat. “N-no I–who would I have–no one would’ve understood. Who the fuck would I have talked to about any of it?” You try your best at a derisive laugh, but it sounds more like a sob. Before you can, Jane brings his hands up to your face to swipe at your tears with his thumbs.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve asked you how you were doing,” he apologizes, frowning and pulling you back into his chest. “I should have checked in.”

Shake your head against him and sigh. “Not like anyone knew what was going to happen to me.”

“No, you’re right, which is exactly why someone should’ve stuck around to make sure you were alright.”

You don’t have anything to say to that. He’s not wrong. But, christ, how were you supposed to afford therapy in the first place? And even if you could, how were you supposed to explain to anyone what happened to you without having them wholesale minimize everything at best, and dismiss your experiences at worst? Even Jane probably only sideways believes you just because he was there for like, most of it. You honestly don’t think you could get some PhD having suit-and-tie asshole believe your wild fucking tales.

“You’re thinking too much,” Jane says, and the low tone he uses makes his chest rumble. You swallow thickly and try very desperately not to think about the states of undress you’re both in. Now is a very bad time to– “You’re still doing it.”

“Sorry.” It comes out almost as a whine. Your hands flatten against Jane’s chest. The feeling of his heart beating under his ribs is oddly... soothing.

He pets the back of your head one more time before disentangling himself and standing up. You feel too cold and a bit too untethered without someone next to you. Jane nudges his head at you and asks you to turn around. You sniffle and give your face one last pass–wipe your eyes on your forearm and your nose on your hand.

Once you’ve turned around, still cross-legged with your hands in front of you, Jane takes his place behind you. And it’s all you can do not to moan when you feel his fingers wrap around your shoulders and his thumbs gently dig into the tension in your neck.

“Holy fuck, how did you know?” You sigh, wincing as your muscles are forced to let go of each other and relax. Jane huffs in laughter and slowly moves up your neck.

“I don’t think anyone would’ve missed the way you carry everything in your shoulders,” he explains, slowing once he gets back down to the collar of your–his–shirt. “Do you mind if I...”

He pulls his hands away when you move, reaching over your head to pull at the shirt. Your heart is thrumming in your chest like a whole swarm of hummingbirds, but it’s whatever. It’s fine. This is fine. Honestly the only thing even remotely making you feel like you’re preserving your modesty is the fact that your bra is still blessedly on.

Jane whispers a quiet “thank you” before his hands return to your back. This time, his fingers maneuver around your shoulder blades and the feeling makes the breath stutter in your throat. It’s absolutely, definitely extremely nice to have someone work on your back after the weeks you’ve had.

“You’re tensing your shoulders. Relax,” Jane asks over your shoulder. The sly bastard has to know that it’s not at all funny to be speaking directly next to your ear like that. And there’s no way he can miss the gooseflesh that covers your entire torso when he does.

But, obediently, you close your eyes and take a deep breath. Your shoulders come down when you exhale, and you try to keep them as loose as possible.

It takes a second, but eventually you hear his say, “Good girl.”

You let out something akin to a frustrated growl and spin around, mouth open to say something. The words die on your tongue when you see the grin on Jane’s face, his hands still raised in front of him. Anyone else would’ve thought he was backing off.

“You kissed me last night,” is what you end up saying instead. “Wait, no, shit, that’s not what I–”

“I did.” Lowers his hands. Back to the calm and impassive face and voice again, god that’s frustrating. This time, though, you can see him clench his jaw.

Okay, that’s new.

“Why?” You can feel your ribs shaking and it’s taking everything you can muster to try and keep your voice steady.

“Because I wanted to.”

“Why?” you ask again, slowly sliding off the bed to stand next to Jane. He’s got one leg on the ground; you bump your knee into it.

For once, Jane is the one who has to look up at you, even if it’s not by much. Bite your lip nervously, and you can’t not notice the way his eyes follow the movement, just for a fraction of a second.

“Because you’re fascinating,” he replies, and the way he looks straight into your eyes makes it feel like you’re suffocating. You can see in your peripheral that he reaches a hand out. You expect to feel his hand in yours, but instead you feel the suggestion of a touch on your left thigh. Right over the graze.

“You’re at least a decade and a half older than me.”

This gives Jane pause. It’s not like it wasn’t obvious there wasn’t a sizeable age gap between you. He’d probably seen your date of birth back at the CBI when you were first there, and you’d definitely done your research on him weeks ago. The hand at your thigh retreats and Jane puts his other leg down, sits a bit straighter.

“If you feel like there’s a power imbalance and like I’m taking advantage of you, we don’t have to–”

“Ohmygod, no! No,” you rush to say, taking a step forward. “God, no, I don’t feel like that at all, Jesus. I’d be in a cab halfway home by now if I did.” Reach across yourself to grab your arm. “I just...”

Jane slowly grabs your arm and pulls it back down. You don’t miss the way his fingers stay at your wrist, over your pulse.

“Do you want me to take you home?” He’s speaking so quietly it’s he’s worried he’ll scare you if he speaks any louder.

“No.”

He waits for a second and hums.

“Tell me what you want, then.” The hand at your wrists pulls you forward. You’re standing between Jane’s legs. Can’t take another step forward.

“I–what I...”

Somewhere, a shrill ringtone goes off. Neither of you move until it rings for the third time, when it’s obvious it isn’t your phone ringing. Jane sighs and it looks almost painful. You step back to let him get up and grab his phone. It stops ringing when he flips it open, but as he’s going through his missed calls, the phone rings again.

“I’ll be right back. Sit,” he instructs, and his tone makes you sit down on the bed immediately.

You can’t hear what Jane says as he walks out of the room.

𝓣𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽

@fucklife-or-me @newavenger @yearningforsappho @mamacakeishereforfun @nastukee