Title: Atra Cura
By foggynite
Fandom: Jurassic Park III
Pairing: Alan/Billy
Rating: PG
Summary: Billy doesn't want to talk, so he keeps his head down, hoping Alan will go away, and Alan doesn't. He didn't really expect him to, anyway.
Notes: Title taken from the Horace's phrase "Post equitem sedet atra Cura," meaning "At the rider's back sits dark Anxiety."
He wakes up shaking sometimes. Shaking that doesn't stop even after he's vomited everything in his stomach up and is crying against the side of the bathtub. Shaking as he stares at hands that won't stay still. Hands that are opening and closing spasmodically on the ceramic rim as he grinds his cheek into the tiles.
He's trying to keep his sobs muffled because the pain in his chest is so bad, and it's so hard to breath, that he hates the sound of the broken noises coming from his throat. Nightmares and abrupt awakenings and the skin between his shoulders itches, like there's someone—something—watching him from behind the closed door.
His skin is clammy, sweaty and chilled but his legs are freezing as he curls up on the bathroom floor in only his boxers. The bathmat is soft under his chin, his temple. He wants to hide his face, make himself as small as possible because he can remember what it feels like to fly and he hates it now. Hates the feeling of being lifted up, massive wings beating around his head, claws tearing at his flesh with snagging pops and torn fabric.
He's trying not to cry, hates giving in to the tears, but he feels so worn down. So tired and battered and it's been months but he can't let it go. It's a part of him now.
A particularly violent shiver hits him, makes his abdomen spasm, and he's dry heaving into the toilet again. It's hard to throw up and not cry, and only tears drip down into the water below him.
The door opens with a creak and he stays poised over the porcelain bowl, hoping Alan will go away. Because he feels so stupid being caught, feels so ashamed. It happened almost a year ago; he should be over it by now. It just hits him so hard when he lets himself get too tired, works himself too hard, but sometimes that's the only way he can get to sleep. And now Alan is going to want to talk about it, talk about seeing that shrink he knows, talk about all the stupid things Billy did on Isla Sorna and how Alan forgives him for everything.
Billy doesn't want to talk, so he keeps his head down, hoping Alan will go away, and Alan doesn't. He didn't really expect him to, anyway.
Instead, Alan steps around him and reaches into the tub. Then the sink faucet runs, and Billy startles as a cool washcloth is draped on the back of his neck. It feels great but doesn't help stop the shaking, and he's afraid the tremors are partly from exhaustion now. His heart is still racing, but he's stopped wanting to vomit and just feels queasy. He quietly sniffles and loosens his grip on the toilet seat.
He can feel Alan crouch down behind him, feel the sleep-warm heat of the other man seep into his back even though they're not touching. A hand gently lowers onto his head, rubbing so lightly at his scalp and the tense muscles of his neck. Once he starts to relax into the massage, an arm creeps around his chest, tenderly pulling him back, and he follows wearily. He finds himself pressed against Alan's chest, tucked between the safety of the older man's legs, and he draws his knees up to his chest, curling around the arm holding him. The flannel of Alan's pajama bottoms is reassuring against his bare arms and sides, but the terror is still there, clawing at his throat.
The rhythm of the hand in his hair is soothing, tempting him to sleep but he can't stop shaking. Alan's lips are resting on the skin of his back just below the washcloth, whispering something that Billy can't hear over the grinding of his own teeth.
After a while he turns in Alan's lap, still holding his arm tight, and rests his head on Alan's shoulder. He can't meet the other man's eyes, and can't bring himself to speak when Alan takes the washcloth from his neck and uses it to wipe his face. He feels like such a child, turning into such a mess over a little dream. Worse yet that Alan sees him like this.
He starts to loosen up in the warmth of Alan's embrace, arms and legs unclenching, tingling from where the blood supply was cut off. His tail bone is numb and he feels like he just ran a marathon when all he did was wake up. Alan is swaying slightly from side to side, and the movement is mesmerizing. Billy lets the last of his tension go with one final shudder.
Now, he thinks, is when Alan will try to talk. But the other paleontologist just keeps holding him, lips pressed to the top of his head, and Billy finally pulls away to look up. There's worry and concern in those blue eyes, and he hates that he put it there. But when he opens his mouth to apologize, Alan shakes his head and tightens his arms around him.
"It's all right," Alan says gruffly and kisses Billy with affection. His wry grin is tinged with sadness when he asks, "Why don't we head back to bed?"
Billy nods because he doesn't trust his voice to work, and lurches to his feet, held steady by Alan's tight grip on his arm. He sighs, taking a moment to rinse out his mouth as Alan flushes the toilet, and leans into the guiding hand Alan places on his lower back.
The sheets are cool on his feverish skin, but they warm up quickly enough when Alan crawls back under them to lie on his back. Billy sighs quietly, unable to help the fact that he needs to roll into Alan's side, tucking his arm across the other man's chest.
He lies blinking into the darkness of their bedroom, long after Alan's resumed snoring. His gritty eyes slowly sink shut, and he frowns as he sinks into a fitful sleep.
By foggynite
Fandom: Jurassic Park III
Pairing: Alan/Billy
Rating: PG
Summary: Billy doesn't want to talk, so he keeps his head down, hoping Alan will go away, and Alan doesn't. He didn't really expect him to, anyway.
Notes: Title taken from the Horace's phrase "Post equitem sedet atra Cura," meaning "At the rider's back sits dark Anxiety."
He wakes up shaking sometimes. Shaking that doesn't stop even after he's vomited everything in his stomach up and is crying against the side of the bathtub. Shaking as he stares at hands that won't stay still. Hands that are opening and closing spasmodically on the ceramic rim as he grinds his cheek into the tiles.
He's trying to keep his sobs muffled because the pain in his chest is so bad, and it's so hard to breath, that he hates the sound of the broken noises coming from his throat. Nightmares and abrupt awakenings and the skin between his shoulders itches, like there's someone—something—watching him from behind the closed door.
His skin is clammy, sweaty and chilled but his legs are freezing as he curls up on the bathroom floor in only his boxers. The bathmat is soft under his chin, his temple. He wants to hide his face, make himself as small as possible because he can remember what it feels like to fly and he hates it now. Hates the feeling of being lifted up, massive wings beating around his head, claws tearing at his flesh with snagging pops and torn fabric.
He's trying not to cry, hates giving in to the tears, but he feels so worn down. So tired and battered and it's been months but he can't let it go. It's a part of him now.
A particularly violent shiver hits him, makes his abdomen spasm, and he's dry heaving into the toilet again. It's hard to throw up and not cry, and only tears drip down into the water below him.
The door opens with a creak and he stays poised over the porcelain bowl, hoping Alan will go away. Because he feels so stupid being caught, feels so ashamed. It happened almost a year ago; he should be over it by now. It just hits him so hard when he lets himself get too tired, works himself too hard, but sometimes that's the only way he can get to sleep. And now Alan is going to want to talk about it, talk about seeing that shrink he knows, talk about all the stupid things Billy did on Isla Sorna and how Alan forgives him for everything.
Billy doesn't want to talk, so he keeps his head down, hoping Alan will go away, and Alan doesn't. He didn't really expect him to, anyway.
Instead, Alan steps around him and reaches into the tub. Then the sink faucet runs, and Billy startles as a cool washcloth is draped on the back of his neck. It feels great but doesn't help stop the shaking, and he's afraid the tremors are partly from exhaustion now. His heart is still racing, but he's stopped wanting to vomit and just feels queasy. He quietly sniffles and loosens his grip on the toilet seat.
He can feel Alan crouch down behind him, feel the sleep-warm heat of the other man seep into his back even though they're not touching. A hand gently lowers onto his head, rubbing so lightly at his scalp and the tense muscles of his neck. Once he starts to relax into the massage, an arm creeps around his chest, tenderly pulling him back, and he follows wearily. He finds himself pressed against Alan's chest, tucked between the safety of the older man's legs, and he draws his knees up to his chest, curling around the arm holding him. The flannel of Alan's pajama bottoms is reassuring against his bare arms and sides, but the terror is still there, clawing at his throat.
The rhythm of the hand in his hair is soothing, tempting him to sleep but he can't stop shaking. Alan's lips are resting on the skin of his back just below the washcloth, whispering something that Billy can't hear over the grinding of his own teeth.
After a while he turns in Alan's lap, still holding his arm tight, and rests his head on Alan's shoulder. He can't meet the other man's eyes, and can't bring himself to speak when Alan takes the washcloth from his neck and uses it to wipe his face. He feels like such a child, turning into such a mess over a little dream. Worse yet that Alan sees him like this.
He starts to loosen up in the warmth of Alan's embrace, arms and legs unclenching, tingling from where the blood supply was cut off. His tail bone is numb and he feels like he just ran a marathon when all he did was wake up. Alan is swaying slightly from side to side, and the movement is mesmerizing. Billy lets the last of his tension go with one final shudder.
Now, he thinks, is when Alan will try to talk. But the other paleontologist just keeps holding him, lips pressed to the top of his head, and Billy finally pulls away to look up. There's worry and concern in those blue eyes, and he hates that he put it there. But when he opens his mouth to apologize, Alan shakes his head and tightens his arms around him.
"It's all right," Alan says gruffly and kisses Billy with affection. His wry grin is tinged with sadness when he asks, "Why don't we head back to bed?"
Billy nods because he doesn't trust his voice to work, and lurches to his feet, held steady by Alan's tight grip on his arm. He sighs, taking a moment to rinse out his mouth as Alan flushes the toilet, and leans into the guiding hand Alan places on his lower back.
The sheets are cool on his feverish skin, but they warm up quickly enough when Alan crawls back under them to lie on his back. Billy sighs quietly, unable to help the fact that he needs to roll into Alan's side, tucking his arm across the other man's chest.
He lies blinking into the darkness of their bedroom, long after Alan's resumed snoring. His gritty eyes slowly sink shut, and he frowns as he sinks into a fitful sleep.