Summary: Tender moment between Joe and Matthew at the beginning of their friendship as Joe deals with nightmares and Matthew figures out how to help him.
Just a Cuppa.
Joe knew that if he kept himself just busy enough, just tired enough, he could keep the nightmares at bay, he could sink into a dreamless slumber at the end of a long day. But maybe that was it. Maybe he was too busy and too tired. His defenses were down and he couldn't stop the nightmares anymore. He could deal with them, he told himself. He had dealt with them for years. However, he hated that Matthew had to deal with them too, hated that Matthew had to deal with him at all. But he just couldn't figure out how to keep himself from screaming, from crying, from waking up with a start in the middle of the night for the third time in a row. At first, he tried to chalk it up to stress, act as if he hadn't dealt with them for years.
"I was being chased", he told Matthew when asked.
"By who?" Matthew inquired, concerned noticeable in his tired voice. Joe shook his head.
"I don't remember," he lied, his frazzled nerves hindering his ability to lie on the spot. Matthew let it go, climbed back into bed, but unlike Joe, he didn't go back to sleep that night. Matthew couldn't sleep because he knew Joe was lying. He didn't just wake up with a start (again). By the time he had woken up, he had been whimpering for hours, begging someone or several someones to stop. Please stop. Please. It won't happen again. Please. It haunted him. It hurt him.
He didn't know much about his new partner and roommate, only that he was from Blackthorne. And he didn't know much about Blackthorne except that it wasn't a nice place to be from. Blackthorne boys were supposed to be intimidating, but he couldn't bring himself to fear Joe Solomon. He feared for him, for what the sleepless nights were doing to him, to his health, for what he was doing to himself to avoid them. He knew that bringing this to their commanding officer would only make it worse, but he had no idea how to talk to Joe either. He was visibly self-conscious and stressed out, and he really didn't want to aggravate that.
So he let it go that night. The following one he pretended not to hear him, feigned to be asleep when Joe yelled out. Laying in his bed, motionless, he could make out the sound of his labored breath, his desperate attempt to bite back sobs. He heard him cry in anguish into the pillow, and for hours listened to him try to hum himself back to sleep.
He should have done something, goddamnit. He knew that much. He should have at least acknowledged his pain, soothed his loneliness. But he didn't. He waited, just waited in silence as he felt Joe fall back asleep.
Coward.
His inaction filled him with shame. He wouldn't let it happen again, he wouldn'-couldn't let him suffer alone. The third night he waited until Joe fell asleep. He knew the nightmares would come, and he would be ready to meet them when they did.
It was three am when they did come. Joe woke up with a rougher start than he had before, clamping his hand over his mouth, looking desperately at the bed beside him. Mercifully, it was empty. A part of Joe's panicked mind wonder why. Maybe Matthew had rounds. Maybe he'd gone for a midnight run. Maybe he was death. Whatever it was that prevented him from seeing him like this (again), he was grateful for. He sat up, hugging his pillow to his chest, bringing his knees in and pressing his back against the wall. He felt safer that way. He tried desperately to calm his altered breath, forced himself to breath in. Then out. In. Out. Slower. In. Then out.
In the adjacent living room, Matthew felt his watch vibrate, indicating that the motion sensors had been activated for long enough to signal Joe was awake and not just tossing. He sighed, half asleep. He picked up the insulated cup next to him. It was warmer than he wanted it to be, but he carefully opened the door anyway and felt rather than saw Joe startle in his bed. He turned the dial next to the door a tiny bit, illuminating the room with a soft dim glow. Joe clutched tightly at his pillow, buried his head into it for just a moment, unable to face Matthew.
"Joe…" he started softly, stepping into the room.
"I'm sorry…" The voice was shaky, and Matthew could hear and see that he was nauseous. "I'm sorry," he stammered, "I-I can sleep in the common area." Joe said into the pillow, his eyes not daring to meet Matthew's. He tried to stand but Matthew shook his head, closing the door behind him.
"No," he tried, gently. "Of course not," he said, as he closed the distance between the door and the bed, careful not to startle him. Joe scooted over instinctively as Matthew crouched by his bed.
"Here," he said, pressing the steaming mug gently into his hands. Joe held it in shaky hands. Matthew's hands move to hold Joe's as he cupped the mug, making sure his hands were steady enough to hold it. They weren't.
"Drink," he ordered softly. Joe stared at the cup, acutely aware of Matthew's hands around his. He obeyed, bringing the cup to his lips, taking a small tentative sip.
It was Earl Grey tea. Immediately, Joe noticed that it was just warm enough, just dark enough, just sweet enough. It was the same cup of tea he made himself for breakfast every morning. Matthew had paid attention, he realized. Matthew he had noticed, he had noticed him. The realization made him self-conscious, and he felt heat flush his face. Taking a deep, shuddering breath he brought the cup to his face, trying to hide the rebel tears that threaten to fall.
Breathing in the scented steam, he realized how exhausted he was. He became acutely aware of the heavy feeling along his ribcage, the tightness in his chest that threaten to crush his inner organs. And something about the warm cup of tea in his hands, the unbearable fatigue, and the kindness in Matthew's eyes was too much to bear. He turned his head away from Matthew and pushed the cup away.
"Please," he tried, short of breath, "please, can you-" he realized mid-sentence that he couldn't ask Matthew to leave his own room in the middle of the night. But he couldn't stay there, couldn't let him see the thousand precariously-held together pieces of himself fall apart. He tried to push past Matthew who had taken back the mug in a reflex response.
"Don't," Matthew said as Joe walked towards the door. In the steel undertone of his voice Joe recognized the word as command. Matthew Morgan was pulling rank on him and he hated him for it. But it made him stop. He grasped the doorframe for support as he felt the room close in around him. He felt trapped. He wanted to run, escape. He didn't have it within him to fight this anymore. His exhausted body shuddered, his lungs gasped for oxygen. He started hyperventilating. Fight, Flight, Freeze? Freeze. Freeze and collapse.
He felt his knees go weak. Matthew saw this in slow-motion, saw the internal struggle to stay, Saw his legs collapse under him. He set the mug down and rushed to him, almost regretting making him stay. He knelt down beside him and with hesitation reached out to touch him. Joe winced.
"It's okay…" he heard himself say. "Joe, it's okay," he tried again, gently placing his hand on his shoulder. Holding it there, strong, steady, feeling every painfully ragged rise and fall of his shoulders as he struggled for every erratic breath. "You're safe, Joe" he said, because he knew that at least that much was true. In the terror of his panicked mind, Joe's one coherent thought was that he craved something about the way his name sounded carried softly in his lips. His name felt safe when he said it.
He felt Matthew shift his weight beside him, caught sight of him sitting cross-legged next to his kneeling form. He let himself fall back, slump back on his ankles against the frame of his bed, guided by Matthew's strong arm around his shoulders. This seemed to give Matthew permission to move his hands across his back, drawing soothing circles into it.
Joe closed his eyes, swallowing through the nausea as he tried to control his breath. He found that focusing on Matthew's ministrations helped him, comforted him.
"It'll be over soon," Matthew said, speaking as someone who was used to dealing with whatever it was, "your body can't keep this up forever and it's been going for nearly two minutes," he told him. Joe nodded, but stopped because it didn't help the nausea. Instead he drew in a deep breath and focused on mentally tracing the patterns that Matthew was drawing into his back.
He didn't know how much time had passed, but eventually he felt like he could breathe again, breathe without feeling the weight of the world punishing his lungs. He didn't want to open his eyes. Doing so meant facing Matthew, who had slowed his tracing as his breath had slowed (or maybe it was the other way around). Now he felt his hand firmly against his back, with only his fingers moving, closing and opening his palm against his back.
He finally found the strength to sit back, feeling his legs cramp up as he extended them underneath him. He felt Matthew shift beside him, but neither of them said anything and Joe had the sinking feeling Matthew was waiting for him to speak, to explain himself. He didn't look at him. He looked straight ahead and up at the wall and shook his head. It's not so much that he could not find the words. He just didn't have the strength to start looking.
"Here," Matthew finally said, offering him the warm mug yet again. "Drink, it will make you feel better." Joe took the mug. Steady now, he drank, taking in the sobering scent and taste of the black-leafed tea.
"I'm sorry," he finally said, "I'm so sorry, it's just that,-" he didn't know where to go from there. It's just that, what? I was tortured? Tortured by the people who were supposed to have my back? He wasn't ready to disclose that to someone he had just met, he wasn't ready to disclose that to any living being. Thankfully, Matthew didn't make him, didn't let him. Instead he shook his head.
"I don't need to know," he said, not unkindly, "I just need to know how to help you." He ventured. Joe took another sip, let the words wash over him.
"This," he said, not looking at him. "This helps. Thank you," he whispered because he didn't know what else to say. Matthew nodded.
At long last, the silence between them became comfortable. Joe sat there, mug in hand, head resting against his bed frame, listening to the ticking clock. Matthew sat beside him, glancing at him to make sure he was awake and waiting for a cue that would release him from his side.
"I have rounds within the hour." Joe finally realized, downing the last of the mug and setting it in the nightstand nearby. He pressed his lips together as he moved to stand up. The thought of running the 8 perimeter miles almost made him gag, but it had to be done.
Matthew stood up far more gracefully than him and held out his hand to steady him against the bed, wordlessly guiding him into it.
"I've got it. I'll do it," he said as he reached for the mug in the night stand. Joe was about to protest, but with a single pointed glance at his bed Matthew gave him to understand that he would wrestle him in if he had to.
Joe lowered his eyes. Kindness killed him. It killed something ugly within him, knotting his stomach in its wake. He didn't know how to take it. He just knew he felt unworthy, but he also knew Matthew didn't want to deal with that. Not at 4 am anyway.
"Sleep, Solomon," Matthew told him again as he slipped from the room, extinguishing the dim light as he closed the door behind him.
Joe Solomon obeyed, bringing in his legs into the bed. Weak, and exhausted, but oddly relieved, he finally laid his head on the pillow.
He needed to rest, but first he needed to remember something. How, he wondered, how does Matthew take his coffee? He sifted through the mugginess of his exhausted brain for the answer. At last he found an image of him making it. Black. Black and two sugars, the thought came to him as darkness found him.