A/N: The plot bunny for this "Awake" ficlet struck me not long after the DVD release in March; ironically, it wasn't even the original "Awake" idea I'd been brainstorming, I had other ficlets in mind, but it worked out very well regardless, and I'm happy. Good thing, too, because plot bunnies can be very persistent animals. :) The inspiration for this fic comes from a few pertinent movie scenes, naturally, but also a wonderful Hayden fan discussion thread I'm part of. Also, all due thanks to Tiffany, Ani-maniac from over TF.n-wards, for the thorough, loving beta-ing job like always – and thanks so much to my dahling Ani-Lover, you're such a gem, my kind, sweet and supportive, wonderful pal – my joy, and my inspiration, truly! :D

Do enjoy, then, and reviews are welcomed and much appreciated, to be sure... :)

Summary: On the night of the Beresford Capital Hallowe'en party, Clay faces a private, hard truth.

Disclaimer: The character of Clay Beresford is the property of the Weinstein Company, Greenstreet Productions, and MGM, and it's all the creation of Joby Harold – who is a genius filmmaker in his own right. :) I am merely borrowing Clay for the duration, and promise to return him in mint condition afterwards. ;)

Control

The corporate Hallowe'en party was already in full swing, and through the polished oak doors Clay could hear the sounds of music and revelry. He was well aware that he'd soon have to put in an appearance, glad-handing and brokering more high-end deals and promises, courting the back-room contracts and high-profile mergers. But, for these few moments at least, he was alone in his office – and told himself it was all for the best, because then he could catch up on some unfinished paperwork.

Oddly enough, he was in no great hurry to join the party anyway, and they were all enjoying themselves without him. That hardly surprised him, though. Beresford Capital had always been known for throwing one hell of a soiree. Tradition, really.

Ready-clad in his own custom-made costume for the occasion, the wool of the Marine dress uniform only mildly itchy against his skin, Clay sat at his father's old gleaming, dark teak-wood desk, signing off on the fourth-quarter financial projections, then moving on to some charity grant proposals. He had only half an ear attuned to the running FNN feed on the computer screens arrayed before him, where the analysts were making their usual dire predictions – this time about the impending Shimotomo merger. His head was down, and his pen was scratching steadily over the sheaf of paper, when he suddenly felt the onset of tightness in his chest, and a dull, throbbing, persistent ache through his entire left shoulder, his forearm tingling painfully.

No, not now. God, no, not now, please…

Perversely hoping it would go away if only he could ignore it long enough, he kept diligently if stubbornly writing away with his head attentively bent to the paperwork before him. He lasted only a few seconds before the crushing pressure was like a vise around his ribcage, making him a bit short and shallow of breath. The tingling radiating down through his shoulder and arm intensified into a thousand stabbing white-hot needles, and his fingers were prickling with an unpleasant numbness.

The paperwork on the desk had started to blur and fuzz out before his eyes, and he couldn't even make out his own signature – the crushing tension in his chest made it quite impossible to think of anything else. It would get worse – if he let it. He was forced to reluctantly, tacitly yield – and he hated it. He knew that it was never his choice. That only made it worse.

With narrowed eyes, Clay stared down at his hand crooked lightly around the pen – and thought he could see the subtle tremor of his non-functioning fingers, no matter how stubbornly he willed them to stop.

He set down the pen with exaggerated care, his movements tense, sharp, and abrupt; his mouth was drawn and tight, his knit-browed expression unsettled, ill at ease. The prickling needling down his arm and the tight, nearly suffocating ache in his chest would not let up – as though his ribs were being compressed, squeezed by a giant fist until they felt sure to splinter and crack.

Steeling himself, Clay hastily retrieved the pill bottle he had stashed in his pocket; the tingling in his fingertips had become painful to distraction by the time he'd thumbed open the bottle and shaken a dose of Digoxin into his numbed and nerveless fingers, ill-concealing his displeasure and annoyance the entire time.

It had become old habit to him over the past year – and he bitterly resented that. He was weak, and he couldn't manage without his meds, and he hated that most of all. To be so dependent on them, needing them just to get through the day – to survive from one week and month to the next – he loathed it. In fact, there were times he'd have liked nothing more than to just toss every fucking pill, the Levatol, Nalapril and Digoxin, into the East River and be done with them, forever.

Of course, the relentless, crushing pain clenched around his chest, inexorably, inevitably robbing him of breath... The disturbing weakness in his limbs which could drop him to his knees without warning... The pins and needles prickling which always forced his fingers numb, until he couldn't even hold a pen anymore – it made it harder and harder still, these days, to limit himself to just the one dose. He could so easily have downed half the bottle at one go, practically OD'd on the damn things, if it would all just stop, just to make it go away, so he could actually live his life. He knew full well that he shouldn't, of course. Hell, he had a weak heart, but he wasn't stupid.

It was tough to deny the temptation, though, just the same...especially when he wasn't at all sure that the pills were doing much good for him anymore. Yet gamely, silently, Clay shook out only one small pill, noting how it felt like a lead weight in the palm of his hand – just his burden to bear, evidently.

His brow knit in a discomfited, troubled frown, and the shadow of something dark and restless fleeted behind his eyes. He downed the Digoxin with very little thought, fighting past the numbness and pervasive weakness needling his fingers as he screwed the cap back on the bottle and stashed it safely in his pocket once more. He'd probably have need of it again, before long. An unreadable, veiled expression fleeted heavily over his brow as he retrieved the nearby glass of water and washed down the medication.

Clay tried not to think about how it seemed to lodge thick and heavy as a horse pill in his throat, choking him, as he swallowed hard once, twice. He cared not at all to dwell on the constant unrelenting tightness around his ribcage, constricting his lungs so that he could barely breathe. He tried especially hard not to think about how his heart was still fluttering madly and erratically in his chest, hammering, badly overstressed. Inanely, he wished that it was all in his head, just a trick of the imagination and nothing more.

But he knew better than that.

Absently preoccupied to the point of brooding, he methodically set aside the glass with numbed and unresponsive fingers. He spared a dismissive glance for the computer screens before him, and the so-called "expert" business analysts boding doom and gloom for the company in general, and the merger in particular. Even then it rankled him, raised his hackles and set his teeth on edge, to have to suffer through them second-guessing every move he made, how he ran the business – like they were counting on him to slip up and prove that he could never hope to fill his father's place. As though with every impending merger, brokered deal and grant proposal, they were expecting him to fail. And between the near-crippling tension in his chest and the constant stinging in his hands, he was plainly in no mood...

Fleetingly, Clay narrowed his eyes at the FNN broadcast in very real displeasure. His heart might be weak, he reflected again, grimly, bitterly, but his mind was not. He was still in charge of this multi-billion dollar corporation, he still had this business to run...and everyone was counting on him. There was no one else... Firmly, resolutely, he turned away from the broadcast, shutting his eyes and ears to it. Instead, he leaned forward in his chair, frustratingly, gallingly helpless to do anything except just sit there at his desk. Restlessly, he flexed his fingers back and forth, uneasily rubbing his hands together, desperate to work some feeling back into them.

It was very likely that he couldn't have held his pen now if even he'd tried – because when the pill had slipped heavy and thick as a stone down his throat, he'd already lost all sensation in his fingers – and that deeply disturbed him. He was practically incapacitated, and that scared him most of all. The pain was lingering, too, so much longer than it ever used to...

Clay was stuck, then, biding his time until the high-dose medication kicked in – and he could actually feel normal again. Though lately it seemed to take longer still for these spells to pass, and he'd also been having more of them. He really didn't care to think about what that meant. He implicitly trusted and hoped that the meds would work for him – because he was starting to dread the day when they wouldn't. And oh, what then, indeed...

Live your life. His chest prickled, and his forearm throbbed, and he stared down tensely at his tingling-numbed hands, which even now would not obey him no matter how he willed them to. Slowly, inexorably, day by day, his own body was betraying him – and he could do nothing about it. His own body. His own life...

You might not have much of it left. An uneasy, deeply unsettled chill crawled up and down his spine, and he shivered involuntarily. Restless and tensely brooding, he stared down at his hands, his dully aching and weakened forearms, forever clenching and unclenching, knotting and releasing, massaging the feeling back into them. Unconsciously, he had begun mentally ticking off one moment to another, then the next one after that, waiting, just waiting...

He was still massaging his hand, uneasily knotting his fingers back and forth, mentally and desperately willing the tingling and numbness to soon fade, hating how it made him feel. The aching, squeezing in his chest was slowly lessening as he continued futilely, reflexively clenching and relaxing his grasp. When he heard the office door open, and the sounds of the party abruptly became much clearer and louder, he scarcely even seemed to notice; strange, how he couldn't stop staring down at his prickling, numbed hands. He looked up only when his secretary, Amy, cautiously poked her head through the doorway, and she prompted him with, "Sir, they need you out there."

Clay reflexively nodded to her with a calm, unfazed attitude that he did not feel. "Thank you," he offered by rote, habitually. And Amy, for her part, just nodded and smiled politely; she backed out and closed the door, and Clay was left alone again – but not for much longer, he knew.

She hadn't remarked on how he'd been so restlessly, furtively massaging, clenching and flexing his hands, for which fact he was grateful. It wasn't something he cared to call attention to, if he could help it. Then everyone would be constantly checking up on him, and his "condition", and that was the very last thing he needed right now. Especially if the investors ever got wind of it...

Clay forced himself not to focus on the thought, and waited, just waited for the hated weakness to fade. Gradually, torturously, he worked the feeling back into his fingertips, and as he instinctively counted out each and every passing second, he found it a little easier to breathe. Not a moment too soon, either. The investors, department heads, and staff, they were all waiting. Some of them knew the truth of his condition – if not just how bad it was – but some did not, and he'd be damned if he was going to end up looking like an invalid in front of them.

Experimentally, cautiously he flexed his fingers, clenched and unclenched his fists, over and over. Already, he was girding himself; he was too well aware, of course, just what image he had to present. For the company – everyone was counting on it. And for himself. He took a deep and nerving, expectant breath at last, relieved now that he actually could.

Fleetingly, his gaze shifted over to his father's gilt-framed portrait on the wall – stern, businesslike and commanding, staring down right at him. Evaluating him, seeing his weakness, judging him. Steadfastly, steeling himself, Clay looked away just as quickly. For the merest split second, the thought rose unbidden – would his father have approved, and been proud to see him like this – the man in charge, the heir apparent? Somehow, Clay hoped so. These days it was hard enough to feel that he could ever live up to the old man, no matter how he tried. 'Course, if he ran the risk of dropping dead from a weak heart at any second, that didn't help him any, now did it... Determinedly, Clay hastily shut down that particular train of thought before it went too far. He knew too well where it would inevitably end up going if he didn't.

He smoothly slipped out from behind the desk, allowing himself only a mere moment's thankfulness and sincere relief that the tension in his chest had eased enough, and he could breathe freely again; his head felt clear, with no dizziness this time, and there was only a hint of fading weakness in his limbs. Stubbornly, resiliently, he fought through it – because he had to. Because he'd no other choice.

He was then swiftly on his feet, marshalling himself with stubborn resolve, his head held high and a courteous expression on his face, a polite and gracious greeting ready on his lips – like he was every bit just who he had to be, who the occasion called for. The CEO of a Fortune 500 company, the man in charge. The enterprising success story, heir to an empire – not the victim. Not now, and maybe not ever. He couldn't afford to be.

I'm not weak. Ignoring the nerve-prickling and slow-fading numbness in his hand, Clay smoothed down his hair and glanced at his reflection in the hallway mirror for just a second, as he passed by. He took in the sleek and crisp mockup of the dress uniform – Mother's little in-joke, which he knew no one else would get. He studied the gleaming rank bars and array of fake medals on his chest, and thought about the strength and courage it seemed to project. The strength he needed, after today. The strength he only wished he could feel. Self-consciously, he ran a hand down the breast of the jacket, checking the epaulets, making sure he was good and presentable – and the illusion, the cover of perfect health, complete.

I'm not helpless, he silently avowed as he thoughtfully considered his reflection, before heading out to the party with a studied, deliberate tread and his "game face" already on. He stared into the mirror, felt the merest twinge in his chest, and ignored it. He had to.

Without another backwards glance, Clay turned crisply, smartly on his heel and walked out the door. The noise of the party rose up to greet him – and only then did it finally drown out the whisper of doubt at the back of his mind, and the uneasy, restless fluttering and erratic pounding of his heart.

I will never be helpless.