The first time it happens, it's a couple of days after Hoyt's funeral and he still has trouble getting up in the morning. He's sitting at the kitchen table again, Liam at his left, nodding solemnly, his parents across from him, holding hands. They're explaining--to him, not to Liam, he already knows--that his dad has cancer.
That his dad has had cancer.
They're talking about treatments, about doctors, about side effects, about remission percentages, and he's busy nodding and swallowing tears when suddenly he's distracted by how bad his chest hurts. It's not the normal chest pain he gets when things go wrong, like when he thinks about Emily too long, but a real pain, like his chest is tight and being stabbed all at once, and he tries to breathe through it but he can't do that either. It's like someone's tied a belt around his chest, and he thinks maybe he's having a heart attack, and his mind plays a reel of him falling out of his chair onto the floor, blacking out, disrupting this whole conversation so his dad, who's dying, can give him mouth-to-mouth on the kitchen floor and not only will that be humiliating but who's going to tell his kids they're orphans and
Dumbass, you're not listening! The other half of his mind shouts at him, and just like that, the world snaps back into focus, his mother mid-sentence. A breath slips into his lungs, a real breath. A quick glance around the room reassures him that nobody else noticed whatever the fuck just happened, which means he did a good job keeping his expression in check. He's always had a good poker face.
Relieved that whatever-the-fuck-that-was is over and nobody is the wiser, he chalks the whole thing up to weird and gets back to the conversation at hand.
X
He doesn't snap out of it so easily the second time.
Three days back at work, and he and Micki and a couple others are getting one of their daily--sometimes hourly--Northside Nation updates from Captain James. Pictures of suspects flash across the screen, their criminal histories and connections and who has ties to what, and he wonders if he's going to spend the rest of his life chasing these people.
He's pretty sure that thought is what sets it off, because his brain latches on to the fact that his life had two phases, before and after, and the after is just this, always two steps behind Northside no matter what he does, always waiting for the next shoe to fall on him and his family, his kids, his kids who are school, unprotected and vulnerable because he's trying to convince them they're safe when it's all a big lie, they're both on Facebook and Instagram and Tiktok and it would take five minutes of searching to find where they go to school, what car they drive because the Mustang is so bright and beautiful and impossible to miss, and his mind flashes to every kidnapping story he's ever seen on the news and forget hearing briefings about Northside Nation, he's going to spend the rest of his life seeing Stella and August's face on milk cartons becuase he doesn't know how to--
"Walker? You alright?"
His name--Micki's voice--breaks through the spiral.
He jerks his head up from where his forehead fell to his palm. "Yeah--yeah." His voice sounds like he's breathing even though his lungs don't feel it. "Just, uh, little headache," he continues, kind of impressed with himself that his mouth can operate entirely independant of his brain, which is currently realizing he doesn't have any good updated photos of the kids to put on the inevitable milk cartons. "Gonna get some water."
"You need an Advil? I've got some," she offers.
"Nah," he says. "Just didn't have that second cup of coffee this morning. Caffeine addict, you know."
With that, he pushes himself up, strides out of the room, gets halfway to the water cooler before he stops in a quiet hallway, his head against the wall, feels a tremble running through his entire body. He thinks about who's gonna find his dead body in this hallway, the belt on his chest tightening a notch, and he thinks he might throw up but that'd be equally humiliating, not only dead but dead in a puddle of his own half-digested breakfast. Instead, he forces himself to start counting his breaths, some old trick he was taught in training to stay calm--the same training he learned that "five things you can see" trick he used on Micki when she had that panic attack in that storm.
Shit.
He's not having a panic attack. He saw what that panic attack was when Micki had it, how she completely froze and had her hand on her chest and was wheezing. He's not doing any of that. He's just having...y'know, stress. Given everything that's happened lately, he's entitled.
X
Against his better judgement, he does some googling. He stumbles across something called high-functioning anxiety: For people who can have a panic attack and a conversation at the same time.
Whatever. It's not a formal diagnosis or anything. And anyway, it's better to have a name on it. It makes it a tangible thing, that much less scary and that much easier to control.
X
Turns out, it's not easy to control.
He's on leave now, and he's slowly going stir-crazy from boredom and overall uselessness. He drives his kids home from school, glad that now that they're home, they'll be able to entertain him for a few hours.
Stella is in the front seat, August in the back, talking about their days at school, bickering about something inconsequential, the music on the stereo, Stella controlling it from her phone and August begging for anything else but this guy, Stella, come on, and he's ignoring them because he has a pounding headache because he was up all night thinking about Geri and this unforgivable thing they did that's probably fucked their friendship up forever. Then he sees a flash of a face of an oncoming driver, and he swears to God it's Clint West.
Logically, he knows Clint is gone, not a problem anymore, but the belt feeling is already back because even if Clint isn't out there other people still are and what if this isn't really over yet?
What if Hoyt died for nothing?
What if next time it's Stella, August, his mom, his dad—he sees the white, sunken face of Liam as he struggles to breathe around blood loss and the bullet wound—
He shouldn't be driving like this. He'll pass out, run off the road, do that to his kids all over again.
He pulls to the side of the road. "What are you doing?" Stella asks.
"Did you hear that?" He asks as he gets out, buying some time. He doesn't wait for her response to clear the car and kneel down by the front tire, struggling to breathe.
"What's going on?" August asks, joining him.
I almost killed you again, he thinks, swallows hard before the words come out, or a serious amount of bile. "Thought we ran over something."
"I didn't hear anything," Stella says.
He ignores her, walks around and diligently stares at all four tires, all while counting his breaths and repeating I'm fine, they're fine, everything's fine, it's okay, it's okay, and it feels like a lie but it's the only tool in his arsenal.
"I don't see anything," Stella says, trying to be helpful.
He brushes off his pants. "Guess not." He gets back in the car. The kids probably think he's crazy. He certainly might be losing his mind.
They all climb back in. He turns on the radio to a country station before either of his kids can complain about the music.
X
He does some more googling. He learns more grounding techniques, he learns about chemicals in the brain, he learns that chamomile is good for anxiety so he buys a box of tea. Anything is worth a shot at this point.
He gets a pop up ad: Chat with a licensed therapist!
He closes the browser.
X
He and Micki go for tacos and drinks the day after they arrest the AA fraud and Micki says goodbye to Mercedes. They're celebrating a win, and he hasn't had many of those lately.
"I have a present for you," she says. "In honor of this new you, no more rule breaking stuff."
"Yeah?" He asks, mouth full of shredded beef and pico.
She reaches into her bag and pulls out a Rubix cube. "For you to redeem yourself," she says.
He laughs, swallows, and reaches for it. "Thanks."
She holds up her glass. "To new beginnings."
He smiles and raises his bottle. "To new—" His elbow knocks the cube off their hightop table. It crashes to the floor, and the corner piece breaks off.
And if that's not an omen, he doesn't know what is.
He stares at it for a second, unable to move.
"Good one," Micki snorts.
"I broke it," is all he can say in response.
"It's fine, it was cheap," she says.
"No," he says, and the belt is tightening. "No, I broke it, it was my new chance and I broke it!" He ruined it, just like he ruins every chance he gets. He's ruined chances to find Emily's killer, he's ruined his relationship with his kids by running, ruined his reputation as a ranger, he breaks rules, he broke the toy meant for his redemption, he breaks everything and he can't fix a single thing no matter how hard he tries.
"Walker," Micki says, getting up and picking it up off the floor. "It's not your chance. It's a metaphor, it's just a toy, okay? It was just a joke."
He shakes his head, tries to come up with a response, it was a good day and he didn't mean to ruin it by breaking anything, maybe Micki should just give up on him and find a new partner.
He opens his mouth to allude to the thought, clamps his mouth shut when he realizes he's going to burst into tears if he tries.
He tries to get some air, but it won't come.
"What's wrong?" she asks. "What's going on?"
He stands up. "Bathroom," he manages, hoping she'll buy this is whole thing is the result of some untimely diarrhea.
"Stop it," she says, grabbing his arm. "What is going on with you?"
The contact breaks him, firm but gentle, protection and concern. "I can't—can't breathe." His voice cracks, tears slip.
"Okay," Micki says. "Sit. Here, sit. It's okay." She guides him back into the chair, her hand staying on his arm. "You're okay."
"I broke it!" he insists, breath hitching.
"It's not that important, Walker," she tries. "It was just a joke. Maybe we can fix it with some superglue."
She doesn't get it. If only his life could be fixed with super glue and duct tape and goddamn art supplies. "Everything is broke! I broke everything and I can't—I can't—"
Her hand is off his arms, her taking as much of his giant back into a hug as she can, on her tiptoes to reach him properly. He can't stop crying, even in the middle of this damn taco bar, and she can probably feel his heart trying to battering ram it's way out of his chest and leave a huge, gaping hole in his chest.
"You don't have to fix it by yourself," she murmurs, rubbing his back. "We can fix it together."
Not everything. Some things aren't ever going to be fixed. "No, it's not—"
"If we can't fix it," she cuts him off, "Then we do the best we can to get on without it."
Without his dad.
Without Hoyt.
Without Emily.
Without answers.
The Rubix cube sits there on the table, broken, but Micki holds him, and a few less pieces fall apart.