Okay, for all those who are enjoying the story of Lucas Rory-Snart in 'Follow the Advice, Not the Example', these are going to be one-shots tying into the main story that people can prompt and ask of me ?

Prompts are always welcome!

Please read, review and enjoy ?

Prompt from Celeste_Morrigan: Wait, wait, what? When did Lucas learned how to handle Len's panic attacks? How did it happen? You can't just tease us like that!

….

"Breathe."

Len did as he was told as best he could. His chest was unbelievably tight; he felt the adrenaline pulsing through his veins. Everything was starting to spin.

Shawna pulled out a syringe.

They were going to sedate him. But he didn't want to sleep. He couldn't afford to relive it again, in another nightmare. His wounds hurt like hell, but he had to stay awake. He had to stay in control.

"No," he said as Shawna got ready to inject him. "I'm okay."

"Snart, your heart rate is abnormally high. You're having a panic attack. The drugs will help you relax," Shawna said. She placed a hand on his shoulder, comfortingly.

"No," Len repeated. He squirmed slightly. He needed to get up, get out. His body wouldn't cooperate, though, as the pain was too intense. He looked over at Mick; silently begging for him to intervene.

He didn't.

"All right." Shawna put down the syringe, just before she injected him "You don't want drugs? Then you'd better get your heart rate down. If you can't do it in five minutes, you'll be getting them whether you want them or not."

"Thank you," Len gasped out, his eyes squeezing shut as he took deep breaths as Shawna measured his pulse.

"Your heart rate's insane right now, and you're lying down." Shawna sighed, removing her hand from his wrist and stepping back, giving him some space. "Try and keep breathing deeply. Concentrate on something that comforts you."

Len tried to draw in a deep breath, but the tightness in his chest wouldn't allow it. His breathing grew shallower and more rapid.

"Why don't you try thinking about Lucky? He's about four now, right?"

Len nodded.

"Do you get along?"

Another nod.

"Think about him, then," she instructed.

The memories came flooding back. The knowledge that they could be in danger. In danger because of because of him.

"Not safe," Len gasped. "He's not safe."

"All right, Snart. I'm revoking your pass to make yourself suffer." She picked up the syringe again. "I'm going to give you the drugs now."

"He's not safe," Len repeated, frantically attempting to sit up. Shawna gently pushed him back down onto his bed. "Can't breathe," Len added; then, everything started to spin, faster and faster and faster until it all went black.

When he came to again, he felt foggy but undeniably calmer.

"Welcome back, Lenny," Mick said, smiling down at him. "Are you feeling any better?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now why don't you try and get some real rest? Your body needs to recover."

Len didn't answer; instead, he simply slipped back into sleep.

Meaning that he missed seeing his son dart away from the bedroom door.

…

"Are you sure that you don't want us to come inside with you?" Mick asked, scrutinizing Len.

"Yes," Len replied. "I appreciate the offer, but I should be fine."

"All right." Mick parked the car right outside of Lewis Snart's old house, the house that Len grew up in. "Get the stuff and get some rest," he added. "You look like hell."

"Will do." Len unbuckled his seatbelt, opened the door, and stepped gingerly out of the car. "Thanks for the ride, Mick."

"No problem. I'll see you in a few hours, Len."

"Good night," Len replied, and then shut the car door. He turned away from the car once it pulled out into the road again and towards his old house.

It took him a few minutes to realize that somewhere, deep down, he was dreading the moment he'd have to open the door and step back into the place where he'd been abused for years. He didn't fully recognize it until he was standing at the door to the house, turning the key in the lock.

He took a deep breath. It would be okay, now; he'd caught it in time, so he'd be able to stop himself from overreacting to anything.

But the minute he actually laid eyes upon the spot where he'd once been shoved against the wall and punched in the gut until he passed out, and saw the hole in the wall that Lewis's bullet had left when the older man had taken a pot shot at his son, his body informed him that he couldn't have been more wrong.

His heart started racing; he began to sweat, and shake; he felt horribly nauseous. And he couldn't breathe. That was the toughest part to control. He'd tried various different strategies with Mick, but nothing had worked.

Shawna offered to steal him a prescription for an anxiolytic; he'd refused to take it. That would make it all too real.

So now here he was, entirely alone, feeling that bastard punch him all over again. Len shut his eyes and reopened them in an effort to chase away the images; that didn't work, either. He felt himself growing faint from the lack of oxygen, so he stumbled over to the sofa and collapsed down upon it. That way, were he to pass out, he wouldn't end up hurting himself.

Len pulled his cell phone out of his pocket with trembling hands and stared at it for a few seconds before tossing it onto the floor.

Who could he possibly call?

He couldn't call any of the Rogues.

Mick, who he considered an equal, was more of an option. But he couldn't. He couldn't share this, not even with Mick. He wasn't ashamed, per se; it was just, well, private. It was something he'd have to learn to deal with before being picked up later tonight; otherwise, he'd really need to get good at concealing it.

Lucas couldn't see his Dad like this.

….

He was exhausted. But as the van started, Len knew that the last thing in the world he could do was fall asleep.

Almost every time he did, he dreamed about it. Waking from the nightmares was never easy. He'd find himself lying in a cold sweat, or end up shaking uncontrollably for longer than he'd want to admit. When he was home, alone, it didn't matter how undignified he appeared after the nightmares or the occasional flashbacks, but he was back with his team and family now.

Maybe it was merely vanity; somehow, however, he doubted it.

He knew that if he were to display any signs of the PTSD he knew he had, they'd start second-guessing him even more than they already did.

He had to keep it from them. So he'd stay awake, no matter what.

At least, that's what he thought until his eyes shut and he drifted off into a deep sleep.

The next thing Len knew, Lucas's hand was on his shoulder, steadying him.

Everything was spinning; he couldn't speak, couldn't even breathe.

The seven-year-old was speaking to him, but Len couldn't understand anything he was saying. He gently pushed his son away without a word and shuffled over to the corner of the back of the van, shielding his face from the others.

He needed privacy.

He couldn't let Lucas see him go through this.

His breathing was shallow and rapid. He had to control it. He had to, or he was going to pass out; that, he now knew from experience.

Len hit the side of the van as hard as he could with a clenched fist, and tried to focus on the resulting pain.

It wasn't enough. He still couldn't breathe.

Len shut his eyes. The adrenaline had left a bitter taste in his mouth. His stomach churned.

Seconds later, he was bent over, vomiting up the few morsels of food he'd managed to make himself eat at dinnertime. When the nausea finally abated, Len passed out completely, collapsing against the van wall…. Missing the alarmed cries of the Rogues and his family.

When he came to, his chest was still far too tight.

But he could move again.

He felt everyone watching as they gathered around him, with the van having been pulled over to the side of the road.

Nobody asked him whether or not he was all right.

Nobody spoke.

"Mick…." Len scowled, "I do want to go home at some point today."

Whilst everyone else took the hint and back away (giving the vomit a wide berth), Lucas didn't and babbled at him.

Len didn't know what he was saying; he couldn't understand, couldn't comprehend anything but pure panic.

He stared straight ahead.

He couldn't let this get out of control, not now. He'd have to make it through this ride, and then he could go and relax somewhere.

But first he had to get through this.

He was starting to shake; that was absolutely unacceptable. He had to make his mind go elsewhere, at least for five more minutes.

He started trying to mentally list all the jobs he'd pulled since he began his career… That helped a little.

As soon as they arrived back at the safe house, Len cut a path through them and went into the closest quiet place he saw: namely, his room. He felt his legs buckling beneath him; not a second too soon, he sat down.

He was perspiring heavily.

He coughed; just as he did so, he looked up and saw that Mick and Lucas were coming in.

Before Len could say anything, Mick placed a cup of tea on the table. "Here..."

"Thank you."

He could have asked him why.

He could have said that he was fine and didn't need anything at all. But that would have taken too much effort, so he simply accepted Mick's small gesture.

"Lenny," Mick said, eyes meeting his, "are you alright?"

"I'm fine Mick." Len lied. He took a sip of tea. "Why don't you re-join the rest of the team? I'll be right in."

"Okay." Mick smiled awkwardly before exiting the small room, taking a protesting Lucas with him.

Len breathed a sigh of relief. That had been close. Too close. But he'd made it through and, right now, that was all that mattered.

…..

The sky was cloudless, and the air was clear.

Len sat down on the park bench and took a deep breath. He liked to take Lucas here as often as he could. He could see Lucas going down the yellow slide, and then sitting on one of the swings.

And yet, he couldn't focus completely.

Then again, how could he when every moment had the potential to trigger pure panic in him?

He had to stop. He had to stop. It was stopping him from doing decent work on their missions.

… But what if he couldn't make it stop?

He'd tried everything short of seeing a psychiatrist. But he couldn't be on tranquilizers and be out robbing places effectively; he just couldn't.

Len stared down glumly at the ground…. What if Lucas just remembered him for being weak?

As the thoughts whirled, Len felt the now familiar tightness begin to take hold of his chest. He tried to take a deep breath, and failed. Lewis had destroyed him, hadn't he? He'd left him unable to stay in control of his own mind, his own body.

He felt himself start to sweat; his hands shook uncontrollably. His body was ready to start sprinting; his mind was urging him to get up, to run far away from this place.

But he couldn't listen to either. He couldn't let himself get accustomed to giving in; he had to fight it with every bit of strength he had left.

He sat there fighting it until the sun began to set (which Lucas was thrilled over). He could have gone home with his son when this started, and hid in his room.

But it was important that he let his broken brain know that he was still in control, at least to some extent. He had to have that. Without it, he'd truly have absolutely nothing left.

By the time Len returned to the apartment, it was dark.

He turned on one light and crashed down onto the couch as Luca bid up good-night and rushed into his room.

The panicky feelings had yet to completely subside, but they were significantly less severe than they'd been at the park. That was something, at least.

Len rubbed his forehead. His head hurt, and he was exhausted. He was going to fall asleep whether he liked it or not; he could only hope that, this time, he wouldn't wake terrified.

Five minutes later, he could practically feel someone watching him.

Mick.

His chest tightened as he opened his eyes and stared up at his partner. "Is something wrong Mick?"

"You want some company?" Mick asked.

"Not particularly," Len admitted. "Why?"

"Well, I was expecting you home earlier. I thought we could order Chinese, relax, watch one of those crappy sci-fi films you like…. But Lucas said you seemed tense."

"You're checking up on me, aren't you?" Len drew in a slow, deep breath. "I'm fine, Mick."

"I can't wonder why you were home so late without being accused of 'checking up' on you?" Mick paused. "Listen, Len. I don't need the late time or Lucas to know that you're miserable. Don't think that I don't notice what's going on with you. Up until now, I've let you save face by not mentioning it, but those days are over."

When Len didn't answer, Mick asked, "So, are we gonna have this chat in our room or out here?"

"… Can we just stay here?"

Len didn't have the energy to argue with any of Mick's claims. It was so much easier just to give in, and he had to admit that it felt good to be able to stop pretending that everything was fine.

"It just happened, didn't it?" Mick asked.

"What just happened?" Len responded.

"You are not going to play this game with me. You had a panic attack recently, didn't you? Barring an event like that, there's no way you'd let me do this." Mick sighed heavily.

"I'll be fine."

"You know, there are people you can see about issues like these, Snart," Mick said. "And nobody – nobody – would hold it against you, if that's what concerns you."

"I'll be fine, Mick," Len said. He was sweating, and his hands were trembling. It was starting again. But he'd get through it; he always did. He didn't need anybody to help him. He was always fine, in the end.

"That's bullshit." Mick sighed again, "I can see you shaking!"

Len groaned. His anxiety level was uncomfortably high, but it had yet to erupt into a second full-fledged panic attack.

"Did you get the license plate number?" Mick asked.

"What?"

"The license plate number of the truck that ran you over, Len. You look terrible… Do you think some food will make you feel better?"

"Not particularly, no," Len admitted.

"Adrenaline will do that to you." Mick sighed before approaching Len. "I wish you'd let us help you."

"Has Lucas noticed?" Len asked, feeling his anxiety increase even more at the thought of that.

"To some extent, he has. He has your brains Lenny, you can't really hide anything from him." Mick looked at Len concernedly, then added, "It's okay. It's totally understandable, after everything you've experienced."

"No, it's not. It's not okay." Len forced himself to pause and take a deep breath. He was beginning to shake, so he sat back down on the sofa. "I can't lead the Rogues like this…."

"It gets better." Mick joined Len on the sofa. "It'd get better a lot faster if you weren't too proud to see somebody about it, but even if you don't see anyone, it'll get better, eventually."

"I don't have the time for 'eventually,'" Len said, shutting his eyes. His heart was racing, and he was beginning to feel nauseous. "No," he muttered, more to himself than to Mick. "Not again."

"Breathe, Len." Mick reached out and placed a hand on Len's shoulder. "I'm going to get you a cup of tea, okay? You lie down and just keep taking deep breaths."

"Mick, I–"

"Don't speak." Mick disappeared for a few minutes; when he returned, he raised a cup of lukewarm tea to Len's lips, and let him take a few sips. "I'm here, okay? I'm here."

"Thank you."

When Len finally fell asleep, for the first time, he did not dream.