Title: What Lies Within Us
Chp. 18 Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.
Disclaimer: Unless I morphed into a Palladino last night, I own nothing.
Intro: If you're looking for this now, I suggest reading some previous chapters.
Rating: PG-13
Author's note: Yeah! About a week to update, not two months. An improvement. See, being back in my own place is a good thing. And since some were concerned, sorry I wasn't clear; I'm going to finish the fic (soon-won't drag it on), I just wasn't going to if nobody cared anymore (it happens after two months). If I was writing this just for me, I should spend my time studying instead or something. And I want to take this opportunity to, if I haven't done it before, thank everyone who reviews. Not only does it give me feedback on the story, it gives me a very happy feeling every time the review alert shows up in my email.
PS For this chapter I did a little research on PTSD. Symptoms, TX, I wanted to be clear on things. I didn't just pull his actions out of my ass, it's consistent with the disorder ie. intense guilt, dreams, flashbacks, feeling if worthlessness to those closest, therapy, exposure therapy as tx, .
The first sensation Tristan had was like a drop of water on his head. Irritated, he tried to swat it away, content to lay there in the dream he was having. He was 18 again, and graduating Chilton. The sun was shining on the outdoor ceremony as rain would never dare intrude upon that prestigious day. He was listening to Rory giving her valedictorian address, feeling something swell inside him as she spared a glance for him, blushing slightly. And all the while he was secure in the knowledge that his parents sat just a few rows back, his father beaming with pride as he held a camcorder to preserve the moment. Even in his graduation robes he knew that if one looked underneath his clothing, his skin there would be smooth and unblemished.
Again, he felt the coldness but he deftly ignored it, as he was secure in his dream world. He tried to recreate the sensation of the dream, even as he knew he was being pulled away from it, but it wouldn't come again. It was at that point that he knew what he was experiencing wasn't real, that it wasn't more than a hallucination, and his body allowed itself to awake.
As he opened his eyes he was greeted by the sight of Rory, leaning over him, pressing a cool cloth over his forehead, wiping it over his entire face, and for a moment it felt like he was in the dream again. That everything was okay, he was happy, there were no issues to resolve.
But the pain had started to intrude. He could feel the pain in his left eye, his split lip, and the bruises he was sure were already forming on his cheeks. His chest hurt, as did his stomach. And that's when it all came back to him and reality sunk in. He remembered it all.
Logan.
The well placed punch.
Her.
Them, or rather the lack there of.
He could see the moment that she realized he had awakened. Her hand hesitated in its ministrations, but continued gently on, trying to sooth. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying. He didn't know if it was from his being here now, or from the way things had ended earlier, but he felt like an ass no matter what. He tried to ask a question, but the words came out a croak. He was lying on the couch in the Gilmore house, the couch he had spent the Christmas holidays sleeping in. His body ached from the blows to his stomach, his face and all over.
Tristan closed his eyes for a moment to regain his composure, and test for himself how he felt. But without the sight of her, the visual assurance that he was still on the Gilmore couch, his mind couldn't escape the flashback to the military hospital where he had first been admitted. The smell of decaying flesh, and blood were missing, but the physical abuse his body had undergone brought back the worst days of his life in horrifying clarity. The one punch Logan had gotten in on his right pectoral felt like the blunted pain he had after his injuries.
He knew Rory thought he had passed out again; she was desperately trying to revive him, shaking him and yelling for all she was worth. But he had slipped into a place where she could not reach, where she didn't belong.
"You're lucky to be alive," were the quiet words of the nurse as she holds up a glass of water to Tristan's parched lips. He greedily drinks every sip, feeling the dehydration of sickness and the sweltering heat.
"What happened?" he croaks the words out. He hadn't felt the pain of his wounds then. The morphine drip they had him on took care of that.
"An attack," was all she tells him, not elaborating, "I'm sure your commanding officer will be by to talk to you."
But it came back to him with her words; he didn't need Lieutenant Graves to come explain things to him. The face of the little girl flashed before his eyes, and he put it all together. He could offer no apologies before he leaned over the sparse cot and threw up, mere inches from the nurse's feet.
He didn't feel so lucky to be alive then.
Dr. Ravindran sits across from him. As usual, Tristan refuses to be the first one to talk. It some ways it's like a game, a staring contest; see who can take it the longest. In reality it's not a game, not just some petty squabble. It's just that he has nothing to say, in his mind it's all been said. He knows he's fucked up, but these sessions with the psychiatrist every second day do nothing for him. They've covered every aspect of his life, and he has nothing left to give.
"You didn't kill your squadron," and as usual, he's forced the good doctor to speak first. She doesn't ease into their conversations anymore, doesn't waste time with polite chit chat. She just dives into the heart of the issue right away. He knows she sees it as some sort of semi-shock therapy.
"I know," he replies, because that's what she wants to hear, but he doesn't really mean it. He wasn't the one who designed and detonated the bomb, but he could have stopped it all the same. There are reasons, logistics, excuses, but nothing changes the fact that if he had just pulled the trigger they wouldn't be sitting her today in these circumstances.
Tristan wishes she would stop trying to make him feel better. He knows the responsibility he has in what happened. Others know it too. It was in the eyes of Lieutenant Graves, his commanding officer, the time he stopped by to discuss the incident. He told the lieutenant of the circumstances, he had to; there was no holding it in. If he'd kept his mouth shut nobody would know the role he played but himself, but by telling Graves about seeing the little girl it was exposed to the world. He wants people to blame him, god knows he blames himself.
He glances out the window of the doctor's pretty corner office. Sometimes he almost thinks that he can see his parent's house off in the distance. It's not from the hospital that he's been at since he got back to the States; 22.2 miles, he googled it. He knows that the good doctors are worried about his "support system", or rather, lack of it, when he finally leaves here. Here, while he still recovers from the physical damage done to him, they can keep up their subtle suicide watch on him. He's not blind, he knows they're worried. They've been as blatant about it as they can be without locking him in a padded room with no sharp corners. Not that they don't have a point, sometimes the drugs in the cabinets or the razor he shaves with have begun to look awfully good.
"Have you still been having the dreams?" she asks the question, not even having to glance down at the clipboard to know the details of his case. He's been one of her primary patients this past couple weeks, and he knows she takes his care personally. He and the good doc don't get to talk about her personal life, but from the talk of others he knows that she has a sister stationed overseas, and a father who died in the Gulf War. Maybe that's why he's been more willing to play this little game with her, rather than let his anger show like he did with the last doctor he saw before he came here. If he acts like he did before, he knows they'll find some plausible excuse to keep him here once his wounds have healed and he's completed physical therapy, so he pretends at full cooperation.
"Yes," he replies, but knows she isn't satisfied with the monosyllabic answer, so he elaborates, and lets more truth slip through than he normally would, "They come and go, and the worst I had was last Monday night." Monday the 28th, the 3 month anniversary of the bombing. They both know the significance of the date.
She nods, and he watched as she makes a note. He's surprised by how earnest she looks as she leans forward. "Tristan," she begins as she rests a hand on his knee, personal contact that he's been lacking for the past months, "What do you know about post-traumatic stress disorder?"
He stands in front of the hospital, waiting for a cab. This hospital was no different from any other; they insistent on wheeling you out. So he had gone through the hallways in the hospital, decked out in his dress uniform with his one bag of meagre belongings as an orderly had pushed him down.
There was nobody waiting, he knew there wouldn't be. He knew his parents were expecting his release today, and that he would come there, but that was as far as it went. So he asked Betty, his favourite nurse to call him a cab, ignoring the look of pity in her eyes as she went to do so.
He can still feel the barely healed wounds in his chest and back. He doesn't have to see them to know that they are there. Excessive physical therapy has allowed him full range of motion again, but the scars will never fade. He's got the literature from Dr. Ravindran in his duffel bag. He's pretty sure he's read every article known to man on PTSD by now; probably knows just as much about it as the doc. But for him, it's personal, not his vocation. Not yet.
As the cab pulls up, he tosses his bag and gets in, giving directions to his parents mansion.
Christina lay beside him in bed, snoring softly, but Tristan couldn't sleep. He lay there, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling above him. They were in her apartment, where she'd taken him after dinner. He had known what she wanted, and he wanted it too. She was the first one he even wanted to sleep with since he'd been stateside, the first one he'd cared enough about to even try this relationship thing.
After tonight, he didn't think he'd be trying again.
He had seen the revulsion in her face when she looked at the scars once his shirt had hit the floor. The way she had avoided touching them at all costs. Sure they'd had sex, that was the only way to describe it. Any emotion they had started the evening with was gone. She chose to sleep on her side of the bed, despite being a natural cuddler, because that would have meant resting part of her on his chest. The sex was as awkward as it had been the first time he tried sex as a fourteen year old virgin, even if at least this time he had managed to get her off.
He knew it wouldn't go beyond tonight, even if he had once harboured delusions otherwise. Maybe he wasn't giving her enough credit, but as much as they liked each other, it wasn't going to go deeper. Before tonight she hadn't seen beyond the romance of a man in uniform.
He had got his acceptance letter to Yale that morning. He would be heading off there soon enough. It was the perfect excuse to end whatever this was between them without delving into the deeper issues.
Tristan was going to go to Yale, he was going to go to med school, and he was going to try and atone for his mistake by saving as many lives as he could, even if it would never balance out. The military paying for it meant any life saving he would be doing would be done for the army, but that was what he wanted. Confront the fears. It was his own version of the "exposure therapy" the shrink had suggested, but instead in a completely uncontrolled environment. But it was what he wanted; atonement came before anything else.
"Tristan," Rory's insistent use of his name, and the puny hands shaking his shoulders with surprising force entered into his reverie. And then he was back in the present, knowing full well that he was in the Gilmore house, not some hospital.
"What am I doing here?" Tristan asked, studiously avoiding the concerned look in her eyes. He knew it wasn't just because of his bruises; it was because of the few minutes he spent lost to the world.
He knew Rory was aware of his side stepping the issue, but she pretended nothing else was wrong. Now that the urgency had passed, she refused to look him in the eyes, avoiding him even as she cared for him. "Logan panicked when you passed out, and he got Luke to bring you here. Luke and my mom have gone to get Dr. Allan, a retired surgeon who lives in town. We were scared we might have to get you to a hospital. It was Logan and Luke's choice to bring you here, not mine." She tacked on the last part hurriedly, scared he'd think she hadbrought him here against his will like some desperate stalker.
"Just a few punches, I've had worse," and he has, but that didn't stop him from feeling like he just got run over by a bus. Gingerly, he tried to sit up, wincing at the pain in his chest. Logan had gotten a good run at him, able to do anything he wanted when Tristan refused to fight back. Even now he could picture the unluckily placed blow Logan had got on his face, knocking him into unconsciousness. "Logan?" he asked the question by the name, not able to say more as he grimaced at the pain of speaking.
"Gone back to school," Rory's tone had turned icy at the mention of her ex-boyfriend's name, since she could see the result of his handiwork lying prostrate on the couch in front of her. "I didn't think his presence would be a good idea after he beat you to a bloody pulp."
They both opened their mouths, about to say something more, when the door burst open to reveal her mother, Luke, and Dr. Allan. In other circumstance Rory would find the bag that the doctor carried humorous, like something from the 1800s. Of course with how old the doctor was, that might be the case.
"You're awake." Rory heard the relief in Luke's voice at the statement of fact. Tristan's weary nod gave the unneeded confirmation.
"I still need to check you out son," Dr. Allan reminded him, pushing him back down as Tristan tried to stand. "Need to do our best to back sure there is no permanent damage." He shooed Rory out of the chair she was sitting in so he could get a closer seat beside his patient.
"We'll leave the two of you alone," Lorelai told the doctor with a smile, looking pointedly at Rory who seemed to have no intention of leaving. She wanted to stand there, protecting Tristan and supporting him, but at her mothers pointed glare she followed her and Luke into the kitchen.
"I'll make coffee," were the first words out of Luke's mouth as they entered the kitchen. It was his first response in the face of any sort of crisis, it was the role he played. He was the provider of the caffeine-infested beverage, and when he had no other recourse with then, it was the role he returned too.
"Thanks Luke," Lorelai told him, squeezing his arm gently in appreciation as she went to sit down at the table. The two of them had never gotten into giving pet names to one another. She pulled out her chair to sit, and motioned Rory to do the same.
"So, he's awake," Lorelai summed it up, repeating the obvious statement that Luke had made upon walking in the house.
"Yes," Rory answered, nodding her head.
"And he seems fine?" Lorelai asked concernedly, "You know, all ten fingers and toes and the like?"
"I didn't do a physical mom," Rory replied sarcastically, "But outside of some nasty bruises and some pain, he seemed fine. All his mental faculties seemed to be intact, no trauma induced amnesia. He even remembered the name of who was kicking the crap out of him."
"Logan." When her mother breathed the name it was with even more resentment than Rory had shown earlier. "I was half expecting him to be here when we got back. In fact I was hoping it, just so we could kick the little punk's ass."
"He was going to stay," Rory admitted, wrapping her hands together, "He was panicked at the sight of Tristan passed out. But after you guys left, I practically threw him out, telling him we wouldn't be in contact again unless Tristan decided to press charges."
Luke joined them at the table, the coffee brewing, as Lorelai threw up her hands in frustration. "Damned right. What the hell was he thinking? It's called assault buster, and after a few pics of Tristan's smashed up body I don't think even daddy's lawyers will be getting him out of this one."
"There won't be charges," this quiet observation came from Luke, and Lorelai looked at him in shock.
"Of course there will." She was indignant at any suggestion otherwise.
"No, I don't think there will," Luke insisted, taking her hand in his. "Logan told me what happened Lorelai, half babbling as we carted Tristan over here. He was angry with Tristan, for…….you know. He wanted to fight him, hurt him, but Tristan refused to fight back. If the boy refused to fight him, even as he bruised and hurt him, and knocked him into unconsciousness, he's certainly not going to file charges. He could have taken Logan out in a single blow, and he did nothing."
"No, it's not going to be that simple," Lorelai felt the anger that Rory was still to upset over the situation to feel. "We're not going to appease that little bastard. I don't know what Tristan was thinking letting himself get hurt like that, possibly seriously, but this ends here. I know you two screwed up and hurt him, but that doesn't give Logan a license to act like this. Nothing does. First he comes in here and takes emotional shots at my daughter, and then he goes and takes physical ones at Tristan. I don't care how hurt he is, this ends here."
They were all interrupted by the sound of a throat clearing behind them. Rory turned to see Tristan standing in the entrance to the kitchen, the doctor standing beside him. She could see his startled look at Lorelai's words, but before he could enquire further Dr. Allan began to speak.
"We're done Lorelai," he told her mother with a smile, slipping his jacket on. "Doesn't look like there will be a need for a rush to the ER in Hartford tonight."
"Thanks doc," Lorelai replied gratefully, slipping into the nickname the town called him by despite his being retired for over 10 years. Dr. Allan just nodded in response, and let himself out the front door.
Rory looked over at Tristan, "You're okay?' she asked, belatedly realizing that she was pretending things were more normal between them, that the past 24 hours hadn't happened.
But he nodded, "As far as he can tell. I should be fine, he just warned me about going to the hospital if I get dizzy, or get headaches. None of the ribs seem to be broken, but if the pain persists I should go get an x-ray. He's a little worried about the eye, and I should let someone examine it in a week or so when the swelling goes down."
"You just stood there while he hit you?" Rory demanded, his swollen face still effecting her. "You did nothing but let him damage to the point you might be permanently injured?" She had been passive before, but the sight of him effected her still.
But Tristan didn't seem to hear a word she said, demanding instead, "What's your mom talking about, that he came in here and took emotional shots at you?"
"He was upset, we argued," was all Rory replied simplistically. It was the truth as far as it went. But at the sound of her mother's snort, she turned around to glare at Lorelai, begging her to leave it alone. "It was nothing," she emphasized as she turned back to Tristan.
Tristan ignored her and turned to her mother, "Lorelai?"
Her mother was upset past the point of discretion. "Yeah, nothing. He comes in here and calls my daughter a whore, and it's nothing."
She was angry at Logan herself, but she didn't expect the overreaction of the other two men standing in the kitchen. She could see Tristan's face turn to stone, and Luke sprang to his feet. "I'll kill him," he swore, looking like he was going to go out and find a shotgun that very moment.
"I'll go with you," Tristan chimed in, and from a look at his face Rory knew he wasn't really kidding about it.
"You let him beat you to a pulp, but now you're going to hurt him? Because of one insult thrown in anger at me?" Her tone was incredulous as she looked him at him.
"He can't say those things about you," and to Tristan that logic seemed to explain his perfectly unreasonable reaction.
"I cheated on him last night Tristan, with you. He had a right to be upset. I'm not justifying his actions, I'm just explaining them. I was willing to take a lot from him because of what I did, but not that. I kicked him out when he went that far. Unlike some people, I wasn't willing to let him permanently damage me for my mistake." She looked pointedly at his lip that had started bleeding again.
And, as he grabbed a Kleenex and wiped at it gently, she couldn't resist throwing back at him, "Besides, I'm not yours to protect in any way Tristan. You made that perfectly clear this morning." She wondered if the bitterness she heard in her voice was as apparent to him as it was to her. As he opened his mouth to speak, she could see the rejection in his eyes again, and she pulled what pride she had left after this whole day around her. "Never mind, forget I said anything," she interjected hastily, unable to control the sheen of tears but refusing to let them fall. "I'm not going to force you into anything you don't want, I have my pride, and I'll save us from any more nasty emotional scenes."
"Rory," her name was soft, barely an escape of breath from his lips, but he didn't say anything else, just looked at her with pleading eyes to let it be. To drop it.
They didn't say anything else to one another, but stayed locked in each others gaze, both refusing to look away. But finally Tristan gave, breaking his eyes away from her. "Will you give me that ride now Luke?" he asked, looking determinedly at the older man and away from Rory.
"Yeah," Luke's tone was defeated as he agreed. He had given his word, and he would drive Tristan back no matter how much he disagreed with his decisions. It was tempting to make a side stop at the parents house of a certain blonde boy, but he would repress the anger for Rory's sake.
"My stuff is still at your place," Tristan added unnecessarily since he wouldn't have been capable of carrying it over here while unconscious, and Luke nodded, acknowledging they would have to stop on the way.
They all stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do, how to leave. But Lorelai broke the silence by saying to Tristan. "You're welcome here anytime Tristan." Her words were simple but the meaning was sincere. Even though he was breaking her daughters heart, ranting and raving would help nothing.
He nodded, a lump in his throat. "Thank you Lorelai." There wasn't much else to say. What was he going to do, apologize for sleeping with her daughter and leaving? It sounded callous, and cold, but there was more too it, and he knew the elder Gilmore knew it. Their acceptance of him in the face of everything made him want to indoctrinate himself into their lives forever, but his leaving now was the best for everyone.
He turned to the door, trying desperately to avoid Rory's eyes to make his going easier for everyone. And she, as promised, tried to spare him and messy emotional scenes and said nothing. He thanked his lucky stars for that mercy, even as it hurt. He didn't think he could do it again, reinforce his decision not to be with her. He had tried to hitchhike back to Yale in order to avoid this again. He was barely strong enough to leave the first time, if she asked he wasn't sure he could do it again.
"Goodbye," was all he tossed over his shoulder, walking quickly towards the door. It was a hard and unfeeling farewell, but there was no other way to go about it and keep their dignities intact. He walked quickly to the door and exited, shutting it firmly behind him. Effectively shutting Rory out for good.
Luke shrugged apologetically and kissed Lorelai on the cheek as he followed Tristan's path. He paused momentarily only to squeeze Rory's arm in comfort before he too was gone.
With the sudden emptiness of the house, the two Gilmore girls stood in the kitchen silently for a moment, not moving. Then Lorelai walked slowly over to her daughter, wanting to support her, expecting Rory to be distraught with Tristan's departure. But her daughter wasn't even crying, she was staring calmly ahead at the entrance the boys had just disappeared through.
"Mom," she began, her tone resolute even as she didn't look at Lorelai. "Can I borrow the jeep?" The jeep had better snow tires.
"Where do you want to go?" Lorelai asked, a little worried at Rory's reaction.
"I need to take a drive," Rory's voice was deceptively mild at the request, but she didn't elaborate further.
Yes, Tristan's going back to Yale without Rory. But this is a Trory fic.
And yes, some of this felt a little rushed to me too when writing it, I just didn't know how to change it effectively. If I can think of a way to redo it, I'll repost it after.