[Ableism from a stranger, including a slur. Talk of PTSD and mental health]
The aftermath of a bad day is...only slightly less bad.
Clarice has been worried about John all night, but he looks better the next day. He doesn't come down to the café, but he does welcome Clarice at the door when she walks up on her lunch break, again bringing sandwiches.
"Hi," he says with a slightly strained smile. He takes a step back to let her in with her tray and Clarice sees that he's leaning heavily on his cane and on the door handle.
"Hey," Clarice answers, hurrying to get inside so he doesn't have to stay on his feet for too long. "How are you doing?"
John doesn't respond before he's lead her to the living room, and he's sat down on the couch, adjusting the pillow behind his back. "Better than yesterday," he answers.
"That's good," Clarice says, a little hesitantly. John clearly hates people worrying about him, but it's impossible to just pretend that she can't see the lines of pain on his face, that his state yesterday didn't scare her.
Zingo welcomes Clarice by putting her paw on her lap and trying to lick her hands. "Hey, girl," Clarice says. "Are you taking good care of your master?"
The dog sniffs her and lets out a huff.
"Is she?" she asks John.
"She keeps pestering me to go out," John says. "Marcos took her for a walk this morning, but she needs more, apparently."
"I can do it if you want," Clarice offers.
"I'm not going to ask you to walk my dog on your lunch break," John refuses. "No, I'll go later. I need some air too, to be honest."
"If you can wait until my shift is over, we could go together."
John hesitates for a short while, then nods. "Can you wait a couple of hours?" he asks Zingo, who comes over to sit on the couch beside him. "I'm sure she can," he says to Clarice. "I think she just wants to play."
"How old is she?" Clarice asks.
"A year and a half, more or less. She's a rescue, but we got her very young. Lorna decided that I needed something to cheer me up when I got out of the hospital."
"A puppy?"
"I think she was thinking more of a support dog, but the waiting list for trained dogs is really long, and I...wasn't really on board. So she took me to the shelter and Zingo was there. We just clicked, I guess."
"She seems very attuned to you," Clarice remarks. "Beside wanting to go out when you're hurting."
"We did our best to train her, but mostly she likes to comfort people," John answers. "She likes you," he adds. "She doesn't take to new people so easily, usually."
"I like her too," Clarice smiles. "I've always loved dogs."
"Ever considered getting one of your own?"
"No. I've moved too much, and lived in pretty shitty places. I don't want to put a dog through that."
"You shouldn't have had to go through it either," John frowns.
"Yeah, well," Clarice shrugs. "Things are pretty good now."
John shifts on the couch. "I'm glad," he smiles.
"There's still this...anxiety thing," Clarice admits. "Lorna said something the other day, about telling each other about triggers and that kind of things so we know how to react when it happens."
"Yes?"
"And after last time, I don't want to put you into the position of having to talk me through a panic attack again," Clarice says, embarrassed. "So I thought...you should know more about it."
"If you want to tell me, I'd like that," John nods. "I was thinking about the same thing, really."
"Okay. I'm not sure what to tell you exactly, because I don't really know myself why it happens. But it's...usually if I feel threatened by anti-mutants, or, you know, men… Sometimes the fear's completely irrational. The other time, the first time that we really talked? I forgot my sunglasses in my apartment. And that was it, really. Just people looking at me, maybe someone said something but I'm not even sure."
Clarice takes a breath and closes her mouth, realizing that she's rambling.
"Just because it's irrational doesn't mean it's not valid," John says.
It sounds like an inspirational quote from one of Clarice's activist forums, but hearing it from John gives it a different shape, for some reason.
"I guess," she sighs. "It's just, I don't understand. Those Purifiers didn't even attack me, just my car. It was nothing. I've had people do way worse to me in the past, and this is what gets me?"
John looks at her for a moment before answering. "Trauma...it doesn't work like that. Maybe your anxiety was triggered by the attack, but it's not just about that. It's about all the other stuff that happened before, just piling up until it's too much. I know you had a hard time growing up."
"But I mean, that's exactly the point! I'm in the best place I've ever been. So why does my brain think that's the right time to panic every other day?"
"Maybe it's because you're in a safe place now? Before, you couldn't ever stop long enough to breathe. Now that it's okay to let go, your brain can't get out of danger mode?"
Clarice blinks. "That actually makes some sort of sense. Where did you get that?"
"My shrink," John shrugs. "It's−it's the definition of PTSD, according to her."
"But I don't have PTSD, just some anxiety," Clarice frowns.
"Are you sure about that?"
Clarice bites her lip. "You went to war, and you saw things that I couldn't even imagine. I just got my car burned and had a few bad foster parents as a kid. You can't get PTSD from that."
"Yes you can," John says. "People usually think it only happens to soldiers or people who get brutally assaulted or something, but that's not how it works. It can be repeated abuse. Bullying. Oppression. I had PTSD long before I went to Afghanistan, Clarice. I'm not saying that you have it too, but−" he trails off.
"But you think it's possible," Clarice finishes.
John nods.
Clarice averts her eyes, shaken. Is it really possible? Even if John is right that PTSD isn't just for soldiers, she's not that bad off. She's functioning just fine, even if she has occasional panic attacks.
Well, except for the times when she wakes up in the middle of the night and can't go back to sleep. Or the times she stays home because the thought of going out makes her hyperventilate. The invitations she's refused to stay locked up in her apartment. The moments when she suddenly sees the face of a foster father in her mind's eye, or a white cross on a hoodie, and suddenly she can't breathe.
"Clarice," John calls softly. Clarice jumps, deep in her thoughts. "It's okay. It's okay if you do have it, and it's okay if you don't know. Just...remember that I'm here to talk, whenever you want."
Clarice nods. "Thank you," she says, a bit automatically because she's still too shaken to think.
"Come on, I'll show you something," John says, painfully getting up.
"It doesn't have to be right now," Clarice offers at his wince.
"It's okay, I'm good."
John leads them to his bedroom, leaning heavily on his cane. He holds onto diverse pieces of furniture on the way, but shakes his head when Clarice offers her arm.
"I'm good," he repeats.
Clarice frowns, but lets it go. John sits down on his bed with obvious relief and gestures to her to sit beside him. He opens his nightstand drawer and shows her the half-dozen bottles of pills in there.
"What are those?" Clarice asks. She can guess, but she'd rather make sure she understands.
"Meds I take. I want you to know about them." He starts taking out bottles one by one. "Painkillers, backup painkillers, and muscle relaxants for when it gets really bad. Sometimes my legs or back start spasming like yesterday and there's just not a lot to do about it. Those...they're actually anti-anxiety meds."
"You have−" Clarice waves vaguely. "That, too?"
"Not exactly, but I get...flashbacks, sometimes. They can be hard to shake off, so the meds help with that. And anti-depressants. Um...I was in a pretty bad place, for a while."
Clarice nods. "I'm not going to judge you for that."
"I can't really tell you about triggers, because they're very fickle. Some days it can be...anything, someone moving in another room or something. And some of it is related to the stuff that I haven't told you yet."
"Right," Clarice says. "I understand. You don't ever have to tell me if it's too hard, you know?"
"No, just...give me some time."
"I'll wait as long as you need."
"Thank you," John sighs.
"No, thank you," Clarice says. "For telling me all this."
John catches her eyes and nods. "We should go eat before your break ends," he says.
I'll be up in five, I'm just finishing up, Clarice texts John at three, when her shift is scheduled to end. Trying to shake of the pain haze that's been constant since yesterday, John drags himself to his bedroom to get ready. He hesitates for a moment on taking his wheelchair, despite his apprehension of Clarice's reaction, but he puts on his braces instead. They're only going across the street anyway, and maybe walking will help with the relentless cramping in his left leg.
He's ready when Clarice knocks on the door, forearm crutches in hand and a new dose of painkillers just taking effect. His pain level today calls for more than the cane, and his left leg is visibly dragging even with the brace on. Clarice looks at the crutches, but she doesn't say anything.
"Do you mind taking Zingo?" John asks, handing her the leash. "She knows not to pull, but it will give her more freedom."
"Of course," Clarice answers.
"I'm not going to walk very fast," John warns as they get into the elevator. For some reason, admitting that doesn't feel anywhere as daunting as it did just days ago, before their date at the botanical garden. Clarice is taking everything in stride, better than John could even have imagined−better than anyone since his injury. Even Marcos and Lorna, who are great about it most of the time, get impatient, or stifle him with their concern. They were here at his worst, and it changed their relationship. It's mostly for the better, but sometimes it's harder to talk to them than to someone who didn't know him before.
"We'll go as slow as you need," Clarice says. "I don't mind at all."
"Over here," John says when Clarice automatically goes to the back door of the café. "There's a direct exit." He'd rather avoid the café right now. It's not so much because of the stares he's sure to attract on crutches, but more because it's going to be noisy and high levels of pain make his senses overload.
"Of course, I should have guessed," Clarice says, turning on her heels and following him. "There are other apartments in the building, and tenants don't pass through the café to go up."
She opens the door for him and Zingo, who zips straight past John and only stops running when she runs out of leash slack.
"She was impatient to get out," John smiles.
There are few people in the park, so Clarice lets Zingo go free. John fishes the dog's favorite ball out of his pocket and hands it to Clarice.
"Do you want to play with her? I sometimes do it from a bench, but she'll like it more if you can run with her."
"Sure," Clarice says. "But I'm sure she loves playing with you."
"Go," John urges her on instead of answering. "I'll be over there," he motions toward a bench.
Even the short trip down has exhausted him. He takes a moment to breathe, trying to extend his left foot properly to get rid of yet another cramp, while watching Clarice throw the ball and Zingo bark happily.
"Hey, do you need help?" someone says suddenly from behind, grabbing his arm without warning. John jumps, suddenly alert, and almost overbalances to get rid of the hand touching him.
"Please let go," he says through gritted teeth. The pain fog means his sensory input is all over the place, which is why he didn't hear the stranger approach. "I don't need help."
The man doesn't listen. "There's a bench just here," he says instead, now trying to drag John over. For once, John is grateful that his body density means he doesn't even budge.
"Let go of me," he repeats with difficulty, all his focus on convincing his body not to react violently to the perceived assault.
The man finally removes his hand when it becomes apparent that his efforts to make John move are vain. "Man, you're strong," he says. "So, what happened to you anyway? Did you break your leg or something? I sprained my knee skiing once, crutches are such a pain," he rambles on, never giving John a chance to answer.
Not that John particularly wants to, because detailing his medical history to strangers is not his favorite pastime. Instead, he starts walking away, slowly, cursing that he can't just escape and praying that the man won't try to get in his way again.
"Will you just leave me alone?" he asks, not particularly nicely, but he's done with this kind of people.
"Hey, there's no need to be rude, I was just trying to help!"
"Right," John mutters.
"You people are so ungrateful!" the man spits. "I hope you enjoy your lonely, bitter cripple life!"
John raises an eyebrow at him as he walks away angrily.
"Okay," he says, blinking. He turns to go sit on the bench, finally, and finds Clarice watching him from behind, looking shocked.
"That...escalated quickly," she says, sitting down beside him.
"Yeah," John shrugs, setting aside his crutches.
"You're not surprised," she remarks. "Does that happen often?"
"Most people aren't as bad, but being grabbed by random strangers who think they're helping is quite common. It's worse with the wheelchair."
"Wow. What was this guy even thinking?"
"I wouldn't know," John laughs. He does feel shaken, if only because being touched without any warning is really unsettling. He's too used to insults to let them get to him, though those about his disability always hit him more than any other.
"I'm kinda glad I only get the slurs and not the...unwanted help," Clarice deadpans.
John blinks at her. "Are you making a joke about how screwed we both are?"
"I guess?" Clarice shrugs. "It's as good a joke subject as any, right?"
Zingo comes running to bring her the ball back, and Clarice coos and pets the dog while John ponders that. Clarice's sense of humor is snarky and sarcastic, and he loves it, but that particular quip took him by surprise.
Clarice stands up to throw the ball again, laughing at Zingo's barks, and John smiles at the scene.
"Are you going to the center tonight?" she asks conversely, once she's sat back close to him. John puts an arm around her shoulders.
"Probably not," John answers. "Lorna will cover for me."
"How long does it usually last? Your...flares, or whatever it is."
"It depends on...mainly on how much I've overdone it, and if I manage to rest properly. I've learned that pushing through is not a good idea."
"So you're just in pain for days and there's nothing you can do about it?"
John shrugs. "It's better than it was, so maybe the pain will fade eventually. For now, that's about it, yes."
"It was worse?" Clarice asks, wincing.
John just nods, unwilling to expand on it. "I'll rest for another day, and take it really slow on Saturday."
"In PT?"
"And the classes. Lorna can't take the Saturday classes because she has one of hers at the same time."
"Okay," Clarice says. "Do you want me to leave you alone this weekend so you can rest?"
John shakes his head. "Actually, I wanted to ask you a huge favor."
"What is it?"
"We have the youth club on Saturday afternoon, and we're short on staff. Sonya usually does most of the work, but she's got this big project so she hasn't been there for a few weeks. And Lorna and Marcos won't be there because they're going up to see Lorna's aunt for the weekend. So it's just me and Sage. It's enough to handle the kids, usually the youngest children have their parents with them, but if I can't move−"
"You want me to come," Clarice understands.
"Only if you want to, of course," John nods. "I don't want you to say yes if you're not comfortable with the idea. But it would really help."
"Of course, I can come. I mean, it's a little daunting, to be honest, but I'm not too bad with kids. I had a lot of younger foster siblings."
"Thank you," John says. "It will help a lot."
"Anything for you," Clarice laughs, teasing.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It's quiet and simple, but it touches on some important themes.
The type of PTSD John and Clarice talk about, from repeated trauma, is usually called Complex PTSD, and it's more common than we usually think. Clarice probably does have it, at least I guess that's how I've been writing her.
Tell me what you think!