A lot of John's background story in this one. I hope you like it!

Just as he thought, John doesn't fall asleep again after his flashback. He feels exhausted, but his brain is working overtime dealing with the renewed trauma, and he's too afraid to have another flashback to even think about dozing off.

Pain flares always seem to make his PTSD worse, though he doesn't know if it's because of the undue stress they put on his body or because the feeling of being trapped and vulnerable brings him back to the early days of his injury. The nightmares have been a common occurrence ever since, just like the insomnia and the hypervigilance, but he felt like the flashbacks were finally receding, until today. He's destroyed half his bedroom more than once in the throws of particularly violent attacks, but that level of dissociation hasn't happened in months.

If John is honest with himself, this flashback was fairly mild, and the reason it feels so bad is not that it's a setback. It's that Clarice was in the middle of it.

It's not even shame that she saw it happen. She's already seen more of his vulnerabilities than he's ever willingly shared with anyone but his closest friends, and in such a short time that he's barely had time to think about it. But this particular vulnerability of his is not just something he's ashamed of, or something he's afraid to be rejected over.

It's dangerous to the people around him.

Watching Clarice sleeping peacefully beside him makes the storm in John's mind feel out of place−but it's somehow even worse. How is she not afraid? She just saw him scream and bound across the room unaware of his surrounding, likely almost hitting her, he admitted to being violent and breaking furniture, and yet here she is, trusting him enough to go back to sleep in his arms.

John struggles against the nausea. He doesn't think he could make it to the bathroom in time if he tried, so he just swallows and tries to breathe. The sight that greets him every time he closes his eyes, made of fire and mangled bodies and screams, contrasts so sharply with the scene of Clarice sleeping that his body is fighting the dissonance.

It seems like an eternity has passed before Clarice finally opens her eyes. John takes it as his opportunity to get up and start on his morning routine. It's going to take him a while to get his legs to function properly, so he might as well get started early.

And it's better than lying there trying to hang on to a reality that keeps slipping away.

"Hey," Clarice says when she finds him in the living room, lifting weights in only a pair of sweatpants, over an hour later. "You got up early."

John looks at his watch. It's barely seven, but it feels later to him. Bad nights and flashbacks tend to warp his sense of time, slowing it down until he can feel the seconds ticking by or fast-forwarding until he realizes he's lost a whole day to the fear and pain. Often both at the same time.

"I didn't want to bother you," he says, putting down the weights and using the edge of the couch to stand back up.

He's dreading the conversation he knows is coming about last night almost as much as he wants to be done with it.

"You didn't," Clarice answers. "But I could have gotten up with you."

"No, you should sleep when you can," John shakes his head. "You want to shower first?"

"No, you go," Clarice says, rubbing her eyes. "I'm not awake enough for that."

John limps into the bathroom with a nod, almost relieved to escape. And he immediately hates that he's thinking about avoiding Clarice entirely just because he doesn't want to talk.

Clarice doesn't ask anything while they make breakfast, side by side in the small kitchen. She still hasn't brought up the subject when John finishes washing the dishes, although she has to be aware of how tense he is. She's letting him do this on his own time, he understands.

She was genuine when she said that she'd be okay if he never told her.

That realization comes almost as a shock to John. It's been a given to him that he would eventually tell her about Pulse, and all the things he has so much trouble talking about, because he can't imagine building a healthy relationship on silence and untold truths. But Clarice trusts him enough already to know that the things he's keeping close to his heart won't change anything for her.

John wishes he could be as sure. He's past the time, not so long ago, when he thought Clarice would turn on her heels and run away when his baggage got too heavy for her. She hasn't run away, and her baggage may be just as heavy, if very different.

But what happened to his unit, the story John needs to tell her, it's a mess of tightly held-together feelings, and those don't allow such rational thoughts as she's not going to run away. Grief and guilt are the only things that come through, even after months of therapy.

And Pulse...maybe the good memories don't make John break down sobbing anymore, but his death certainly does. It's what trapped him in the nightmare last night. Even just thinking about it bring a weight of lead to his stomach.

"We need to talk about last night," he says, too fast, before he can talk himself out of it.

Clarice slowly, carefully turns to him. "Okay," she says. "Let's go sit down, then."

John nods gratefully, because his mind is all over the place and making decisions about standing or sitting is beyond his reach. He can barely hold onto the thread of what he wants to say, that mixes up with the nightmare and the images and−

He takes a deep breath, while Clarice takes his hand and leads him to the couch. She sits beside him like there isn't a hurricane going on in his mind, crossing her legs under her.

"Being with me is dangerous," John says when his brain has managed to form the words.

"What?" Clarice frowns. "Is that what's been eating you? You told me that you have PTSD, that you have occasional flashbacks. I was surprised, but I wasn't shocked."

"I could have hurt you."

"But you didn't. And you won't."

"You don't know that."

Clarice sighs. "Maybe I don't, not for certain. But I'm not scared of you, John. You would never hurt me on purpose."

"Of course not, but−"

"Okay, stop. We can argue all day about whether or not you could inadvertently hurt me in your sleep. I could also fall out of bed on my own and break my arm."

"But this and my mutation, it's just too dangerous−"

"No it's not! John, I make portals that can cut someone in two. I sometimes make one of them in my sleep, too. Will you stop seeing me because of that?"

"What? No! But it's not the same!"

"It's exactly the same," Clarice insists. "I am not afraid of you, John. In fact, you're the first man I've ever gotten close to that I'm not afraid of."

John opens his mouth, but he doesn't say anything, shocked. That's one thing that he's never heard before. Most people are at least a little scared of his strength.

But then Clarice seems to have lived through a lot of abuse. That would skew anyone's sense of danger.

"John," Clarice continues. "Your mutation, even your PTSD, they don't matter in this. You aren't a threat to me, because of the kind of person you are. It's not about physical strength, or control over your body."

John thinks about it for a moment, then nods slowly. What she's saying does make sense, though she's somehow shifted the conversation away from his actual fear. He gives up for now, knowing that she won't hear more of it.

It doesn't mean he's going to risk sleeping beside her again anytime soon.

"I want to tell you what it was," he says. "The flashback. Gus."

"Are you sure?"

"No. But there are things that I haven't told you about me that you need to know, and I think it's time."

"Okay," Clarice nods, firmly squeezing his hand.

John takes a deep breath. Where to start? His relationship with Gus, his time in the Marines, it doesn't feel like something that can be summarized in a few sentences.

"I joined the Marines when I was nineteen," he says. "I got through basic training, then Special Forces training, and on my first deployment I was assigned to what became my main unit. We were an all-mutant unit. Fifteen of us. The work we did was mostly reconnaissance, which is a fancy word for walking blindly into danger."

"What do you mean?"

"Being in the military as a mutant is−" John hesitates. "Life is hard for mutants here, especially people like you with visible mutations, but we still have some rights. Out there, it was different. We were always on the front line. All the most dangerous jobs. We were barely better than cannon fodder. The other units hated us because of our powers."

"But why?" Clarice asks. "I mean, I don't get the hate in general, but this sounds more specific."

"Everyone is supposed to be equal, in front of a machine gun or a bomb. Except mutants. Except people like me, with a bulletproof skin. The others hated that."

"So they made you pay for your mutation by sending you on dangerous missions?"

"Out there, every mission was dangerous, but yes. It made sense for me to go on reconnaissance since I track, of course, but most of the men in my unit had defensive-only abilities, or ones that weren't particularly useful in combat. Gus was...we called him Pulse. He had a really powerful ability to disrupt systems. Anything, electronics, mechanical, even the human body to some extent. And mutant powers."

"Mutant powers?"

"Yes, he could shut us down completely. It was unsettling for me, losing body density and strength and my senses being reduced suddenly, but we trained together a lot. We met in basic training, and we became inseparable. I was promoted after our first tour and became his CO, but it didn't change anything between us. He was a caring, beautiful person."

"What...what happened?" Clarice asks hesitantly.

John takes a deep breath. "Last year, we were on our third tour in Afghanistan together. One day we answered a tip about a Taliban group in an abandoned building. Looking back, I−I can see that it was off, but I missed it then. The mission shouldn't have been assigned to us at all, it wasn't the kind of things we'd normally do. But we went."

Closing his eyes, John stops speaking for a moment. He runs a hand through his hair, swallowing. "The building was empty. We went to clear it...there were bombs everywhere. The whole street was rigged, including where we left our cars. I−I was standing in the street, trying to coordinate the assault and...that's when they went off, one by one."

John makes an involuntary move of his arm, his breathing more and more labored. He knows he's triggering himself into another flashback, but he needs to finish his story.

"I remember the pain. In my back. I fell to the floor, and...Pulse was there. He managed to crawl to me somehow. There was so much smoke and dust that we could barely see, but he got to me. He...he closed his eyes and I tried to wake him up, but...he didn't respond, and I was...I was too tired, it hurt too much..."

He's openly crying now. He can't see Clarice in front of him anymore, only the smoke filling his vision and getting into his lungs. He coughs.

"John? John!"

John opens his eyes, but Clarice's voice feels like it's coming from far away. Even the pain in his back is faded, unreal, superposing with the memory of a much worse pain. For a moment, he's floating.

"John!"

Clarice's hands are on his cheeks, and they suddenly feel like a slap. John throws his head back to escape the touch and curls up on himself. The air still feels, smells like smoke. He rasps, struggling to breathe.

"We're here, in your apartment," Clarice says softly, though John can barely comprehend the words. "You're safe. We're safe."

"Safe," John repeats in a murmur. He blinks and sees Clarice's face, close to his own, worried. "Safe." Home, not Afghanistan. Safe.

Home, without Pulse.

John sobs.

"I'm sorry, it just−it fucking hurts. So much."

Clarice shifts. "I know," she murmurs. "I'm sorry."

She doesn't try to touch him again, but she carefully extends a hand toward him, palm up. John stares at it for a moment, still shaking and breathing with difficulty. It takes his brain too long to understand, but when he does he takes her hand and pulls her closer.

It's nothing like Pulse's hugs, when he used a touch of his ability to shift John's perception, let his skin feel more. But that's a good thing. He doesn't want the same thing with Clarice. What they have is different, and it's good.

"Clarice, there's something...else," he says after a while, pulling away. He's recovered enough to feel almost calm, and his hands have stopped shaking.

"Yes?"

Even after the heavy talk, and witnessing John's second flashback today, Clarice's face is still open and welcoming. John takes strength in that, and breathes in deeply.

"Gus wasn't just a good friend," he says.

"What do you mean−oh," Clarice understands.

"We were together for nearly five years."

"God, I had no idea."

"I didn't tell you before because it's still really hard for me to talk about him, not because I was ashamed," John explains.

"Of course, I didn't think−"

"It was always complicated. We never came out to the Marines because, even in the best situation, being out in the military is not easy, and as mutants… Well, we chose not to find out. And I was his CO for a few years, too. But we had an apartment together, and we told ourselves that we'd get married when we retired."

John swallows with difficulty. He's trying to talk and think about Pulse in a positive way, and lately the good memories don't hurt as much anymore, but that particular thought makes his throat knot up. It was more of a joke between them, since gay marriage became legal, that they would do it one day. They both knew how dangerous their job was, that they might not make it to retirement. And yet...John held on to it.

Clarice shifts uncomfortably. John opens his mouth to apologize for being so nostalgic, but he catches her hesitant movement toward him, so he opens his arms instead. Clarice hugs him tightly, and John buries his head in her shoulder.

"You're okay with this?" Clarice asks softly. "I didn't know if touching you right now might be−"

"It's good," John answers. "Thank you."

"I don't want to...overstep boundaries, or make you speak about things you'd rather not, but...what was he like?"

"You want to hear about him?" John asks, half-surprised.

"You obviously loved him very much. I want to know about you, and about him, because he must have been a great person for you to love him like this. But I only want as much as you're comfortable sharing."

"Gus was..." John hesitates. It's hard to summarize the essence of a person in a few words, especially one he loved so fiercely. "He was outgoing and funny, the kind of person that everyone likes. He had a wicked sense of humor, and a high opinion of himself, so he could insufferable. I'm more the...quiet and brooding type, when there's a lot of people around, so in some ways we were polar opposites. But when it was just us, he was attentive and caring and it was like..." John's voice breaks. "Whenever I struggled, he'd use his powers just a bit to make things less intense, dull my senses, and...he was always there. I miss him."

John tries to dry the tears running down his face, but Clarice just hugs him tighter.

"Thank you," he murmurs. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry about. I'm glad you told me," Clarice says, her voice muffled by his shoulder.

"Me too."

It's the truth. It was hard to get it out, to get over the irrational fear that Clarice will think less of John for this or that she will spook, but it feels like a weight had been lifted off him. He melts a little in her arms, exhausted.

Well, we've made it to chapter 20 and 50k words, and this story is nowhere near finished (as in, I don't have an ending in mind at all but vague ideas of things that could happen in 40 more chapters :D).

Tell me if you're still reading, and if you like where it's going!