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Sometimes the Axis can’t cater to all of its sentient occupants. Sometimes, as is to be expected within a group as radically varied as Romana’s small compliment, the wishes of two individuals simply cannot be reconciled, and compromises must be made. Sometimes this means that one person’s will wins out, such as the unfortunate incident in which the force of Leela’s disapproval caused Narvin’s quarters to redecorate themselves; others, it means that the system can’t reach a decision at all, and no action is taken. And sometimes the intensely relative nature of the Axis rears its unsettling head, and multiple conflicting desires manifest themselves at once, each one true to the being it belongs to and false to all others.
Romana wonders, as she vacillates in the hallway, whether Brax’s quarters are soundproof in his own personal reality. Because as desperate as she is to hear it when he cries out in his sleep, to know when he needs someone there, she’s certain he is just as desperate to prevent it.
“Brax?” she calls, breaking her silence after just a moment of hesitation. “Brax, I… I need to talk to you. It’s urgent.” She feels a stab of guilt for the lie, but she isn’t sure whether he would answer otherwise.
There’s a very long, quiet minute; whatever Brax does to collect himself, he does without a sound. The door slides open to reveal him fully dressed and awake, not a hair out of place, wearing a rather convincing look of neutral curiosity, and Romana briefly doubts that she ever heard anything at all, taken aback by the normalcy of it all. Then she looks a bit closer, as she never would if she weren’t already suspicious, and she sees the too-fast rise and fall of his chest as he struggles to regulate his breathing, and she sees defensiveness in his ever-so-slightly bloodshot eyes, and she sees his hand trembling where it rests on the door frame.
Her gaze fixes on his hand for a moment, her own moving instinctively to take it before she catches herself. Irving Braxiatel doesn’t do discomposure, not like this; she can only imagine how hard he’s fighting himself, to have let such details slip through the cracks.
“Oh,” she breathes, a knot forming in her stomach. “Oh, Brax...”
He tilts his head, a delicate furrow in his brow as he looks her up and down, evidently confused by what she could possibly need at this hour—relatively speaking, of course. Then understanding dawns on him, and horror, and she watches him freeze like a deer in the headlights as he realizes what she wants. A split second of panic—and he sags in defeat, averting his gaze downwards.
“Romana,” he replies, his voice shaky and tense and rough with emotion.
“Let’s sit,” she says quietly, and ushers them both inside.
He allows her to take his arm and guide him to a sofa in the lounge—because it’s her, only because it’s her, and he never could deny her this. As soon as she sits him down, some bastion of willpower within him seems to crumble. He doesn’t even make an attempt at his usual impeccable posture, his shoulders bowed and arms crossed over his lap, blank gaze fixed well away from her. She takes a seat on the other side of the sofa, a safe distance away but not an unfriendly one; when she stills, the sound of rustling fabric fills the room, because Brax is shaking all over.
“There is no need for this, Romana,” he says waveringly, after a long moment.
“I know,” she responds. It’s a familiar dance by now. She hardly has to try. “I was already awake.”
“Then you should rest, my lady, it’s well into the night cycle.”
“I’m not tired.” She pauses. “You’re exhausted.”
It’s a statement of fact, not a question, and Brax can’t argue it. He doesn’t respond—only draws a deep, halting breath, trying in vain to calm himself without fuss or trouble. Romana doesn’t think she’ll ever grow accustomed to seeing him like this, shaken and panicked and vulnerable. She’s certain she won’t grow accustomed to her own feelings about it, which are decidedly more baffling and dangerous than simple fear. Against her better judgement she reaches out, offering her hand with as much stoic efficiency as she can muster. Brax takes it without so much as a sideways glance, for he’s as familiar with the routine as she is.
“Was it…” Romana swallows hard, unable to force the name out even here on the Axis, equally unable to subject Brax to it. It’s extraneous, anyway; they both know what he’s been dreaming of, all too well.
Brax hesitates. It taxes him at times like this, she knows, even to think about it—but then, taxes may not be the right word. She watches his breath stutter and catch in his throat, his grip on her hand tightening until it’s almost painful, and when he finally manages a nod in answer he can’t help but squirm in his seat, as if he’s desperate to get up and run away—where, she can’t fathom, this is the Axis and there is nowhere to run to, but she understands. And because she understands, because she knows what having that creature in your head can do to a person and it breaks her hearts to see it happen to Brax, she cracks and moves across the sofa.
“Rassilon’s sake, Brax,” she mutters, immediately reaching up to loosen his tie. “Why would you put this on?”
“For my sins, my lady,” he says, between gasping breaths.
“That’s not funny.”
He gives a feeble laugh. “Quite right.”
She undoes the top couple buttons of his shirt and makes him remove his jacket, and he seems to breathe easier. She’s already crossed the threshold of physical touch, now; there’s nothing to stop her slipping an arm around his shoulders and resting a hand on his chest, between his hearts, feeling their frantic pace gradually slow, his breaths deepen and even out. For a long time the two of them sit in silence, both relaxing bit by bit, acclimatising to the other’s presence. Once he begins to sag into her arms, his fatigue getting the better of him, she knows it’s time to leave. She eases herself away from him with a pang of regret, doing her best not to disturb him, and lets her hand rest on his shoulder just a second too long as she stands up. She’s learned, by now, not to glance back during this part. It hurts enough without seeing the look on his face.
This time, however, Brax doesn’t obey the unspoken rules they’ve established; he catches her hand before she can make it farther than a step, and she freezes.
“Romana,” he says, too quick, as if panicked by the thought of her leaving. When she turns, slowly, dreading what will come of this breach of protocol, she finds him staring up at her, caught as off-guard as she is, embarrassment and terror and misery warring for dominance in his usually placid expression. He averts his gaze to the floor.
“Romana,” he whispers, his voice breaking pitifully, “am I going mad?”
Romana’s breath hitches. There’s so much in that question, so much that he hasn’t stated but that she knows, intimately, implicitly—I haven’t slept in days, Romana, he means, I can’t close my eyes without seeing her, hearing her, and I can only control her so long at a time and how long until I can’t do it at all? How long until she finally breaks me? Changes me? Which is the worse fate? And the guilt washes over her like a riptide, threatening to drag her under, because if only she’d never wandered into that blasted Matrix partition, if she’d been smarter, stronger, better, if she’d been the person Brax thinks she is, then both of them might have avoided this.
That, she reminds herself, even as she reaches out with one trembling hand and cups his cheek, is why she doesn’t stay.
Brax squeezes his eyes shut with a small, desperate noise, and leans into her touch like it’s his lifeline. He inhales sharply as she brushes her thumb along his cheekbone, catching stray tears; she feels his unsteady breath as he turns into her palm, ducking away from her gaze.
“Don’t leave,” he says quietly, his lips against the inside of her wrist. “Please. Please, I–”
Romana cuts him off by gathering him into her arms, holding him as close as she can, her hands making fists in his shirt. He wraps his arms around her in return and buries his face in the crook of her neck, clinging to her with an anguish she doesn’t recognize on him, and a sympathetic ache tugs behind her breastbone. It doesn't take long for the remaining vestiges of his self-control to abandon him; soon he’s shaking against her, his whole body wracked with forceful, silent sobs, and she’s rubbing his back and stroking his hair, whispering assurances and platitudes until she runs out. The room lapses back into silence after that, because no matter how hard the pain grips him Brax never once makes a sound.
It’s not the most intuitive position, perched half in his lap and half on the sofa, but neither of them have the willpower to let go and move. Eventually, once the periodic waves of grief seem to subside a bit—or perhaps once he simply lacks the energy to cry any longer—Romana shifts slightly off of him and urges him to loosen his grip on her. Exhausted and disoriented as he is, it takes some effort to maneuver him down onto the sofa, huddled against the back cushions. He watches quietly as she drags a blanket off the armrest and lays it out over the both of them, then settles down beside him, their legs tangled together, faces inches apart.
He looks so unlike himself, wretched and disheveled and utterly defeated, that Romana purses her lips sadly, reaches up and begins gently drying his cheeks, fixing his hair. He relaxes under her ministrations, his eyes fluttering shut and his expression of distress easing into something almost peaceful; he’s near asleep by the time her arm begins to ache, and cracks a tiny smile when she presses a kiss to his forehead in conclusion. Relief fills her—misplaced, perhaps, for she knows they’ll likely only repeat this all in a cycle or two, but profound nonetheless—and she shifts until she can gather him up into an embrace once more, his head tucked under her chin, arm looped around her waist. She nuzzles into his hair, smiling fondly at the scent of his hair gel, and he sighs contentedly against her collarbone.
She shouldn’t have stayed, she realizes. This is nice, it’s warm and friendly and close, and she can’t go getting used to it, not with Brax. Not after everything he’s put her through, and especially not after everything she’s done to him. Because no matter how she feels about it, or about him, no matter how many times he tells her otherwise, she doubts she’ll ever be able to shake the feeling that she is ultimately responsible for Pandora and every ounce of harm she’s caused; and she knows she owes him this, a bit of comfort, understanding, all the more vital because it is fleeting and he will eventually be forced to suffer alone once more; and it is a very dangerous thing to owe Irving Braxiatel, to even acknowledge there is a debt to be paid. Because he is a dangerous person, and she is still a president, and a president cannot go cozying up to dangerous people at times like this. Because she loves him, dearly, but she does not trust him.
Once, she vows, just once she’ll allow this, for the both of them. For her sins.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her vision blurring with tears. “Oh, Brax, I’m so sorry. I would stop it, if I could. I would bear it, for you, I would… I…” She swallows. “Forgive me?”
He makes a quiet snuffling noise, now completely asleep, and Romana bites her lip hard to stop it trembling. Perhaps it’s better that his own personal reality remains silent.