Chapter Text
Wednesday
Away from the dining hall, Holden can finally breathe.
He counts the number of trees he passes by, the amount of men in blue ties, in red--his chapped lips move silently with the figures. Four. Eight. Five.
Enumeration usually helps, but his mind doesn’t stop buzzing.
He takes inventory of the items in his pockets.
Faculty ID. Breath mints. A crumpled up gas station receipt. Car keys.
His hand touches upon one other object that isn’t his--one object that he has yet to return to its owner. Just running his thumb against the smooth engraving on its body calms him down.
He walks Quantico’s campus aimlessly, both hands tucked into his pockets. One foot in front of the other. He swipes his tongue over his gums, dislodging dry clumps of Valium from between his teeth. He shudders; the taste is acidic.
By the time he rounds the firing range, his hands have stopped shaking.
He inhales slowly. The oxygen scratches his parched throat and he gags, palm flying up to his mouth. He lowers it once he’s certain the nausea has passed. What little lunch he had managed to swallow stays where it is, heavy as stone.
He’s gotten better at managing the panic attacks, Holden thinks. He can call the signs when he sees them--he knows when it’s time to escape.
It always starts with his hands--the preliminary loss of motor control. Stray pen lines. Water, sometimes coffee, spilled over the rim. Dropped car keys.
Eventually, should he go more than a few--maybe five--minutes without popping a Valium, his legs follow.
He’s learned that the hard way; the hard edge-of-the-table way.
He’s sure the incident must’ve looked like quite the crime scene. His body, sprawled out on the living room floor, bleeding temple half-bathed and glistening in the afternoon light. A crime scene without a single witness.
It had taken him an hour or so to come to. He thinks that’s right; the evening news had come on already. The head-splitting pain that had taken root behind his eyes almost made him wish he hadn’t. How he had managed to get through yesterday despite it, he wouldn’t be able to say. Now the pain is a dull ache, throbbing just below the surface of his skull.
Waking up and seeing all that blood had nearly driven him into another attack. His attempts to wash it out of the carpet have been futile thus far. He resorted to moving the coffee table to hide the stain. He didn’t bother with the table itself; that russet spot is there to stay in its corner of the wood.
On a good day, an attack should end with the small relief of Valium. He knows the worst is over when his heart stops hammering in his ears, when he can stand without buckling.
The table incident is an outlier and, hopefully, the first and last of its kind. He had been lucky to come out of it as fortunately as he did.
He rubs the Band-Aid on his forehead. It’s a small price to pay, in comparison to the worst case scenario. He knows all about the worst case; he’s imagined it time and time again.
Sometimes he thinks too far ahead, and the vicious cycle begins again.
It’s entirely textbook at this point.
He thumbs the yellow bottle in his left pocket. When he’s able to pick the pills out, he takes two. Other, worst days, he has whatever falls out. The bottle feels lighter than he remembers. When had he last refilled his prescription? It feels like weeks ago, now--maybe even months. But that can’t be right.
Once he reaches the parking lot, he briefly considers getting into his car and driving home. It doesn’t take long for him to dash the idea. It’s half past noon on a Wednesday; they have work to do.
He fixes his hair and attire in the side mirror. Satisfied, he turns around and walks back the way he came.
Just as he knows the symptoms, he knows the stressors. The truly mundane are his catalysts; it’s embarrassing.
Burnt coffee. Pens with metal tips. Other times, they’re childish fears. Crowds. Hospitals. He can’t go to sleep without thinking he’ll wake up in a hospital.
The rarest of the stressors takes the form of a person. A hand against the small of his back, guiding him out of the dining hall. The smell of smoke and whiskey.
Hands patting his pockets as he leans against concrete, as he tries to pull himself together because he cannot come undone in the presence of this man. He won’t allow it.
It’s a worried question,
“Where are your pills?”
and its wheezing retort.
“Since when do you care?”
It’s stumbling down the stairs, ignoring the protests thrown at his retreating back.
It’s coming back as if nothing had happened.
It won’t take much to explain away his absence. I felt a little crowded, that’s all. He turns the line over in his head. It’s not a lie, but the fact that it isn’t makes him wish the asphalt would swallow him up.
The shame of it makes him sick. He’s a Federal fucking agent, for God’s sake.
He’s worked in a basement for six years now--a basement that’s ten times deeper in the ground than most people are buried.
(For a moment, he recalls remarking this to Bill, in a time when theirs had been the only desks--the man had laughed. It had sounded so loud, at the time, in their shitty, makeshift office; the only living thing among cobwebs and rusting file cabinets.)
The large dining hall with glass windows and plenty of sunlight had felt tighter still. The only reason Ted had planned a lunch at all was because, in his words, “The BSU deserves a little time in the sun every now and then.”
That, and he had been enormously satisfied with the conclusion of the Montana case. It’s more an overdue parade than a luncheon; what better time to gloat in the sun than in March?
No more than fifteen of his peers and colleagues are present at the party now. They’re probably waiting for his return, swishing whiskey in their glasses, milling about and making small talk.
They commended him and the unit, but not for Montana.
I was following Atlanta extensively--
--fine work in Atlanta, Agent Ford--
--tell us about Atlanta.
They’re more than eager to hear about it. On one hand, they feel sorry for the poor sons of bitches saddled with a case so tied up in red tape and politics. On the other, they wish it had been them to solve it.
He’s not looking forward to stepping back into that hall and the arms of compliments he barely deserves.
“There you are.”
Holden looks up, stopping in his tracks. Wendy leans against the wall by the main entrance, at the top of the stairs. Her arms are crossed, but she raises one hand to wave at him. Maybe, under different circumstances, he would’ve felt differently about her cream pantsuit and tight blue blouse.
“Did I miss anything?” he says, from where he is at the bottom of the steps.
“They can see you from there,” she replies. When he, confused, says nothing, she clarifies by gesturing to the window beside her. “If you’re looking to hide, come up here.”
“Right.” He takes the steps two at a time and his place at Wendy’s right. He leans back. Her head is turned away from him. Her honey blonde hair cups her jaw. They watch members of faculty cross the way to the classrooms, briefcases in hand. The amiable, if not stuffy, silence lasts for all of five minutes.
“Are you hiding?” he asks, finally. She turns to him. She considers the question, then shrugs with one shoulder.
“Something along those lines,” she responds, with a cool smile. “I needed some air. Oh, by the way--Ted was looking for you earlier.”
“Oh?” Holden peeks into the hall. He spots Ted in the middle of a conversation with a circle of agents. His hands are clasped behind his back. Every now and then, he looks past them and at the doors expectantly. “Shit. I should go inside.”
“Relax. Bill covered for you.”
His gaze whips around to meet hers. “What did he say?”
“A half truth--something Ted might’ve liked to hear. Weariness, as a result of working so extensively. You ‘needed to clear your head’, were his words.” Wendy gives him the slightest of once overs. She glances at the Band-Aid. He resists the urge to fix his hair again. She lowers her voice. “Panic attack?”
Holden closes his eyes. Thankfully, there’s no pity in the question. “Yes.”
“I see. How are you feeling?”
He cracks one eye open. “On a scale of 1-10?”
Wendy scoffs in good nature. “If that helps you place your bet more evenly, sure.”
“A four, I guess.” He pauses. “I’ll feel better once we get back to work. The transcript of the Putt interview has yet to be finished--” he runs a hand through his uncombed hair-- “and we still have to prep for Gacy. Phone calls, paperwork. Rubbing elbows isn’t getting that done.”
“Bill told me you had an aversion to the...I suppose, bureaucratic practice of socializing, but I wasn’t aware it was so extreme.”
“I don’t have an ‘aversion’.”
She eyes him, then their surroundings. “Evidently.”
She’s got him there. He nods, just slightly, to admit defeat. Wendy reaches into her pocket and pulls out a neat box of cigarettes. She pinches one between two fingers, then holds the box out to him.
“No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”
“Alright.” She puts the cigarette between her teeth. Her hands go back into her pockets; they come out empty handed. “Ah. I don’t have my lighter on me. If you’ll excuse me for just a moment--”
“No need. Here.” Holden pulls the little silver lighter from his right pocket. He flicks it open and holds it up to her. She stares at him and the flame incredulously, before leaning down to catch the latter.
“I thought you didn’t smoke,” she says, once her cigarette catches.
“I don’t.” He shuts the lighter. “It’s Bill’s.” An explanation comes tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop it. “He gave it to me in Montana. We were on the I-15 case, Daniel Whittaker and--”
“--Amanda Brown Whittaker, yes, I remember.”
“Right. We’re standing in their freezing cold basement. It was so cold that the door locked behind us. If that wasn’t bad enough already, the lights went out. The local cop left to get some tools from the station.
“Bill lit up--” he flicks the lighter again for emphasis-- “to keep himself warm. He gave me the lighter so I wouldn’t ‘trip on any evidence’.”
“You didn’t tell me you two got locked in a basement.”
“We were out an hour later--it was fine.”
“Montana was back in November. A smoker such as Bill surely couldn’t go long without his lighter.”
Holden presses his lips down into a flat line. “I should give it back.”
“Perhaps.” Wendy takes a slow drag of her cigarette. He watches her do this, then pockets the lighter.
“I didn’t think you smoked.”
“I’m not proud of it, but there are worse ways to relieve stress.” She exhales a plume of smoke. “Such as throwing yourself into your work.”
“I’d rather be working than doing nothing at all.”
“Work isn’t always what’s put down on paper, Holden.” She points the cigarette at the window. “Ted planned this lunch in your honor. Play along and be his poster boy for half an hour more. If the conversation is too menial for you, I don’t know what to tell you--it’s networking.”
“It’s not that. Bill does that better than I do.” He shakes his head. “It’s Atlanta. That’s all they want to talk about.”
“It was a highly sensationalized case.”
“I could’ve done better.”
Wendy tosses her cigarette in a trashcan by the door. His eyes follow her movements. She turns to him, and inclines her head just slightly. “You weren’t the only one working that case.”
“I know.”
“Have you been sleeping at all? Eating?” She places a gentle hand on his shoulder, ducking her head to look him in the eye. “You look terrible.”
“Gee, thanks, Wendy.”
“Forgive my lack of tact, but honestly, Holden--you look like you haven’t slept in weeks. Sleep deprivation can lead to much more debilitating panic attacks if you’re not careful, and not even just panic attacks.” She purses her lips, then looks out in the direction of the parking lot. “You drove here.”
“I did,” he admits, exasperatedly. He puts his hand on hers. “Really, I’m fine. I’ve been doing everything you recommended--I’ve readjusted my lifestyle, I’ve been jogging, eating well...” The lie comes easy; he’d prefer not to lie to Wendy at all, but she shouldn’t have to worry about him.
“And have you reconsidered my recommendation of therapy?”
He opens his mouth to answer, but he knows the one he has won’t satisfy her.
I don’t need a shrink to tell me what’s wrong.
Wendy takes his silence as the No he intended it to be. She crosses her arms. “We’ll talk about this later. Are you coming in,” she says, “or do you need a few more minutes to yourself to brood?”
Despite himself, the corner of his lip twitches. “I do not ‘brood’.”
He jogs up to the door and holds it open for her. They slip into the lobby and pause just before the glass doors to the dining hall--no one has spotted them yet.
Holden clears his throat. “Thank you.”
She raises a brow. “For?”
“Talking me into doing this.”
“You’re Ted’s show pony.”
It’s his turn to tip his head. “Why do you keep saying it like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like that’s a bad thing.”
Her lips twist into a wry smile. “Welcome back, Holden.” With that, she pushes her way into the hall, leaving him standing alone.
He works through the knots in his hair with his hand. He rubs his eyes. He makes himself look as presentable as possible. Half an hour, that’s all--he can manage half an hour more.
The hall bustles with conversation. He goes undetected for about four seconds.
“There you are,” Bill says. He throws an arm around Holden’s shoulders. A word of protest dies on the latter’s tongue. The former has a drink in one hand and half a cigarette in the other.
He doesn’t look as pissed off as Holden thought he would. If anything, he looks concerned. It’s not a good look on him, with the way it makes him look older.
With the way it makes Holden feel both guilty and furious at the same time.
“Sorry,” he answers, levelly. “For disappearing.” For letting you see that.
“You’re here now, is what matters.” Bill points out the important looking stuck-ups circled around Ted. “You have no idea what it took to get those guys off your trail.”
“Ted’s friends from Washington?”
“In for a visit, yep.”
“Wendy said he was asking for me.”
“I told him--”
“I know.” He chews his lip. “Thank you.”
Bill’s arm slips off his shoulders. His free hand comes up to take its place. “I’ll send you over, but if you gotta escape again, Wendy, Gregg, and I are just over there.” He gestures to a far corner of the room.
“I’ll be fine.”
He raises a brow. “Sure. So, when you have a panic attack in front of our boss, would you like the ambulance or are you good to take a taxi?”
Holden whips around to face him. The man stumbles. A bit of whiskey spills over the rim of his glass. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I’m just looking out for you,” Bill retorts, and Holden thinks he sounds a little ashamed of himself. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking. “I imagine you don’t want to combust in front of Gunn and his lackeys, so if you feel...anything coming on, go straight to us.”
“I’m not a child .” He looks over Bill’s shoulder to Wendy. She’s suffering through another mind-numbingly virtuous conversation with Gregg. She’s taking a very long sip of her highball, trying to dissuade the man from talking further. “Uh oh. Wendy’s in trouble.”
Bill turns to look. He rolls his eyes. “I’ll go over and save her in a bit, but--” he lowers his voice-- “you know that’s not what I fucking meant, right? No, you’re not a child, but you’re acting like one. I’m just looking out for your ass like I always have.”
Holden clenches his fist around the lighter in his pocket. The engraving digs into his palm. It’s a good kind of pain--the kind that keeps him from saying something stupid.
“Okay. Fine. Thank you, Bill.” He doesn’t bother trying to muster up sarcasm. With the way Bill’s jaw twitches, he’s sure the man can hear it. “I’m eternally grateful .”
He takes that moment to leave. He grabs himself a drink and makes his way to Ted’s inner circle. The man, with a prideful, yet somewhat relieved, smile claps him on the back, exclaiming, “Here is our man of the hour.”
His wedding ring digs into Holden’s shoulder. The agent doesn’t pay the conversation much mind. The martini helps stave off the oncoming headache. He’s poked and prodded, and practically fed his own lines. He says anything that makes their benefactor from DC look good to his buddies.
It’s symbiotic in nature; Ted gets to parade Holden around, and the BSU receives his wholehearted protection and guidance.
Some part of Holden wonders if this lunch truly was planned in his honor--or in Ted’s.
The silver lighter that remains in his pocket is a heavier weight than the gaze Bill presses into his back.