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thisavrou_log2016-04-04 05:22 pm
forwardmomentum) wrote in thisavrou_log2016-04-04 05:22 pm
there's a room full of people in your head [closed]
Who: Miles, Ivan, and Clark
When: the evening of 4/5
Where: Miles's office/room on J deck
What: Miles's sense of identity finally collapses. Ivan and Clark throw him in an ice bath.
Warnings: trauma/PTSD, suicide mention, general mental illness, emetophobia warning
Somewhere in his mind, in the late hours of the night, Miles thought the semi-familiar surroundings of the office-cum-personal space he'd gotten as a rank bonus in January might provide comfort in a storm of panic. It doesn't, really. Not as much as he'd hoped. The soft, cool tones of the walls and furniture and floors, ones that Ivan picked for him, don't quite feel like his own. Nothing does, right now. He opens and closes his hands again and again, fingertips touching to palms, but they fail to make a circuit.
It's impossible to pinpoint how it all started, or when. Earlier than the last month, certainly. Since he arrived on the Moira -- no, it was before that, wasn't it? All the way back on Earth. Maybe it doesn't matter. It doesn't. It's all a blur -- there are no points in time, only stitches missed, and Miles, oh, he's missed at least a few, he's sure. He can't find them all in the wash of panic that crept in on him, echoes of conversations with Mark heavy in his ears, but he's losing the distinction between Mark's voice and his own and his own, and when it got too loud he stumbled out of his office in search of better shelter. Drowning himself in work no longer works, and sleep -- sleep wouldn't take him back no matter how much he begged and pleaded. He does beg and plead to an empty room, but the only echoes are in his own mind; everything in this room feels crowded and unwelcome, and he's suddenly too aware of the smell of recycled air in his lungs and mouth and his stomach twists in on itself.
He doesn't start crying until after he's bolted from his room on J deck to the bathroom to throw up what little food he's eaten in the last twelve hours. Most of it is just bile. People who describe bile as sour, Miles reflects distantly as he rests his forehead atop his good arm on the toilet seat, have never heaved until there was nothing left in them and then some. It's bitter as hell. It's late enough that there's no one else in the bathroom on this deck, for which Miles is deeply relieved. There are few things more humiliating than half-lying on the bathroom floor, alternating between hyperventilation and vomiting, with undignified sobbing running as the background track. After about an hour of that, resting his forehead against the toilet seat while he tries to catch his breath, he decides that if his stomach is going to continue to put up a fight, they can duke it out in his room. That's what the wastebin is for.
He drifts between crying and hyperventilating on the bed and crying and hyperventilating in his chair and, just to mix it up, paces endlessly and unsteadily while he talks to himself, rapidly and urgently. What about, he couldn't say. The words seem to evaporate as soon as he gives them breath. He gnaws at that hangnail on his thumb until the skin there is red and swollen and bitten away, the rest of him eroding along with it. It feels like it, anyway. He feels lost, falling endlessly, hands grasping at thin air when he tries to tell himself who he is, or why he is... He's Miles, right. He's Miles. But which Miles? Who is Miles, anyway? Somewhere along the line, between those frenetic deaths and near-deaths, real and imagined, in the space between sleep and waking, he'd lost total and utter control over himself, his memory, his personhood -- parts of the last month he's almost certain he doesn't remember, others, he couldn't banish from memory if he wanted to. He hadn't meant to let Naismith out, all those times, he'd just come out -- maybe it's just that Vorkosigan wasn't up for the job, eh? -- he'd been determined to keep Admiral Naismith on the shelf during his time on the Moira, far and away from the rest of them, just to keep things simpler. But it never had been that simple. He never had felt whole. And just what would you do without the little Admiral, Miles?
But it's not like that isn't him. They're all him, aren't they? But he isn't any of them, not here. Not without Barrayar, not without the Dendarii. All the hyperventilation and tears in the world wouldn't scrub that away, just sending him into an endless tailspin. It's like gum you've chewed so long it's lost its meaning, or a word you've said so many times it's lost its flavor. No furious working of the mouth serves to retrieve it.
There's a distinct shift somewhere in there, although he can't quite put a finger on it. He seems outside himself, watching the war going on inside his own head, some tesseract of consciousness he can almost reach out and touch. The shortness of breath, the reeling dizziness, the painful tightness in his chest and the roiling nausea in his empty stomach, they're all there and he can feel them, but they're happening to someone else. Someone else. Ha. He's always someone else. He certainly must be now.
He can't remember how long he's been sitting in this chair, but he must have sat down before he fell out of himself, because he hasn't moved since. He feels frozen without the chill, a soft paralysis of the body. Stuck in time, maybe, one of those skipped stitches. He couldn't move if he wanted to, but that's fine, he reflects distantly. After endless motion and nothing but, feeling it happen from a distance now, he doesn't want to move at all. Moving won't bring an end to this. He's not sure what will. Death, maybe -- he thought about suicide, even if only briefly. The knife his grandfather left him lies half-unsheathed on the table, a mere arm's length away. But it wouldn't do him any good, he knows that. He'd only come back, and even less whole than before. What was it Sans and Chara had talked about -- resets? A reset sounds nice. If only he were as capable of it as Sans is convinced he is. He'd laugh, if he could access that part of himself.
Time has no meaning -- it's hours on hours that he sits in that chair, eyes unseeing and locked on the middle distance, hands curled and shaking in his lap. He ought to put his broken arm back in the sling, but the cast will have to do for now. His back hurts like hell, every joint stiff and aching, but he barely feels it all the same; he's vaguely aware that the shallow, labored breathing has left him dizzy and light-headed, but that's someone else's head, someone else's lungs. They're only attached to a name now.
When: the evening of 4/5
Where: Miles's office/room on J deck
What: Miles's sense of identity finally collapses. Ivan and Clark throw him in an ice bath.
Warnings: trauma/PTSD, suicide mention, general mental illness, emetophobia warning
Somewhere in his mind, in the late hours of the night, Miles thought the semi-familiar surroundings of the office-cum-personal space he'd gotten as a rank bonus in January might provide comfort in a storm of panic. It doesn't, really. Not as much as he'd hoped. The soft, cool tones of the walls and furniture and floors, ones that Ivan picked for him, don't quite feel like his own. Nothing does, right now. He opens and closes his hands again and again, fingertips touching to palms, but they fail to make a circuit.
It's impossible to pinpoint how it all started, or when. Earlier than the last month, certainly. Since he arrived on the Moira -- no, it was before that, wasn't it? All the way back on Earth. Maybe it doesn't matter. It doesn't. It's all a blur -- there are no points in time, only stitches missed, and Miles, oh, he's missed at least a few, he's sure. He can't find them all in the wash of panic that crept in on him, echoes of conversations with Mark heavy in his ears, but he's losing the distinction between Mark's voice and his own and his own, and when it got too loud he stumbled out of his office in search of better shelter. Drowning himself in work no longer works, and sleep -- sleep wouldn't take him back no matter how much he begged and pleaded. He does beg and plead to an empty room, but the only echoes are in his own mind; everything in this room feels crowded and unwelcome, and he's suddenly too aware of the smell of recycled air in his lungs and mouth and his stomach twists in on itself.
He doesn't start crying until after he's bolted from his room on J deck to the bathroom to throw up what little food he's eaten in the last twelve hours. Most of it is just bile. People who describe bile as sour, Miles reflects distantly as he rests his forehead atop his good arm on the toilet seat, have never heaved until there was nothing left in them and then some. It's bitter as hell. It's late enough that there's no one else in the bathroom on this deck, for which Miles is deeply relieved. There are few things more humiliating than half-lying on the bathroom floor, alternating between hyperventilation and vomiting, with undignified sobbing running as the background track. After about an hour of that, resting his forehead against the toilet seat while he tries to catch his breath, he decides that if his stomach is going to continue to put up a fight, they can duke it out in his room. That's what the wastebin is for.
He drifts between crying and hyperventilating on the bed and crying and hyperventilating in his chair and, just to mix it up, paces endlessly and unsteadily while he talks to himself, rapidly and urgently. What about, he couldn't say. The words seem to evaporate as soon as he gives them breath. He gnaws at that hangnail on his thumb until the skin there is red and swollen and bitten away, the rest of him eroding along with it. It feels like it, anyway. He feels lost, falling endlessly, hands grasping at thin air when he tries to tell himself who he is, or why he is... He's Miles, right. He's Miles. But which Miles? Who is Miles, anyway? Somewhere along the line, between those frenetic deaths and near-deaths, real and imagined, in the space between sleep and waking, he'd lost total and utter control over himself, his memory, his personhood -- parts of the last month he's almost certain he doesn't remember, others, he couldn't banish from memory if he wanted to. He hadn't meant to let Naismith out, all those times, he'd just come out -- maybe it's just that Vorkosigan wasn't up for the job, eh? -- he'd been determined to keep Admiral Naismith on the shelf during his time on the Moira, far and away from the rest of them, just to keep things simpler. But it never had been that simple. He never had felt whole. And just what would you do without the little Admiral, Miles?
But it's not like that isn't him. They're all him, aren't they? But he isn't any of them, not here. Not without Barrayar, not without the Dendarii. All the hyperventilation and tears in the world wouldn't scrub that away, just sending him into an endless tailspin. It's like gum you've chewed so long it's lost its meaning, or a word you've said so many times it's lost its flavor. No furious working of the mouth serves to retrieve it.
There's a distinct shift somewhere in there, although he can't quite put a finger on it. He seems outside himself, watching the war going on inside his own head, some tesseract of consciousness he can almost reach out and touch. The shortness of breath, the reeling dizziness, the painful tightness in his chest and the roiling nausea in his empty stomach, they're all there and he can feel them, but they're happening to someone else. Someone else. Ha. He's always someone else. He certainly must be now.
He can't remember how long he's been sitting in this chair, but he must have sat down before he fell out of himself, because he hasn't moved since. He feels frozen without the chill, a soft paralysis of the body. Stuck in time, maybe, one of those skipped stitches. He couldn't move if he wanted to, but that's fine, he reflects distantly. After endless motion and nothing but, feeling it happen from a distance now, he doesn't want to move at all. Moving won't bring an end to this. He's not sure what will. Death, maybe -- he thought about suicide, even if only briefly. The knife his grandfather left him lies half-unsheathed on the table, a mere arm's length away. But it wouldn't do him any good, he knows that. He'd only come back, and even less whole than before. What was it Sans and Chara had talked about -- resets? A reset sounds nice. If only he were as capable of it as Sans is convinced he is. He'd laugh, if he could access that part of himself.
Time has no meaning -- it's hours on hours that he sits in that chair, eyes unseeing and locked on the middle distance, hands curled and shaking in his lap. He ought to put his broken arm back in the sling, but the cast will have to do for now. His back hurts like hell, every joint stiff and aching, but he barely feels it all the same; he's vaguely aware that the shallow, labored breathing has left him dizzy and light-headed, but that's someone else's head, someone else's lungs. They're only attached to a name now.
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He misses their usually morning trek to the gym, doesn't answer Ivan when he sends him a message over the MID. When he swings by the office at lunch and doesn't find Miles there, Ivan becomes concerned. It's unusual for Miles to do this, unless he's gotten himself locked up in a morgue somewhere. But the past month has taught Ivan otherwise, knowing damn well that his cousin has probably gotten something knocked loose and whatever's up has to do with that. Past dinner and he doesn't show is when Ivan really starts getting worried.
Right. Ivan knows what to do, or at least, what to do if what he thinks has happened actually has.
There's only one place left for Miles to be hiding, and Ivan knocks first with a loud "Miles, open up!" without really expecting an answer. When that doesn't work, and neither does trying the door, Ivan spends another five minutes repeating it. Fantastic. His cousin has locked himself in his room during what can only be a complete break from sanity. Or something. Ivan hopes it isn't as bad as the past month would have him believe.
When that doesn't bring a snarling Miles to the door, Ivan feels as if more drastic measures are required. Help. He needs help-- Gregor? Ivan eyes the metal door speculatively. Maybe if Gregor was an electrician rather than Emperor. No, he'll call Gregor once he's seen how bad it is and once he's snapped Miles out of whatever it is. What he needs is someone who can force it open.
The text he sends to Clark -- to Superman -- is simple: I've got a door that needs breaking. Miles' new quarters. As soon as you can.
Not that Ivan thinks Miles has killed himself -- there's not enough collateral damage for that. If the git's gonna off himself, he's going to do it in such a spectacular way that no one will have a chance of missing it. Damned Vorkosigans. Damn Miles.
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He closes up the file he's been working on with Lois and leaves his tablet behind on the bed. It's a quick walk to Miles' quarters, where Ivan is already waiting at the door. Clark nods at him and steps up to the door, his brow furrowing slightly as he tries to see through the thick layer of metal to where Miles is inside. If he's ripping anything open, he doesn't want Miles to get hurt.
"How long has he been in there?"
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Shoving his hands into his uniform jacket, Ivan shrugs casually. As if he's not overly concerned about what his cousin could be doing. "I just need to get in and see what's up. We can go from there." Depending on what condition Miles is in. He's got a few ideas already, he'll just need Clark to sit on Miles for a bit. Or help him carry ice, if Miles isn't going to be getting up and walking around.
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"He's conscious," he tells Ivan. "Doesn't look like he's hurt. He's just not responding to anything."
He doesn't pretend to be anything less than worried, though he meant the information as a reassurance. Whatever is going on with Miles, there's still a chance to bring him back from it. "I've never seen him like this, Ivan... I hope you know what to do."
He stands near the side of the door and digs his fingers directly into the metal to get a good grip before hauling the door open. The metal peels up under his hands, the locking mechanism sparks dangerously, and the whole thing makes an awful sound, but Clark forces it open anyway, shoulders straining. It's just a few inches at first, then a foot at a time once he's certain of the force he's using. The door hangs crookedly, bent outward, but it's open.
He nods for Ivan to go inside first.
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"Alright Miles," he starts, coming to stop next to Miles -- a quick wave of his hand in front of his face confirms Clark's generalization, and he sighs internally. "Remember, you brought this on yourself."
Oh yes, ice bath it is. He'll need to set it up first, but it doesn't seem like Miles is going anywhere.
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Ivan's voice registers distant and tinny to his ears, like a secondhand feed. Brought this on himself. Ha. Ivan doesn't know what he's talking about. He doesn't know the half of it. He's vaguely aware that Clark, too, is in the room -- he'd heard Clark calling from the other side of the door, sounding like he was worlds away -- but it doesn't seem like they're going to stay. Just as well, he thinks distantly, tiredly. Maybe they won't come back.
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Clark closes his hand on Miles' shoulder, though by this point he doesn't expect it to change anything. A muscle in his jaw tightens, but he doesn't say anything to Miles in the end. He just looks to Ivan. "Alright, what are we doing?"
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Once they're far enough away from the extra room, Ivan gestures Clark to come in closer. "I'm going to need you to get me as much ice as you can carry from the kitchens. Two trips of it, it's got to be cold." It's worked before, thankfully, and Ivan certainly looks like he knows what he's doing when he enters the deck bathroom and starts filling up a tub.
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Hauling ice takes him a couple of minutes, all told, with allowances for slowing down enough to find supplies and avoid making a mess. He's not at all surprised when Ivan gets him to dump it in the tub, but he is sort of reconsidering thinking of Ivan as 'sane for a barrayan.'
He dips his hand in the water, not that it gives him any indication of what a human might be able to tolerate.
"Are you sure about this?"
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This is an understandable urge, however, so Ivan doesn't know why it seems to have taken Miles by surprise. God knows he's wanted to strangle his cousin on occasion. "Go get him, will you?"
He doesn't need to help when Clark is perfectly capable of picking up Miles all on his own.
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Clark isn't exactly thrilled about manhandling Miles this way, but Miles doesn't make any move to resist, or give any indication at all that he knows what's going on, even when Clark picks him up. He carries Miles back to the bathroom where Ivan is waiting.
Clark hesitates, but there's no response from Miles at all, and after a moment's hesitation he kneels and settles him carefully into the tub full of ice water.
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Although he wouldn't have exactly done that when Clark lowers Miles into the water. "No, no," Ivan says with a sigh, and then reaches into the water to pick up the wet-cat like body that is, apparently, his cousin. "This is how you do it."
And then he simply drops Miles into the ice water, hand going down to hold his cousin by the shoulder -- forcing him to remain under the water until he starts to struggle. "It's the shock to his system that does it, not just the cold."
Yes, Clark, Ivan is currently in-process of attempting to drown his cousin. Or at least something that looks very much like that.
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For the moment, he watches Ivan pull Miles out of the water and then shove him back under. Clark, who's been crouched beside the tub, just barely stays where he is instead of instinctively reaching to pull Ivan off his cousin.
He swears under his breath, though it's easily downed out by Miles' flailing. Water goes everywhere, sloshing out of the tub as Miles struggles, his fingers suddenly clawing at Ivan's arm. ]
Ivan, I think that's enough--
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"Not quite. You'll know, it's when he starts cursing."
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"Ivan -- " he chokes, but that's all he gets out before Ivan's plunged him back into the icy water.
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He lets it go on, watching Miles' flailing become rapidly more animated. "Do I want to know how you figured this out?"
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They had a very adventurous childhood, Clark. It was horrible.
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Miles is going tear a strip out of Ivan with his bare hands at this rate.
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"Ivan," he howls the second he's clear of the water again, gasping, and then he lets out an impressive string of vicious and creative curses in Barrayaran Russian in the space of a single breath, at least three of them unflattering suggestions as to what Ivan should or would do with a horse.
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He catches some of the Russian, but he suspects that the MID translation compensated for the rest. He's not sure any of it is physically possible but at least Miles seems to have come back to himself enough to creatively curse at his cousin.
"Let him up, I'll get some towels."
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"Thanks, Clark."
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"You're going to have to finish after you get undressed," he says, mildly. "Do you want me to stay?"
He addresses the question to Miles, but he does glance at Ivan, uncertain.
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"Thanks Clark, but that'll be all. I'll get Gregor on my own."
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