Drache-Königin (edincoat) wrote in makrothumia, @ 2009-01-11 03:43:00 |
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There are a variety of ways a man can stop breathing in the middle of the night.
He could be out prowling in the shadows, and get a knife right in the lung from behind front side or above. He could have a touch of sleep apnoea, or just snore so much he chokes on his tongue right there at three in the morning only to be discovered purple-faced and dead by the cleaning lady who comes in at nine. He could just go peacefully, from old age or prolonged pain or a brain tumour going munch munch munch right into the core where function ceases and death occurs.
Or he could stop breathing because he holds his breath in his sleep, getting ready to scream and never quite making it because it always works out that he wakes up struggling for breath instead of just falling into the night terror business. He would wake up, choke a bit on the clean air that is forcing through his closed airway, then probably vomit because really that dream was horrible.
Martin deals with the last one.
Martin notices that they are noticing that he is tired and clumsy and not at the top of his game, but they haven't said anything, so he's wondering who he blew in his sleep to get this reprieve. Or maybe it doesn't look that bad, just that he's having an off day, and everyone gets those once in a while so why make wallpaper from his hide for it?
He smiles weakly at the cautious glance from Sam, ignores Viviane's outright considering stare, and leans over his desk to peer at a piece of paper he has yet to decipher the contents of. It is printed in a column format, with darker bits breaking up the lighter bits, and he thinks it might be in some sort of code, which explains why he's having to stare at it for so long.
"Hungry?" Danny asks as he walks up to him, putting a cup of coffee on his desk and hitching up a hip to sit on the edge of the poorly made piece of office furniture.
He takes an appreciative sip of the sludge that probably came from a meteor, and shakes his head. "Not really."
Gets an idea--a brilliant idea--and hands the piece of paper to Danny. "Can you figure out what this says, I'm not really on the top of my game today."
Danny looks at it, glances at him, looks at it again. Puts it down, leans in a little, and examines Martin's face for what is probably anomalies, or signs of being insane that he hasn't caught just yet. "Martin, you aren't okay."
Martin nods solemnly, and takes another sip. "Knew that already, so tell me what's on the paper."
He picks up the paper again, and raises his eyebrows. "The FBI cafeteria's lunch menu."
The Styrofoam cup goes down onto his desk with a muffled snap, and Martin buries his head into his hands. "Oh God, I need sleep."
Danny nods in agreement, and tries not to laugh. "Yeah man, you do."
He comes into consciousness only because he's being hauled out of his bed and propelled into the bathroom, and oh here it comes so he falls over the toilet and forcefully removes every bit of nutrition he consumed earlier. Gasps a little in pain when it's over and just drops to the side to lay on the cold tile and maybe he could just sleep here from now on.
Danny makes a tutting noise and starts to drag him out of the room by a foot, and he groans in pain when his hip catches the edge of the door.
Through the pain he sort of remembers Danny showing up sometime after work, saying that he needed to observe him and discover his ailment since Martin was doing such a horrific job of taking care of himself, but it is all fuzzy and isn’t that pressing, so instead he asks “What’re you doing?” and leaves it at that.
"You need something to rehydrate you, because you'll die otherwise," Danny explains as he continues to drag him, now out into the hall. "You don't want to die, do you Fitzie?"
The shooting pain in his throat, throbbing in his hip, headache pounding along inside his skull to the beat of some Disney tune. He thinks that he might welcome death at this point, but only says "Leave me alone" and tries to struggle out of the vice-like grip his partner has on him.
"So, what were you dreaming about?" Danny asks as soon as they settle down with Martin sulking and Danny mothering. "An ex-girlfriend chasing you?"
"Minotaurs with Uzis," Martin says simply. "Running after winged creatures that are reciting Doctor Seuss and dropping apples onto the street as they pass."
Danny stares at him a little, and then lets his head drop to the table with a loud thunk. Wraps his arms around his head, and his shoulders start to shake.
He ignores him, and takes another sip of tea. "I think my subconscious is trying to tell me something."
Danny's muffled laughter is the only reply.
They are both at work the next day, wrapping up a successful end to a runaway case, and Danny walks up behind him and leans in, arms at either side of Martin braced on the edge of the desk. Says to him, “You going to get treatment?”
Martin ignores him, and continues to type his report.
Danny laughs a little, and lets his head drop against Martin’s shoulder. “Fine, I’ll come over again tonight.”
The dream comes again that night, but because Danny shakes him awake before he gets completely worked up, there is no puking and no pain and no breathless freaking out where he thinks his lungs are going to explode they are oppressed so much.
Danny hands him a glass of water, and then lays back onto the bed. “You know, it was a good idea of mine to sleep in here instead of on the couch. I should remember this for the future.”
Martin winces as the cool water flows down his sore throat, and then puts the glass on the nightstand. Leans back himself so he’s flat out next to his partner and completely exhausted. Says, “I’ll get a key made for you.”
The older man laughs, and tosses an arm around Martin’s waist as he settles in to go back to sleep.
There are a variety of ways a man can stop breathing in the middle of the night.
Being smothered by one’s partner when he makes a sleepy hostile takeover of the bed and covers and general body heat is preferable to the rest.