Shadows
Title: Shadows
Fandom: Jurassic Park III
Rating: PG
Characters: Billy Brennan/Alan Grant
Word Count: 459
Notes: Written for a comment-fic prompt.
Warning: Character experiences a panic attack as a result of traumatic memories.
Summary: Billy has a panic attack at a dig.
Shadows
It's a silly thing.
Second week of the dig, they're taking a long lunch break, letting the undergrads think they're not watching them like hawks for half an hour. Alan's just popped the cap on a beer when there's the flutter of a commotion and someone yells 'Professors!' across the site.
"I'll go," Billy says with a nod at Alan's beer and Alan's stretched-out legs. Alan's not sure whether to thank him or protest that he might be a bit creaky but he doesn't have arthritis yet, but Billy's already on his way, striding across the hard-packed sand determinedly, so Alan takes a long, deep swig and leans back, knocking his hat down over his eyes.
The kids are too far away to hear anything distinctly, but Billy's calm and steady murmur is impossible to miss, the soft tenor followed by stomping feet and a couple of 'Hey!'s and 'No, got him!'s, and then-
"Dr. Grant! Dr. Brennan? Dr. Grant! Dr. Grant, help!"
Creaky knees or not, Alan's out of his lawn chair and half across the site before his spilled beer starts to soak the ground.
"It was just a hawk," one of the kids says when he's near enough, "Broken wing. Dr. Brennan tried to grab it, and it flew at him, and he just-"
Alan breaks through the ring of undergraduates. Billy's down on his ass, hunched over with his hands on the ground, fingers digging into the dirt like he's trying to hold on, hyperventilating. The back of his neck is pink, and he's gasping ever few breaths like he's trying not to vomit.
There's a red mark on the skin just under his elbow that looks like it might have come from a buzzard's beak.
"Take ten," Alan snaps out. The kids don't move fast enough. "Now."
Alan thinks Billy's breathing slows, just a bit, when they're finally alone; Billy's not the type that likes an audience for this sort of thing, he knows. Alan lowers himself to the ground with a sigh; his left knee pops, promising a painful evening. The sun beats down on his head, hatless since the stupid thing snagged on the back of his chair when he stood.
"Birds," Billy says, eventually. He takes a deep breath, lets it out again. It's shaking like his arms. "Fucking birds, man."
Alan reaches over and rests his hand on the back of Billy's shoulder. Billy shudders and breathes, moans and breathes and shudders again until his breaths even out and the tension eases out of the muscles beneath Alan's thumb.
Alan doesn't move his hand away, and Billy doesn't ask him to. Their shadows lengthen on the sand below them, but neither of them move for quite some time.
Fandom: Jurassic Park III
Rating: PG
Characters: Billy Brennan/Alan Grant
Word Count: 459
Notes: Written for a comment-fic prompt.
Warning: Character experiences a panic attack as a result of traumatic memories.
Summary: Billy has a panic attack at a dig.
Shadows
It's a silly thing.
Second week of the dig, they're taking a long lunch break, letting the undergrads think they're not watching them like hawks for half an hour. Alan's just popped the cap on a beer when there's the flutter of a commotion and someone yells 'Professors!' across the site.
"I'll go," Billy says with a nod at Alan's beer and Alan's stretched-out legs. Alan's not sure whether to thank him or protest that he might be a bit creaky but he doesn't have arthritis yet, but Billy's already on his way, striding across the hard-packed sand determinedly, so Alan takes a long, deep swig and leans back, knocking his hat down over his eyes.
The kids are too far away to hear anything distinctly, but Billy's calm and steady murmur is impossible to miss, the soft tenor followed by stomping feet and a couple of 'Hey!'s and 'No, got him!'s, and then-
"Dr. Grant! Dr. Brennan? Dr. Grant! Dr. Grant, help!"
Creaky knees or not, Alan's out of his lawn chair and half across the site before his spilled beer starts to soak the ground.
"It was just a hawk," one of the kids says when he's near enough, "Broken wing. Dr. Brennan tried to grab it, and it flew at him, and he just-"
Alan breaks through the ring of undergraduates. Billy's down on his ass, hunched over with his hands on the ground, fingers digging into the dirt like he's trying to hold on, hyperventilating. The back of his neck is pink, and he's gasping ever few breaths like he's trying not to vomit.
There's a red mark on the skin just under his elbow that looks like it might have come from a buzzard's beak.
"Take ten," Alan snaps out. The kids don't move fast enough. "Now."
Alan thinks Billy's breathing slows, just a bit, when they're finally alone; Billy's not the type that likes an audience for this sort of thing, he knows. Alan lowers himself to the ground with a sigh; his left knee pops, promising a painful evening. The sun beats down on his head, hatless since the stupid thing snagged on the back of his chair when he stood.
"Birds," Billy says, eventually. He takes a deep breath, lets it out again. It's shaking like his arms. "Fucking birds, man."
Alan reaches over and rests his hand on the back of Billy's shoulder. Billy shudders and breathes, moans and breathes and shudders again until his breaths even out and the tension eases out of the muscles beneath Alan's thumb.
Alan doesn't move his hand away, and Billy doesn't ask him to. Their shadows lengthen on the sand below them, but neither of them move for quite some time.