a ghost in his own skin, SGA, G
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Title: a ghost in his own skin
Charcater: Unnamed, but in my mind it is Zelenka
Rating: G
Word Count: 570
Summary: for the prompt "panic attacks"...it comes in the quiet, when the crisis is over....
A/Ns & Warnings: So that second card for angst_bingo Yeah...ladywinchester picked the SGA fandom for five prompts from that card. This is the fourth of those five prompts. Written for my second card for angst_bingo.
The panic comes in the quiet, when the crisis is over and Atlantis is safe, well, as safe as Atlantis ever is. Or sometimes it comes in the still, dark hours of the night when there has been no crisis larger than the everyday needs of keeping the city functional and powered.
He is always alone, usually nearing sleep when it comes stealing up on him, like it has a physical presence.
He feels the shadow of it, slipping across the floor and he sits up in his bed, breathes to try to fend it off, as if air alone can keep the icy grip of it from seizing his lungs. He stands, moves away from the bed, his arms crossing in front of him, hands gripping his sides. He can never out run it, so he doesn’t try, but it feels wrong to give in, to let it come over him without trying, so he moves, restless, to the window looking out at the lights of the city on the water.
Any other time it would be soothing, but the shadow stretches to encompass him, and fingers of fear find him, raising goosebumps on his skin. His lungs tighten and he fights to breathe normally as his heartbeat starts to speed up and his fingers twitch.
Cold sweat slicks his forehead and back. The dark feeling stirs in his stomach, queasy and hot. Acidic bile rises in his throat. The room behind him closes in, the furniture crowding him closer to the window, though nothing moves. His fingers tighten, dig in through the soft cotton of his t-shirt, bruising skin that is far too tender for an intrepid space explorer.
He forces himself to let go before he draws blood, pulls his hands through sweaty hair and turns his back on the window, tries to face the monster in the room, but it’s too much and he can’t breathe. He steps out onto the balcony, the cold wind buffeting his body, colder still against the sweat covering him.
He shivers, but isn’t enough to drive him back into the room. He clings to the railing and leans over, daring the wind to knock him from the perch and send him plummeting, but even that is not enough to escape the clinging, choking sense of panic.
It covers him, like a blanket that settles over his back, circles his neck, pulling tight around him until he’s choking on it, on the blind, nameless fear…with nothing to fight back, no riddle to solve, no theory to prove.
There is only the black, endless fear and his own inadequacy.
He turns back, his own reflection staring back at him from the windows, his eyes dark, his slight body seeming to be insubstantial, a ghost in his own skin. He closes his eyes, hides inside himself from himself and swallows repeatedly, trying to make the lump of black in his throat dissipate, dissolve…but he only manages to distract it a moment, let it shift enough to breathe around it.
He slumps down to the floor of the balcony and curls forward.
The panic leaves in the quiet, when he is cold and shivering. Sometimes it leaves him shaking and fragile in the dark, early hours of the morning, but he is always alone, crawling back to his bed to grab what he can of sleep before the next day’s duties, the next crisis…
Title: a ghost in his own skin
Charcater: Unnamed, but in my mind it is Zelenka
Rating: G
Word Count: 570
Summary: for the prompt "panic attacks"...it comes in the quiet, when the crisis is over....
A/Ns & Warnings: So that second card for angst_bingo Yeah...ladywinchester picked the SGA fandom for five prompts from that card. This is the fourth of those five prompts. Written for my second card for angst_bingo.
The panic comes in the quiet, when the crisis is over and Atlantis is safe, well, as safe as Atlantis ever is. Or sometimes it comes in the still, dark hours of the night when there has been no crisis larger than the everyday needs of keeping the city functional and powered.
He is always alone, usually nearing sleep when it comes stealing up on him, like it has a physical presence.
He feels the shadow of it, slipping across the floor and he sits up in his bed, breathes to try to fend it off, as if air alone can keep the icy grip of it from seizing his lungs. He stands, moves away from the bed, his arms crossing in front of him, hands gripping his sides. He can never out run it, so he doesn’t try, but it feels wrong to give in, to let it come over him without trying, so he moves, restless, to the window looking out at the lights of the city on the water.
Any other time it would be soothing, but the shadow stretches to encompass him, and fingers of fear find him, raising goosebumps on his skin. His lungs tighten and he fights to breathe normally as his heartbeat starts to speed up and his fingers twitch.
Cold sweat slicks his forehead and back. The dark feeling stirs in his stomach, queasy and hot. Acidic bile rises in his throat. The room behind him closes in, the furniture crowding him closer to the window, though nothing moves. His fingers tighten, dig in through the soft cotton of his t-shirt, bruising skin that is far too tender for an intrepid space explorer.
He forces himself to let go before he draws blood, pulls his hands through sweaty hair and turns his back on the window, tries to face the monster in the room, but it’s too much and he can’t breathe. He steps out onto the balcony, the cold wind buffeting his body, colder still against the sweat covering him.
He shivers, but isn’t enough to drive him back into the room. He clings to the railing and leans over, daring the wind to knock him from the perch and send him plummeting, but even that is not enough to escape the clinging, choking sense of panic.
It covers him, like a blanket that settles over his back, circles his neck, pulling tight around him until he’s choking on it, on the blind, nameless fear…with nothing to fight back, no riddle to solve, no theory to prove.
There is only the black, endless fear and his own inadequacy.
He turns back, his own reflection staring back at him from the windows, his eyes dark, his slight body seeming to be insubstantial, a ghost in his own skin. He closes his eyes, hides inside himself from himself and swallows repeatedly, trying to make the lump of black in his throat dissipate, dissolve…but he only manages to distract it a moment, let it shift enough to breathe around it.
He slumps down to the floor of the balcony and curls forward.
The panic leaves in the quiet, when he is cold and shivering. Sometimes it leaves him shaking and fragile in the dark, early hours of the morning, but he is always alone, crawling back to his bed to grab what he can of sleep before the next day’s duties, the next crisis…