Finch: Out-Of-Body Bystander

*Surrounded, bleeding, helpless, alone; surrounded, bleeding, helpless, alone; surrounded, bleeding, helpless --*

Finch came up swinging and thrashing and heard a sharp “ow!” before his eyes had even opened. He smelled coal, like it was all around him, digging into his mouth and lodged permanently into his sinuses. The black stained his clothes, ground under his fingernails as he clawed his way up towards Larkin, stretching for her hand, then being dragged away.

And surrounded, and helpless, and bleeding, and alone, and the smell of coal mixed with the taste of blood, and the crunching sound -- more than the feeling, somehow -- of his leg being broken.

“You're awake! You're awake! Finch -- Finch, Finch, Finch --.”

He tasted blood again and shuddered, and spat, remembered spitting it into the eyes of the guards, lashing out. Shaking and pretending he wasn't, crying and pretending it was just the coal dust in his eyes. Someone holding him down.

He *remembered*. That was -- that was right, this was a memory, it was over, he was safe, was --

“You're awake, you're awake,” Jonn was repeating, pinning him down, holding down his shoulders.

Finch came to wild-eyed, looking around the room, choking in breaths. Still smelled coal, still tasted blood. Wasn't his bunker. Wasn't safe.

“It's okay,” Jonn's voice went softer, less manic, and he put his hands on Finch's face to make him look at him. “It's okay. You're awake. It's over. You're okay now. I -- uh.”

He faltered, and Finch realized his nose was bleeding, dripping down onto Finch's face. Jonn seemed to notice him noticing and swiped a sleeve across the blood, then held his face again.

“Did I hit you?” Finch croaked.

“It's okay,” Jonn assured him.

He backed off, tugging at Finch's sleeves to gently pull him upright. Finch was rigid, still, but he remembered -- the new guild housing they'd been placed in. The coal furnace to keep the room warm.

“You were having a nightmare,” Jonn told him, scooting closer again to push himself under one of Finch's shoulders and curl his arms around him, squeezing him tightly.

That … kind of helped.

Finch swallowed and just kind of let it happen. He rubbed at his face and took a breath. This shit used to happen to him a lot, and he'd spend sleepless nights huddled in the corner of the room he had at an inn, quaking and gasping and clutching his knives. It got a little better when he started working for Baron, got the money for the bunker. Felt a little safer. Over time, managed to sleep again.

His eyes fell on the coal stove. Right. That. He'd been slightly pleased about the warmth -- about not having to pile high with blankets and sleep with Jonn to fend off freezing to death -- but then he'd ended up sleeping with Jonn anyway, and -- that was kind of fine, he guessed.

“Did I hit you?” he asked again, his voice more stable.

“It's okay,” Jonn repeated firmly. “My dad used to do that all the time.”

“Your dad used to hit you?” That didn't fit with the way Jonn always talked about his adopted dad, but then, Baron hit him and he adored her.

“No, no, dumbass.” Jonn pulled away enough to swipe at his nose again. It wasn't bleeding anymore. “He had night terrors like that. Came out swingin’ sometimes. I got pretty good at dodging.” He tilted his head. “I didn't know you got them too.”

Finch dropped his head to scrub at his face. The coal smoke was still stuck in him. He didn't really want to cut off the furnace and freeze, and it would take a while for it to dissipate, anyway. Maybe he'd just creep away. Go for a walk through the guild's halls. He could probably find some little corner to shove himself into and nod off -- except -- he'd be exposed, wouldn't be safe --

He shivered. Shouldn't be cold. He knew the room was warm, but he felt reptilian, cool. Jonn pushed against his side again, arms around him, settling his face against Finch's shoulder.

“Hey,” he said firmly. “You're awake. It's okay. Whatever it was, it's okay, it's over, and you're here now, you're here --.” His voice cracked, and more quietly, he said, “You're here with me and I love you. That's what I used to tell my dad. Guess that's not very comforting for you. But you -- you are okay. And safe. I promise.”

Finch made a sound that was something like a grunt and a sigh at the same time. The exhaustion was hitting him. He just wanted to go back to sleep and -- he kind of wanted Jonn to keep doing what he was doing, because he seemed to really *know* what he was doing, weirdly. Finch was feeling better. Ill and shaky, but it was better than flinging himself into a corner for the rest of the night, pressing his back against the wall and wishing desperately that he had someone to watch it.

Sometimes he wondered how Larkin would have reacted to the way he'd lost his shit after the thing that had happened in the coal chute, if he hadn't -- well, what she would've done. He liked to think he was the one who took care of her, because he was older, and more experienced, but he knew it wasn't really fucking true -- the little shit was completely capable of taking care of herself. He wondered if she would have just been fucking annoyed by him launching himself out of his bed, shaking and stammering, waking her up. If she would've tried to help him. Or even known how.

He'd been so fucking angry, so fucking broken and helpless and alone and --

“Finch,” Jonn said sharply. “You have to breathe.”

He gasped one in, not realizing he hadn't been, and laid his face in his hands. God. Fucking -- a coal stove was all it took to do this to him. Right back where he'd been. He needed a drink. He needed a lot of fucking drinks. The gasping turned into choking, and he wrenched his eyes closed -- no, no, come on. He was fine. He wasn't a fucking child, more bad fucking things had happened to him than he could count on both shattered fucking hands.

Jonn moved behind him, leaning his entire chest against Finch's back, crossing his arms over Finch's chest. “It's okay,” he kept saying, quietly. “It's okay.”

He rested his face against Finch's back, and kept squeezing him tight as a fucking boa constrictor, and Finch realized that the reason grabbing onto Jonn and holding him in place worked probably wasn't just because it physically kept him from doing shit, it probably just … made him feel better, too, when he was freaking out. When he got all fucking agitated Finch always thought he might get goddamn stabby or something, worried that if he didn't hold Jonn down, the little shit would run off and shank someone in the street.

That wasn't what he was feeling, though. Maybe it hadn't been what Jonn was feeling, either. Who fucking knew.

He made himself take deep, shaky breaths, trying to ignore the tears leaking down his face -- he wasn't really fucking crying, it was just -- it was just the coal. His eyes had bled black in jail, trying to flush out what his face had been ground into, and he'd thought *what if I'm blind, what if it never clears out, what if* -- and sat alone, helpless, rocking himself, left with the pain of his broken leg, the ache in his jaw and ribs, skinned knuckles from trying to fight back, snapped and ripped-off fingernails.

Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about it. He felt light-headed. Wasn't breathing right again.

Jonn slipped around in front of him and pulled his hands away from his face to replace them with his again, ducking his head to look at Finch with those -- black and bottomless fucking eyes. He looked -- concerned, though. He stroked Finch's cheeks in a way that seemed a bit mechanical, somehow, the motions a little too precise.

Slowly, like he was figuring it out as he went, he said, “Hey. It's okay. And … it's okay that you're crying. That's, like, normal. And you can keep crying and I'll keep -- doing what I'm doing, if you want me to. D'you … d'you want me to fuck off? Should I leave you alone? I don't … I don't wanna just … make it worse.”

Finch rubbed viciously at his eyes, because he didn't fucking care how normal it was, he didn't want to cry, and he shook his head without really processing what he was responding to. “I need to fucking get out of here,” he said roughly, still covering his eyes. “I need to fucking get drunk.”

Jonn pulled away and Finch heard him moving around the room. After just a moment he came back and tugged at Finch's arm, making him look up.

“Put on your boots.”

He'd moved them right beside the bed and already had his on -- cloak too -- and while Finch confusedly did so, Jonn draped his cloak around his shoulders, too, and fastened it for him. He pulled Finch to his feet and out of the room without saying anything, and Finch was too off-guard and puzzled to question being led up the many flights of stairs to the tower.

The cold air and wind at the top, though, was startling and refreshing, and he shivered and pulled his cloak tighter around him. Jonn pulled him over to the edge and sat down with his legs dangling over it, and Finch sat beside him in the snow, flakes dusting his shoulders, and looked out over dark city blanketed in white, windows lit up like stars down below.

He was a long fucking way from the night terrors now, he had to give Jonn that.

Jonn reached into his bag and passed him a bottle of vodka, which Finch took and glugged down a good portion of without even thinking that maybe getting drunk in the roof wasn't the best idea. Jonn did take it back, though. Didn't drink, himself. He kept saying stuff about cutting back because of his blackouts, and it made Finch feel oddly guilty for not telling him.

He rubbed at his face again, trying to scrape away the salt and the chill of icy tears. Jonn looped an arm through his and leaned lightly against his shoulder, looking out across Skyport. He was … fucking tired now, again, and with nothing around to trigger the flashbacks he just wanted to fucking curl up and sleep. He missed his goddamn bunker. First place he'd felt safe since losing his partner. He let out a breath.

They were supposed to fucking meet up with Larkin, soon. Work with her again, maybe, against Wyn. He shivered, and Jonn perked up, and edged closer to share his body heat, but it wasn't the cold. He fumbled towards Jonn's bag to take the vodka back.

Kept thinking about looking up and seeing her wide-eyed face, reaching down for him still, then disappearing. Being fucking trapped -- surrounded and helpless and bleeding and alone -- and her fucking bolting. He'd kept imagining her sliding back down the chute, crossbow in hand, trickshotting the men brutalizing him, landing bolts in their eyes, launching knives into their throats, maybe getting hit once just to set them on fucking fire, ignite the coal dust in the air and cause enough of a distraction for both of them to scurry away. Kept fucking imagining that when his leg snapped, and boots rammed into his gut, and he threw up bile. Kept it in his head.

They were partners. She'd do something. She'd come back. They'd at least fucking go down fighting together, right?

He'd seen her next when she'd paid his bail, though, after it was all over, after some shit-tier cleric had healed his leg wrong, and he was all fucking dried out of tears and numb to how much his ribs hurt, and the broken nose, just wrapped around himself and still. Twitching every now and then.

He finished off the vodka and toyed with the bottle. Jonn took it out of his hands again.

“You feel any better?” he asked hesitantly.

Finch nodded mutely. He felt too unfocused to have another panic attack, which he guessed meant he felt better.

“What'd your dad have night terrors about?” he asked absently.

Jonn nestled closer to him and didn't answer right away. “He used to be a sailor. He spent most of his life on the ocean. I think -- see, he never told me about it, really -- but I think some monster killed his crew, out there. When he came into port, his ship was, y'know, barely even floating. Something fucked them up out there. He couldn't even talk about it except in his sleep.” He paused. “Kept waking up mumbling about blood in the water, and on the decks, and on his hands. I'm sure he tried to help them. He's a good medic, y'know.”

“Was I saying anything? When I woke up?”

Jonn shook his head.

After a second, Finch asked, “Your dad's night terrors stopped?”

He shrugged. “They got better. I talked to this really nice cleric, once, and she told me he probably had, um -- survivor's guilt. Like, he felt bad because -- everyone had died, and he'd survived. Like he felt like … he didn't deserve it, or something?”

“Huh.”

“I think he started thinking he deserved it again, though. When he started working for Joan Ripley and all, and -- doing shit again, helping people or whatever.” He was silent for a beat. “He likes helping people. Anyway, that's when he started really getting better. When he met Roddy and stuff.”

Finch mulled it over, through the booze. He sure the fuck didn't have survivor's guilt. He'd barely goddamn survived. He wondered if -- Larkin had ever had those nightmares, of looking down at him, of his hand being dragged out of hers. If it kept her up with her back against the wall in the attic, crying. Maybe bailing him out made any guilt go away. Maybe she was better now; maybe she didn't give a shit. Maybe it just wasn't so clean and there wasn't any fucking moving on for him.

“I have nightmares sometimes,” Jonn said abruptly. “About fire.” He said it flatly. “About being burned alive, and not being able to move, and just burning. I've had then since I was little.”

“Mask.” Maybe it was the vodka, but Finch shifted to put his arm around Jonn. He'd seen the scars on Jonn's arm, but never asked about them.

Jonn cuddled against him. “They mostly stopped when I started -- like, learning about fire, and found out I could control it, and … it wasn't just scary, it was warm and pretty and powerful.” He hesitated. “Do I ever say shit in my sleep? Do you know?”

“Dunno.” Usually Finch was passed out, sleeping like a rock because that was the only way he could sleep at all. “Why?”

“Sometimes …” He sounded uncomfortable. “Sometimes, lately, I get these dreams -- these nightmares -- that I'm hurting people. And I don't wanna do it. It's -- like, it's you, or it's Luci, or Dad, or Roddy, or Asya. But I can't stop. I really fucking -- want to stop. But I can't move myself. I just … watch my hand … and …”

Finch squeezed him, one-armed, then kicked away from the edge of the roof, dragging Jonn along, and actually hugged him with both arms. Jonn hugged back, tight, because of course he fucking did, because he always wanted Finch to hug him.

*You, or Luci, or Dad, or Roddy, or Asya. I just watch my hand.* God, it gave Finch an ill feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew that little blue kobold fucker had been messing with Jonn, making him do shit, making him forget it. He just knew.

“I never wanna hurt you,” Jonn muttered against his shoulder. “I don't. I mean it.”

“I know.” He actually did fucking believe it. That was the ridiculous thing. “I know.”

Just that sometimes there wasn't a choice. Your hand moved because someone else was moving it, or it got ripped away even though you were holding on as tight as you could. And then you had fucking nightmares because you were so fucking powerless that your waking mind couldn't even goddamn deal with it. Sometimes your partner couldn't save you. Sometimes you forgot if they had even tried.

Jonn clung to him, like he did a lot of the time, and Finch realized he was clinging back.