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Post by DR. HASTIE LANYON on Feb 15, 2012 10:51:33 GMT -5
Bugger, he'd done it again.
It really had to stop - this sudden, ridiculous melancholy phase of nostalgia that he found himself smothered by all too often. Hastie wasn't entirely sure how he could set about doing so, but was certainly beginning to grow intent on finding a way.
Because it was verging on being awfully silly.
Not to mention unfair on whoever he was talking with.
In this case, Gregory Lestrade.
Lanyon felt truly terrible about dampening the mood so suddenly, and in response decided to... well, 'perk up'. It wasn't at all difficult - after all, the Doctor would finally be getting that coffee that he had found himself daydreaming of since leaving the hospital.
Café de les Gens.
Hastie took note of the sign before following Lestrade through the door, before immediately deciding:
Nope. Definitely not going to be able to remember the way.
Which was unfortunate; it looked rather nice.
“I think I’ll have something to eat, too. You?”
Lanyon thought for a moment. He was fairly sure that his break would probably be long enough to stop for a while - and he had been lacking in a real conversation with someone other than a five-year-old patient or a distraught parent for quite a long time.
"Sure. I have no idea when my next break is, anyway," The Doctor grinned, moving his gaze to the menu. In all honesty, he didn't have the enrgy to even read it.
"I'll just have whatever you're having," he chuckled lightly, before frowing once more.
Best to clear something up.
"Sorry, about that," he probably doesn't know what you're talking about, "I don't mean to be depressing." Fortunately, that was accompanied with a real laugh - because, honestly, he didn't.
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Feb 15, 2012 15:31:14 GMT -5
“Sure. I have no idea when my next break is, anyway,” the Doctor grinned, and though he wasn’t quite sure how genuine the smile was, it was perhaps a bit more than before; it was unsettling to see the Doctor upset. “I’ll just have whatever you’re having.” The words lacked… energy. Poor man. What had happened to him, anyway? Lestrade wasn’t quite sure what he’d done wrong, but one moment the man next to him had been so perky and childlike, the next? Completely dampened.
“Sorry about that.” Lanyon continued, and Lestrade looked from the menu to him. He was frowning, now. “I don’t mean to be depressing.” The Doctor laughed, and it seemed… real, but still, so… so bitter. Chilling.
“Ah, no, I’m sorry,” Lestrade answered sincerely. “I mean, I’m not really sure what I said to make you so sad, but… I certainly didn’t mean it.” He looked back up at the menu, avoiding Lanyon’s eyes. They weren’t the eyes of a childlike man any more, somehow, they were… Old. And sad. So, so sad.
Walking up to the counter – there was no line, thankfully – he gave the woman at the register a weak smile. “Ah, I’ll have… two coffees, one black with cream and one – “ He looked back over at Lanyon, waiting for the man to fill in his own preference. When he did, Lestrade continued, “Right, and… two cinnamon rolls.” He chuckled, looking back at Lanyon. “I could use a bit of sugar, couldn’t you?”
After the food was quickly given to them, Lestrade paid - he didn’t even think about the money, really – and walked to a small table next to the glass window with the paper bag their food and coffees had come in. He beckoned Lanyon over. “Here you are,” he said, and gave the Doctor his food and coffee.
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Post by DR. HASTIE LANYON on Feb 15, 2012 17:05:01 GMT -5
Hastie stayed mostly quiet as he followed Lestrade, who was making the order. In fact, the only times he opened his mouth to say anything was to fill in the order for his coffee (it didn't really matter that he'd ordered probably more sugar than was healthy), and to grin and state his affirmative to Lestrade's question of:
“I could use a bit of sugar, couldn’t you?”
As it happened, Lanyon really did have a love for cinnamon rolls.
Taking the food and coffee from the other man, the Doctor was rather glad that Lestrade had chosen the window table. People watching wasn't a habit of his, but it was somewhat relaxing to just watch the crowds of New Yorkers passing in the street. It reminded him that he was somewhere new - somewhere fresh.
And that thought never ceased to be constantly reassuring.
As he started eating the cinnamon roll (how long had it really been since he had last had one?), Lanyon briefly pondered on whether or not he should explain the reason for his mood change. If he wanted to be polite, then really he probably should. But then again, the two had only known each other for a few minutes - and one's life history wasn't the sort of thing you share over coffee and cinnamon rolls (really far too long).
Being undecisive, Hastie probably would have internally fretted over the matter for the majority of his break (and possibly for hours of work afterwards, if he decided not to say), but naturally, fate decided to make the choice for him.
Or rather, take away his choice completely.
"I hate my Wife."
It was a commonly known fact that those four words were uttered by businessmen near-constantly throughout the universal week. If he had turned around to look at the man who had spoken them, Hastie would be faced with the ideal image of just that - middle-aged, pot-bellied, approximately five feet and nine inches with a shoe size of seven, and who, for all intents and purposes, resembled an overfed pig.
The coffee cup had been almost four inches away from his mouth when Doctor Lanyon suddenly froze.
It was also a commonly known fact in Hastie's life that words similar in nature to those making up that hateful sentence provoked a fierce catatonic state in the man.
It only lasted a second, however, before Lanyon was pushing away from the table (coffee now abandoned on its surface), and practically sprinting out of the door with no thoughts at all flitting about his usually busy head.
Hastie was leaning against the wall of an alley running alongside the cafe approximately two point three seconds later.
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Feb 15, 2012 17:48:43 GMT -5
Lestrade loved his ex-wife, still. She was with another man now, and he couldn’t blame her. It’d be so long already, and besides, he sounded very kind, and his daughter liked him. Still, he couldn’t help be jealous of a happy family. Sometimes he lied in bed at night, a simple question going over and over in his mind… Why couldn’t he have done better? Really, it was his own fault he lived alone now. His wife had been lovely, put up with him, but he still had ruined it all. All on his own. People said it was always both people who needed fixing but really, he knew it had been him.
In Lestrade’s mind, however, there is a difference between loving and being in love. He had been, at one point, in love with Lena. Not anymore, though. Now he just plain loved her. Loved her for her intellect, for the fact that she was raising their child, for the fact that he had had a child with her. But he wasn’t in love with her. Speaking of, really, he hadn’t been in love in years.
But he did not, on any circumstances, hate his ex-wife, let’s make that clear.
So when he heard someone rather insensitively say, “I hate my wife,” Lestrade froze. He knew Lanyon had heard it too, but the man’s reaction was… Well, over the top would be undermining the complete panic the Doctor went into. Jesus, he really must have had some sort of family problems.
Suddenly the food was forgotten, and Lanyon was dashing away out of the café and onto the street. Lestrade, extremely alarmed, called out, “Hey!” After him, but it was of no use. The Doctor was already running down the street, into an alleyway. Lestrade wasted a second more thinking about the food he’d just paid for and his “new friend.” Lanyon won over.
He ran after the man, following the billow of white lab coat that fled between two buildings. What he saw was little less than heartbreaking. The man was a complete wreck, leaning against the wall and shuddering violently, breath quick and his entire body shaking, as if he’d been shocked.
“Jesus,” Lestrade gasped out, and went closer to the other man. He paused for a second, wondering whether or not the Doctor would mind physical contact. Then he moved closer to grab onto the other man’s arm with his own. His grasp was firm, strong, by not harsh. “Calm down,” Lestrade said soothingly. “Everything’s alright, really, everything is alright now, you’re okay, just breath.” He continued his steady stream of calming phrases he’s long since pensioned since becoming a police officer, trying to soothe the Doctor. He had no idea what was happening, really. One moment they’d been getting a casual cuppa, the next, they were in an alleyway and the Doctor was hyperventilating. This was really not Lestrade’s day.
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Post by DR. HASTIE LANYON on Feb 15, 2012 18:33:38 GMT -5
It was curious, really, how a man's entire thoughts and behaviour can change in a simple instant.
And, what is even more amazing, is the fact that this could be caused by little more than a few badly-timed words.
Hastie was hyperventilating - he knew that much. It seemed that even in a state of shock, he couldn't switch off that natural 'Doctor' instinct that anyone in that line of work automatically possessed. At times it could be rather irritating, in all honesty, as it meant that his unrelated thoughts could be suddenly interrupted by some sort of medical diagnosis.
However, the Doctor found himself mentally blessing this automatic response.
At that particular moment, he didn't really mind what interrupted his unrelated thoughts, as long as there was simply something that did. Because his head was beginning to grow unbearable.
The scenes in his head were flashing, and changed completely with each sharp half-breath he managed to gather into his lungs. All of them, no matter how different they could seem to be, were all related. All connected to one constant, never ending whirl of... well, they were memories, weren't they? The images of life that were kept in a man's head for as long as he is able to keep a firm grasp on them - they were called memories, apparently.
And they were torturous.
He hadn't been there for the crash. But he could picture it clearly.
Perhaps it was unfortunate that he had such a vivid imagination.
There was the wedding day.
And, on further inspection, there was the ring. One half of the two he kept on his person at all times - despite the fact that he had moved to New York City to start anew. He just couldn't get rid of them...
Christ.
He had been so happy.
And then they had found out that Holly was pregnant. They were both only young - everybody else thought they wouldn't make it. But they would. Oh, they would! Because... because they were Hastie and Holly, weren't they?
Were.
Why was it 'were'?
He hadn't been there for the crash. But he could picture it clearly.
There was glass - so, so much glass. Surely it was impossible for there to be so much glass? No. Wait, it wasn't all...
Half of it was glass.
Half of it was glistening, but it happened to be a different colour.
Half of it was an unfortunate shade of red.
Get a hold of yourself, Lanyon. Breathe, breathe...
There was a distant gurgle of intertwining words. But they seemed clearer than the rest of the contents of his head. And the voice was somewhat familiar. It couldn't be a stranger...
Lestrade.
But the voice was soon completely blown out of the picture, to make way for something new.
A baby.
Wait, no. That was impossible! There couldn't be a baby because...
Breathe, breathe...
Because there couldn't! There wasn't a baby, was there? No. No... Because...
Just breathe...
Because it never been born.
Lanyon gulped in a large quantity of air, finally. But the oxygen felt like water in his lungs. Pure, hateful, devilish water.
He still felt like he was drowning.
Hastie ran a hand over his face, pushing away from the wall and absently taking three large steps in an undefined direction, before immediately returning.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," The words began tumbling from his mouth. He was, in part, apologising to Gregory. But it wasn't just the man-he-had-only-recently-met that he was aiming the words at.
It was... It was...
Don't think about him.
"Oh God. I'm sorry."
He stood stock still, staring at Lestrade with wide eyes. It was curious, really, how a man's entire thoughts and behaviour can change in a simple instant.
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Feb 15, 2012 18:59:50 GMT -5
Yes, Lanyon was most definitely hyperventilating; going into a state of shock really. He seemed to be grappling with some horrible amount of data in his head, going over and over and torturing his mind. Lestrade continued to hold onto his arms, whispering calming words until Lanyon suddenly gulped in a huge amount of air, as if breaking through the surface of water; as if swimming for so long, getting to the surface, only know you’d drown again so soon…
Lestrade felt Lanyon break away, stumbling back and forth weakly, running a hand over his face. Lestrade really had no idea what to do, because… Well, he had no idea the situation. But one man’s shock was the same as the next, and so… protocol took over.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, God, I’m so sorry,” Lanyon started to apologize, staring at Lestrade so unnervingly. His eyes – god, those huge and yet small, bright brown eyes… Burning with fright and pain and passion and all of time killing a man once cell at a time, bringing back each bad memory like another bomb, falling one after the other with no stopping.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Lestrade said to him gently, and once again held onto Lanyon’s arms tenderly. “Don’t worry, there’s nothing to be sorry for.” He looked into Lanyon’s eyes, trying to ignore the deep sadness buried there. “We’re here, we’re just now, there’s nothing happening. It’s just you and me. You’re a pediatrician. I’m a police man. We’re going out for coffee. Nobody’s hurt, you haven’t done anything.” Lestrade’s voice came out soft and half-whispered, calming. He hoped it would work because – God, he didn’t even know this man, and yet his sadness was so unhindered that it was hurting Lestrade too.
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Post by DR. HASTIE LANYON on Feb 15, 2012 20:22:18 GMT -5
Hastie continued taking deep breaths, ignoring the fact that he was potentially over-reacting.
No, he wasn't over-reacting, was he? It was an awful, awful event, and the memories were provoked to bombarding the front lines of his mind by an awful, awful sentence. His reaction was practically textbook! Wasn't it?
He had gained control of himself enough to notice that Lestrade was attempting to calm the Doctor down. And, in return, the least he could do was try to do that. Blimey - he had probably completely and utterly ruined Gregory's day.
Which, unfortunately, wasn't a very nice thought.
Lanyon broke away from the other man again, turning awkwardly in circles as he struggled to fill his lungs with the sickly sweet oxygen that it turned out they needed. Fresh air - or at least as fresh as the city could provide one with - was what he needed. Deep, deep breaths of fresh...
Somehow, it still felt like he was drowning.
Hastie ran a hand through his hair, finally managing to stop spinning around. He must have looked a completely and utterly ridiculous sight.
First, he had taken an offhand comment made by some disrespectful, obnoxious businessman to heart - which certainly wasn't the thing to do in New York.
Then, he had positively fled from the restaurant, and been reduced to near-tears in front of a man he had only just met!
Blimey, Gregory was (thankfully) unusually tolerant.
Hang on.
Near-tears...
Lanyon's hand flew immediately to his face, where he rubbed his eyes with the palms of both hands.
No, good. He hadn't cried. Thank God.
Another deep breath, and the Doctor felt he was able to manage words.
Now Lestrade really did deserve an explanation.
"I'm really sorry for all this. It's just..." could he say it? He hadn't even tried to explain it to anybody yet, and wasn't sure if he would even be able to.
"I... My Wife died recently, and I - I just. Christ, sorry."
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Feb 15, 2012 20:37:34 GMT -5
The poor man ran his hand across his face again, this time running his fingers through his thick hair, and began to pace in awkward and stumbling circles. He was still gasping for breath, but Lestrade let him; he know not to crown someone in this state. Lanyon seemed to be struggling between different emotions ranging from absolutely broken, forced composure and… nothingness. Oh, Lestrade knew that look well, and the emotions that went with it…
This will never end, it will never stop, not ever, even for a moment, I’ll be gone forever, wasting away, is this what dying feels like? It has to be what dying feels like. Maybe dying is even more pleasant than this. Dear God, take me. Take me with you. Bring me to them.
Lestrade watched uncomfortably as Lanyon rubbed his eyes, as if expecting tears, but there were none. Sighing a deep breath of, as if the absence of tears had been reassuring, Lanyon forced words out, his voice wavering. “It’s just… I… My wife died recently, and I – I just. Christ, sorry.”
Oh. Oh god. Suddenly that comment they’d heard in the café made so much more sense. That man had said he hated his wife, while Lanyon… could never be with his again. Oh that was positively awful!
“It’s alright,” Lestrade said, with feeling. He gave Lanyon what he hoped was a soothing look; it wasn’t a smile, but… calm? Yes, that would be a word for it. “I’m sure you must still be hurting terribly.” Lestrade looked into the man’s eyes – god, it was still so obvious, the pain – and gently, slowly, moved forward to hug Lanyon. Perhaps it was strange, seeing as the two men had only just met, but… Ah, well. Comfort was comfort. Sometimes.
The man was a lot warmer than one would think a man having a panic attack in the middle of the city would seem. Lestrade leaned into the hug, trying not to make it seem like he was creeping, but just… comforting. The comfort of another body. “It’ll be alright,” he said quietly to Lanyon, then pulled away, looking to judge the Doctor’s reaction to the hug.
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Post by DR. HASTIE LANYON on Feb 27, 2012 15:08:12 GMT -5
Was he having a panic attack?
It didn't really feel like a panic attack.
But then again, Hastie had not been victim to any previous cases of panic attacks, and therefore was a downright rotten judge of such things.
It could be a panic attack.
Equally, it could not.
“It’s alright,”
The words were... muffled? Slightly. But still existent, and enough so for Lanyon to be able to snap away from his internal monlogue (which had really gotten out of hand - the blame for which should be readily handed to those awful scenarios he had previously been the sole witness to). Though they were still blurred around the egdes. Two simple words were currently closely resembling the fading luminosity of a blinking lighthouse's glare through a stormy fog at sea - ample amount to guide the way.
“I’m sure you must still be hurting terribly.”
There. Those words were clearer.
Now, now the fog was clearing. No... it was still there. He was breaking through it?
Not the fog - he wasn't becoming clear of any fog. But rather the water in which he had been treading. Waving or drowning? Breathing, now. Deep lungfulls of blessed air as he broke the surface of the metaphorical sea of memories and...
And...
He was being hugged?
Blimey. That was weird.
From there, it took Doctor Hastie Lanyon around eight seconds before he had snapped back to reality. It seemed weirdness just about did it, after all.
There was still the issue of the hug to deal with, however.
It took him a slight while to realise who, exactly had been the one to hug him. Lanyon was aware that he was in an alley, yes, and so the contact immediately and rationally set off warning bells in the depths of his mind. Though after delving into what he remembered of the past (what, had it been around twenty minutes?), they were soon silenced.
And he felt he was able to return the hug.
Hastie had calmed himself rather enough for him (fortunately) to not break down when the other man pulled away shortly after. His eyes found themselved fixed to a rather interesting piece of empty space a few inches to the right of Lestrade's shoulder, as he took another deep breath.
"Right, yes. Sorry. Ah, thankyou,"
In all truth, he wasn't even sure what he had meant to say.
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Feb 27, 2012 19:03:35 GMT -5
Lestrade felt Lanyon stiffen slightly against him as his trembling calmed slightly, and was pretty sure it was because Lanyon was finally starting to calm down a little bit. He might have let go, but Lanyon then returned the hug, which was surprisingly, really surprising, but not all that unpleasant. He didn’t hug people often, after all.
There were a few more moments of awkward hugging and calming of breaths before Lanyon broke himself away from Lestrade, staring awkwardly at… well, nothing really, as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.
“Right, yes. Sorry. Ah, thank you,” the Doctor said, his voice still sounding shaky. Well, that was probably the most generic English response that he could hope for, at the moment. Right, yes, sorry and thank you all at once.
“That’s all right,” Lestrade said warmly, but managing to keep his voice level. The man in front of him who’d clearly just had some sort of panic attack did not need to her uncertainty in his own voice, that was for sure. “It’s completely understandable.” He paused, not sure what else to say. Should he ask Lanyon if he wanted to go back to the café? Oh, they’d left the food he’d bought there, what a waste. Well, this was more important, anyhow.
“Ah, I’m sorry, that that… happened. I mean, that’s a terrible thing to say about your wife anyway but even though he didn’t know, it’s still… Anyway, I mean,” he stopped, because his words weren’t coming out right. He was speaking too much like he did to the press; awkward, jumbled, and unintelligent. That wasn’t good. He needed to calm down. “I mean, it’s really, really okay. I don’t mind.”
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