( It's actually a pretty good spot, as far as being in public goes. The nature of small towns: they didn't really have anything like this where Jack's from. Hell, the nearest Starbucks was like an hour away in the outskirts of the closest actual city. Most people just come by the gas station for their overpriced to-go coffee needs.
He orders something with so much espresso the barista looks some split mix between concerned and appalled, and writes on his cup "Heart Attack Jack".
Which is actually kind of catchy, even if it is morbid. And... probably true. )
Probably. I mean, as long as the guy working behind the counter isn't handing out prophecies with his lattes.
We can always run an EKG on you and see if there’s any validity to the snappy nickname.
[He quips without thinking, really, having spotted the name scrawled on the coffee. Maybe it’s a little too morbid for the circumstances at hand, but he realizes that only a half-second after the words have already left his mouth. Did he mention that he’s not very good at this?
Stephen shifts forward in his seat, hand cupped around his own coffee, his other drumming his fingers on the tabletop.
He clears his throat.]
Anyway. I thought it’d be easier to put things into perspective in person. Text loses something.
[“Something” being Stephen’s ability to gauge just how shaken a person will be after receiving perception-altering medical information.]
( The good news is the time it took him to get ready, get here, and get coffee has been just enough to let him slip from outright panic attack to stunned disbelief. He's really making his way through those five stages of grief in a timely fashion.
He has... absolutely no idea what to think or feel about it. Hell, he barely even understands it. Which means he should definitely ask questions.
Or, alternatively, he could fixate on the stupid irrelevant part of this conversation. )
No thank you on the EKG. The next thing you'll wind up telling me is my heart's been three children in a trench coat this entire time.
[Despite himself, Stephen does manage to smile at that, though it’s wry and strained.]
Not even your luck can be that bad.
[Though let’s not tempt fate, shall we?
Stephen lets silence settle for a moment or two, before pushing forward with the intent of a man who feels like there’s air to clear, though unable to pinpoint the right words to do so.]
So. Generally— [Vague hand wave] —it’s good news, what I told you. But I’m sure it leaves you feeling a little unmoored and lied to, and I just wanted to say that if you wanted to talk about it, we can. Not necessarily as doctor to patient, but just as someone willing to listen.
( Ah, right. Well, as it turns out you can only avoid a topic so long as both parties are on the same page about it. Jack sighs softly and turns his eyes to his coffee cup, running one of his thumbs across the plastic lid thingy. )
That's really nice of you, but I'm great. I'm good.
( A beat. )
I'm fine.
( Another beat, and then more reluctantly: )
I'm okay.
( A much shorter pause. )
Okay, I'm weird and everything sucks, actually, but that's not your fault, and I don't even really know... why. I mean, I don't even know what it is. How does that even work? Not sleeping I get, but...
[He waits for Jack to stop convincing himself of being fine and okay, which was bound to happen. Jack seems to be many things, but honesty has always been a constant.]
Sleep disorders are a beast unto their own. [Neurological, yes, so Stephen’s expertise falls vaguely in its overarching umbrella, but he’s no sleep doctor.] But from what I can tell, yours shares characteristics of hypersomnia and a severe sleepwalking disorder.
[Not a great combination, and definitely life-altering. But it’s much better than never sleeping at all.]
The how is a little harder to tell just from an MRI. There are no clear signs of a head injury, but that still leaves genetic, environmental, or psychiatric factors to consider. And with everything you’ve told me? It could be just how your brain chooses to cope with all it’s been through.
I mean, I guess that explains why nobody's able to knock me out. I'm probably already out.
( He's not really talking to Stephen, not really talking to himself so much as just stream of consciousness thinking out loud. )
Wait, does that mean I'm not- I'm not hallucinating, I'm dreaming?
( Which... if you think about it, what's the difference, really?
That's why his sense of time is all fucked up, isn't it? Why sometimes it feels like it's been days or weeks when it's only been hours. Because time passes differently in dreams, you can play out massive spans of time, or you can lose track and feel like you've only been asleep for a couple minutes when it's been a full eight hours. )
Holy shit, the car accident—
( Just as soon as the epiphany hits, he shuts it down again. Nope, nope, nope, not dealing with that one here, not right now, not in public. Or... ever. )
[He could tell him about the parallels of sleepwalking, and how he read about a case in medical school about a woman who’d climb the tree in her front yard at night, perfectly balanced on every branch as she plucked its leaves off, one by one — all during a sleepwalker’s thrall. That waking consciousness doesn’t always need to accompany surprising feats of supposed awareness and dexterity.
But Stephen has a feeling he doesn’t need to make that point, that Jack is putting the pieces together himself even if his case is an extreme one. He’s patient, letting him sort it all out — until everything seems to take a sharp turn (car accident?), and he loses him for a second.]
[The absolute worst, and when Stephen’s already hooked his focus into one thing that’s clearly trying to slip away, he’s nearly impossible to shake off.]
Nice try, but that’s not going to work. What car accident? Did something happen?
Look, it's not- it's not important, probably. I just-
( He turns his eyes downward to the coffee cup, picking at the tiny sticker on it while he tries to find he best way to tell the story without... actually telling the story.
He's only ever told one person. It hasn't been relevant, except maybe now it is. Or maybe it isn't. Fuck, he doesn't know. )
When I first got my insomnia diagnosis, me and... my girlfriend decided to travel while I had the chance. It was really spur of the moment, we got in the car and just left. I hadn't slept in like four days, I thought, but I wasn't tired, so I offered to drive. We barely made it a mile out of town, and the next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital. The cop said it looked like someone rammed me off the road from behind, but I've been- I always wondered if I fall asleep at the wheel. But it sounds like... I mean, if that happened, even if I did, I'd still be- aware? So it probably wasn't because of that, or- or maybe it was, or maybe I had insomnia until that happened, and then I stopped... being able to not be... aware, even when I fall asleep? Is that possible? Could it start as insomnia and then just... change like that?
[He knows it relates in an ancillary way at most, but Stephen has to make an effort to push his own experiences out of his head — a car accident that existed in a span of a few terrible moments, that shattered every aspect of his life as he knew it.
The circumstances aren’t the same as what Jack’s telling him, but the end result is always universal with tragedy: a turning point, for good or ill.
There’s a pointed pause before his reply, this time longer than usual.]
What I’ve diagnosed you with today… It isn’t an excuse to start blaming yourself for things that’ve already happened. I could theorize all day long, and I still wouldn’t be able to give you a one-hundred percent, for sure answer.
And even if I could, would it make you feel any better?
( One short contemplative pause, and then he sighs. )
Not really.
( You got him there, sage grand wizard doctor. Besides, even if it would, his immediate regret for oversharing is kicking in like a pissed off horse. )
Could you do me a favor and just... mentally scrub the last two hours from your brain and pretend I handled this in a way that was really cool? Something involving kickflipping a skateboard instead of feeling sorry for myself through text, and then... feeling sorry for myself faster?
[He’s a doctor, Jack. He’s was in the business of people oversharing with him, even if he feels badly equipped half the time to deal with it, outside of a clinical fix-all. And that’s not something he can offer this time — but he can mitigate the other man’s shame over something he can’t control.]
If you weren’t feeling sorry for yourself just a little, I’d be wondering if something else was wrong with you.
[So don’t feel bad.]
And I don’t know if it’s commiseration you want, but if you need to get it off your chest about… [Hand gesture. Awkward.] …bad car accidents, I’ve been there, done that. Even if the situation’s wildly different.
[“Just”. Should his previous self hear him say such a thing, he’d be obscenely offended.
The redirect is fine, though, if it gives him something else to mull over. Something to not hyper-fixate on the fresh revelations regarding sleep and brain issues.]
It was a combination of as many terrible things you could think of, all rolled into one. It was raining, nighttime. I was speeding and texting back-and-forth about prospective new patients.
[Well, going over MRIs, but same difference.]
At that point, you could say I had it coming to me. That's how I got- [He lifts his hands up, affording clearer view of faded scars running up and down his fingers.] -these.
( Just a neurosurgeon. Jack isn't, by nature, very expressive. Even so, there's probably something detectibly deadpan written in him somewhere. His mouth, his shoulders maybe. Oh, but a lowly neurosurgeon.
Raining, texting and driving at night. At least he wasn't drinking.
He blinks at the scars, apparently having gone the entire duration of their knowing each other without noticing them. Not when handed meds or scripts, not during the MRI, not while dying together a thousand times. Nope. Completely oblivious. )
Oh. Huh. Have they been there the whole time? ( Obviously they have, stupid. Come on. ) Neurosurgery must have been really hard after that. One wrong move and their brains are basically mashed potatoes.
( Dark. Inappropriate. Sorry, he's a little desensitized. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He orders something with so much espresso the barista looks some split mix between concerned and appalled, and writes on his cup "Heart Attack Jack".
Which is actually kind of catchy, even if it is morbid. And... probably true. )
Probably. I mean, as long as the guy working behind the counter isn't handing out prophecies with his lattes.
no subject
[He quips without thinking, really, having spotted the name scrawled on the coffee. Maybe it’s a little too morbid for the circumstances at hand, but he realizes that only a half-second after the words have already left his mouth. Did he mention that he’s not very good at this?
Stephen shifts forward in his seat, hand cupped around his own coffee, his other drumming his fingers on the tabletop.
He clears his throat.]
Anyway. I thought it’d be easier to put things into perspective in person. Text loses something.
[“Something” being Stephen’s ability to gauge just how shaken a person will be after receiving perception-altering medical information.]
no subject
He has... absolutely no idea what to think or feel about it. Hell, he barely even understands it. Which means he should definitely ask questions.
Or, alternatively, he could fixate on the stupid irrelevant part of this conversation. )
No thank you on the EKG. The next thing you'll wind up telling me is my heart's been three children in a trench coat this entire time.
no subject
Not even your luck can be that bad.
[Though let’s not tempt fate, shall we?
Stephen lets silence settle for a moment or two, before pushing forward with the intent of a man who feels like there’s air to clear, though unable to pinpoint the right words to do so.]
So. Generally— [Vague hand wave] —it’s good news, what I told you. But I’m sure it leaves you feeling a little unmoored and lied to, and I just wanted to say that if you wanted to talk about it, we can. Not necessarily as doctor to patient, but just as someone willing to listen.
no subject
That's really nice of you, but I'm great. I'm good.
( A beat. )
I'm fine.
( Another beat, and then more reluctantly: )
I'm okay.
( A much shorter pause. )
Okay, I'm weird and everything sucks, actually, but that's not your fault, and I don't even really know... why. I mean, I don't even know what it is. How does that even work? Not sleeping I get, but...
no subject
Sleep disorders are a beast unto their own. [Neurological, yes, so Stephen’s expertise falls vaguely in its overarching umbrella, but he’s no sleep doctor.] But from what I can tell, yours shares characteristics of hypersomnia and a severe sleepwalking disorder.
[Not a great combination, and definitely life-altering. But it’s much better than never sleeping at all.]
The how is a little harder to tell just from an MRI. There are no clear signs of a head injury, but that still leaves genetic, environmental, or psychiatric factors to consider. And with everything you’ve told me? It could be just how your brain chooses to cope with all it’s been through.
no subject
( He's not really talking to Stephen, not really talking to himself so much as just stream of consciousness thinking out loud. )
Wait, does that mean I'm not- I'm not hallucinating, I'm dreaming?
( Which... if you think about it, what's the difference, really?
That's why his sense of time is all fucked up, isn't it? Why sometimes it feels like it's been days or weeks when it's only been hours. Because time passes differently in dreams, you can play out massive spans of time, or you can lose track and feel like you've only been asleep for a couple minutes when it's been a full eight hours. )
Holy shit, the car accident—
( Just as soon as the epiphany hits, he shuts it down again. Nope, nope, nope, not dealing with that one here, not right now, not in public. Or... ever. )
no subject
But Stephen has a feeling he doesn’t need to make that point, that Jack is putting the pieces together himself even if his case is an extreme one. He’s patient, letting him sort it all out — until everything seems to take a sharp turn (car accident?), and he loses him for a second.]
What car accident?
no subject
( He echoes immediately, unconvincingly, because Jack is fucking terrible at deception. Like, genuinely the worst.
Quick, change the subject. )
How are you? How's your doctoring going?
no subject
Nice try, but that’s not going to work. What car accident? Did something happen?
[He asks out of concern, okay.]
no subject
( He turns his eyes downward to the coffee cup, picking at the tiny sticker on it while he tries to find he best way to tell the story without... actually telling the story.
He's only ever told one person. It hasn't been relevant, except maybe now it is. Or maybe it isn't. Fuck, he doesn't know. )
When I first got my insomnia diagnosis, me and... my girlfriend decided to travel while I had the chance. It was really spur of the moment, we got in the car and just left. I hadn't slept in like four days, I thought, but I wasn't tired, so I offered to drive. We barely made it a mile out of town, and the next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital. The cop said it looked like someone rammed me off the road from behind, but I've been- I always wondered if I fall asleep at the wheel. But it sounds like... I mean, if that happened, even if I did, I'd still be- aware? So it probably wasn't because of that, or- or maybe it was, or maybe I had insomnia until that happened, and then I stopped... being able to not be... aware, even when I fall asleep? Is that possible? Could it start as insomnia and then just... change like that?
no subject
The circumstances aren’t the same as what Jack’s telling him, but the end result is always universal with tragedy: a turning point, for good or ill.
There’s a pointed pause before his reply, this time longer than usual.]
What I’ve diagnosed you with today… It isn’t an excuse to start blaming yourself for things that’ve already happened. I could theorize all day long, and I still wouldn’t be able to give you a one-hundred percent, for sure answer.
And even if I could, would it make you feel any better?
no subject
Not really.
( You got him there, sage grand wizard doctor. Besides, even if it would, his immediate regret for oversharing is kicking in like a pissed off horse. )
Could you do me a favor and just... mentally scrub the last two hours from your brain and pretend I handled this in a way that was really cool? Something involving kickflipping a skateboard instead of feeling sorry for myself through text, and then... feeling sorry for myself faster?
( Because of, you know. The caffeine. )
no subject
If you weren’t feeling sorry for yourself just a little, I’d be wondering if something else was wrong with you.
[So don’t feel bad.]
And I don’t know if it’s commiseration you want, but if you need to get it off your chest about… [Hand gesture. Awkward.] …bad car accidents, I’ve been there, done that. Even if the situation’s wildly different.
no subject
Time to latch on to the potential redirect. )
I wouldn't have guessed sorcerers could actually get into car accidents. What happened?
ages later, i'm sorry
[“Just”. Should his previous self hear him say such a thing, he’d be obscenely offended.
The redirect is fine, though, if it gives him something else to mull over. Something to not hyper-fixate on the fresh revelations regarding sleep and brain issues.]
It was a combination of as many terrible things you could think of, all rolled into one. It was raining, nighttime. I was speeding and texting back-and-forth about prospective new patients.
[Well, going over MRIs, but same difference.]
At that point, you could say I had it coming to me. That's how I got- [He lifts his hands up, affording clearer view of faded scars running up and down his fingers.] -these.
i am slow as balls it's ok
Raining, texting and driving at night. At least he wasn't drinking.
He blinks at the scars, apparently having gone the entire duration of their knowing each other without noticing them. Not when handed meds or scripts, not during the MRI, not while dying together a thousand times. Nope. Completely oblivious. )
Oh. Huh. Have they been there the whole time? ( Obviously they have, stupid. Come on. ) Neurosurgery must have been really hard after that. One wrong move and their brains are basically mashed potatoes.
( Dark. Inappropriate. Sorry, he's a little desensitized. )