Pack Dynamics

by Julie Frost

  Megan flinched, and her wolf whined. “That … had to be hard on him.”

  “You could say that. I didn’t find that out until later. So some mucky-muck or other puts on this big dinner for returning vets, hires my boss to cater it, might have been Alex, in fact. And I’m there, waiting tables, hadn’t thought about Ben in months except in passing—you know, ‘Gee, I wonder how old what’s-his-name is doing’ sort of thing—and there he was. Barely holding it together. You could see the effort he was making to not collapse and lose his shit at this thing, because it was too much, too soon. He’d only been back for something like five months, and he’d been a prisoner for seven.” She rubbed her arms. “And he managed it. I have no idea how, I would have been hiding under the table making blubbering noises, but he did it.”

  “Tougher than he looks,” Megan said.

  Janni nodded. “Oh, yeah. But he’s a lot more fragile than he looks too.…”

  O O O

  Janni had been the last one out of the reception center that night. The live-in owner locked up behind her, and she walked across the parking lot to her car. The familiar strains of “Don’t Fear the Reaper” made Janni look up from fumbling for her keys, and she felt a moment of disquiet when she realized that hers wasn’t the only car left in the lot.

  She shaded her eyes from the overhead lights and saw that whoever was in the beat-up yellow Jeep was resting his forehead on the steering wheel with his shoulders slumped. She tilted her head and frowned, debating if she should get involved. She’d been on her feet in high heels for three solid hours and just wanted to go home to a hot bath and a movie script. She had an audition the next day.

  But she wasn’t completely heartless, so she decided to make sure the guy was okay and then go. She took a couple of steps toward the car, squinting, and realized she knew him. She took her hand out of her purse and off the grip of the little .380 her mother insisted she carry when she worked late nights (because she wasn’t completely stupid, either). Walking up to the car, she tapped on the window with a fingernail in the silence between songs. The window slid down, and Ben looked at her without turning his head.

  They’d recognized each other at dinner, made small talk. Janni had inwardly admired him, because he’d been through hell in Afghanistan and come out whole on the other side. But “whole” was apparently an illusion he wore like a mask, and maybe she hadn’t been imagining things when she thought he might flee from the room at any second during dinner.

  The mask was off now. His over-long blond hair was a curly mess; it looked as if he’d been running his hand through it again and again. Dark circles surrounded his eyes behind his glasses. He’d taken off his suit jacket and unknotted his tie, and the sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled up over his forearms.

  “Hey,” he said. She could barely hear him over the music. His fists clenched and relaxed, clenched and relaxed. She didn’t think he was even conscious of doing it.

  She inhaled sharply when she saw the handgun sitting on the passenger seat. “Hey,” she answered. Trying to be nonchalant and failing rather miserably. She couldn’t keep the squeak out of her voice, and she swallowed hard at the metallic taste of fear that filled her mouth. “I’m, uh, done here and could really use a cup of coffee. I’d love some company?” Her palms were sweaty and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

  He closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath. His hand twitched toward the gun, and Janni froze—no way could she stop him if he was going to do something drastic, although adrenaline had flooded her system and she was pretty sure she could jump over the Jeep from a standing start if she wanted to, even though the thing had a good four-inch lift. She wasn’t worried about Ben shooting her, because … well. He just wouldn’t. But shooting himself was a real possibility.

  A memory from high school bubbled up—she’d been upset about something, didn’t even remember what it was, and he’d made her laugh with some unexpected and off-the-wall sarcastic comment. It was something he did all the time, back then.

  But she wondered how close to the edge he was now, if confronting him was the one last thing that would push him over, if maybe she should have left him alone. But “left him alone to do precisely what” didn’t bear thinking about, and his hand stopped briefly before moving to the radio knob to turn the music off. “You know a place?” he asked into the sudden silence.

  “Yeah.” Her heart hammered in her chest. “There’s one just around the corner. Let me take you there.”

  He forced the most brittle smile she’d ever seen, and she relaxed. Marginally. “Okay,” he said. “Sure. Okay.”

  She stepped away to give him room to get out, and the window rolled back up before his door opened and the locks clicked. She glanced through the door as he got out, and the gun was gone from the seat. She hoped he’d put it in the glove box instead of his pocket, but didn’t want to ask. They got into her little blue Hyundai, and she started it up and put it in gear before she noticed— “Seat belt?” She’d fastened hers automatically.

  “Don’t wear ’em,” he said shortly. She flinched, and he eased up with a rueful twist of his mouth. “Bad memories, honey. I don’t like being restrained. It’s a thing.”

  When they got to the cafe and sat down with decaf and coffee cake, Janni had to almost physically stop herself from asking what had happened to him in Afghanistan. Reliving the horror right now wouldn’t do him any favors, and he still had the tense bearing of someone who wanted to bolt off into the night.

  Ben picked at the cake with his fork, not eating, just shredding it. Now that she had him, she didn’t know what to say, and he didn’t seem inclined to volunteer. Her heart hurt to see him like this—the boy she’d gone to school with had been cheerful on good days and bitingly cynical but still funny on bad ones, and the man who’d come back from war was a silent, wounded stranger.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’m not very good at this interpersonal stuff anymore.”

  “No, hey, it’s all right.” She reached across the table and touched his hand. “I get it.”

  His head didn’t come up, but his eyes did. “Do you?”

  She examined the silverware pattern. What a stupid thing to say. “Well. Not really. How could I? But—” She faltered. “If you want to talk about it, emphasis on the if—”

  “I don’t. Talk about it.” The muscles in his throat worked as he swallowed, hard. Scars ringed his wrists, standing out in sharp relief against his tan, and he rubbed them with his thumbs. The short, choppy sentences came out in a rapid staccato. “More a matter of can’t. That way lies panic attacks. Hyperventilating. People call ambulances or the cops because I pass out or lash out, in public. Random panic attacks and flashbacks are awful enough. Remembering on purpose is just stupid.” A light tremor shook his whole body, and his face was gaunt and pale. He abruptly set his fork down.

  He wouldn’t want her pity, she told herself. But her own hands trembled, rattling her fork against her plate, and her eyes stung with unshed tears, a mixture of sorrow and anger. “I hope, I hope the people who did that to you are all dead,” she said furiously.

  He tilted his head, appraising her, and bared his teeth in a mirthless smile. “They are. It was … untidy.”

  “Good.” She was surprised at how protective she felt of him.

  The smile softened. “You … are adorable when you’re mad. Fierce Hermia.”

  They’d read Midsummer Night’s Dream in junior year English class together and memorized some of the scenes for extra credit—and he remembered the nickname he’d given her all those years ago.

  A couple of her tears splashed onto the table, and he squeezed her hand. “It’s okay,” he said. That was clearly a gigantic lie, because it certainly wasn’t okay and he might never be okay again. Shouldn’t she be the one consoling him?

  “Come home with me.” She wasn’t usually this impulsive, but the notion of him going off by himself was intolerable.

  “I don’t
expect you to—” he started.

  She put her fingers over his mouth. “Call it comfort from an old friend. You shouldn’t have to do this by yourself, Ben.” She was almost in physical pain, seeing him like this.

  He closed his eyes and dropped his head and nodded. She wondered how many nights he’d spent alone, fighting his demons. Too many, no doubt; the gun on his passenger seat told her all she needed to know about that. She hid a shudder at the thought that he might have lost the battle tonight if she hadn’t knocked on his window.

  When they got to her little apartment, he offered to take the couch. She blinked several times. “What? No. Don’t be ridiculous. We’re both grownups, and I don’t sleep naked as a rule.” She retreated into the bathroom to change into her favorite pair of flannel penguin pajamas. He grinned crookedly when she came out, and she blushed.

  Ben was a boxers-and-T-shirt man. She loaned him a tee that she’d bought at a zoo, oversized on her, but it fit him, especially since he’d clearly lost a good twenty pounds that he couldn’t afford since she’d seen him last. He turned to put his glasses on the dresser and shucked his dress shirt.

  She couldn’t hide her gasp. The scars on his back—the ones around his wrists were dismaying enough, but they were nothing compared to the horror that criss-crossed his shoulders and spine.

  Ben flinched at the gasp and hurriedly pulled the tee on with a muttered curse. Turning to face her, he gathered her in his arms. “Sorry. I didn’t think—”

  She buried her face in his shoulder and whispered, “I thought I knew, but seeing it like that, oh, Ben …”

  He didn’t say anything more, just brushed a tear off her cheek with his thumb, and they stood there like that for a few minutes before she backed them toward the bed, not letting go of him. They fell in together, and he stuck his nose in her hair while she tucked her head under his chin.

  “What did they do to you?” she asked.

  “I don’t want to dump—”

  “If I didn’t want to be dumped on, I wouldn’t ask. And if you don’t talk about it, the internal pressure will shatter you, Ben.” Shatter him more, she thought. “This is a safe place. I won’t judge. I’ll just listen. All right?”

  He rolled to his back and took a shallow, unsteady breath. “What they did to me wasn’t the worst part. It was what they did to her.” A pause before he continued. “Most of my unit was killed in the convoy ambush. Five of us lived. Prissy …” He swallowed.

  “Prissy?” That didn’t sound like someone in the Army. Janni got up on an elbow and watched his face.

  “Corporal Priscilla Hanson.” One side of his mouth curled up. “We called her “Prissy” for the same reason you name a white dog ‘Blackie.’ She thought it was funny. Tiny little spitfire. Smoked giant cigars. Cussed like a sailor. Cleaned up in our poker games.” He shook his head. “I loved her. So much.”

  “Did she love you?”

  “Hell if I know. You can’t—” A sigh. “Stuff like that’ll tear a unit apart. You keep it platonic if you’re smart. So I never told her. And they—” The words stuck in his throat.

  She caressed his chest. “Take your time.”

  “Knife against her throat. ‘Don’t you tell them a thing, Sarge,’ she said to me. And then she spat full in that fu— bastard’s face. And he.”

  The hell of it was, Ben wasn’t crying. Janni was, though, dreading what would surely come next, silent tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “So much blood. On them. On me. She died cursing them. Roundly.” His breath hitched, but his eyes were still dry. “I wish they’d killed me instead.”

  “I’m so sorry, Ben.” It came out in a pitifully inadequate choked whisper, but it was what she had.

  His arms tightened around her, even as the rest of him went slack, and he kissed her hair. “Thank you.” The words slurred, and a second later his breathing told her he’d fallen into an exhausted slumber.

  He woke them both up later, screaming about needles and thrashing in the grip of a nightmare. She wrapped around him and kissed his temple and told him to breathe, that he was safe with her. He believed it, because he didn’t take long at all to drop back into a sleep that was dreamless, this time.

  And, lying in the darkness beside him, rubbing his arm with the backs of her fingers and staring at the ceiling, she knew she’d made the right decision.

  O O O

  “Holy crap,” Megan said, for more than one reason. Janni had really thrown herself face-first into the situation. “He wasn’t going to kill himself in front of you.”

  “He wouldn’t do that to me. Or anyone. It just happened to be me, there, at that particular moment. And he wasn’t going to chase me off with vague reassurances, because he knew if he did I’d blame myself for not stopping him. He told me that later.”

  Janni’s arms tightened around her head. “That was almost two years ago. I moved in with him six months later, and we’ve been together ever since. And he was making so much progress, the nightmares have been getting less and less, like, one or two a month, except just lately he’s been having a tough time because it’s close to the anniversary of the date when the insurgents took him. Shit.” Her nails raked her scalp. “Not only that, but when he disappeared? I wondered—I wondered if it had gotten too much for him. And now I feel bad about thinking that, because he wouldn’t take off without a word that way, or at least a damn note. He just wouldn’t.”

  She forced back a sob. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to go through it with him again, Megan. He’s had one hell of a setback here.”

  “He seems to be taking it okay,” Megan said carefully.

  “For now. He holds a lot inside. Sometimes he drinks when he can’t sleep. And he won’t take anti-depressants because—well, because.”

  “Because why, Janni?” Megan asked gently. “It might be important, later.” Something was still off, and she wanted as much information as she could get.

  Janni took a shaking breath. “I shouldn’t—” She stopped and scrubbed her face. “He doesn’t talk about it, and I’m not sure anyone knows but me and a couple of military psych types. I haven’t even told Mom. But … you know how there’s a huge heroin industry in Afghanistan? The insurgents that captured him—” She shook her head, and tears tracked down her cheeks. “Anyway. It’s given him mad needle fear and a terror of being addicted to anything that’d be pathological if he didn’t have a damn good reason for it.”

  Megan filled in the blanks and filed away that piece of data. It explained a lot, actually, because if Ben was on something, he should have been a lot more stable. “He’s been through too much.”

  “Yeah.” Janni ground her teeth. “If he hadn’t shot those people, I’d want to do it for him. Seriously. He’s the sweetest, gentlest guy I’ve ever known, and the fact that they did that to him, and then he felt like he had to kill them? Just frosts me. He never wanted to do that ever again …”

  Megan’s wolf sympathized; she wanted to kill those men all over again for Ben, too. Somehow, when Megan wasn’t looking, “pack” had been expanded to include Ben and Janni. “What is it they say? A day at a time?”

  “Yeah.” Janni sighed, hugged her knees for a second, staring at the wall, and then stood up and wiped her face with her sleeve. “I’d better get back there and make sure he hasn’t woken up and hacked into the mainframe at NASA or something just for fun.”

  “Janni? Thanks for telling me.”

  “Thanks for asking. Most people don’t; they just make assumptions.”

  Megan bumped her shoulder companionably. “I work for Alex Jarrett. Making assumptions is dangerous.”

  They exchanged rueful looks.

  “Why do women go to the bathroom in groups?” Alex asked as they came back into the lab.

  “So we can talk about men,” Megan said with an evil grin.

  “Yeah?” He was unabashed. “What’d you say about me?”

  “That you have an ego big enough to fill six hou
ses this size and still spill out the doors.”

  “Only six? I’m disappointed. Clearly, I’ll have to work on that.”

  “Don’t hurt yourself. Where’d Chambliss go?”

  “Upstairs to do butler … stuff. I guess.”

  O O O

  Janni let their banter wash over her as she climbed onto the bed next to Ben. He was still sleeping, although somewhat restlessly, and she slid her arm under his head with the ease of long practice and pillowed it on her shoulder. He curled into her body, throwing an arm and a leg across her and relaxing. She combed her fingers through his hair and frowned.

  “He’s … wow, he’s burning up. Should he be this hot?”

  Alex’s head swiveled around. “The nanotech makes you run hotter than normal, but how hot is he?” He wheeled the office chair over and felt Ben’s forehead. “Yeah … let me give Reed a call.”

  He picked up the phone and punched a button. “Mike? We’ve got some concerns about Ben … What? No, he’s not acting weird or anything, why would he do that? … O-kay. Anyway, I know the nanotech can put you in, like, a sort of fever state? … Yeah, I’ve been through it often enough myself. But this seems, I don’t know, kind of over the top. I’d like it if you could come down sooner rather than later and check him out.… That’d be great. Thanks.” He hung up. “He’s on his way.”

  Janni’s arms tightened around Ben. “Acting weird?”

  “Well, it can make you run a fever while it revs up your metabolism. And sometimes some pretty wild hallucinations come along with it.”