Somehow, Master Sunder manages to re-age Faie in less than an hour. A simple fix, he said, and just like that, the nightmare’s over. Everything can go back to normal now, except for the part where Faie storms into the barracks, tells Penchant to go fuck himself and never talk to him again, and locks himself in his quarters. Actually, even that’s pretty normal. Faie’s told him they’re never speaking again at least twenty times now, so Penchant’s not too worried about it.
What he is worried about is the potential side effects of the whole affair, so he flips the bird at Faie’s door and heads down to the medical bay. Master Sunder’s got some questions to answer.
“Sergeant, I can’t—”
“Master,” Penchant interrupts. “We’re not legally sentient. HHNA doesn’t apply to us.”
He sighs, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Even so, Sergeant, I’m not comfortable sharing private medical information with you, especially without Commander Faie’s consent.”
Penchant draws his eyebrows together and pouts and does his best kicked akk dog impersonation. “Master, please. I’m his SIC. If he’s unstable, I need to know.”
Sunder sighs and all the posturing goes out of him at once. Penchant’s won. “Fine, fine. I’m not a trauma counsellor, Sergeant,” he warns, “but, in my experience, the next two weeks will be the worst. Being regressed in such a way was a huge trigger. He’s not living in the present right now.”
“Thank you, Master,” Penchant says, standing and shaking his hand. “I’ll take care of him; don’t worry.”
Sunder smiles up at him. “I know you will, Sergeant Penchant. You’re a good man.”
Penchant was prepared for the backlash, for the meltdown. What he wasn’t prepared for was Faie crawling into his sleeping bag at o’kark-thirty in the morning a tenday later, breathing far too steadily to be natural.
“Hey,” Penchant rasps. “Hey, what the fuck?”
Faie doesn’t give him a verbal answer, just grumbles nonsense into Penchant’s neck and insinuates himself further into his personal fucking space.
“Commander, the fuck?” he tries again. Nothing. Faie presses socked feet to Penchant’s calves. He’s stronger than Penchant, and shorter, so with the iron grip he’s got on Penchant’s blacks, he’s going to be difficult to dislodge.
Then, impossibly, Faie sobs.
“Oh,” Penchant murmurs. “Alright, Faie, I’ve gotcha.” He stops holding himself back, starts reciprocating Faie’s cuddle.
“It’s like I’m possessed,” Faie whispers. His voice breaks around another sob as he stammers, “It’s like he’s in my head.”
“He’s not,” Penchant whispers, cradling the back of Faie’s head in his hands.
Faie pushes into his touch, baring his tear-stained face to the little bit of moonlight filtering through the tent. “He is.”
“He’s not. I promise you he’s not.” Penchant tangles his fingers in Faie’s curls, tugging gently. “It’s just you and your stupid, wrinkly brain in there, Commander.”
Faie begins to sob in earnest. Penchant just holds on.
The panic attack (because it is a panic attack, the rhythm of his breathing says that much) builds and crests and fades away until Faie is limp and exhausted in his arms. Penchant presses his face into Faie’s hair and soothes a hand up and down his side.
“Get some sleep, Commander,” Penchant says, and Faie huffs.
“Don’ give me orders, Sergeant.”
“I’ll give you whatever godsdamned orders I want,” Penchant laughs.
“M’kay.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Go the fuck to sleep.”