(As someone who used to suffer debilitating panic attacks, this is relevant to my interests.)
Sometimes it’s a slow burn that starts at the tips of his fingers. Creeping up along his arms to his spine and then down until he’s almost numb from head to toe. Too many cameras pushed into his face. A sea of unfamiliar faces. The words won’t come and he can’t move even to cover his face from the glare and the noise. No one knows and no one cares to help him so he’s frozen as his throat closes.
Other times it’s quick, like a shot to the chest. He’s lunging out of bed, gasping and dizzy. His legs won’t respond and he slips to the ground, heaving breaths that never give him enough oxygen. He’s drowning, sinking below the surface. His mind is a cloud that won’t focus. Can’t focus. He’s lost. Lost and he’ll never resurface. He’s going to die like this. Fuck, he’s–
“Shepard.”
It always ends the same way. Or starts to. A warm hand on the small of his back and a honey-whiskey voice in his ear. “Shepard.” Like he’s reciting a poem or a prayer. “Breathe with me, Shepard. I’m here.”
Steady in and out. Back and forth. Slowly it all comes back to him. The most important things. His reality. The lip scar. Salt and pepper temples. Amber eyes. Strong arms. The reassuring grip of long fingers. It always, always, ends the same way. With Kaidan Alenko. His lifeline.
Jupiter Astrid James 