pillow talk

                                    

                                          
you were choking. 
the walls closed in until they crushed you. there was no escape, no air, no hope. your heart pounded in your chest like a creature trying to escape a cage. it was too fast. any minute now it would explode, filling your chest with blood and shreds of tissue, and you would assuredly die. already there was a lead weight on your chest, caving it in, crushing you. you couldn't sit up straight, couldn't draw a breath, couldn't stop the choking sobs. you were the only one in the room, but you could feel every foul presence in the hotel bearing down on you. each one licked its lips and bared its teeth and stretched out its grasping claws towards you. 
dimly, you registered the sound of the door creaking open, followed by light graceful footsteps that you would likely have recognized had you been in a better mental state. as it was, you barely even noticed when he sat beside you on the bed. when he stroked your back, you flinched away. he hated it when you flinched away, but you couldn't help it. 
"you're alright, darling," he said. the low, even sound of his voice cut through the panicked haze in your mind, but it did nothing to stop your heart from racing. "breathe with me. count to ten." 
if you'd had a breath to spare, you might have laughed at the absurdity of the situation: a murderous spirit sitting next to you in a haunted hotel room, caressing your back and asking you to breathe with him. he had not needed to draw a breath in decades. but you heard the sounds, saw his chest rise and fall out of the corner of your eyes. he counted slowly, taking deep, measured inhalations, and before long you found yourself following suit. he counted over and over again, letting the easy cadence of his voice soothe your senses. gradually, the walls eased away from you. the weight on your chest began to lessen. the adrenaline that had once flooded your muscles ebbed away, leaving you feeling cold and dull. it seemed that your every muscle was trembling. he had not stopped stroking your back. when you sniffled and ducked your head to wipe your eyes, he cleared his throat. 
"are you back with me, dearest?" his voice sounded fond, but you couldn't make yourself look at him. you'd been having these attacks all your life, since long before the first time you'd set foot in the hotel. people had always reassured you that panic attacks happened to plenty of people, that they weren't anything to be ashamed of, but you didn't really believe them. it wasn't normal for your heart to threaten to explode. it wasn't normal to feel like you were drowning in molten lead. so you'd always locked yourself away in the middle of an attack, hidden somewhere dark and tight and lonely, and let your irrationality run its course. it was better than letting anyone else lay eyes on you, letting them look at you with pity or ridicule, or worse—concern. 
but james always knew. maybe it was because he took such pleasure in the panic of his victims. maybe it was because he was so closely linked with his hotel. maybe hidden spirits told him. but he always knew when you were trying to lock yourself away, and he always came to your side like this. as much as you appreciated it, it was also a little mortifying. james patrick march was a man who could take half a dozen lives, wipe the blood off of his face, and go to a fancy dinner with a smile on his face, but you sometimes couldn't even walk down a hallway without being seized by some nameless terror? it was pathetic. 
as though he knew what you were thinking—because of course he knew what you were thinking—he cupped your cheek to turn your face towards him. when you finally met his gaze, his smile lit up his entire face. "there you are," he said, and tucked some of your hair behind your ear. "what can i do?" 
the temptation to shrug him off and flee was strong. all you truly wanted to do was stay here in your room for the rest of the night. these sorts of attacks had a way of destroying you, of completely draining you for the rest of the night. he had other things to do, you knew: people to visit, victims to claim. even dead, james was not one for idleness. but you'd tried telling him that before, and it only ever resulted in fights. you weren't feeling strong enough to fight right now.