Charlie #3
“There’s nothing to worry about,” he murmurs, lips brushing against my hair. “I’ve flown with this pilot many times and have never had anything but a smooth flight.”
I wish I could tell him that I was more concerned about the process of being kidnapped rather than the possibility of a plane crash, but now I’m concerned about both things!
The plane hums around us, a deeper, heavier sound than before, vibrating up through the floor and into the seat and then into Nikolaus’s body, making me flush and avert my eyes when it causes my butt to shake on his lap, right over something I should most definitely not be shaking on.
Then the pilot’s voice comes through a speaker, too muffled and professional for me to understand more than a few words. Clear skies. New York. Please remain seated.
Constantine answers something I don’t catch, then sits across from us with the air of a man settling into an unpleasant but familiar chore. He fastens his seat belt, checks his phone one more time, and looks at Nikolaus.
Nikolaus does not move me from his lap.
He only reaches to the side, finds the belt for his seat, and secures it around both of us with the kind of efficiency that makes it very clear he has already decided there will be no argument.
The strap crosses low over my hips and part of his thigh, pinning me there in a way that should make me fight.
I don’t.
I stare at the dark buttons of his shirt and breathe against the fabric while my blankie remains crushed between my hands, its worn edge tucked under my chin.
The plane begins to move.
Not much at first. Just a slow roll that my body notices before my brain does, a subtle shifting underneath us, like the room has decided to become a vehicle after all. I lift my head half an inch, then immediately put it back down when the motion makes my stomach feel slippery.
“Easy,” Nikolaus says, stroking behind my ear. “That’s it. Just stay tucked in.”
The plane turns.
Stops.
And waits.
Then the engines grow louder, the sound building and building, filling every available space, pressing at the windows and the floor and my ribs.
“You’re safe,” Nikolaus says, louder now because of the sound of the plane, but still gentle. “I’ve got you.”
As the plane surges forward, the pressure of speed pushes me back into Nikolaus’s body, and I make a small, frightened sound into his chest because there is no way to hide from the feeling of the ground abandoning us.
The wheels rumble beneath us, faster and faster, until the whole plane seems to shiver, and then suddenly the vibration changes.
I know we’re in the air from the strange floating lift in my stomach. I don’t look out the window. I don’t need to. My body understands that there is sky beneath us now, far too much of it, and something inside me lets out a silent, useless scream.
Nikolaus kisses the top of my head.
“There,” he murmurs. “That part’s done.”
And honestly, his words do help for a few seconds, at least until my ears begin to hurt.
At first, it’s only pressure, a tight fullness spreading behind both ears as the plane climbs. My jaw works, once, twice, three times. I swallow, or try to, but my throat feels dry and stiff, and the pressure is only getting worse.
I haven’t flown in close to six or so years, and with everything else going on, I forgot that flying hurts my ears.
Not just a little either. It hurts in that deep, awful, helpless way where the pressure builds and builds until it feels like something inside my head has been screwed too tight and is going to explode.
The last time I flew, I had spent most of the descent with tears slipping down my face while the woman beside me pretended not to notice.
My mouth stretches wide again, jaw opening as far as it will go while I try to force the pressure to pop. Nothing happens, so I swallow again, but still—nothing. I try to yawn, but it comes out wrong, my jaw aching with the effort, ears full and sharp and hot from the inside.
Nikolaus’s hand stills in my hair as he notices. “Charlie?”
I shake my head, not meaning no exactly, only meaning I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. The movement makes the pressure spike, and I wince so hard my whole face crumples.
Nikolaus goes rigid. “What is it?” he asks, concern cutting through the warmth in his voice so fast that it almost frightens me more than the pain. “Baby, look at me. What hurts?”
I can’t answer.
The words are somewhere underneath the pressure and the cotton and the fact that my mouth is opening and closing like a fish.
I stretch my jaw again, wider this time, then press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, swallowing hard enough to make my throat click, but my ears still don’t pop.
The ache only deepens, blooming outward toward my temples until tears spring to my eyes.
Nikolaus stares at me with growing alarm the longer I don’t say anything, while I keep making stupid little grimaces and try to force my ears open by stretching my mouth like an idiot.
“Charlie,” he says, more forcefully. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
I shake my head again.
Another tear slips out, more from pain than fear this time, though there are plenty of both mixed together. I lift one hand, but I don’t know what to do with it. Point to my ears? That seems so obvious, but also impossible. My fingers flutter uselessly near my cheek, then drop back to my blankie.
Nikolaus catches my wrist gently before it falls.
“Where?” he asks urgently. “Show me.”
I try.
I really do.
But the plane is still climbing, the pressure keeps building, and the floaty place has turned into something murky and thick where every instruction arrives too late.
I open my mouth wide again, jaw trembling, then squeeze my eyes shut and make a tiny, pained sound I would be embarrassed by if I had any room left for embarrassment.
Nikolaus curses under his breath. “Constantine. What the fuck is wrong with him?”