Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Quackity was, assumedly, the last person to walk into the back room of the library for the therapy group he’d signed up for- this was fitting, in his opinion, because he was also, assumedly, the one least excited to be here. A friend had recommended this therapist, who asked to be referred to as Bad, to him several weeks ago and this group had been presented as an up-and-coming option- Las Nevadas, Bad called it, and the six current members were all there because of their mental health struggles and consequent failed suicide attempts. Despite this ‘reassurance’ that the others would understand and respect what he was going through, Quackity was dreading actually showing up.

He was running a few minutes late, but that wasn’t actually out of a lack of preparation or even spite; he had expected the therapy session to be held in one of the library’s conference rooms, and when he couldn’t find anything, had to experience the humiliation of going to the front desk and asking the librarian where his therapy was supposed to be held. She’d directed him down the hallway and to a ‘little nook’ in the back that was supposedly ‘more comfy and suitable for the nature of the meeting’. When he finally got there, he slumped down in the armchair left vacant for him, pretending his face wasn’t burning with embarrassment, and tried to take in his surroundings and the new faces without appearing to stare.

The room was more comfortable, admittedly- Bad had made a good decision swapping the stuffy gray room and folding chairs for a warmly lit sitting area surrounded by books. Quackity could admit that much, even if he hadn’t relaxed completely yet. Bad was the only one Quackity recognized, thankfully, and it was only because he’d looked up both the office Bad worked at and his records there that Quackity knew what he looked like. Despite this town being relatively small, it seemed he wouldn’t have to face the awkwardness of encountering old college classmates here or anything; though he was slightly surprised to notice two of the guys seemed a bit older than college age- in their late twenties, at least; one looked pretty put-together in a black turtleneck and dark green coat, keeping a decent posture, and the other looked southern, like Quackity himself, but perhaps closer to the eastern Deissempii border, his suspicions further confirmed by the expensive-looking cloak bordered with shells and beads in a traditionally Undynne Desert fashion. Nothing wrong with them being older, really, but Quackity had thought he’d see more of the ‘depressed, overworked students’ sort of look here; though really, none of them seemed to fit that stereotype- maybe Quackity himself and the guy on the couch who looked only eighteen or so, wearing a purple hoodie that was definitely a very conscious, confusing choice on his part. Quackity didn’t know quite what to think about either of those things.

“Well, I think we can get started now.” Bad clasped his hand together, sounding rather cheerful given the situation they were in. At least his tone was gentle, keeping him from sounding too overbearing. And maybe Quackity was starting to overanalyze out of social anxiety. “I’ll give us a little opening to the session and let you all introduce yourselves. The plan is to take it easy today and start to learn about each other. I have a topic to cover if we have some extra time. Now, I’d like this to be as calm and comfortable for everyone as possible, so I won’t call on you unless nobody speaks for too long. But I’ll try to let you talk when you’re ready.”

He glanced around the room for general approval, not that he probably needed it when he was the therapist. Quackity was on his far right with only one person in between them, so that was most likely why Bad’s gaze lingered on him a second at the end, softening slightly. He tried to brush it off and ignore the humiliation slowly creeping back up on him.

He tugged his beanie down, hiding as much of his hair as possible even though it was definitely sticking out on the back of his neck.

“So here’s what I’d like: Please introduce yourself with your preferred name, age, and -if you’re willing to- what sort of work you do or are studying for. And then a fact about yourself.” Bad continued after a moment, breaking out into a smile. “And not a fun fact- Really, I don't want you guys to tell us something super fun- it can be boring as you want. Just something you think makes you a little bit of who you are.”

Bad was doing a good job of looking reassuring, which Quackity would give him credit for. It almost made Quackity feel guilty for not trusting him, but that thought was going to be squashed immediately or Quackity was never coming back to another session with this guy. Instead of speaking up like Bad had asked, Quackity stared at the carpet in the center of the room and waited to see what other people would do, figuring their answers would say plenty about them and give him a better idea of how to not give away too much right off the bat. How to fit in, as it was. Make him seem at least okay, if not normal.

“I’ll start?” Bad finally offered, sounding just the slightest bit disappointed that no-one was ready to talk yet. “You can call me Bad. I’m a licensed cognitive behavioral and occupational therapist, and I’m thirty-nine years old. A boring fact about me is that I listen to ‘old music’, according to my son. It’s just from the seventies, though.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” the person on Bad’s left offered, but didn’t reply further. He was, frankly, the only one here who looked more unhappy to be here than Quackity himself was, but his comment did make him seem a bit more approachable. Unfortunately, the reasons he looked unapproachable outnumbered that fact- his arms were crossed, his narrowed, pale brown eyes made his expression turn to a scowl, and his arms -what visible of them under his coat, anyway- were littered in small burn scars, making him seem all the more intimidating.

It took a few more agonizing seconds for anyone to reply, though Quackity wasn’t surprised at that. No-one wanted to go first, admit that to everyone who they were and why they were here. Even though they all saw this part of the session coming; even if they all clearly wanted to get to the ‘feel better’ part. They had to get to know each other eventually, after all. But Quackity wasn’t jumping on the chance to relive the old middle-school ice-breakers, either, so he had nothing to say for himself. Idly, he tried to guess who would go first- maybe the guy with the graying ginger hair sitting across from Bad? And while that little ‘boring fact’ bit didn’t make it any easier for Quackity to come up with something, he did respect the attempt to relieve the pressure. And he could think of plenty of boring things about himself- He wore a beanie to cover his hair every day because he was self-conscious about it, his handwriting is poor because he broke some of his fingers once and they became crooked, he thinks the Manbergian food he’s had to eat since moving here is bland in comparison to the meals his family used to make at home. . . but all of that is too honest and too easy for Bad to pick apart as ‘a discussion topic’ or a ‘problem he developed’ for Quackity to want to say any of that.

Eventually, the guy sitting between Quackity and Bad spoke up, pushing up his thick-framed glasses before he did. His tone was even cheerier than Bad’s, and he smiled casually like he was talking to friends already. “Hi, everyone, I’m Charlie. I’m very human. I’m twenty-five and work at a sandwich shop with my friends right now, and. . .” He drew out the word, face scrunching up in thought. “I have all my bones! That’s boring, I think. It’s normal.” The kid on the couch made a noise, something like a disbelief, shifting in his seat so he wasn't quite so turned away from them all. He muttered something, probably what Quackity was thinking- this is going to be good. Because when a session starts out with someone insisting twice that they’re normal, human, and have bones, you know you’re with a weird crowd. Quackity didn’t remark on that, though, only blinking away his surprise at this sort of introduction as a tentative hand raised and the next person -the ginger guy- introduced himself, on Quackity’s immediate right and having tucked himself away in the corner of the couch like he wanted to dissolve into it- or, at any rate, to give the kid sitting next to him way more space than he probably deserved.

“I’m Fundy,” the guy offered awkwardly, retracting his hand quicker than reflexes could avoid boiling water and tucking it away in his sweatshirt pocket again. “I’m twenty-two and a computer science major, though I’m thinking about dropping out because it’s super stressful and I’m not even learning anything. And, um, my boring fact is that I can crack all the joints in my hands. It’s fun.” He tagged the last statement on with a shrug, trying to get the attention off of him by meeting the eyes of anyone else in the room. Quackity had never averted his gaze so instantaneously, still not ready to talk about himself.

“Hey, my name is Foolish.” Someone else took pity on Fundy and went next- the southeastern person across from Quackity, whom Quackity is pretty sure has been trying to subtly hide his anxious tics from the rest of them, or is at least noticeably fidgeting. “I’m twenty-eight and an architect. Or I was, anyway. I have time off right now.” He hesitated a bit, a hand brought up and dragged through the braided sections of his hair. “Something boring. . . I failed my economics class in college. Twice.”

Fundy offered a hum discernable as both pity and relatability, while the guy on Bad’s left assured him that ‘economics suck anyway’, both of which Foolish nodded some appreciation at, but he left it at that.

At the motion, light metal clinking drew attention to the chain across Foolish’s nose bridge piercing. The gold metal was barely visible against his skin tone, and Quackity probably never would have noticed otherwise.

“Well, I’m Sam,” the guy Quackity had been absently keeping an eye on finally offered, the sulking look disappearing from his face for just a second as he looked up to introduce himself properly. “I just turned thirty, actually, and I’m a mechanical engineer. And my boring fact is. . . I guess it’s that I’m still in love with my highschool sweetheart. We’re just friends now, but. . . you know.” He glanced away again rather than waiting for their reactions, clouded eyes scanning book covers Quackity was too far away from to read himself. Bad pursed his lips, sympathetic, but didn’t offer any comments; Quackity wasn’t sure what he’d expected to hear, but he’d assumed their therapist would have offered something.

The kid spoke this time, offering an entirely unhelpful, “Ha, old.” The point got Sam’s attention again, though, and he offered the kid a confused, clearly disagreeing look. But rather than let Sam defend himself, Quackity decided then he might as well get his own introduction over with. Even if the timing was petty.

“I’m Quackity, twenty-four and a law major. I’m taking a break from getting my master’s degree in law because my teachers said I should ‘take care of my mental health first’.” He took a second to think of his own boring fact, eventually settling on, “I like watching football, but I’ve never played it.” With that over with, he leaned back in his chair and hoped everyone’s eyes would turn away again. He made the mistake of glancing at Bad and realized that he was writing things down, clipboard masterfully tucked away behind his crossed legs. It made him feel even more insecure about his situation, metaphorically retreating back into his shell after the cozy atmosphere and lighthearted beginning had started to draw him out.

Probably to be difficult, the kid waited a second or two too long before doing his own flippant introduction. “My name’s Purpled, I’m nineteen. I work at a shooting range. And I’m right-handed, but shoot a bow better using my left.” He pursed his lips tightly when done speaking, drawing Quacktiy’s eyes to his snake bite piercings. Quackity might have asked about them, but this guy, Purpled, did not seem to want to talk more than he had to, and Quackity planned to leave him alone.

Bad finished whatever he was writing and looked up with a light smile, apparently satisfied. “Alright then, everyone. Thank you for that. You guys are welcome to start a conversation if you’ve got anything in mind; it’s good to get to know each other a bit. There’s some tables and chairs around the room if you feel so inclined to split off and talk, I’d call you back for important stuff. But maybe we all get something started together today, alright?”

Quackity didn’t know who he was talking to, it all sounded very rhetorical and not worth paying attention to. He had nothing to say, he didn’t know these people yet. And he didn’t really want to just pour his life out yet in case something went wrong.

To help himself find some semblance of stability, he looked around the room again and repeated everyone’s names and jobs to himself, clinging to what little information he had hoping he’d feel better about the whole ‘group therapy with almost-strangers’ thing: Sam, an engineer; Foolish, an architect; Purpled, a weapons instructor; Fundy, a student; and Charlie, a store owner. He and Charlie were closest in age, though Fundy was the only one who mentioned still being in school like him. He could work with that a bit, if he wanted.

“So where d’you go to school right now?” He asked Fundy, somewhat timidly. It wasn’t too bad though- Fundy was sitting right next to him, so it seemed natural enough and went okay- Fundy even leaned over the couch a bit to talk to Quackity better, and that was a win.

“The community college up north of here,” Fundy offered, the accompanying eye roll coming across as lighthearted. “It kind of sucks, but it’s cheaper, I guess. If I need a piece of paper to prove I can work a good job, might as well just do it, is how I feel. What about you?”

Vaguely, Quackity could hear a quiet conversation starting on the other side of the room too, but barely paid any attention. He shook his head, answering, “I’m either paying for good lessons behind that paper or not at all. The stress is the same, so I see it. Law is hard to study at any place- ask anyone.”

Suddenly worried he was coming across as boastful, Quackity shut his mouth, about to turn away from the conversation, but for some reason Fundy didn’t pick up on that and responded wholeheartedly.

“I mean, fair enough, dude. Must’ve been tough to get through four years then, huh? Good on your teachers for giving you a break. Mine sure don't.” His laugh was a bit skittish, like he was afraid to be loud. The chittering sort of sound was like one a woodland creature would make, Quackity noted.

“Do you live on campus?” Quackity’s next question came easily, somehow, and he found himself looking up to properly meet Fundy’s eyes- they were a warm brown and upturned, reminding Quackity again of some sort of carnivorous animal.

“Nope, a couple friends and I are renting out this old apartment about ten minutes away. It’s fine, saves me from needing a car, even, ‘cause Jack has one I can borrow and I walk to all my classes- the area’s a bit messy, though.” Fundy explained it all nonchalantly enough, but his wide eyes and distractedly thoughtful gaze suggested that maybe he’s holding a lot about the situation back. “Sucks when it rains and I still have to walk though.”

Quackity hummed some sort of agreement, trying to remind himself to relax and stop scrutinizing everyone. When he vaguely heard Fundy ask him about his living situation, he tried to push down his own panic and be just as calm: “I lived on campus, yeah; can’t right now though, because I have the whole year off, so I’m looking for a place before I move out in eight weeks.”

“Maybe you should move in with us.” It’s obviously a joke, but Fundy’s mischievous grin wasn’t actually mocking; it seemed like he meant it- the sentiment, anyway. They had only met fifteen minutes ago, really, so it couldn’t be too serious.

Fundy, whenever he wasn’t speaking, seemed to be picking at the skin of his face and lips, which Quackity knew could be painful after a while. It seemed like a harmless stim at the moment, and Quackity didn’t want to make him self-conscious, so he didn’t mention it.

“Maybe I will,” Quackity offered in return, despite himself. He let a smile reach his lips, tugging and stretching the scar running down his face.

“Where are you moving?” Charlie asked, joining their conversation on Quackity’s other side. He looked genuinely invested for someone with no idea what they were talking about, an almost childlike sincerity showing on his face and in his posture.

“Somewhere, possibly to Fundy’s apartment,” Quackity explained, finding Charlie’s behavior easy to entertain. “I dunno, we did just meet. At therapy, no less.”

“Therapy is a great way to make friends!” Charlie told him, as if Quackity had said otherwise. “That’s how I met a lot of my friends, since no-one stuck around after school. Bizly and Condi don't care that I’m weird and we like each other a lot.”

Not knowing what to do with that information, Quackity was left with no answer, tugging on his beanie as if it could go any further down his head. Fundy managed to save him and keep the conversation going, saying he’d made friends with the guy whose therapy appointments were always right after his because they’d meet in the hallways every week. Which was a weirder story, in Quackity’s opinion, but he had nothing useful to say about it, either.

The tapping of Fundy’s sharp nails on the couch’s arm kept their conversation at a steady rhythm, letting Quackity take a mental step back and shove down more of his anxiety.

Finally, Bad reigned things back in for them, apparently able to catch a lull throughout the room and speaking up. His pen was resting against the paper, ready to take notes on and dissect everyone’s next words, and Quackity winced inwardly, wishing he didn’t see it. He’d almost managed to forget about it while talking, but now his anxiety was making him freeze up again.

“Well, everyone, I think we have a few more minutes to talk to each other, and I was hoping to do something a bit more as a group.” Bad seemed to be thinking rather hard, like he didn’t know what they were going to do yet, either. “This might seem a bit juvenile at first, just let me explain: This is something I do with younger age groups in therapy together, usually siblings or classmates, and it works pretty well. Normally, everyone would take turns saying something they like -not a favorite thing, necessarily- and everyone who also liked it would raise their hand to show that they have that in common. But to change it up a bit, I think we should find common ground specifically in light of our mental health, our current situations and our goals. So I’ll list a couple things, and please just raise your hand if you relate.”

Quackity appreciated that Bad spoke slowly and offered short pauses every now and then; it gave him a chance to process -and stress over- everything that had been said, and it was probably intentional in that regard. Though maybe he didn’t want Quackity to be anxious over everything he was hearing. But in this case, Quackity was worried he was about to be, firstly, called out by his therapist; secondly, judged by the other strangers in the room who may or may not be going through the ‘same things’ ; and thirdly, have his mental health issues be tallied up on that little clipboard for Bad to reference later.

“If you’re not comfortable saying anything, that’s okay, but I’d encourage you to try being open with each other. We can go over anything in personal sessions if need be. But ultimately, this is an exercise in trust and accepting what we’re dealing with, so we can find ways to handle it as a group. Let’s begin.”

Bad flipped to the second page of his clipboard and slowly read off his list:

“I’ve been struggling with my mental health for a long time.”

Four hands raised, which surprised Quackity slightly- not in the context of the questions, but simply that anything had happened at all. Thinking about the question himself, he was fairly certain his depression and anxiety didn’t get bad until he started law school and moved towards adulthood, and he wasn’t sure three years counted as a long time, personally. The people who agreed were, in total, Fundy, Sam, Foolish, and Charlie- plus Bad had put his hand up, either to encourage them or in honesty, or both. Only Purpled and Quackity hadn’t raised their hands.

Bad read the next one: “I feel like I’ve tried everything already and that it’s barely helped.”

Charlie and Fundy kept their hands up, and Purpled’s joined them, wrapped in a bandage from some presumable injury. Bad’s hand went down, which helped Quackity feel that he was being truthful with them too. Quackity wouldn’t say that he’d tried everything- really, just the medications that had made it worse and a previous therapist who treated him like a child and had too tight a schedule for Quackity to keep alongside school.

“I feel overwhelmed with the things I’m expected to do, big or small.”

Quackity counted the hands again: Sam, Foolish, and Fundy. Tentatively, he lifted his own hand, getting it barely up to his eye level. Bad offered the slightest of nods in his direction, and it felt wildly reassuring, a quiet acknowledgement that nobody else had to see. And it was true; Law school had been difficult on good days, and his parents were the ‘tough love’ type who wanted a successful son. There were few times he didn’t feel a pressure weighing on him, invisible and deadly.

“I want to reach out to people without guilt or fear, even if I’m not sure that I can.”

Quackity was the first to have his hand up this time, followed by Sam and Fundy, then a hesitant Purpled. Fitting or ironic, one of the two. Quackity knew his anxiety got between him and getting help, made worse by the fact that the one time he’d told his mom and received medication things went even more downhill for him. It made it hard to see things going right if he trusted other people, but then again, that’s why he was being put in a group session or something.

The next few questions went quickly, fixed on a obvious point they were moving towards.

“Anxiety is one of my greatest struggles.”

Foolish, Quackity, and Bad.

“I feel isolated, whether I’m with people I love or left alone.”

Sam, Charlie and Purpled.

“My experiences have affected how I see other people, and how they see me.”

Bad, Fundy, Foolish, Sam, and Quackity.

“I feel like I need to put on a brave face all the time.”

Quackity, Charlie, Sam, and Purpled.

“I blame myself for things out of my control.”

Foolish, Sam, and Bad.

“Others’ desires for me get in the way of what I really want for myself.”

Fundy and Charlie.

“I’m worried that I’m affecting others negatively or burdening them.”

Fundy, Foolish, Charlie, and Quackity.

“I find the future terrifying and unclear, and I don't know what to do.”

Everyone, really. Quackity would think anyone who hadn’t agreed to be in denial. But they all knew in the back of their minds that such fear was probably what affected each of them the most, made them desperate, and consequently brought them all here.

Then the questions shifted, slightly, and it took Quackity a second to notice but he did catch on, picking out the language that made it seem more uplifting, less bleak, and less isolated. It was annoying to recognize, honestly. Quacktiy tended to hate when anybody was trying to get a specific answer out of him, no matter how subtle.

“I want to find comfort in other people and let them know me. . . I know how hard I’m trying and that other people want to help. . . I want things to change even if it’s difficult and scary.”

Quackity had stopped looking at whose hands go up now, he knew what Bad was trying to do; he knew this was about making it out so they were ‘all in the same boat’, getting them acquainted through trauma or something. Maybe he had a point. But Quackity definitely thought that he was in his own boat anyway, that everyone was. They had problems in common, sure, but they had their own experiences too.

It didn’t mean they couldn’t get along. But it meant this exercise was biased.

“And that concludes our session for today, I think,” Bad eventually said, sliding his pen into its slot on the clipboard as a painful reminder to Quackity that he’d been documenting this little exercise. “I don't think this room is going to be used for anything for a little while, so you’re welcome to stay a bit and talk or pick out a book, I’m sure it’ll be refreshing for you all. And if you have any questions or things to talk about with me, please come to me, I’ll be up front. I’ll see you all in two weeks for sure, and some of you sooner.” With a smile to sum up with thoughts, Bad stood up from his armchair and stretched, taking his time walking from the room and leaving them to mingle. Sam and Foolish apparently resumed their conversation from before as they picked up their respective bags -Sam’s being a durable, presumably work-oriented messenger bag covered in as many keychains as could fit on its clasps and zippers, and Foolish’s a similar kind cross-stitched with a little regional flag Quackity didn’t recognize. Once Sam’s crutches had been retrieved from behind his chair and securely placed, they started to make their way out together, with Foolish in particular talking all the while, but Quackity tuned them out and just remained sitting a minute, not in the mood to talk. Overall, it hadn’t been a bad session. He just didn’t feel any better about himself yet, which was annoying but probably normal.

Fundy offered him a wave and a grin on his way out, otherwise hurrying on his way, and just as Quackity was ready to drag himself up and out of the room, Charlie stood and turned to him expectantly.

“Can I have your number, Quackity?” he asked, with the same happy-go-lucky tone he’d used this whole time. “It’s okay if not. I just want a way to connect outside of group and get to know you better as a friend?”

“We’re not friends yet,” Quackity told him instantly, realizing after the fact that it was a horriblething to say. To make it up, he somewhat begrudgingly, held out his hand to take Charlie’s phone and put his number in. At least Charlie seemed excited, unbothered by the harsh and clipped tone Quackity had accidentally used. “Here.”

“Thanks, Quackity,” Charlie said, immediately opening a text conversation and sending a message, Quackity’s own phone vibrating in his jacket pocket with the notification. “We don't have to be friends yet, but that was nice of you. Talk soon!” He waved with both hands and scurried off, probably to catch some of the others and get their numbers too. It was almost funny.

Quackity ignored the twinge of a smile on his lips and walked out, taking the winding hallways slowly and mentally processing what he’d just been through. It. . . wasn’t bad yet. Not too promising on the surface, but maybe Quackity was just being too bleak. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his bright blue jacket and pushed the library doors open with his arm instead, greeted by a chilly wind that snapped his thoughts out of his own misery and back into the situation he was in.

He made it to his car as quickly as possible and got in, all but slamming the door shut to keep the cold outside. Resituating himself on the seat, he pulled his phone and keys from his pocket, pausing momentarily to open the text when he noticed it waiting on his lockscreen, slowly typing out his response.

From (xxx-xxx-xxxx): Hi :D

From Quackity:

Hey

It seemed a bit lacking, but Quackity decided he’d be conversational later and put his phone aside, starting up the car instead. The old thing took a second to start and even longer to warm up, but soon Quackity was on his way, heading back to the university campus he was supposed to be saying goodbye to soon- despite thinking of that every time he pulled into a parking spot outside the dorm room, there was less dread this time, maybe because he was distracted. And maybe because he was smiling as he remembered Fundy’s offer to give him a place to stay even though they barely knew each other. It was funny to think that someone would want to just look out for him like that.

Just maybe, though.

Chapter Text

For Fundy, a stereotypically broke and depressed college student living day by day with an uncomfortable sort of repetition, two weeks goes by incredibly quickly. It seemed like mere minutes before he was stepping back into the library again, stomping snow off his boots and onto the carpets so they wouldn’t drip water on his way to ‘the therapy nook’. Recognizing him from his frequent, desperation-fueled visits to avoid buying overpriced school books -or any at all- the receptionist at the front desk barely had to glance his way before returning the small wave he’d awkwardly offered and returning to the paperwork she had.

He took his time wandering down the hallways and scanned the covers of books the whole way, judging them all by their titles and mentally laughing about them. His favorite was the self-aware author labelling their work, I Didn’t Catch a Break so This is All You Get. It was relatable, honestly; Fundy had written up many coding projects for his classes and professors with that sort of mindset.

When he made it to the back room, Bad was already there in the same spot as last time, so Fundy took his previous seat too. Not that seating was assigned or anything, at least at this point. He dropped his backpack over the arm of the couch, the sound of it hitting the floor prompting Bad to look up from his book.

“Afternoon, Fundy,” his therapist offered, holding his place in the book with one hand and folding the cover over, offering his full attention. “How has your week been?”

“Better than before?” Fundy offered weakly, trying to sell the assessment with a smile, likely unconvincingly. “Seeing my uncle wasn’t so bad. I did take a break halfway through like you suggested, and he didn’t even ask questions. I guess Techno’s not the type too, though.”

“Well, that’s good!” Bad said, genuinely enough that it made Fundy feel a little better. “And I know he’s not ‘the one you’re worried about’ or anything, but I think it’s a sign that talking to your family again will be easier than you think.”

Fundy offered a noncommittal hum and a shrug, curling up on his side of the couch and enjoying how comfortable it was compared to the old thing back at his apartment. Maybe he should get Ranboo and Jack to help him scrape together the money for a new one- they definitely needed it, apparently couch cushions didn’t have to cause back pain. How revolutionary.

Bad opened his mouth to speak again, but either was interrupted or simply waited as Charlie arrived, turning the corner with a sort of enthusiasm Fundy certainly didn’t expect anyone here to have- and not in a bad way, he just didn’t know very many people who found therapy exciting.

“Good afternoon,” Bad greeted him, just as warmly as he’d told Fundy. He waited patiently while Charlie took a seat directly on his left and settled in.

“Hey,” was Charlie’s eventual reply, paired with a bright smile. “It is a good day, the sun came out a bit and melted away the cold snow. I liked that.” He sat down on Bad’s right again, something metal -probably his keys- that he’d forgotten was in his pocket jingling as he did, and looked over to let their talk continue.

“It was nice that it warmed up a bit,” Bad agreed conversationally, apparently letting Charlie continue the conversation as he saw fit rather than add anything new. Their talk ended there, though, because Charlie turned on Fundy expectantly, just as he was starting to relax.

“Can I have your number to get to know you?” Charlie asked- a bit forcefully, in Fundy’s opinion. “If you don't want to, that’s okay, but I think it’d be good to be friends and trust each other and talk more, right?”

“Uh, sure,” Fundy decided, not really caring either way. Charlie didn’t seem to take in the confused furrow in his brow or slight frown, watching as Fundy dug out his phone from the jumbled mess at the bottom of his bag. “What’s yours? I’ll text you.” Charlie listed off his phone number and Fundy typed it into his contacts, shooting a quick ‘Hey, it’s Fundy’ to be done with it. Charlie confirmed that he got it, so Fundy put his phone away again and slumped back into the couch again, tucking up his legs and arms as much as he could without putting too much pressure on his already sore ribs.

Quackity and Sam showed up next, only a few seconds after each other. Aside from a cordial response to Bad’s greeting, neither really talked. Fundy couldn’t blame them and didn’t push for a conversation; Quackity’s posture was tense, his shoulders stiff and expression a mask of indifference Fundy recognized clearly as such, and Sam somehow looked even more tired than he had the first week, slouching into his chair like he wanted to disappear. Honestly, Fundy could relate to that too.

In a moment of quiet, Fundy tugged his phone out of his sweatshirt pocket to look at the clock, realizing they still had seven minutes until the session was going to begin. He had a couple of texts still on his lockscreen which he elected to ignore, though the temptation to go through them all was strong. He didn’t want to see anything that would stress him out, though, especially since one of those texts was clearly from his other uncle, Tommy.

Unfortunately for Purpled as he walked in, though, Bad made eye contact with him and refused to let them all sit in silence any longer, greeting him louder than necessary and asking about his work just to get the poor kid to talk. Purpled looked anguished enough to die, and Fundy pitied him.

As Bad explained to Purpled that he used to throw knives and axes himself, which Fundy found very strange for a therapist to be doing in their free time but wasn’t about to judge him for, Foolish arrived and managed to save Purpled from his fate.

“Sorry for being late, my partner picked up another job so I had to get the kids home today,” Foolish immediately took to explaining, seeming apologetic enough that it almost convinced Fundy he was late, despite how he’d checked the time minutes ago and knew that wasn't even true.

“You’re early, though,” Charlie pointed out before Fundy could. “There’s still five minutes or something, right?” He swivelled around in his seat to check the clock on the wall, squinting at it for long enough that Fundy suspected he wasn’t actually reading it; also relatable, Fundy had spent plenty of time pretending to read signs and newspapers that had never actually interested in, pressured and dyslexic. It hadn’t been worth the effort to read, anyway.

“But I’m the last one here, and that held the session up,” Foolish seemed genuinely confused now, too. He crossed the room to his seat and let his bag drop gracelessly to the floor, the familiar thump of clipboards and booklets hitting the wooden floor suddenly reminding Fundy of yet another assignment he was crunching time to finish. He elected to ignore that thought for now, as he couldn’t really do anything about it.

“So everyone was early, and no-one’s late.” Despite sounding sardonic, Quackity’s statement wasn’t exactly wrong, either, and Foolish either wasn’t offended or didn’t even pick up on that tone. “Don't worry about it.”

“Quackity’s right, we’re all on time,” Bad more gently assured Foolish, shifting in his seat to a more comfortable position, with his clipboard balanced on his legs and hands resting on top. “There’s no need to be anxious about it, and taking care of your kids is a very necessary and understandable reason to be late even so.”

Bad looked like he wanted some sort of answer or acknowledgement, a patient yet expectant sort of look to his glance, but when Foolish didn’t say anything, he let it go. He tapped his pen against the paper though, like he wanted to write something down. Suspicious, if you asked Fundy.

Also staring at Foolish was Quackity, which Fundy noticed during a chance look at him, and Quackity was blatantly incredulous, asking without reticence, “You have children? As in, plural small humans?”

Whether or not it was supposed to be a joke, it did manage to lighten the mood as Fundy saw it, and got a chuckle from Charlie and some level of amusement from everyone else for his effort.

“Yeah, I do,” Foolish explained with a small smile, seeming to be slightly calmer after everyone’s reassurance. He was still fidgeting quite a bit, not that Fundy minded. “My partner and I have two kids, and help take care of a friend’s kid pretty often, usually after her school is out for the day. Is it really that surprising?”

“I mean-” Quackity floundered for a second, trying to recover what he’d said without being weird or ridiculous. And Fundy had definitely been in that boat before, but it was kind of funny to watch, admittedly. “It’s like- I don't know what kind of situation anyone’s in yet, we just started these meetings. And I’m just trying to get my facts straight, because I really didn’t expect anyone to- to have a put-together family or anything. . . yet.” He faltered, the uncertainty bringing him to shrink back in his seat.

“It’s okay, that definitely makes sense to think,” Foolish told him sincerely, in turn making Quackity look a little comforted. “No harm in asking.”

Fundy took some mental notes here, figuring both Foolish’s explanation and Quackity’s various reactions would be good to know later. It frequently paid off to be observant and know how the people around him worked, what they were comfortable with and when to leave the situation entirely. Though maybe he’d also learned to be pessimistic about relationships from having plenty of failed ones with friends and family alike. He’s not surprised Quackity thought none of them would have good families of their own yet- he wasn’t really expecting it, either. Secretly, he did like the phrase ‘put-together family’ quite a bit, it felt cozy and more intentional.

It did raise a couple of very personal questions in Fundy’s mind, wondering what had happened in the last two years that had led Foolish to- well, to ending up here. Not that he was going to ask, obviously. And not that he assumed life would be perfect for anyone just because they’d gotten so far as marriage and children. But still. He had to wonder if, no matter what he did or how normally he tried to live, if he’d always feel so anxious and desolate. Prime, he hoped not.

“Well, it is time for the session about now, so I’d like us to get started,” Bad put in, drawing Fundy out of his thoughts. “Since we’re still starting to get to know each other, we’ll do a little ice breaker first before getting into the serious stuff. And I’d like to remind you all that this is a safe place to share our struggles, and that we all respect and value confidentiality.”

Fundy admittedly felt a bit obligated to nod along but did mean it sincerely, hoping the others believed it too. He could assume if anyone didn’t want to be a genuine part of this whole thing then they wouldn’t have even showed up, so there was that to back him up. It made him feel slightly better, though he was a bit nervous about what they might talk about and all the stuff he wasn’t sure he was ready to unpack.

“To start off our icebreaker today, I brought a map.” Bad sounded proud of himself, pulling out a rolled-up poster board that had been obscured behind his chair. He set it down on the coffee table between them all and started to roll it out, everyone watching intently with varying levels of interest- The most excited was Charlie, obviously, with Purpled on the opposite end of the spectrum with something like disbelief etched on his face. “I’m going to lay this out, and I have little tokens that I would like you guys to place on the map on a place that means something to you; maybe it’s where you grew up, or spent a lot of your life, or just had some really special experiences at. And if you don't mind, please explain something about why you picked it.”

The map wouldn’t stay fully unrolled by itself, with Bad repeatedly trying to move his hands out of the way and causing it to roll in on itself again, so Sam ended up taking a water bottle and a couple of pocketbooks with varying engineering-related titles from his bag to place on the corners. Fundy had to scoot to the edge of his chair and lean in to reach it himself. When he was handed a flat, dull orange token by Bad, it didn’t take much thought before he placed it over the little town L’manberg, where he’d been born and raised before his family disowned him and he’d moved away with his childhood friends.

He wasn’t exactly looking forward to telling everyone all that, but he mentally rehearsed it a few times to get his facts straight and avoid making this whole thing any more awkward than it needed to be.

The other tokens were scattered a bit, Fundy noted: Bad’s gray token was over in the Badlands area of Deissempii; Foolish’s yellow one in the deserts beyond that, barely in Deissempii territory; Quackity’s blue one placed down in the old El Rapids, Sam’s was a dark red on the far south border of the Greater Essempii region, Charlie’s somewhat central green token was pretty near where they were right now, and Purpled’s fittingly bright purple token was hesitantly put beside that.

Bad studied the map for a moment before sitting back in his seat, clipboard and pen at the ready for recording their answers or something. “Well, I suppose I can start us off again. I placed my token in the Badlands, because that’s where I moved for college and met my best friend, Skeppy. We have a lot of good memories there together. It’s always warm there too, and the pretty red plants native only to that area are one of my favorite parts.”

He made it sound so simple, Fundy did, against the stubborn part of himself, admittedly start to feel that he could share his own little story too, and possibly leave out some of the worst parts. With a bit more confidence, he was the next to speak up.

“Mine is in L’manberg,” He explained, waving a hand vaguely at the map to display the obvious proof. “I was born and grew up there, and that’s where I met Jack and Ranboo, my flatmates. We all moved up here together because- well, things got rough for us. But it still means a lot to me. And we’re planning to go back and visit for the floating lantern festival, it’s always cool to see.”

“Oh, I’ve wanted to go to the festival, I’ve heard it’s wonderful!” Bad said, nodding along. “I’m sorry that you felt like you had to leave. Are you able to tell us why?”

Fundy hesitated, squirming in his seat a bit as his worries about this exercise came true. Before he could force out how bad things had gotten with his family back in L’manberg, Bad offered the relief of gently waving it off, taking his silence as an answer.

“You don't need to if it’s making you uncomfortable,” He told Fundy knowingly. “We can always discuss it later, when you feel ready to share it.”

Fundy nodded quickly, keeping his head ducked as he listened to the others’ answers- Quackity had saved him from further shame by taking up the conversation quickly and talking about his own token placement.

“I put mine in El Rapids because I used to spend summers there with some friends I didn’t get to hang out with much otherwise,” Quackity said, being brutally honest about it. Something about the frown he wore suggested there weren’t only good memories to this. “A few years ago we stopped hanging out altogether, but it was great while it lasted.” There it was. And that sucked; Fundy knew firsthand how hard it was to lose friendships, especially with people he’d been very close to.

“That seems like a wonderful place to spend the summer,” Bad said, apparently taking the initiative to comment on all of their choices. “My son used to do the same thing.” -Quackity didn’t seem to like the comparison, looking quite a bit out-off, or maybe suspicious- “Friendships are a difficult thing, though. Are you planning to go back?”

Quackity shrugged noncommittally, slouching back in his seat in a clear signal that he was done talking. Bad relented, shifting to look at the map again and let someone else speak up without any pressure from him, or something.

“Mine’s in the Greater Essempii,” Charlie put in enthusiastically, taking the silence as his cue. “It’s a pretty normal, human place. I’ve basically lived here my entire life, thought I did a lot of travelling a few years ago to see people and learn about the human world.”

Honestly, Fundy found it weird how often and how much Charlie emphasized being human. It was uncanny at best, though the context of being in therapy with him made Fundy wonder if there was a deeper meaning to it, some reason Charlie thought he had to convince them he was a person. That would be pretty sad, in Fundy’s opinion.

“Travelling is fun,” Bad agreed, his hand moving across the pages tacked to the clipboard at lightning speed. “It’s good to have a place to come back to, though. Anything else you’d like to say about it?”

“Nope! It’s a nice, normal place. It’s where my friends right now live too.”

Nodding along, Bad finished whatever he was writing and waited for the next person again. As it was, Sam and Foolish accidentally started to speak over each other and both immediately apologized, causing the usual awkward fumbling to let the other speak that Fundy amusedly watched unfold. It was here he took notice of a few more obvious anxiety tics from Foolish, something he was terrified to ask about but genuinely wanted to know more on; maybe once they knew each other better it wouldn’t sound so intrusive.

“Well, I put mine out in the deserts where I grew up. I think the translation for its name is, like, ‘the land of undying’, which is somewhat ironic. But it’s a decent place.” Foolish finally caved and spoke first, interrupted for a moment by a clicking vocal tic and the turn of his head. He continued speaking like nothing had happened, clearly used to it, but did seem a bit nervous about the others’ reactions to it- Fundy didn’t know how to best convey that it was fine and just tried to look unbothered. “I go back every so often, but I haven’t actually lived there since I was about six or so, when Puffy adopted me and brought me here.”

He said it as though that wasn’t incredibly personal and surprising information, as Fundy saw it. Fundy honestly hadn’t known people really lived all the way out there, but picked up on the implications that it was so difficult that people were often sent elsewhere. As someone who’d been in foster care before while his parents worked through their divorce, he knew it was emotionally rough no matter how well cared for the kids were, and Fundy didn’t expect to hear the subtext of ‘I had to leave my family and haven’t been able to go back to my home’ ever mentioned so casually.

“I’ve never been out that far, but I’ve heard it’s a beautiful place,” Bad said, with clear interest this time. He didn’t mention anything else, which either meant he knew more than Fundy or just didn’t want to pry into it, either. “Are there many people there? It seems like a somewhat difficult life.”

“Not really, it’s mostly village settlements,” Foolish explained, casually ignoring the involuntary knocking motion of his right hand. “People build around oasis-es -is that a word? Oases?” He paused. “They go to an oasis or a mining area or something, the places that are slightly richer. So it’s pretty scattered, and yeah, it’s hard work to live out there.”

“Well, it sounds like a lovely place to go back to,” Bad offered in reply, before moving on again. “Sam?”

“The southern Greater Essempii is where I lived most of my life,” Sam told them- which did explain his slightly different, more drawling accent, so Fundy kept note of that for later. “My best friend and I were both there for years- it’s where we went to high school, then college, and even got our first apartment together. I had a workshop out there where I sold a lot of my mechanical creations, and Ponk worked at a hospital nearby. We just helped each other out. Still do.”

“That’s wonderful,” Bad responded, sounding incredibly relieved to hear something normal for once. “What brought you all the way up here?”

Sam shrugged, and at first, Fundy thought he wasn’t going to give an answer. But he finally supplied, “Ponk got a better job up here and encouraged me to move up here with him. I can understand why he wouldn’t want to leave me alone; without him, I’d be dead.”

Fundy had never seen his therapist look so defeated at getting information he needed. It was almost comical, from his own point of view, but it also sparked some pity that quelled any sort of actual amusement Fundy might have had.

Purpled was the last to answer again, being as vague as Fundy himself had initially wanted to before getting somehow roped into sharing his life story: “I’ve basically always lived around here, so I guess it’s the most significant place for me. Me and my brother have basically walked every street on this side of the country by now.”

“I understand that feeling,” was Bad’s response, proving that he didn’t have any hope that this was a good thing after being let down every time before this. “Do you plan to move away anytime soon?”

“Maybe for work,” Purpled answered, sounding wholly disinterested. “That’s what my brother did.”

Bad didn’t push it any further, choosing to wrap up their icebreaker instead.

“Well, I’m glad everyone participated- it’s good to know a bit about each other’s backgrounds and acknowledge places that mean a lot to us. We don't have as much time left as last week, so I don't expect us to fully get through this worksheet, but I’m going to hand this out and let everyone answer these questions based on what it means to them personally. If you feel comfortable sharing it, then we’ll do that at the end.”

As promised, Bad started to pass a small stack of papers around the circle, everyone taking one and handing the rest over to the next person. Fundy ended up with three- his, Quackity’s, and Charlie’s. He reached over the armrest of the couch to get Quackity his, curling back up immediately after. Vaguely, he heard a low whistle that was probably another tic from Foolish.

Resting the paper against his leg and hoping it would serve as the surface for him to write on, Fundy looked down at the paper he held and skimmed it as quickly as he could manage, which admittedly wasn’t very fast at all. The questions seemed to blur together a bit, though that might be because they all had very similar wording and messages.

He decided to start with the first one, because it was more likely they were going in order than picking at random: When did I last push myself beyond my comfort zone? Why?

Fundy internally groaned, having too much on his mind to want to fill this out. But pretty much everyone else had started writing already, so he put the pencil he was handed to the paper and thought back to the last week or so. The obvious answer was going to talk to Uncle Techno, which had been awkward and uncomfortable but didn’t go horribly wrong despite Fundy’s fears about it. He haphazardly scribbled that down, his lines admittedly all over the place and a couple words likely misspelled. As for why, he picked the simplest reason out of many: Because reconnecting with his family was important, at least for setting boundaries with them now that he was older.

The second question was equally obvious: Who has had the greatest impact on my life (at least lately)?

His dad, Wilbur, had really made the biggest difference- in both positive and negative ways. He’d done his best to raise Fundy by himself, but he really couldn’t handle it, refused to get help, and messed up both of their lives big time. But Fundy didn’t have space to put all that, so he left it at ‘my dad.’

Am I holding onto something I need to let go of? The next question really needed no thought- resentment, for sure. Pride, probably. But who didn’t deal with those things?

He was getting through more questions than he thought he would, and it started to fall into the rhythm of usual test taking for him, his hand moving across the page like it used to back in high school- before he had his run-down laptop to take notes on and spell-check his work for him. The familiarity was weird, but he got through three more answers before Bad called out that time was up.

“I’ll read off a question or two, please read off whatever answers you feel comfortable with,” Bad explained once more, voice steady and calm. “The first question was when did I last push myself, and for that, I answered that last night, I had to make a work call that I didn’t want to do. It was uncomfortable, but things got resolved.” He gave them a moment to think- or muster up the courage to talk, or something. “Did anyone else think of something to share?”

“I travelled alone a couple weeks ago,” Quackity offered. “I usually hate it, and it was pretty bad being by myself the whole time, but being down in Manberg again was cool.”

“That’s good,” Bad agreed, sounding excited to have gotten not only an answer from Quackity, but a decently positive one. He didn’t ask any questions about it, which was unusual from him, in Fundy’s experience.

Since he’d already mentioned the meeting to Bad several times, Fundy didn’t speak up, but Charlie took his turn and shared that he had a talk with some friends about boundaries for their jokes about his mental health and that it had gone well. Kudos to him. Really, it made Fundy glad he didn’t have to worry about that stuff with Jack and Ranboo- though maybe their constant pretending that they were all fine wasn’t great, either.

Bad continued on with the next question, “As for a person who made a big impact on my life, that would definitely be my best friend Skeppy. I’ve already explained how we’ve spent a lot of time together and helped each other out.”

It was quiet again for a moment, no-one wanting to be too eager, before Foolish shrugged and suggested, “My partner, Eret. She’s absolutely incredible, and much better than I deserve after everything I’ve put us through.”

Bad instantly jumped to reassuring Foolish that the ‘better than I deserve’ part wasn’t true, but Fundy tuned him out, caught off-guard and intensely focused on the fact that he definitely knew the name Eret and was suddenly very confused as to why he didn’t recognize Foolish’s name or face. Because really, if Foolish’s partner was the Eret he knew -and honestly, how many people had that name- then he definitely should have met this guy; and while he did look a bit familiar, but Fundy just couldn’t be sure yet. He’d have to ask about that before the session ended, or else it would drive him crazy wondering.

“My friend Ponk has done a lot for me.” Sam’s voice finally broke Fundy from his spiraling thoughts, sounding tentative. “I talked about him a bit earlier.”

Bad nodded along, conversation with Foolish either ended or put off, which gave Fundy the chance to squeeze in his own answer.

“My dad impacted me a lot.” He left it at that. Bad knew not to pry.

When there was another beat of silence, Bad breathed a sigh and moved to cross his legs, taking a most comfortable position that still cleverly hid the notes on his clipboard. “Well, I think that’s all the time we have. You guys are welcome to stay and talk more, but I unfortunately have another meeting scheduled I have to run out for. I’ll see some of you next week and the rest of you in two; have a good rest of your day.”

With that, he stood and left, hurriedly as promised.

Fundy, being socially exhausted himself, didn’t really want to stick around, but with Bad gone and most of the tension in the room dropped, he decided to corner Foolish and cut to the chase. He walked over, scooting out of Sam’s way as he was leaving, and absentmindedly stuffed the unfinished worksheet into his sweatshirt’s front pocket.

“Hey man, I heard you mention the name Eret earlier,” Fundy started, realizing when Foolish looked up expectantly that he had no plan for making this not awkward and had to come up with something to say really quickly. “Do you mean Eret Alastair? I mean- it’s Gamers now, I think?” He hastily corrected himself, used to using Eret’s maiden name to refer to her. Honestly, she still used her maiden name, or so Fundy had been told; he knew it was only a religious custom to change names in Deissempii, but Eret had always loved knowing the edicts of various gods.

Seeming only slightly surprised, Foolish nodded. “Yeah, you know her?”

“She was a friend of my dad’s,” Fundy supplied. “She babysat me a lot when I was little.” She had done a lot more than that, taking on a parental role for Fundy when he needed it most, but that went unsaid.

“Wait, who’s your dad? I- if you don't mind me asking, sorry.” The instantly apologetic tone showed how clear Fundy’s issues were to the rest of the group, and he internally cringed, but he appreciated that Foolish was trying to be respectful.

“Wilbur,” Fundy finally answered simply, and the look that crossed Foolish’s face was telling.

“Oh, him.” Fundy nodded along, fully in favor with the sentiment and Foolish’s distasteful tone. Out of the corner of his eye, Fundy saw Quackity lingering by the doorway, probably eavesdropping. “I don't know why she spent so much time with him, honestly; he’s dramatic, conceited, and clingy, if you ask me. But Eret still forgave and respects him, I guess, and that’s enough for me.”

“He really is, honestly,” Fundy vigorously agreed, already feeling so much respect for Foolish and hopeful that they would be great friends. “Here’s the thing, though- I didn’t realize it was you -like, that you were Eret’s partner- but man, I went to your literal wedding.”

“You did?” The realization dawning on his face was almost comical, embarrassment following the shock. “I- I am so sorry, I don't recognize you.”

“No, that’s okay,” Fundy assured him. “It’s a weird situation, I don't really remember you, either. But hey, I’m sure Eret’s in good hands with you, and you with her. So, here’s a very late congratulations.”

“Oh, yeah,” Foolish still seemed sheepish, and a couple clicks from vocal tics followed up his words. “It’s good to finally meet you- Eret’s talked about you before. I guess it just didn’t click for me.”

“That’s fine, I just had to ask.” Fundy tried to wrap up the conversation, shuffling back a bit. “See you next time, I guess?”

“Sure thing.” Foolish offered a grin, thankfully taking the whole thing well. “See you next time, Fundy. Good to have finally met you.”

Relieved and tired, Fundy headed back down the hall and out the front doors, the cold wind biting through his sweatshirt all the way until he’d gotten back to Jack’s car. He occupied himself during the short ride home with thoughts of what they’d gone over, the worksheet still crumpled up in his pocket. He had half a mind to look over it again later; maybe the self-reflection would be nice.

And who knows, maybe he could rope Jack and Ranboo into doing part of it with him. It wasn’t too bad after all, and besides, they really did need to stop avoiding their problems.

Chapter Text

The only time Sam’s phone was ever on silent is during therapy sessions, and there was a good reason for this. He’d learned very quickly after his suicide attempt that missing any calls or texts -even by only a few minutes- would make Ponk panic, and he didn’t want to stress his friend out anymore than he already had over the years. It had recently become routine to sit in his car outside the library about twenty minutes before the group session was supposed to start to silence his phone and decompress, willing himself to look less exhausted than he felt and prepare himself to have to talk to people for nearly seventy-five -often agonizing- minutes.

Ponk knew what time his therapy ended, and he’d been kindly but forcefully instructed not to bother Sam until at least fifteen minutes after: That was about halfway through his drive home, and despite Sam assuring him every single time that he was literally on his way back to see him, Ponk was equally adamant that Sam can leave the phone on speaker and just let Ponk talk, calling it ‘the least he could do’. He understood where the nervousness came from and that Ponk was most scared for him when he had to drive by himself for too long, so he had let Ponk win that argument. Besides, having someone talk to him was helpful. It got his mind off other things and kept the dread at bay.

Once the clock on the otherwise-broken car radio declared it five minutes to the hour, Sam reluctantly turned the car engine off and started to get out, the process always feeling slower and more painful than it probably should have. But he made it inside and sat down with little fanfare, finding that Bad wasn’t there yet and neither Purpled nor Quackity particularly cared to greet him. Not that he’d said anything, and he barely made eye contact with them, either.

When Charlie arrived, he decided to zero in on Purpled for some reason, asking something Sam didn’t care to hear- though the fact did remind him that his hearing aids had been turned off so that he could have an easier time calming down, and he took a moment to get them on and adjusted again. Their conversation went on a little long, and was still a bit muffled, but he pretended not to notice, and ended up returning the wave Charlie offered to him when he finally turned around and went to his own seat.

Come to think of it, everyone was in the same seats as last time- and the time before that, for that matter. If nobody did something about it they were going to get stuck like this- not that there was anything particularly bad about that, it just seemed a bit pointless to get attached to this seating arrangement.

Though it did give Sam an excuse to keep talking Foolish after the session ended, which he did quietly like about it. They were actually getting along pretty well so far; Foolish was genuinely kind and funny, and really pretty too- though Sam was trying to ignore that constant thought at the back of his mind, because Foolish was definitely not an option for him and he had to be alright with that.

Besides, the thought that he possibly liked Foolish was recent. He could get over it. Maybe it wasn’t even a real crush, maybe he was just getting used to liking people and having good friends again.

Speaking of, Foolish and Fundy both arrived before Bad showed up, and the whole group had to wait in silence for a few minutes because of that- though, it likely didn’t have to be as awkward as they made it, and it was their fault no-one was talking.

After a minute, Charlie pulled out his phone, a bit of a mischievous look on his face that confused Sam when he noticed it; that is, until he heard someone else’s phone go off -Fundy’s apparently, since he got his own out from the pocket of that same sweatshirt he’d worn every session so far- and he gave Charlie a bewildered look that just made Charlie’s grin widen.

The only thing Sam could really get from that was the fact that Charlie had Fundy’s number; he’d asked for Sam’s too, on the second day after the session ended. They hadn’t talked beyond confirming that the contacts were put in right, though. But whatever they were talking about, and whatever the reason they hadn’t said anything aloud, Sam could assume it was in the usual Charlie fashion- a bit chaotic, wholly energetic, and generally random.

When Bad finally entered the room, exactly two minutes after the session was scheduled to start, he had the decency to look apologetic, explaining something about work calls as he picked his currently blank clipboard off his chair; he stayed standing, though.

“So for today’s session, I picked another ice breaker for us,” Bad explained. “If you wouldn’t mind coming in a little closer, it’d be easier for us to do the activity together.”

And alright, Sam hadn’t had a mandated ‘activity’ since getting out of school twelve years ago, at least referred to by that name. He did have to hope they weren’t about to do anything as childish as Bad had made it sound. He reluctantly slid off his chair and sat in front of the coffee table, beside everyone else who'd made their way over thus far. Of them all, Purpled and Quackity seemed to be silently fighting over who got to be the last to move over, with the former eventually winning.

“So for this, I’d like everyone to take out their keys,” Bad explained carefully, as if that wasn’t confusing. He pulled out his own to demonstrate as he was sitting down, showing them all the simple keyring holding together some average-looking keys, an ID, and another card-carrier with at least one other card of some sort inside. Then there was a plush keychain Sam was surprised at, confused by, and not going to ask about. “And please explain what each key you carry with you is for, as well as anything else you have here.” He held each item as he easily and slowly listed off, “This is my house key, this is for the office, here’s my therapy license and gun-carrying license, my ID and a bus pass, and a plush muffin keychain my son gave me last year as a gift.”

“You have a license to carry?” Quackity voiced the question likely running through all their heads, being his relentlessly honest self. “Why do you need that?”

“Well, it’s not for any particular issue, and I’ll leave it at that.” Bad’s polite tone seemed a little bit forced, but Sam didn’t blame him for that. He nodded to Sam, then, making him realize Bad was probably just expecting them to go in a clockwise order this time. So much for not being pressured to speak too soon, or whatever.

“Here’s mine,” Sam started, fumbling for a second because he hadn’t been prepared. He took the keys from the bag he’d scooted along with him- something he was now grateful he’d done. Compared to Bad’s, it was a bit less organized, with more keychains than actual keys. He tried to push the unnecessary things out the way and actually show the keys to everyone. “That’s the key to my apartment-” He flipped to the next one. “-Ponk’s apartment, my car, and this one is for my old workshop, Pandora’s Vault.”

The Vault key was the most decorative of them, and Sam’s personal favorite. He always said he kept it around for sentimental reasons, but really, he wasn’t the kind of person. The key was designed to encompass what the store was all about, and he still adored it as something he’d put his heart into. The actual workshop didn’t matter as much as the key symbolizing it, and that was why he kept it around. Just to look at and appreciate what he’d done.

“What sort of keychains do you have on there?” Bad asked him, trying to get a better look at them, and Sam didn’t have the heart to tell them that he didn’t even remember what most of them were. “Do any of them have special meanings?”

“Most of them are gifts from Ponk,” Sam replied truthfully, shrugging it off. “Not much to them besides that. I like them, though. And he likes giving gifts.”

“I have a friend who did that,” Fundy said agreeably. “She always gave baked goods, though, so they didn’t really stick around.” He grinned, and Sam gave a gentle smile in return.

“Did you make the workshop key yourself?” Foolish asked him next, looking at it more closely as Sam held it up.

“I did.” And he was proud of that fact, too. It really was beautiful, designed to look like a gateway woven with roses. “I wanted it to be more decorative because I had to keep it with me all the time, and I wanted one that looked nice enough to wear properly.”

“That’s really cool, I like it.” And Prime, Foolish smile was so pretty. And so was the way his long hair framed his face when he tilted his head- especially with the braids he’d probably spent over an hour doing, and the pretty colored beads at the ends. And Sam was trying to beat those thoughts to ashes in a second, but quietly hated that he had to. Why couldn’t he just see Foolish as a friend? They hadn’t even known each other that long, and he knew Foolish was with someone else.

Being next in their order, Foolish continued to talk as if nothing had happened- because of course, to him, it hadn’t. “This is my housekey, car key, and the one for my office.” He paused, looking over what he actually had there to make sure. Also looking pretty closely, Sam could tell that the office key looked either a lot newer or generally less used. Not that he particularly cared, but he’d been told that Foolish usually worked full-time, so it had caught his eye. Sam looked up when Foolish continued speaking, catching how his face momentarily scrunched up a bit in some sort of tic. “Then there’s this fidget toy, the case for my earbuds, and a couple safety pins all attached to this too.”

For as little as Sam knew about Foolish, this all seemed very fitting. The keys had little hand-painted designs on them too: little flowers grew on one, two birds perched on the second, and a microscopic ocean scene was displayed on the third. And Sam couldn’t deny the usefulness of having those other items on hand.

“They look really cute!” Charlie said, probably referring to the keys. “Did you color them like that?” He somehow brightened up even more when he received a hum of eager agreement. It was really cute, watching the two interact whenever they did- They had some sort of compassionate understanding, in an almost child-like way. Sam admired that and wondered what that sort of friendship might feel like.

Purpled was next, pulling a couple of loose keys from his pocket -which really said something about him- and simply told them, “This is for the shooting range I work at, and this is for the ratty apartment I live in right now.”

Well, that wasn’t exactly what he said. But what he did say had Bad looking mildly scandalized, even scolding him like a parent might. “Language, please.”

Purpled seemed unimpressed.

Of course, this caused Quackity to jump in with an abundance of swears, trying to get on Bad’s nerves and only getting a tired and affronted look from their therapist until he finally gave up- That, or he’d just run out of words in both Common Tongue and the dialect he spoke.

Fundy also reached into his pockets, pulling out keys that were bound together by a cheap-looking metal ring wrapped in orange and black colored strings to make it look nicer. “These are mine, I guess. Dorm room, Jack’s car -which I’m borrowing- and storage unit.” He pointed to them each in turn. The final thing was an origami fox keychain, which he looked at almost forlornly for a few seconds before finally explaining, “And that was a gift from that friend I mentioned. Its name is Fungi.”

“That’s very nice,” Bad offered, clinging to the subject change and leaving the whole cursing bit in the past. “Anything very special about all that?”

Fundy shook his head, leaving it at that.

Quackity was next, digging a lanyard printed with yellow ducks out from under his coat and presenting it. “I have this card for my dorm room right now, this is for that-” He offered an abundance of colorful and descriptive swears here, probably just to agitate Bad. “- old car that I’ve had for ages, and this is my student ID and driver’s license.”

“Woah, matching!” Charlie pulled his own lanyard out his jacket pocket -for some reason- and showed it to Quackity, who did try to look interested. “Is it my turn? Well, this is for the store, this is my ID and my bus pass, and this is for the apartment my friends and I have. And this is a stress ball!” He pointed animatedly to the green, squishy toy in question.

Surprisingly, it was Quackity who hyped Charlie up here, his reaction slightly exaggerated to make sure Charlie could tell how cool he thought it was. And when Charlie offered his hand in a triumphant fist bump, he accepted without reserve. Charlie looked absolutely thrilled.

“Wonderful, Charlie.” Bad found it in him to entertain the two’s antics, writing on the page while managing to keep his eyes up to make sure Charlie knew he was listening, which was actually a respectable talent. “Thank you all for sharing this. I think we’re ready for the next part of our session now.”

He flipped over the paper on his clipboard and took a second to adjust it -though the side he’d been on was still largely blank, so switching over didn’t make sense to Sam- before speaking again.

“I’d just like to take a moment and let each of you reflect for a moment on how you’re feeling right now, how the past week has been, and how it’s been affecting you. It’s important to be aware of what you’re going through and consider why, especially because working through the problems can make everyday life easier to handle.”

Sam considered that question carefully as the room fell quiet around him, coming to the conclusion that the past week hadn’t actually been too bad; things had been comparatively normal, working on three customer orders from the converted room he’d made a workspace out of and spending the rest of his time out of his own apartment to stay with Ponk. They’d gotten over their last disagreement, so Sam had been able to stay for two nights, which saved him a lot of the emotional distress that came with living alone in a place with so many bad memories. And his health had been getting better too- which likely wouldn’t last, given how spring and all its pollen was coming soon, but it was something to enjoy while it lasted. He’d been able to temporarily drop one of his morning medications since his throat finally had been healing again.

“I hope you all have gotten more familiar with each other as we’ve continued to do these sessions together,” Bad continued in his ever-patient tone, once he’d given them ample time to think. “It’s important to connect with each other and help each other to grow, and talking about what’s been going on in our lives is a great way to start doing that. If you have anything you’d like to share -good, bad, or ordinary- you are more than welcome to. I’d really like us to get a conversation started here.” Something about the last statement sounded the slightest bit condescending, like he was talking to children who needed step-by-step explanations and direct encouragement before they wanted to do anything.

Though maybe Quackity’s pout and Purpled’s consecutive eye-roll contributed to that assessment somewhat.

As someone above acting like a five-year old and actually much older, Sam had the decency not to react like one, even if Bad had just given them the most flowery explanation for why they ‘should share how they feel’.

“I’ll start!” Charlie suggested, when nobody spoke up for all but three seconds. “I feel good. Rush hours this week went smoothly and we got a lot of extra business on Tuesday because a sports team on their way to nationals stopped by. And I haven’t been too anxious lately, so I’ve been sleeping better.”

“That’s all very good, Charlie,” Bad offered in reply, when no-one else knew what to say to that. “I’m glad things have been working out for you, and that you can acknowledge it. It’s good to celebrate the little things.”

“I, um, had a nice talk with my Uncle Tommy this week?” Fundy spoke up, probably out of turn. Not that Sam particularly cared if the topic switched. “It actually turned out okay, and he said he wants to talk again sometime.”

“Tommy?” Quackity repeated, squinting with suspicion. Or more like puzzlement, trying to connect dots in his head based on what he’d just heard. “You don't mean Tommy Minecraft, do you?”

“I actually do.” Fundy stared at him, incredulous, waiting for Quackity to explain their correlation. And Sam was curious about that too- not that it was really his business.

“He’s in some of my classes, and he was just talking to me about you,” Quackity said, seeming equally surprised. “Said that he misses hanging out with you, even if you were ‘annoying as a kid’.” He made air-quotes with his fingers and even made a face to illustrate what Tommy had said. “And don't worry, I didn’t tell him why we know each other. That’d be awkward.”

“Oh, I see,” Fundy took it lightheartedly, his laugh short and high-pitched- like a dog or a fox, Sam thought. “He would say that. And he knows I’m in therapy, so say what you want.” Quackity laughed along, though he did seem nervous to for a second, and looked surprisingly comforted by Fundy’s answer.

When he caught Bad looking at him expectantly, Quackity quickly hushed, stared right back, then eventually caved and got the message. “I mean, my week was okay, too. I still haven’t found a place to stay and I’m down to four weeks to figure it out, but other than that things aren’t too bad. The warm weather’s been nice, I guess.”

“Hey man, offer’s still up,” Fundy told him, warm and genuine, and Sam had never seen Quackity look so happy before.

“Really? I figured you weren’t serious about letting a stranger over.” He clearly tried to sell it as a joke, but watched Fundy as if to try and figure out his intentions.

“You’re not a stranger anymore,” Fundy said, returning the bright smile that had broken out on Quackity’s face with an equally excited grin. “Plus, there’s no way my roommates would complain if you help pay rent.”

“Done,” Quackity agreed instantaneously, his happiness evident and curiously infectious. “You’re seriously a lifesaver, Fundy.”

“No problem.”

Bad looked so pleased, and Sam had to admit he was happy something worked out for them both. He could imagine how stressful things must have been for Quackity without knowing where he could go; he’d made a rushed move up north with Ponk earlier that year, but even then, he’d been able to stay in Ponk’s apartment for as long as he needed, and he’d insisted Sam stay even after that.

There hadn’t been the pressure to leave that Quackity must have been feeling or much of that isolation from not knowing who to turn to. Really, Sam had been seriously blessed to have someone like Ponk willingly taking care of him for so much of his life.

Not that this was a place or time to bring that up just then.

Purpled was the next to be guilted into speaking with one of Bad’s glances, blandly putting in, “My week was the normal amount of bad. Work, school, and next-door neighbors who hate me. That’s about it.”

“Well, let’s try to break that cycle up and do some things that are fun and different,” Bad suggested to him, which Purpled seemed wholly unimpressed by. “Even if making big changes seem like too much right now, taking time to make a positive difference can really affect a lot in your life.”

“Maybe.” Purpled shrugged, clearly unwilling to believe that and put it into practice.

“It’s a good idea,” Sam agreed, not because he wanted Purpled to hate him, but because it was pretty solid advice that he wished he would have known a lot sooner. He still could admit the dirty look he got was a bit deserved. He probably would have felt the same way if he’d been told that when he was Purpled’s age.

“And do what?” Purpled asked; his tone was completely sarcastic, but something about the following side-eye seemed so genuinely curious Sam had a feeling he was trying to hide the way he actually wanted advice. But from what he’d gathered about Purpled, Sam figured rattling off a list wouldn’t incentivise him at all and took a different direction.

“Find a friend to do things with,” he suggested, managing to get Purpled’s attention. “Good company makes anything seem fun. Hell, the only reason I can get through a workday is because Ponk likes to talk my ear off the whole time, and it gives me something better to think about. You know, maybe if you stopped by sometime instead it’d be easier for both of us.” His smile was teasing, but even as the words he didn’t intend to say left his mouth, Purpled seemed to consider it.

“Maybe,” the kid settled on, tucking his legs up in front of him on the couch.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam caught Bad’s reaction- torn between surprised and thrilled. And Sam did want to take that as a win; getting Purpled out of his shell and helping him make connections was going to be really important for supporting him and helping his mental health- not that Sam really knew why he felt responsible for the kid, aside from being in therapy with him.

Though Bad only really graced him with a chiding “language” for all his trouble.

“Where do you work now?” Fundy asked Sam, tilting his head in a way that reminded Sam of a cat. “Since Pandora’s Vault, I mean. You’re, like, an engineer, right?”

Sam nodded. “I am, and I have a small workspace in my apartment. For bigger jobs I usually take the supplies to a client’s location and work on it there; they don't usually ask why. And if they do, I tell them it’s easier to assemble in the actual space. An effective excuse, you know?”

“For sure,” Fundy replied with a grin. “If it works, it works. Do you have to work everyday?”

This time, Sam shook his head, using the motion to buy time while working through a clear but honest answer. “I can’t actually work everyday or for long periods of time. It’s too much strain on my lungs.” There. Simple enough.

“What happened?” And there was Quackity, asking the real questions, as usual. Bad had the decency to look pained at that and even tried to stop Quackity by clearing his throat, but Sam made the split-second decision to take the bluntness head-on.

“That depends who you ask,” Sam told him with feigned drama and a lowered tone, going into full storyteller-mode because why not? “You can’t tell anyone this, but it’s actually because of exposure to nuclear weapons I created for a maximum security prison that I took on undercover as a university project.”

That supposed ‘secret’ may have only been a bunch of keywords only relating to the actual story -which wasn’t that simple and certainly not that exciting- but everyone outwardly seemed to be buying it; Charlie especially seemed to soak it all in with shock and awe, stares and gasps punctuating the end of Sam’s little spiel.

Bad, being informed of the truth through Sam’s medical records, did his best to play along too and gave a perfectly calm nod of agreement when curious gazes turned on him too, which Sam had to give him credit for.

“I dunno, man,” Quackity eventually said, skepticism etched into the curve of his brow as he thought through what Sam had told him. “Is that really what happened?”

“This sort of thing has to happen to someone, doesn’t it?” was Sam’s response, quietly enjoying how Quackity narrowed his eyes with exaggerated fake suspicion.

“Are you gonna get superpowers from it?” Charlie asked next, bouncing in his seat with excitement. “Like that one guy from all the comics? Creeper-something?”

“Maybe,” Sam said, deciding he’d let the conversation end here to maximize the mystique of it. “Hasn’t happened yet. Anyways, this week was actually good in terms of my health, and I got to spend more time at Ponk’s place than usual, too. So it was alright.”

Bad said something Sam didn’t catch, too caught up meeting Quackity’s incredulous, almost childish stare with an almost taunting one in return. Really, he was having fun with this.

The last one who needed to share anything, Foolish finally spoke up. “My week was okay too. Pretty busy, since Eret had a few extra meetings scheduled last-minute, but it’s fine.”

Finding nothing to say about that, Bad concluded their meeting for them with a little speech about looking out for one another and thanked them for ‘all the meaningful talks and support for each other’. Then he sent them off, leaving himself after barely a minute.

Taking his time as usual, Sam looked up to see Foolish standing beside his chair, waiting patiently to get his attention. He smiled despite himself, taking the hand that was offered to him when he’d made no move to get up himself and had contentedly resigned himself to staring up at Foolish.

“Something on your mind?” Foolish asked, as if he hadn’t caught on to how Sam had been looking right at him. And maybe he hadn’t, but what else would he assume Sam was thinking about?

“Not really, just trying to enjoy the moment,” Sam said, which was vaguely true. He probably held Foolish’s hand for a moment too long, instantly feeling bad when that realization led him to accidentally pulling away a bit forcefully.”Didn’t Bad say something about that today?”

He had no idea if that was true, but it sounded like something Bad would say.

“He probably did at some point, I don't really know,” Foolish admitted. “He’s a bit difficult to listen to sometimes. He just speaks so slowly.”

“I think he does that to make sure everyone can keep up. Does that not work for you?” The question was genuine, with Sam edging the slightest bit closer to where Foolish was standing, once again in spite of himself. The rational part of his brain told him to stop before he got hurt, but the other, more lonely part sought the attention and affection he was receiving just by being around Foolish and how happy it was making him inside.

“Not really. My brain keeps trying to, like, auto-fill the information or gets really off-track if I don't hear enough of it at once. It can all get pretty mixed up in here because of that.” He gently tapped the side of his head, a gesture somehow cute as he grinned down at Sam.

“That makes sense. I can try to bring it up to him, if you’d like?” Sam offered, wondering if there was a reason Foolish hadn’t mentioned that to Bad yet; surely their therapist would understand and try to accommodate.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Foolish reconciled immediately, a series of subtle facial expression tics kicking in that Sam almost didn’t notice at all. “I can manage. And it probably helps everyone else.”

Sam wasn’t well-versed in identifying the difference between tics and stims, but he guessed that the way Foolish was currently wringing his fingers was probably stimming. He made a mental note to try to look into that sometime, because he wanted to be able to understand which was which when he saw it.

“Honestly? Not sure about that,” Sam joked, trying to lighten the mood for himself as he felt the tiredness start to settle into his bones again- especially with the quiet and dim room they were in. “But if you don't mind, then I won’t.”

“Yeah, it’s fine.” It was impossible to determine if the reassurance was for Sam or for Foolish himself, but neither mentioned that.

As Sam was about to walk away, the conversation over as far as he was concerned, he was surprised to suddenly feel himself wrapped up in a hug from the side, melting into it before he could really stop himself.

He could feel his heart beating rapidly where his chest was pressed up against Foolish’s, the giveaway of his feelings only causing him more panic as he tried everything he could to keep himself from showing it any more. He counted beats in his head to make sure his breathing came across as normal, forced down any facial expressions in case anyone could see, and resisted the urge to hug Foolish even tighter and not let go.

He felt like they broke apart far too soon, but Sam also knew they shouldn’t have touched at all. Not that it was Foolish’s fault; it was his own stupid feelings that were getting in the way of their friendship.

“Thanks for looking out for me,” Foolish told Sam, so gently and kindly it had Sam’s heart aching, and he wished it wouldn’t but he couldn’t help how loved he felt just then, even with such simple words. “It was good to see you again.”

“Good to see you too,” Sam managed, chest tight and trying to hide how it felt like he was gasping for breath.

“See you in two weeks?” Foolish sounded hopeful, genuine. It was crushing Sam’s heart now, honestly. So much for this being ‘just a feeling’ he could get over. He hadn’t felt this way since he first started liking Ponk- though that had also ended in lots of fights and a breakup he never recovered from, so maybe the universe was trying to give him a sign, albeit a cruel one.

Out of words, Sam tried to nod his agreement and hurried out of there, hating himself for falling so easily for the first person who was kind to him. Stupid, lovesick heart.

Of course, he probably screwed up leaving so quickly and suddenly not talking; now Foolish might think Sam didn’t like him at all, or that the hug had been a bad idea- it was, just not because of anything he did. And now Sam might have ruined their chances of being friends, since things were already so shaky with how they’d met and how little they had gotten to know each other.

Sam cursed under his breath as he exited the library and quickly crossed the parking lot to his car, finding it harder to breathe by the second. He grabbed his inhaler from the glovebox before he’d even shut the car door, eyes closed as he tried to block out the world and get himself under control again.

It took longer than the reasonable part of him wanted to admit. He shouldn’t have gotten so worked up. His health had been good.

He needed to get over this crush -because there was definitely nothing else to call it, childish as it felt to admit- because he didn’t know what he’d do if he couldn’t. This wasn’t something he could just keep ignoring, particularly in therapy, because relationship problems were a good part of why he needed help in the first place.

When he finally opened his eyes again, his attention was drawn to the phone he’d thoughtlessly tossed onto the passenger’s seat, lit up with a notification- or several, it looked like. Reaching for it, he cursed when he saw the time and missed calls from Ponk. That wasn’t the most recent notification, as some sort of text had come through too, but Sam didn’t bother checking that as he hurriedly tried to return Ponk’s call.

Ponk picked up right away and his voice crackled with static through the phone, foregoing a greeting as he ranted to Sam about how worried and upset he was that Sam didn’t answer after he’d promised to. And Sam did genuinely feel bad, so he didn’t try to argue and simply waited until Ponk had said everything he wanted to and calmed himself down.

“Well, do you have anything to say for yourself?” Ponk finally asked, taking a deep breath audible through the phone’s battered speaker.

And Sam’s weak reply was, “I’m sorry.”

It seemed to do the trick, though. Ponk didn’t immediately jump to calling out his excuses or claiming he didn’t mean it. He was even quiet for a second, thinking, before he finally asked, “Sam, what happened?”

And truthfully, Sam had no idea what to say. Ponk wouldn’t take ‘it’s complicated’ as an answer, but it wasn’t really clear to Sam himself yet and he didn’t want to drag anyone else into it either way.

“I almost had a panic attack getting out of the session today?” Sam eventually settled on saying, considering that the most relevant part. He could practically feel how Ponk’s expression would have changed and his posture shifted to show his growing worry. It was strange but also seemed so right. “I’m still at the library, I lost track of time. But I’m okay now. I just. . . had a lot of things to deal with today.” Ponk seemed to consider this, quiet again. “Okay, fine. You can tell me about it, if you want. If you’re ready to. But- just stay on the line, okay? Even if you’re not heading home yet?”

“Okay,” Sam gently promised, hoping his tone properly conveyed the hidden apology he didn’t want to voice again. He went back to listening then, and Ponk’s much calmer talking did help him feel more normal again.

Even if he did call Sam a few choice names and remind him about a dozen times that he cannot should not seduce Foolish. Obviously.

Neither hung up the call until Sam had safely pulled into a spot in the small parking lot outside Ponk’s apartment complex, and both breathed a sigh of relief they probably didn’t know the other could hear. Then Ponk warned him that if he didn’t make it into the building in five minutes then he’d go down looking for him, and Sam managed to smile through his mental exhaustion because he knew the threat was serious.

Just before getting out of the car, though, he’d paused to check the time and noticed the text still left on the lockscreen of his phone had become multiple, grouped together and clearly a conversation he was supposed to be part of. Upon seeing Charlie’s name, Sam tentatively but immediately opened it.

From Charlie: Ha, I got everyones numbers

We have a groupchat now :D

From (x-xxx) xxx - xxxx

Okay??

ItsFundy btw

Two hours ago

From (xxx) - xxx - xxxx

Oh

Great

One hour ago

From Quackity: Why though

From Charlie: Because now we can connect with each other like Bad wanted!

Twenty minutes ago

Well. . .

Honestly, Sam didn’t think that was a terrible idea. He had no idea if he’d ever use the groupchat, but it could be a useful tool someday. And in theory, it made sense. This was their support group, and being able to contact each other remotely could be really helpful in the case of something happening.

If Sam had guessed the timeframe right, it would definitely make sense that Charlie had gotten Purpled’s phone number before the session and then sent a message right away. That would explain his and Fundy’s earlier interaction too.

Quietly proud of himself for connecting all the dots, he decided to leave it alone for now- he’d have to clarify which number was his for the people who didn’t know yet, but it could wait. Any minute now Ponk would come marching over to kill him for being late, as counterintuitive as that was for them both.

He wasn’t mad about any of it, though. Part of him thought it was kind of nice.

Chapter Text

There were a lot of things Charlie wanted to be doing on a warm spring afternoon. The bucketlist he was currently working through included things such as taking walks, finding animals in nature or around the city, doing an act of kindness for someone, et cetera et cetera.

Going to the library was probably on there somewhere, but specifically for therapy. . . not so much. Not that therapy had been bad, it was pretty helpful and Charlie had already made friends, but it didn’t make him happy the way things he put on his bucketlists did.

It honestly made him very uncomfortable.

He had to talk about things he didn’t necessarily want to and let people know how he felt regardless of what they might think of him afterwards. Nothing bad had happened yet, but it always could. Not that Charlie had anything particularly special to share yet either, to be fair.

Seeing as this was the case, Charlie tried to show the best version of his troubled self as possible. As ironic as such a statement sounded. He talked first and he shared often, he tried to be happy, and he engaged the others in conversation whenever he could. And Bad was a really nice therapist; much better at making him feel seen than his old one had been.

But it still felt like he was some sort of creature wearing a human mask of skin and bones. A slime, maybe. Something gooey and moldable underneath the surface of his face and behind his glasses that just listened to what it was told counted as ‘right’. Not that Charlie ever wanted to address that, though it was possibly the one thing he needed to actually say in therapy. Interesting how that stuff works.

He was getting good at it though; he was never late for therapy, never acted like he was hiding anything, and even said hi to the library receptionist on his way in every other week. He’d just about settled into this new part of his routine too, since this was the fourth time. He wasn’t seeing huge progress, but he figured he just had to ‘take a step back’ as people said- aka, be ‘done’ with therapy and then realize things were different now. Or something.

Whatever the case, he got off the bus at the right stop, pulled out his earplugs and tucked the chain they hung on under his shirt, and walked inside the library like nothing was wrong. Just like every time.

The best part about group therapy was seeing Quackity the law major, as far as Charlie was concerned. And he was glad to see that Quackity had already gotten there, scrolling through articles on his phone Charlie definitely wouldn’t understand even if he wanted to look at them.

“Hey, Quackity from Las Nevadas!” Charlie greeted, maybe a bit too excitedly for a little library nook. He didn’t mean to refer to Quackity that way, it just came out because that was how he always had to refer to people in his head- otherwise he’d mix up who they were. Thankfully, Quackity didn’t seem to care about that.

Quackity did look up briefly, and he gave Charlie a wave before returning to what he was doing. Charlie took that as a win, since Quackity had taken time off whatever he’d been focused on before to reply to him. And that was cool.

Quackity was an interesting character- he talked louder than most people, was less sympathetic and cheerful than most, and kind of said whatever he wanted to. But he had a confidence to him that drew Charlie in -what was that called? Charisma?- and Charlie wanted to be his friend. He felt like they would get along great once they both broke out of their shells and started being honest about themselves with each other.

Charlie was grateful that he had the same seat as usual, finding comfort in being able to look around and see everything in its place and the familiar presence of the bookcases surrounding them.

“Good afternoon, Charlie,” Bad greeted, also as per usual. He was reading a book this week rather than staring at that same old clipboard littered with scrawling words that Charlie couldn’t read. Charlie didn’t know what the title of the book said since Bad kept it flipped open to his current page, but the cover was a pale blue that seemed nice enough. Besides, Bad was turning out to be a very nice person. Therefore, Charlie liked it.

“Hi,” Charlie responded cheerfully, after what seemed like a reasonable amount of time. Bad’s little smile seemed genuine, so Charlie kept up equal enthusiasm. He didn’t know what else to say though, feeling like he’d missed his cue, and tried to busy himself by checking the clock -not actually able to read the time by those squiggly lines called ‘stylistic’- and then studying the book titles of whatever was closest to him- stuff in the romance genre, it seemed. None of them were on his bucketlist of books to read this year, but that was fine. He just wouldn’t pick any of them up.

Purpled arrived next- he usually turned out to be one of the first ones here, which surprised Charlie every time. He, of all of them, seemed the most reluctant to be here and to participate in the session activities. Charlie decided to wave to him, since they didn’t know each other as well yet and he had no idea what he’d say if Purpled answered any sort of greeting, but Purpled barely looked over anyway. Oh, well.

Sam always got there about four minutes early. Charlie knows this because it was around the same time he pulled out his phone to avoid sitting there and doing nothing, and he can read that clock well enough, since it was digital. Charlie has a feeling there was a reason for this, like him getting on and off the same bus at the same time whenever he has the opportunity to keep his routine in place, but he had yet to ask why Sam does this.

Foolish seemed like the type of person who always wanted to be early but could never seem to leave the house on time. Charlie knows quite a few people like that- whether forgetful, distracted, spontaneous, or just very busy, there were always those ones who had a good reason they stayed home a minute or two later. Foolish was one of them. Charlie wondered what might have kept him this time- thus far, he’d mentioned having work most days and being the main caretaker of his kids, both of which would be very understandable causes. Whatever the case, Foolish did return Charlie’s wave in his direction and sat down next to Sam as usual. Lately, the two had been hanging out a lot more, but Charlie noted that this time, Sam didn’t let them get a real conversation started and was looking anywhere but at Foolish. Strange, and honestly a little worrying. Charlie didn’t want anything coming between this group, and if they were fighting, that could ruin everything.

Fundy was hard to read- sometimes he’d be the first to arrive, sometimes the last. All he’d really said about himself, as far as reasons to be in therapy with them all, was that his family is a huge factor, as well as not currently in the picture, and that his living situation kind of sucked. Charlie couldn’t really empathize, honestly. His own family had been mid, his living situation also mid. But perhaps due to the extremities of his life, Fundy always seemed to be operating on some extreme himself, even in small things. This particular day, he ended up being two minutes late, just in time for Charlie to check the time once more and pocket his phone. Not that anyone was going to point that out.

“Alright, we’ll get today’s session started now.” Bad always seemed to begin the same way, which wasn’t a bad thing. It helped Charlie relax, knowing things would go normally, and he didn’t want to be pushed past any boundaries. “I’d like to start with a little check-in this time, just like we did last week. It’s very good to keep in touch with what’s going on in your daily life and to share that with each other. So, just to go over it again, I just want you to share something that’s been going on in your life lately- good, bad, or anything in-between.”

Charlie’s week had been fine, if he was being honest with himself. It had been pretty normal, with work five days a week, declining two invites out for drinks and accepting one, and taking the day after that off to mentally and emotionally recover from how stressful and noisy it had been. He could share all that, he supposed, because it did fall under the ‘in-between’ category as relatively normal occurrences, but he sort of didn’t feel like it. He waited a second to keep thinking, and Fundy ended up speaking before he was ready himself- Fundy tended to be one of the first to talk in their group, either less anxious or less awkward than the rest of them.

“My week was fine,” He supplied- kind of boredly, if Charlie wasn’t mistaken. “I got to stay home for most of it but had a lot of studying for finals to do.”

Bad started asking Fundy about how his exams went, since apparently he could make a conversation out of anything -or thought knowing would be useful as a therapist- but Charlie tuned him out to keep thinking about what he was going to say himself, so he could make it count. He eventually settled on a way of phrasing things happily and secured a smile on his face while he waited for his turn to present.

“My week was good; work was good and I got to hang out with friends,” Charlie said confidently, satisfied with his answer overall. Maybe repeating himself wasn’t the best, but surely no-one would catch onto it or judge him. ‘Good’ was a perfectly fine, all-around, vague word he could use without worrying.

Bad nodded his approval, too, which Charlie saw as an absolute score.

It was quiet for a second, and Charlie grew worried he’d been too vague and now it was his fault there was nothing to say, but Sam recovered the conversation for them by putting in his own explanation:

“Things have been alright, I guess. I’ve been a bit lonely, but it’s not Ponk’s fault she can’t stay over all the time. And it always gets better.” He sounded slightly sad, and wasn’t looking up as he spoke. Distant was the word Charlie came up with, and he sympathized.

“Is Ponk the only person who visits you?” Bad asked tenderly, being the only one with the authority to ask such a question. The way Sam looked up so suddenly made it clear he hadn’t expected it, either, but he shrugged lightly in response nonetheless.

“He’s the only one who can come over regularly, and I don't get out much,” he admitted, appearing pretty concentrated on how he was answering- which could mean he was withholding things. “He’s the only one who could come over this week, and only twice. It was a bit disappointing, is all. I’ll get over the feeling.”

Bad clicked his tongue -something Charlie learned is sympathetic- and started subtly writing something down. Across from him, Purpled looked down at the floor; Charlie wasn’t sure why, but he tried not to get distracted by it.

“Maybe we can find a bit of a compromise there,” Bad suggested softly. “You shouldn’t have to be alone so often, I’m sure it’s very difficult.”

Charlie agreed with that sentiment, though it didn’t make sense to him why Sam would stay inside all the time if he wanted to be around people more. Couldn’t he just leave if he wanted?

He didn’t voice that, worried it was a rude or intrusive question, but it stayed on his mind like a fly on the wall, bothering him the longer he kept quiet.

“I can try to figure something out,” Sam settled on saying, probably only to make Bad feel better. Charlie thought he knew an empty promise when he heard one.

“My week was normal?” Foolish offered, switching the topic for them. “I don't think anything super interesting happened. I took the kids to the library, and they really liked it. It was pretty cute to see.”

Bad smiled fondly, and Charlie briefly wondered if he actually knew Foolish’s kids, somehow, or if he just liked kids in general. On one hand, he wouldn’t put it past Bad to have found a way to meet Foolish’s family -if Charlie had any immediate family who’d signed the therapy paperwork with him, he’d imagine Bad was the nice type of person to have gotten to know them- on the other, Bad had at least one kid of his own, and talked about doing play therapy with younger kids before, so maybe he just found that cute too, like Foolish said.

“That sounds wonderful, Foolish,” Bad said to him, before calmly prompting, “Quackity? Something on your mind?”

Quackity, the accused, looked up almost guiltily from where he’d been staring intently at the patterns of the rug in the center of their circle. “Who, me? Just thinking about packing up my dorm and stuff. It’s been on my mind a lot lately. Dunno why.”

“What sort of feelings come with that? Are you dealing with anxiety about it, or is it more relieving?” Bad prompted, very obviously putting the pen and clipboard to the side so Quackity would be less likely to lie.

“I have anxiety about everything,” Quackity said unhelpfully, crossing his arms. “It’s fine.”

That didn’t exactly sound fine to Charlie, but he wasn’t about to say that. If anyone asked him about his social anxiety, he’d probably say the same thing. Just in case.

Bad pursed his lips but didn’t push it. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to find the dark humor to be funny at all, so Charlie couldn’t laugh without it being weird. So he didn’t.

It was Purpled’s turn, and if Charlie knew that then everyone else probably did too, but the teen still pretended not to realize they were waiting on him to answer. He liked doing that. Maybe it was some sort of game to him.

“I don't know,” he said tensely, as if they’d asked him where he hid a body he’d murdered. “Things were fine.”

“Is there anything you can share about it?” Bad tried, but he was shut down before he’d even finished speaking.

“No.”

Oh.

Charlie hoped it wasn’t anything personal. He didn’t know what he could do to fix it if Purpled wasn’t talking to him. He’d lost a lot of budding friendships that way. Maybe that was he because he talked too much and people no longer wanted to talk back.

Maybe he should stop going first all the time.

But then again, maybe if he didn’t talk at all then Purpled wouldn’t either. And then group therapy would be messed up forever.

Confused and feeling bad now, Charlie shrunk back in his seat, squirming a bit in an attempt to get rid of the weird feeling settling in his stomach.

“Okay,” Bad sounded disappointed, slowly flipping to the next page in his clipboard. “So I have one last ice breaker planned for us, and after this we should be able to just do our reflections and get right to the discussions during our sessions. What I’d like you to do is take a piece of paper and write down two things about yourself- some sort of unusual and fun event or fact, and then fold the paper up and hand it back to me. I’ll read them all out in a random order, and you’ll have to guess who the stories belong to. True things only, and keep it PG, please.”

“He’s catching onto us,” Fundy joked, his grin as comical as Quackity’s exaggerated fake scowling at the news. “He knows we’re a bunch of immature kids at heart.”

Bad didn’t grace them with an answer, focused on handing out small strips of paper to everyone. Charlie took his and stared at it for a moment, drawing a blank on anything interesting that had ever happened to him. He knew his friends called him ‘a fun person to be around’, but that clearly didn’t mean he had interesting things to share. He was just happy around them and good at jokes.

Writing slowly until he figured out a ‘reasonable time’ to get this done in -based on how other people were doing- Charlie put I got trained professionally as a spy for his first fact. And it was true; he only did the course for two months and wasn’t a legal spy, but he’d done it with Bizly as a dare a few years ago.

For his second fact, he wrote ‘I’ve had bones removed :)’ which might be a dead giveaway given how often he’d talked about having bones before, but that was fine. It meant people could recognize his facts easily and get to know him. And who knows what everyone else was putting. He was slightly worried that he wouldn’t guess anyone’s right and they’d think he didn’t care about them. That would be awful.

Luckily, by the time he was done with his list Sam and Foolish were finishing up too, and Purpled had already given his back to Bad.

Charlie handed his over and waited for everyone else to do the same, his anxiety growing with every second while he tried just to sit still.

Shuffling the papers a bit, Bad took one and read it out, keeping his tone perfectly level, which was kind of impressive.

“My relationship history is longer than the L’manberg Declaration of Independence. . . Oh gosh. And, I paid for my schooling by being really good at poker.”

Everyone almost instantly agreed it was Quackity, not only for the joking manner but also because those were two things it seemed only Quackity was capable of. He admitted to it, and also said he was considering saying that had jumped off a cliff -with a paraglider, he added, when Bad looked upset- and he would do it again. Bad didn’t find that funny.

The second paper was Charlie’s, and Quackity could immediately tell it was him. Everyone else seemed to find it likely as well, and he did get asked about being a spy, so he told the truth and got finger-guns from Quackity thanks to it.

The third was a bit different, going “I applied to the college my crush did because I wanted to be with him” and “I was once in a medically-induced coma for three days straight.”

At this, Foolish immediately and assuredly looked at Sam, who glanced his direction and immediately lost it, unable to keep a straight face and pretend he hadn’t been called out. Charlie would’ve guessed it was Sam too, based on the context clues of ‘male college crush’ and ‘poor health’. He was secretly proud he’d caught on, watching Sam try to defend himself and Bad chiding Foolish for -jokingly? Affectionately?- calling his friend a bad word.

Moving on, Bad read the next one, “I was trained to use eight different kinds of knives and two kinds of axes. . . I won a cash-prize gaming tournament seven years in a row.”

Quackity and Charlie both guessed Fundy first, but it was Sam who figured out it was Purpled. Both things sounded pretty cool to Charlie and he would have liked to hear how Purpled got into all that, but he only shrugged and offered no explanations.

Too bad.

“I used to visit a river where sharks would migrate every year with my family, and I was almost- indoctrinated into two different cults?” Bad seemed confused reading out the next one, and Fundy swore loudly, proving it wasn’t him. That meant it was Foolish’s, which didn’t clear up the second fact at all but did imply that Foolish liked sharks, possibly that they were a special interest, which Charlie thought was nice- and he was hoping for the latter. He didn’t want to be rude, but had been practically dying to ask if Foolish was also autistic ever since they’d met, because that would be pretty cool and it also kind of seemed that way, even with how bad Charlie usually was at picking up on that.

Quackity and Purpled -of all people- had a few rather intrusive questions about the cult stuff, but Bad tried to usher them along and read out Fundy’s facts too, “I learned ballroom dancing as a kid, and I once stole an arctic fox from an animal sanctuary and named it Yogurt, but then felt guilty and put it back.” Two things that gave off very different energy but were both so like Fundy, somehow. Of course, Foolish pointed that out too and even asked if Eret was the one who’d taught him to dance, and he confirmed it.

“Hey, Bad, you didn’t put any facts in, did you?” Quackity asked. “That’s no fun.”

“Well, I wanted this to be more about the six of you,” Bad told him in reply, but Quackity wasn’t having any of it.

“You should share fun things about you too,” he argued. “Tell us if you ever went to jail or if you have a partner or something, at least.” Charlie nodded along aggressively until Bad relented.

“Well, then: Not technically to both,” Bad said, which was an answer Charlie respected but hated at the same time, because that told him nothing and Bad clearly meant to do that.

Everyone else protested against that as their answer too, equally as curious as Charlie was, but Bad lightheartedly but firmly refused.

“Now, I know we’re running out time,” Bad said when Quackity, the last one to give up, finally stopped pestering him. “But I do have one last exercise for you all today, and it’s pretty simple. I just want to check in with you all and ask what’s one reason you decided to come here today. It doesn’t have to be anything spectacular, it’s probably not because it instantly fixed you, but here’s the thing: All of you chose to be here. You’re all here together. And each of you has a reason why- that reason can be different every single day, and some days maybe there’s a big reason or maybe today you dragged your feet about it, but either way, I’d like you to share it, please.”

Oh. That was. . . A big question. Charlie didn’t really like it; it was uncomfortable, and his reason felt stupid. He did it because it was on his schedule, he’d planned for it, and he didn’t want to mess things up. But he couldn’t say that, it’d sound like he hated it here and didn’t care about them. But he did.

So he settled for a half-truth, and was the first one to speak. “I feel heard when I’m here.”

It sounded so good on paper. But they were only hearing what he wanted to tell them. The actual stuff was still as secret, and his mask was super strong. It was irony, probably, that he’d said that.

He couldn’t tell what anyone’s reactions to that were, and he made his stomach twist even more. He looked really hard for emotional giveaways but couldn’t find any. Maybe they just didn’t feel strongly about it, which was okay enough.

“I mean. . . I guess I like having more than interests in common with people,” Quackity admitted honestly. “We actually get a lot of the same stuff. And people here give a damn about my mental health.”

“Language,” Bad murmured, and Charlie only heard it because he was sitting right beside him. But at least Quackity wouldn’t feel invalidated by the comment, which Charlie was sure was Bad’s plan.

“It’s a bit like an escape from my stress for me,” Fundy timidly spoke next. “I can bring my problems here and don't leave feeling worse. It’s kind of comfy, almost? It’s nice here.”

Charlie nodded, able to agree with that. Comfy was a nice word, too. He felt like he could call it that someday.

“Having an outlet of communication has been really good,” Foolish agreed, with a softer tone than usual. “It’s been so helpful to have a place where’s actually encouraged to talk about what I’m going through. It makes things a little bit easier.”

Because no-one really seemed to be commenting or starting conversation, here, Charlie didn’t say anything either, but he definitely understood that point. He didn’t have many places where it was even acceptable to talk about the gritty stuff or admit when things were less than good, and it almost made Charlie guilty to know other people were being so honest while he was pretending to be okay.

People who are okay don't drink poison when they’re sick and going through hell.

“It’s been good to get out of the house and be around people,” Sam supplied, reminding Charlie of his earlier comments on that sort of thing. As bad as he felt for him, he was at least glad Sam saw this as a nice place to go back to.

“I’ve been learning a lot here,” Purpled said, which apparently didn’t only confuse Charlie, because Bad asked what that meant. Purpled’s answer was still vague, and lacking any real emotion: “I know more about mental health now? And about other people, and myself. Stuff like that.”

Taking that as an acceptable answer -and Charlie relating to the need to learn about people- Bad started to wrap up their session with some affirming words and dismissed them all. This week, he didn’t have to leave right away -though for some reason Sam did, rushing to leave and barely saying goodbye to Foolish- and their therapist actually was approached by Quackity of all people.

As Charlie got up to give them space, he thought he heard Quackity ask about private therapy sessions and another therapist, which could mean two things- either he want to do the group anymore and was trying to leave, or he just wanted to get into more personal stuff and work on solutions one-on-one with someone, which would probably be a super helpful thing. Charlie sincerely hoped it was the latter.

At this point, he couldn’t see any of them not being there, not even himself. This was what they did, and it was what group therapy was for them. Shouldn’t they all be here? They were supposed to be in this whole thing together, like Bad said.

As Charlie was about to walk out the door, Fundy tapped his shoulder, effectively stopping him. He tried to put on a calm and inviting expression as he turned and met Fundy’s eyes for a second.

“Hey man, I, uh, wanted to say that it’s really cool that you’re so open with us at group,” Fundy said, sounding nervous. “I appreciate it. It’s encouraging and stuff, seriously.”

“Uh- thank you,” Charlie managed, stuttering. He was at a loss for words, his brain about to explode with an identity crisis because he was practically lying the whole time, showing them the surface level things while digging himself a deeper hole underground.

Fundy nodded and even smiled a bit, looking reassured, and walked away.

Charlie wanted to scream.

He didn’t, but he was definitely zoning out as he climbed onto the bus waiting right on time outside the library and started the trip home. He was probably staring at someone accidentally, but he barely processed it. He clutched to the slime-ball fidget in his pocket like a lifeline, trying to tell himself over and over that everything was fine and getting no response from his own consciousness. It was weird and uncomfortable but he was starting to get used to it, having gone through it several times in the last few years.

He made it home and sat down on the couch, picking up the plushie intentionally set there and hugging it until he felt more normal. He slowly registered his phone buzzing in his pocket and pulled it out, seeing a few messages from the group chat he’d started two weeks ago.

From Quackity:

Anyone have theories as to what Bad meant earlier

Twenty-four minutes ago

From Fundy:

Probably that he almost got sent to jail because he did something illegal but he got away with it

And that his partner doesn’t know that they’re married because he did it secretly and the other guy has memory problems too

From Quackity:

what

Eight minutes ago

From Sam:

How high are you?

From Purpled:

What do you think Bad did illegally?

From Fundy:

How dare you suggest I’m high

From Foolish:

^^^Hypocrite

From Fundy:

Marriage fraud, obviously

From Foolish:

Oh my gods

It makes so much sense /s

From Quackity:

Well you come up with soemthgung better

somethingg*

Now

Charlie found himself grinning as he scrolled through the conversation, imagining the look on Bad’s face if they would've said all this in front of him. These sorts of conversations, the senseless and joking ones, were always his favorite: It was just friends goofing off, saying things they know will make everyone else burst out laughing. And it felt like he and the guys from Las Nevadas were friends, at least when they were acting like this. He would usually chime in with some sort of pun in this situation, and the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to.

He opened the text bar and tried out a couple of the first things to come to mind, settling on one that wasn’t his best work, but still counted as him contributing.

From Charlie:

I mean it’s in the name

From Fundy:

But wait isn’t his last name Halo??

From Charlie:

Hmm

His secret identity

Or that’s his husband’s name

From Foolish:

he’s literally not married

Now

He was surprised to have gotten a response nearly right away, and he’d apparently forgotten Bad’s surname -unsurprisingly, he’d never actually heard anyone call Bad that and he didn’t introduce himself that way- but it got him thinking as to how he hadn’t learned the last name of anybody at therapy.

He made a split-second decision and opened up the bucketlist app he’d put on his phone, adding ‘learn everyone’s last names’ under the Group Therapy Goals bucketlist he’d started almost two months ago now. It was a shorter list, comparatively, mostly consisting of becoming better friends and asking about certain things he wanted to know. ‘Ask about others’ diagnoses’ was on there, as well as ‘know everybody’s sense of humor’, which he was slowly working out just by participating every session.

Feeling a bit better, Charlie got up off the couch and grabbed the tv remote, curling up again to turn on one of his comfort shows and decompress a bit. As he watched, he kept an eye on his phone, unusually happy every time it lit up with another text.

Chapter Text

While it was a fact that Las Nevadas had started as more of an obligation to Foolish than anything else -his Papa Puffy had helped Bad with the necessary paperwork to arrange the group, and had encouraged Foolish with all her behavioral therapist powers and motherly influence to attend- he was actually starting to like it. Which was a first. 

He’d been attending therapy for most of his life for various reasons of increasing concern, but like a good number of reasonable people, he’d never actually wanted to go. Figuring out coping mechanisms and learning about empathetic communication had been great, and super helpful when he was growing up. But then there was the mental box of stuff Foolish didn’t want to touch that people were being paid to try prying open. And he just didn’t appreciate that. 

That was why Las Nevadas had worked better, for its part. Things there weren’t about him; he didn’t have to tell them all the trauma of trying to drown himself in his own home and the dread of his wife and kids finding out. He didn’t have to disclose the extreme issues that came from growing up in a world he was supposed to just understand and couldn’t, the way people unknowingly put even more pressure on him the older he got. That stuff could stay where it was, and he could talk only about getting his anxiety fixed and moving completely past what had happened. Which, he knew very well, was not what Papa Puffy intended when she directed him there. But he was comfortable, and he needed to feel that way if he was going to share anything at all, so he was going to ignore the obvious and just keep at it until he felt that choice paid off. 

Over the last few months, things had gotten slightly better, too. He at least felt supported, and that was a start. He’d shared a bit about his anxiety, he’d brought up his adoption and the time it took to relearn how to behave, and -by the Mouthless God and its secrets- he’d even brought up the whole cultist thing, which was a rabbit hole the rest of them probably didn’t need to get into, but it was something that happened and probably definitely something he should talk about with a therapist. 

And he’d even managed to attend all four sessions so far, which wasn’t typically possible for him. He hadn’t even gotten sick one of those days, and the odds there were not high. Foolish almost wondered if the Bright-Eyed God was affecting his fate there, because he’d never gotten away with that before. And then again, if one of the sky gods was seeing to his physical health for the sake of getting him to therapy, maybe he did have a problem. 

Whatever it was, Foolish was fine today too and was on his way to the library once again. His little sister, Michelle, was watching the kids while Eret worked, and it seemed like a usual evening for the Alastair-Gamers family. The problem with that, of course, was that calm days always led to intrusive thoughts, which led to unnecessary stress and his tics getting so much worse. 

Ignoring the ‘friendly reminder’ that it would very much hurt if he let go of the door and it slammed shut on him, Foolish got out of his car in the pouring rain and stepped up onto the curb, thankfully getting underneath the awning in just a few steps. He’d forgotten to put an umbrella back in his car after it had finished drying from the last spring downpour, and he hated rain jackets as it was, so he just made his way carefully to the front doors of the library and avoided the water as best he could. As much as he loved the rain, he didn’t want to deal with being soaked the whole session or the water being bothersome to the library staff.

Charlie, Quackity, and Purpled were all in Las Nevadas’ corner of the library, to notably varying degrees of rainsoaked- Quackity in particular looking as though he’d just been dropped fully underwater. Though, despite how uncomfortable it looked, he stubbornly kept his beanie securely over his hair. 

“Why are you so dry?” Quackity asked accusingly as Foolish walked in, catching onto the stark difference for himself and sounding incredibly insulted.

“I parked right up against the building,” Foolish told him simply, unsure what Quackity actually wanted aside from stating the obvious fact. 

“Ah, you’re one of those privileged people, with an annual library pass,” Quackity continued, even more dramatically, his hand thrown against his face like he had to shield it. “Not all of us poor people get to do that, you know.”

Staring blankly at the implied joke but apparent issue, Foolish only said, “That doesn’t sound like my problem.”
Instantly, Quackity pretended to faint in his chair, clutching his heart. It was clearly supposed to be comical, and Charlie played along with a gasp of shock. Purpled sarcastically slow-clapped, watching Charlie pretend to fuss over Quackity’s fallen form.

Fundy happened to walk in on the scene, looking very confused for a moment before resolving not to say anything and taking his seat. As the only person acting normal, Foolish opted to greet Fundy and got a chill “Hey” in reply.

“Did Quackity die?” Fundy eventually asked, when things were silent for a moment and Quackity still hadn’t gotten up.

‘Yes, I did,” the accused himself answered, opening one eye to make sure Fundy was paying attention to him. “Foolish is exploiting the financial hierarchy of upper-class families. He wounds me with it.”

“Oh- kay . . .” Fundy tilted his head in either confusion or concern, watching Quackity closely. “What got you in such a mood, by the way?”

“Oh, I did well on my exams.” Quackity sat up again as he presented the news, returning to a normal posture, expression, and tone. He received an excited round of applause and seemed to glow, clearly happy with his achievement.

At exactly three minutes till the hour, Sam came in, same as usual. He had his work bag with him, held up on the handle of his cane rather than over his shoulder, which meant he had a job to get to and probably couldn’t stay late, and that was kind of disappointing. Foolish had been trying to figure out how to ask him why he was being distant, and that was harder to do over a text or phone call. He’d been hoping he could pull Sam aside after therapy, but clearly that wasn’t going to work. He just prayed things were still okay- and while he was at it, asked the Many-Handed God if there was some way Sam could be less busy, and therefore able to talk to him. That would be nice too. 

Sam offered a tired ‘hi’ but once again didn’t seem much for conversation, leaving Foolish with a surge of excited energy he had no outlet for, caused by seeing Sam and wanting to talk to him. Oh, well.

Foolish halfheartedly listened to the others’ conversation -which seemed to get more exuberant every time Quackity had the chance to speak- while he waited for Bad to arrive and get the session started for them, but the clock kept ticking and their therapist had yet to show up. At five minutes past, Purpled finally brought it up, asking where Bad was when there was a break in the conversation.

There was a pause, long enough that Foolish realized none of them had the answer to that. It was strange; Bad would have given them some sort of notice if he wasn’t able to be there, even last minute. The talking halted, everyone seeming to hold their breath wondering if he’d appear.

“So. . . do we just get started?” Quackity gave in and asked. “Like, can I just ask you guys questions or something? I bet I could do it. My friend’s dad was a therapist.”

“Was? Did his license get revoked?” Fundy put in, fixated on an entirely different point than Quackity had meant. “That’s a sound idea, Q.”
“No, I meant that he was my friend, and it came out wrong,” Quackity defended. “Come on, seriously. There’s stuff I think we should’ve talked about sooner. Like, how we all got here. What we actually have in common.”
He had a point, Foolish could admit that. He couldn’t say he hadn’t wondered at times. And that seemed like something they should’ve talked about when trying to set the ground for their group in the first place. But Foolish had never wanted to be the one to bring that up, having no idea how to make that sound natural.

“You’re asking about our mental health problems? Just like that?” Purpled clarified, sounding surprised. 

“Yeah. I don't like beating around the bush like Bad’s been doing. You don't have to say it if it makes you uncomfortable. But c’mon, it’s literally why we’re here.” Quackity cleared his throat and changed his tone slightly, less pushy now. “So for me, it’s my anxiety and depression. It got pretty bad in school, and my parents didn’t want me taking any medications for ages. And then when I finally convinced them too. . . They didn’t work right, and they made things worse, and I gave up on it and just took them all.” He was starting to stumble over his words by the end of the explanation, eyes shining but gaze determined. “But I don't want sympathy, okay? I got something that works better, and I actually started seeing a personal therapist last week. So it’s fine.”
“Well, Prime, I don't know what to say to that.” Fundy spoke after a second, and Quackity waved it off as assurance that there was no perfect answer to someone baring the depths of their soul. “I guess I can go next. I think the biggest thing that happened is family stuff. My parents’ divorce was messy and I ended up with my dad’s side of the family, and they’re not the best at being caring. And I tried to find good friends, but we got into fights and such a lot because I didn’t know how to talk about my problems and they all left. Then my dad went to jail and my grandad pushed me to go to college and basically get out of his house despite all that going on. So. It was a lot.” Taking a deep breath after sharing all that information, Fundy continued more slowly, “But things kinda calmed down, and as I’ve said, I started talking to some of my family again after the last few years.”

Being on Fundy’s right, Purpled took it as his cue to go next, vaguely but seriously saying, “My depression got really bad and I was fighting with my brother a lot. I didn’t think I had much to lose. I got sent to the Eggpire Mental Hospital a few months, then they sent me here instead.”

Sam needed a moment before he was ready to speak, his breathing seeming more shallow than usual- though hopefully Foolish was only making that up. “I don't honestly know what it was. I don't know why then. It wasn’t any worse than usual, I just- didn’t want to put up with it all anymore. All the work, all the problems, all the debt from hospital admittance. . . I was done with it. And I tried to blow it all up.” He paused, swallowing hard. There was a breath between his every word like it hurt to say. “I built an I.E.D. in my workshop- an, an improvised explosive device, and set it off. And it- didn’t kill me. Ponk knew immediately what I’d done, and never let me out of his sight again.” His smile was sad, and the huff of laughter even more so. “Prime help me.”
It was Foolish’s turn next, and though there was a whole tidal wave of things to that experience, he’d have no idea how to ever say it all, even to Eret herself, in whom he’d confided everything he could, as best he could. He had nothing to hide from them, nothing he didn’t want to say, but that was different. Not to mention how hard it was to think through it all while desperately trying to suppress his tics.

“I think. . . Anxiety was a big factor,” Foolish started, figuring it was as good a starting point as any. As he continued, though, his thoughts started moving quicker, ahead of what he was rehearsing and slipping out before he could process and rephrase anything. “And I remember the intrusive thoughts being really bad at that time. I cried through all of it, really. I hated what I was doing and I don't know how I kept telling myself to do it anyway. I- I tried to drown myself; we had a lakehouse at the time, and somehow I’d convinced myself it would be better if I didn’t leave. . . Then the neighbors found me while out on their boat and got me ashore in time. And when I woke up, and I saw Eret crying, and I- I knew I didn’t want to do that again. So my mom took us in for a while and helped us find some stability, and we moved somewhere nearby, and when she was setting up Las Nevadas she asked me to come here. She thought it would help.”

Like the others, he didn’t really receive a response, but he could tell they were listening very attentively nonetheless. Having nothing else to say, he just stopped there, though there were probably a lot of things he didn’t explain or said confusingly. He could already think of some details it was probably too late to add. The good part about everyone moving on, though, was no-one seemed to notice the tic causing him to fall back in his chair, or the soft clicks following it up. 

“My turn?” Charlie asked rhetorically, quieter than Foolish had ever heard him. “I don't really know if there was something that caused it. It was a bad day, yeah, but those happened a lot. I guess I just got tired of them, too. I kind of mixed together a poison from cleaning chemicals and stuff, but I guess it wasn’t strong enough and I survived it. It really sucked, both trying to take it and recovering later. Most of my friends still think it was an accident and they make jokes about it. But they don't know any better.”

“Then tell them?” Fundy broke the solemn silence, sounding scandalized. “That’s awful , man. Don't let them do that.”

“No, it’s okay!’ Charlie insisted, clearly faking the upbeat tone. “It’s not their fault.”

“They should still know,” Sam agreed. “It’s really important to let the people you trust in on what you’re going through. It makes it harder on you otherwise.”

Charlie shrugged, looking even more concerned. Foolish couldn’t tell if he was starting to agree or if he was actually regretting telling them that part. “Okay, I’ll try.”

“So, wait,” Quackity turned in his chair to face Foolish, startling him a bit. “You said your mom helped start Las Nevadas? As in, she’s Puffy Fär?”
“Yes. . .” Foolish had no idea where this was going; with Quackity, it could be anything. “She mostly does paperwork because she couldn’t do much more with me actually attending the group, it’s considered too biased, obviously.”

Quackity nodded along, eyes wide. “She’s my new therapist. Your mom is now my therapist. Is that considered some sort of bias?” He seemed to be genuinely asking, not making some kind of joke, and Foolish always doubted his own understanding of things but tried to remember, almost entirely for that reason. 

“Um, I don't think so, as long as you’re not talking about me specifically.” Foolish thought about it, fairly sure that was correct. “Because we’re just friends, and she didn’t know you through me at all, it should be totally fine. How’d you end up with her?”
“Bad suggested her to me when I asked,” Quackity answered. “I guess he wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t think it would work. Still- he knew, and he didn’t tell me.”

“I guess it didn’t matter?” Foolish offered, but Bad himself walked in before he had time to defend his reasoning.

“I’m so sorry to be late,” their therapist told them all, all but rushing to his seat in genuine urgency. “I had an emergency call come in from another client just before the session was supposed to start, and I really had to be there for them. I hope you all did okay without me. It wasn’t too awkward, was it?”

The somewhat poor joke got varying responses, each very in-character and none of which Bad should really be surprised by.

“No, it was good.” From Fundy. 

“We talked about death!” From Charlie; and, if Foolish had to guess, the humor was to deflect what they’d just gone through emotionally, opening up like that. 

“Fine, I guess?” From Foolish- and he cringed when he realized his wording was wrong, but couldn’t correct himself without it being more awkward. 

“We almost died of boredom and we still need help.” From Quackity.
“It’s okay, that’s more important.” From Sam, and he looked grateful that the uncomfortable subject had been changed and their session was back on track. 

“It’s whatever.” From Purpled.
Bad pursed his lips, refusing to answer any of them. “Well, we’ll have to go a bit quicker than usual today, but I hope we can still make this a meaningful time. Going back to the second week, we had a page of questions we went over to start connecting with some of the problems we’re working through. This list goes by the same principle, though the questions are a little bit different. I’m going to hand these out and you can look over them, and we’ll talk about it a bit after.”

Bad took the thin stack of papers off the top of his clipboard and passed them to Charlie first, he kept one and handed the rest off, and so forth until Foolish had the last one. He turned the page over to make sure it wasn’t double-sided and then looked over it, having to skim it several times before processing much at all; Bad was right, the questions were super similar. Just self-reflective questions that always made Foolish worry that he was doing or understanding things wrong if his answers didn’t seem perfect. 

In what ways do I care for myself physically and mentally?

How do my short-term goals and my long-term goals compare?

If my life were to change completely, what would I be missing out on?

What is one life-changing, preferably positive, thing that happened to you and you’ll never forget?

How do I keep things under control in my everyday life? What can be controlled about it?

What is one thing you could never live without, and one thing you could never live with?

What is one thing you would do if you had the complete freedom to, with nothing stopping you?

Overall, the list was fine. Foolish was sensing a pattern in it, something along the lines of why you shouldn’t kill yourself and just accept that things won’t go your way , which seemed like yet another joke in poor taste -did Bad write these, by they way, or did they come with some sort of manual he’d been handed?- but he could respect the attempt at subtlety there. And they had a point , to be fair. 

There were plenty of comments he could make about each question, but he tried to focus on answering them first, regardless of his opinion on them all. Taking the pencil he was handed with vague thanks, he decided to skip the first two questions and move onto the easier ones first: The third question was a given; his family was the best part of his life, and each of them was immeasurably special to him. Living without them would be impossible, both literally and metaphorically, and if his life were to change and he no longer had them, he’d barely have a life left . That essentially answered the sixth question too, so he wrote that in, and put the vague answer of ‘guilt’ as what would be impossible to live with, though a more truthful answer would have been more like survivor’s guilt , if he’d gotten out -gotten away with death- and his family had to deal with the consequences of his selfishness. But he had the other kind of survivor’s guilt right now anyway, having put them through so much already by failing . 

But did he really have to say that? He knew it himself, and maybe he could just work through that on his own. Or put it in a box. And put that box in a coffin underground with a rafflesia flower on top so no-one would want to go near it.

Question four, about something positive that had happened to him, had a plethora of answers. He wasn’t going to put to what degree, that makes no sense without context , because that wasn’t a helpful answer. Instead, in a still petty way, he gave a few simple examples to varying degrees of importance that got his point across: His adoption by Puffy, his first friend and eventual marriage to Eret, meeting his best friend Tina at a nerd convention that one time, and that time a lady stopped him during one of his trips to the Land of Undying and offered to braid his hair for him purely because she thought it would ‘look absolutely lovely’ and spent the next three hours making that come true. The last one only did actually constitute as ‘life-changing’ because he’d now spent what was probably an unreasonable amount of hours doing intricate braids in his hair over the last handful of years, and hadn’t even considered cutting it ever since. 

And control, the subject of the last question. . . that was a big, important thing that Foolish had a very small, biased understanding of. His brother had been a control freak, simply put, and it had caused so many insecurities in him that he’d had to keep going back to therapy for, which led the extreme result of never trying to take control of any situation whatsoever, except that he absolutely had to have a structured routine because that was just how he kept calm about things, Dream, why  don't you try to understand that, or else he’d lose his mind. Very conflicting, clearly. His low-emotional-effort, quick problem solver was to adhere to his routine breath by breath unless someone else asked him to change it, in which case they could have all the control over his schedule they wanted. Which was. . . very bad, thinking through it at this angle. Damn it, Bad. How dare he inadvertently be a real therapist to him.

Realizing he’d yet to put an answer and having no idea to summarize the revelation he’d just had, Foolish stared down at the sharp tip of the pencil in his hands and couldn’t shake the absentminded, almost unidentifiable as intrusive thought that it would hurt very, very badly if he were to press it into his skin. Thankfully , in response, his tics made him simply throw the pencil across the room , like this day couldn’t get any worse. 

The thin wood snapped upon hitting the floor, a noise that got just about everyone’s attention. And if that didn’t, then the way his tics made him hit his hip bone with his fist a few times for good measure probably did. Foolish couldn’t be sure, he was absolutely refusing to look at any of them, trying to make himself as small as possible as he crossed the room to get it and curled back into his chair.

“Is everything okay?” Bad asked tentatively, clearly trying to do his job without overstepping.

“Yes,” Foolish managed, in the smallest voice possible. “Just tics, it’s nothing.” Just something he’d never stop remembering at the worst of times, never not be embarrassed by because this stuff had happened so many gods-forsaken times in his life, and something that the others didn’t have proper context for, since he’d been too anxious to tell people upfront about his tic disorder. And while Eret had obviously had the best of intentions when she told him he should leave his disability tags at home rather than let it be a point of judgement, he hadn’t had that safety net at the beginning, either. 

“If you need to step away, that’s absolutely alright,” Bad told him with calm sincerity. 

And Foolish might have been blinking tears out of his eyes, and Bad might have seen that, but he said nothing when Foolish told him, “No, it’s okay. It’s probably a one-time thing.” He tried to make it sound like a joke too, even smiled along to prove it, but Bad’s meant-to-be-touching look conveyed both his concern and his pity. 

Foolish hadn’t wanted to pass away in a long time, but this may have just ended that streak. He wasn’t sure yet.

Skipping to question seven and praying to the Bright-Eyed God that they’d pity him, Foolish had to read it a few times before he even processed it: What is one thing you’d do if you had the complete freedom to, with nothing stopping you?

And it was an interesting one, not because it necessarily made him think but because he couldn’t think of anything . Nothing came to mind, really. What did he want to do? Move back to the Land of Undying, maybe. Bring his family with him, hide there and forget society even existed as it did, and all the problems of their former life would be gone, and they would still be there. Together.

Oh. Probably that.

He only put the first part of that down, though, using the stub of the now-chipped pencil- that he wanted to move there with his family. It would be expensive, it would have its trials in the dry season, (aka, the majority of the year, book-ended by springtime and hell), but it sounded like an escape . 

With that part finished, he briefly returned to the first and seconds questions, he still had no answers, but while he was on the route of giving vague half-truths, he put spending quality time with Eret as a method of self-care, which it was, and legitimately couldn’t think of any short-term goals that weren’t work-related, so he was able to write that while his short term goals tended to be work that kept him busy, in the long-term he wanted to retire to the desert with his family and just be with them. 

He didn’t know how he managed to go over all that in the amount of time they had- it had felt like hours, honestly. He had no idea how long it had actually been. 

It took a few minutes before Bad determined that they all at least seemed done with the exercise, though Charlie was still writing or drawing something and Quackity started scribbling down something even faster rather than stopping where he was. Bad cleared his throat and flipped his clipboard over, placing his pen to a page already covered in tiny notes Foolish couldn’t read.

“So I have two more very small things for us to do today,” he explained -and he had the decency to ignore the whistling Foolish just had to do because of stupid brain signals- as if it would be simple and easy, which Foolish hoped against hope that it would be. He was mentally exhausted enough. “And if you don't get them both done now, I’d strongly encourage you to complete them at home.”
“Oh, c’mon, Bad, we don't need more homework,” Quackity complained lightly. “I just got done with exams.”
“You’ll do fine with this,” Bad told him, and Foolish recognized that smile as one offered to someone who they knew definitely wouldn’t listen, either because they were a small child with a whole world to explore regardless of their dad’s advice, or because it was Quackity, who did what he wanted. “The first thing is to set both a short-term and a long-term goal for yourself- or, if you really want, to share one you’re currently working towards. The second thing is to write a short list of questions you want answers to, whether or not you know how to exactly find that.”
He gave them a moment to let that sink in before instructing them to use the back of the paper they already had and set them to work.

So.

Foolish didn’t really like setting ‘goals’ the conventional way. Things changed too often for that sort of thing to work out, which was frustrating at best and overwhelming at its worst. And besides, the aforementioned control issues made it hard for him to actually admit when he wanted things for himself. 

“So, are we supposed to say these out loud, too?” Fundy asked, which was a question Foolish had honestly hoped would get overlooked and never be answered, but alas, the god of chaos apparently had other ideas. Honestly, XD was a complicated god to Foolish. He’d never get it or its ridiculous whims. 

“Not necessarily; if it’s really personal, or if you just don't feel ready to, then there’s no need.” Bad sounded pleased to hear the question and answered it readily. “But if you’d like- please do! We’d love to hear it.”

“We’re running out of time, though,” Purpled pointed out, and it sounded less like he was trying to get away from answering and more like he just- wanted everyone to be aware.

“Well, I can definitely stay a bit if you guys really want to talk,” Bad told them with a smile. “If you have to leave, it’s okay too. Do you guys communicate outside of the group? This might be a good thing to do over text or a video call, too.”

“We have a group chat,” Charlie shared excitedly, clearly proud of himself for that one. “It’s really fun on there.”
“Good for you!” Bad cheered along, validating the accomplishment.

“I actually have to go now,” Sam said, rather suddenly and with a surprisingly serious tone. When Foolish looked over, wondering what was clearly wrong, Sam refused to pay attention to him. He didn’t even say goodbye, too busy checking the clock, grabbing his bag, and leaving. And honestly, it hurt a little. He was usually right there for Foolish, usually spent time with him. Now he had to miss out on that.

“That’s fine,” Bad tried, only able to make Sam pause for a minute, and only actually confirm that he was actually permitted to leave. Their therapist also looked confused, though, so clearly Sam hadn’t informed anyone else that he’d been leaving early, either. “Let me know how the exercises go and if there’s anything I can do for you.”

“I will,” Sam agreed, and it had an unusual tone to it that made it sound especially intentional . Which, weird , but clearly Foolish was missing some context. He left right after that, and everyone else just seemed to go along with it, so Foolish had to move on too, returning to the task at hand and hoping his twitching hands weren’t distracting anybody else.

He skipped over the goals, since it hadn’t come easily enough that he wanted to deal with it at all anymore, and rather thoughtlessly worked through the ‘questions he wanted answers to’ part: He wanted to know if his brother was doing any better since they last were able to talk, had always wondered what the ‘golden apples’ from the desert tasted like, wanted to find out what had happened to his old friend Punz and if they’d ever see each other again, and if there was even the slightest chance he would get to catch the shark migrations down the river this year. He’d been disappointed to miss it the last few years, but the family had admittedly been going through much bigger things at the time.

“Officially, the session is over,” Bad spoke up, before Foolish had even finished writing all that down legibly. “But once again, you’re all welcome to stay.”

Suppressing a screaming tic because that was the last thing he needed at the moment, Foolish did need a moment before making a decision, personally a bit torn on the matter. Too tired to want to stay, too awkward to think he could leave right away, and maybe a bit too invested in the conversations today to want to just bail, too.

With a near-silent sigh, he hoped he could avoid the problem by double-checking if there was any reason to leave, aside from his personal preference, because there often was. And, for better or worse, a text from Eret was on the lockscreen of his phone when he pulled it from his pocket:

From Eret: 

Junior had a minor accident- nothing serious, he just fell. He needs some comfort right now and is asking for you. I’m still at work, but I told him on a call that I’d text you to come home <3

Well. It made the decision easier. Poor Junior was at the age where he was both adventurous and clumsy, which could be a dangerous combo as well as making him a general handful. 

“I need to get home to the kids,” Foolish explained, standing and stretching a bit. It was a familiar excuse, at this point, and Bad nodded understandingly. “Sorry about that, I’d love to stay. I’ll probably text my answers so you guys don't miss them.”

“I’ll be holding you to that,” Quackity told him with mock seriousness. “Also, I hope it rains on you when you get out there.”
“Die,” Foolish offered instead, getting a laugh out of Purpled and Quackity -thankfully, because accidentally voicing what had become a reflexive response to a different friend group that willingly joked like that had been mortifying enough without anyone getting offended- and a tense language from Bad. “Sorry. Didn’t mean that.” To his credit, he meant it; it had just slipped out. He tried to hold back a squeak by biting the inside of his cheek, cursing his tics for the umpteenth time. He failed, and ended up hitting his side twice more- it was already sore, and probably going to bruise at this point. Driving home was going to suck, at this rate. 

“Worth it, Bad’s face was priceless,” Quackity told him, as if nothing had happened at all. “See you in two weeks, man.”
Foolish nodded, making sure to wave to Charlie on his way out, too. It wasn’t raining when he made it outside, and he had half a mind to pray to the god of the seas, whom he was named after, to make it thunderstorm again so that Quackity had to deal with it. He didn’t, because that was a bit too petty even for him, but he considered it.

With the week’s page of exercises folded into his pocket, he got into his car, texted Eret a quick ‘ on my way <3’ that she could then show the kids if they needed it, and started the trip home. About halfway through the drive, he remembered to turn up the volume on the music he’d had playing throughout the session, having forgotten about it with everything going on; the alternative folk, fantasy-style music that played was now loud enough to properly enjoy, both comforting and familiar. 

It was enough to stop the thoughts that he could very easily steer the car off the bridge he was crossing over, at least. And almost enough to temporarily forget the handful of troubling things from the session, but he settled for placing it in a box for later. Not forever , maybe its metaphorical lid was even off so he could look inside and mentally prepare himself to pull it out again and handle it, but it was away . It was an issue for later. He wanted to get home and take care of his kids first.

They were more important than any of his troubles, anyway.

Chapter Text

Therapy was an interesting ordeal. Punz would probably laugh at Purpled if he saw him now- hypocritically, maybe, because he had his own mandated therapy sessions to attend, but he had a right to think Purpled was stupid for having to fight the urge to rely on it or consider it ‘safe’. But his older brother was still at the Eggpire Mental Hospital all the way back in the Badlands, and Purpled was here. Here , doing his therapy sessions in a library with complete strangers instead of alone in an office. 

The argument that they weren’t really strangers anymore was ridiculous, in his opinion, because he didn’t even know their favorite colors and therefore had no idea if they were respectable people. Trustworthy? Sure. They might have proved that much, though Purpled didn’t want to admit it. But did they believe in aliens? Would they buy him a drink even if he was a bit underage? Those were the real things about being friends, and Purpled didn’t have those answers yet.

What he did have, though, was Sam’s apartment address, and he’d surprised himself in a lot of ways regarding that: Digging up Sam’s number from the group chat, asking for the address himself, and even going so far as to visit him one random weekend. Sam had been absolutely ecstatic to have him over, and for Purpled, it was. . . a nice change of pace. Sam was nice.

Besides, Purpled had a reason to go. The guy had said he was lonely, and he’d even left the last session without saying goodbye, which Purpled had learned was a major red flag with anyone when it came to such tentative group dynamics. He’d had plenty of people disappear off the face of the earth during his stay out in the Badlands, watching dozens of people come and go through that rundown mental institute, and he was not letting what happened to Hannah happen to Sam, too. Not when he recognized the signs.

When he’d confronted Sam about leaving, sometime roughly halfway through his visit -after Sam had given up pretending to get work done in favor of a very important, enlightening conversation about scientific conspiracies- there was, obviously, an excuse in place. Sam had a client to get to that day, he couldn’t be late and miss the job, the weather had been bad so he needed as much time as possible, et cetera. But Purpled had put his detective skills and persuasion to good use, and coaxed out of Sam that he was ‘having some strong feelings about the group and didn’t want his problems interfering with their help’. Which was stupid, and Purpled definitely told him that, but Sam didn’t try to defend himself or elaborate. He just said he’d be taking a break, seeing a different therapist, and working on getting better himself so that he could be present for the rest of the group, too.

Apparently, Purpled was the only one who’d been given such information, aside from Bad, because the others at Las Nevadas were asking about where he was when he didn’t show up at his usual time. It was probably Bad’s job to explain, not his, but since Bad wasn’t there at that particular moment and Purpled was , he decided to just get it over with.

“Sam’s not going to be here this week, he’s on break.” There. A clear, definite answer. They’d definitely want to know why and how he’d known, but he’d let them ask that. It felt better that way. Besides, information was precious; he wouldn't just give it out.

“Break from therapy?” Quackity asked incredulously, clearly finding issue with that, which Purpled could understand. 

“Not from therapy, just from here,” Purpled clarified, still monotonous. Maybe he was acting more nonchalant than he felt, but he didn’t care. “He said he has some other stuff to go through first before coming here again.”

“What does that mean?” Fundy asked next, clearly trying to puzzle that out, hands shoved into his hoodie pocket- it was actually getting too warm for hoodies, actually, but Purpled really didn’t want to give up his, either -it was iconic and fit his brand- so he hadn’t teased Fundy about it yet. He wanted to, though. 

“I dunno, ask him,” Purpled told him, making that his final words on the matter and slumping back on the couch in the familiar ‘ don't bother me’ posture.

“He told you all this? For sure? Why?” Quackity pressed anyway, leaning in on the edge of his chair. He wasn’t about to get his answer, though, because Purpled didn’t like repeating himself and had already clearly expressed he was done talking. He let the silence hang there for a second, deciding he didn’t care if it got awkward or not.

Besides, he didn’t know if Quackity was asking why Sam left or why Purpled was the one to find this out. And he didn’t want to answer either of those, but especially not the wrong one. 

“Okay, I do have some other news for you guys,” Foolish said, breaking the silence in such a well-timed way Purpled could assume he’d been wanting to bring it up for a while now. “So it turns out the reason Bad hasn’t technically been to jail is because he was never sentenced there, but actually worked at a jail while in college.”

Fundy, being easily impressed, pretty much gasped at the news. “Seriously? Wait, in college?”

“While studying psychiatry, yeah. It’s a bit strange.”

“Strange is one way to put it,” Purpled muttered, having much stronger words to use for that. Even if there was a really good reason, like observing the mental health of prisoners or something, it was still a really creepy choice, in his opinion. 

“And how did you find this out?” Quackity, thankfully, had directed all his attention to the news about Bad, leaving the whole Sam situation alone for the moment. 

“Papa Puffy told me; She’s good friends with Bad, and when we were talking the other day I remembered to ask her.” Foolish sounded the slightest bit proud of himself for it, too. 

Purpled, on the other hand, didn’t find the explanation to make much sense at all- well, the friend part maybe. But he thought he’d heard at the last session that Puffy was the name of Foolish’s adopted mom , and now things weren’t making sense. He decided might as well figure it out, even if it made him sound stupid. “What do you mean, Papa Puffy?”

Okay, that came out ruder than he’d meant. Too bad. Foolish didn’t seem very offended at all, so Purpled didn’t take it back. 

“Yeah, that’s what I call her sometimes. She’s my mom, obviously, but when I was a kid- I mean, gendered terms still don't make much sense to me now, but they definitely didn’t when I was seven, so I’d tend to use both Mama and Papa interchangeably for her. She never really minded.”

“It doesn’t really make sense if I think about it too hard,” Charlie agreed, nodding along. “I get there’s a difference, but sometimes it doesn’t make sense to point it out? Like, if the word parent is fine for either parent , why isn’t there a normal word for waiter and waitress? There’s no point in making a difference. And then doctor is for either, but actor and actress are different?”

“That’s exactly what I’d always wondered. I guess it’s a matter of preference for the people who have those roles, or something.”

It was an interesting argument that Purpled didn’t fully understand. Not that he could explain why it was important to distinguish gender sometimes but not other times, but saying it’s situational probably wouldn’t make sense to someone like Charlie; he’d probably just ask when- which was a valid question, obviously, but not one Purpled felt was his job to answer. It should just be a given, something you figured out when you actually needed to say it. But whatever. 

“So what about the dating thing? Did you find out that?” came Quackity’s next questions, predictably unsatisfied, but Foolish didn’t have time to answer before Bad walked in, taking the two steps up into their little nook a little slower and more tiredly than Purpled would have expected from him- he was usually really composed, like most therapists -it was probably a big part of the job description- but he didn’t really seem his usual self, and his reading glasses were noticeably absent. The room quieted, as usual, but Bad didn’t even wave to them as he took a seat in his usual chair.

“So I’m not sure if you’ve heard yet,” he began, in a tone less cheerful but just as level as always. “But Sam has made the decision to take a break from the group for a few weeks. He wants you all to understand that it’s out of intended support for you and only to handle some personal issues that have come up lately. It’s nothing you’ve done, and he wants to come back once he’s able to be fully here for you.”

It was a much kinder answer than Purpled had given them, but that was just how Bad operated. He was paid to sympathize with them, after all. 

Whatever the case, Bad took his seat after that and flipped the paper on his clipboard to the second page, looking it over for a bit before putting the page down on top again.

“We’re going to start the session here now,” Bad explained, as if that wasn’t clear already. “I’d like to start us off on the topic of anxiety, since a lot of you have expressed struggling with it, and whether it’s a diagnosed disorder or generally present,  it’s a good thing for us all to go over together.”

Things were clearly shaping up to be more serious this time, so Purpled tried to keep his expression more neutral than it tended to be when he was relaxed. It felt weird, but he didn’t want anything getting the wrong impression from him looking angry or disappointed. 

“Does anyone else have an anxiety diagnosis?” Charlie asked loudly, a random question that Purpled hoped that Bad would dismiss. Their therapist did nothing to stop it, like a traitor, so Purpled was obligated to raise his hand along Foolish and Quackity. Which, honestly, was an unsurprising majority, and would be even if Sam were there to answer. 

“Well, thank you for sharing that, it’s very brave,” Bad continued gently after a moment, prompting everyone to put their hands down. Like he’d wanted them to talk about that anyway. “There are a few things I’d like us to discuss today, and we don't have to get to them all, but the first is about safe spaces. Having a place of security and comfort is important for each of us to help with self-regulation and coping with anxiety. I want you each to think of what safe places you have- and if there’s only one, that’s perfectly fine.”

The room lapsed into silence, and Purpled realized he was probably the only one who wouldn’t have anything to say if they were asked to share. He didn’t have a safe place . He had a long-term hotel booking to stay out of the rain and a couple of stores he frequented for necessities. 

He didn’t even have his brother’s house anymore, which he used to go to when he needed help, even though it had often been four hours of driving in the early hours of the morning and in terrible weather conditions. Punz and Dream would unlock the door and let him stay for a few nights, giving him a much needed reprieve. 

But he hadn’t talked to Punz in almost two years, after they’d both been found out and admitted to that mental hospital out in the Badlands, where they’d be ‘safe’. Then Purpled had gotten out and Punz hadn’t, and he’d been assigned to stay here . Which was. . . better, anyway. As far as therapy went.

“I’d like you all to identify what makes that place safe, and why it’s peaceful, free of judgement, and easy for you to just exist in . Who do you allow in that place? Who knows about it? What do you do once you’re there?”

Well, Punz’ house hadn’t been any of those things, either. So was it not a safe space? Purpled couldn’t tell now. It had been loud, with music always blaring unless Dream and Punz were in another shouting match over weird stuff Purpled didn’t understand; it had been messy, and Purpled would get in trouble if he was in the way while the others were there; it had been a place Purpled went when he needed someone to rant to or a roof over his head between jobs when he couldn’t afford a hotel room- not because he didn’t want to be there, but because Punz was too busy to pick up after him and couldn’t keep paying for them both. 

But it had been safe , hadn’t it? He went there to escape trouble, and neither Punz nor Dream had ever hurt him. Maybe that word could mean two different things.

“A smaller, but equally important, way of dealing with anxiety is identifying and making use of healthy coping mechanisms,” Bad continued speaking, as if he hadn’t just caused Purpled to have a crisis. Though he probably didn’t realize it, even as Purpled’s eyes were starting to sting from trying not to react. “There are things we can do in our everyday lives, often regardless of where we are, to calm down and deal with stress- or prepare for it beforehand. Maybe it’s to write your thoughts down, or to create something, or just stimming to self-regulate. In any case, having things to help you stay calm in the moment  is just as important as having somewhere or someone to go to after.”

That sentiment, Purpled wasn’t sure he understood, and he tried to focus on working through that instead of the burning in his throat from refusing to cry in frustration over everything he was going through. He’d been taught about coping mechanisms while admitted to the Eggpire, one of the therapists there helping him go over all kinds of things he could do, but none of them really made sense . He fidgeted, sure, and shooting arrows could help him relieve some tension when he got the chance, but it wasn’t usually with intention , because choosing to do it at certain times probably wouldn’t make a big difference. Or so he was content to think.

“In the moment, however, dealing with feelings of anxiety can be really difficult,” Bad spoke again, because of course he’d expect some of them to be doubtful. Or maybe it was showing too much on his face- Purpled double-checked his posture and expression to make sure he didn’t look too bored- he probably didn’t; if anything, his eyes were more red than usual, and that would mean he was both listening and affected. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the three categories that typical fear responses fall under: Fight, flight, and freeze. But those can manifest in a lot of different ways. I have this list to give each of you, and I’d like you to look it over and think on which of these presentations fit- and there will probably be multiple, since a variety of situations can affect us differently.”

Opening the clipboard up, Bad took a few sheets of paper off and let it fall closed as he handed it off counter-clockwise- which made sense, since it was easier for him to hand things off to Charlie on his immediate right rather than to reach over Sam’s empty chair, but it was still different than usual and annoyed Purpled for that reason.

If Fundy saw how his face had scrunched up a bit, despite his best efforts to not look ticked off, he didn’t say anything. Purpled took the sheets of paper handed to him and passed one off to Foolish with barely a glance, already scanning the page to figure out what the hell all this meant.

It essentially had three columns -fight, flight, and freeze- with the responses color-coded based on their intensity or something, from light to dark and down the page.

Something tapped his shoulder, and his head snapped up to see Fundy handing him two pencils, going from startled to confused at his reaction and completely unmoving. Purpled took the pencils without a word of explanation and turned away again, repeating the process of refusing to look at Foolish while handing one over to him.

Immediately getting back to what he’d been doing before anyone could accuse him of acting weird, he found himself actually considering each one he read. Unfocused, and restless? No, not really. But Defensiveness, and deflecting responsibility? Yeah, okay. Maybe he did that. Shutting down, and being verbally unresponsive, too. 

Slowly, he worked through the rest of the list. As it turned out, he didn’t have much in the flight category, and the more intense reactions tended to be in fight . Defiance, anger, aggression towards the ‘threat’, defensiveness, seeking control, and making demands all fell under that category as reactions he often had. On the other hand, the only freeze instinct he noticed in himself was shutting out other people’s words and being unresponsive to them. 

It was. . . enlightening. Sure. Assuming he took this stupid piece of paper as the personality-defining, trauma-identifying construct it was trying to be. 

At least there wasn’t obvious favoritism to a certain category- Purpled absolutely hated the heavy implications constantly thrown at him during his stay at the Eggpire that he was handling his trauma wrong as compared to everyone else.

The sound of his name being called brought Purpled to the realization he’d been staring at the page for an indefinite amount of time, and that the conversation had definitely gone on without him. He blinked once, twice, and brought himself back to reality, looking up and trying to seem just bored and not fully zoned out like he had been.

“Would you like to add something?” Bad asked, looking directly at him- clearly trying to invite him into some deep talk they were having, but Purpled had absolutely no idea what they’d been saying. 

“Not really,” he settled for saying, gritting his teeth as he looked away again. It was a stupid, terrible answer, and it was going to make everyone think he didn’t care, but he literally couldn’t do anything about it. Halfheartedly hoping to save his already weak presentation to the group, he added, “Maybe in a bit.”

Bad nodded, thankfully taking this as I need more time to think rather than I need to analyze your conversation first so I know what to say , which it was in actuality.

“So, what other coping mechanisms for feelings and inclinations under the flight category are there?” Bad continued, speaking gently. It was probably supposed to be helpful, but honestly made the words harder to hear over the hum of the walls, the lights, and the entire freaking universe. Whatever speech he’d started going into was drowned out, even as Purpled actively tried to pay attention to it.

“Going to friends for help instead of just making yourself disappear.” Charlie’s voice was loud, and in this case, that was a good thing. He was suggesting an answer to Bad’s question, probably. He sounded pretty confident in it, too.

Purpled offered a tense shrug of agreement, because it seemed appropriate- mostly to prove to other people he was paying attention and participating, rather than because he was about to take that to heart or anything. Not that it was bad advice. He just couldn’t think about it right now, his brain was hurting.

The cycle continued like this, with Purpled barely able to keep up with the session and only offering vague indications of agreement, confusion, or indifference where he felt he had to. Unfortunately, this was a familiar routine, and probably one that needed to be checked out by some sort of doctor, because it was definitely interfering with therapy, among other things in his life. 

But he didn’t really care about that at the moment. 

It was the shifting of the couch cushions beneath him that made Purpled realize that the session was over, and that Fundy was getting up because they were all supposed to start leaving . He apparently waited a moment too long, or was too obviously processing what had happened as best he could, because Bad locked eyes with him again, gaze full of concern. 

“Is something bothering you?” His therapist asked, and it was probably the time for Purpled to be honest. But he wasn’t, because he could feel other eyes on him too and knew that the others could be listening and judging him for this. 

“It’s fine,” Purpled said shortly, defensiveness creeping into his tone. He stood abruptly, trying to indicate he wasn’t going to talk anymore and to walk away, but Bad just asked again:

“Is everything alright? I can help if-”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Purpled cut him off, staring him down as if that would prove anything. “I just need to get going.”

He left quickly, and made it all the way around the corner and into the hallway before he heard footsteps following him. Great job, Bad. Real effort put in there, giving him all the space he needed. 

“Purpled? Can we talk for a moment?” Foolish’s voice startled Purpled into briefly pausing, but even the inviting words and cadence couldn’t get him to want to turn around and face anyone. He stared directly at the wall on the opposite end of the hall; it seemed endlessly far away when his body felt this sore from walking and his mind was so tired from trying to concentrate. 

“I want to be left alone,” Purpled informed Foolish, trying to keep himself from snapping something horrifically rude- because, realistically, Foolish didn’t deserve that. He was genuinely trying to help, being part of Las Nevadas. 

What he’d never even known to expect, getting a single step away in the comforting assumption that he was going to get his wish, was the calm, but sad, question:

“Why?”

. . . It did stop Purpled again, first in confusion, then in irritation, and then in the barest attempt to calm himself by taking a deep breath. 

“What I mean is, what do you do when you’re left alone to process things, and why is that what’s better for you right now?” The clarification itself did help Purpled understand that Foolish did genuinely want to know what he was going through rather than trying to get under his skin, but those questions weren’t what Purpled would have expected to hear. They were. . . Carefully phrased, specific, positive. But still a bit accusatory, in the sense that they were making Purpled question his own decision and wondering why anyone would have the audacity to ask that. Though, this was Foolish , who seemed to be an exception for every rule people his age and maturity level seemed to follow. 

“Did Bad set you up on this?” Purpled asked, deciding he didn’t need an answer. “Do you have to report what I say to him?”

“I mean, communication is good,” Foolish mumbled, sounding surprised at himself that he’d said it aloud. “I mean- no, I learned to ask these sorts of questions from my Mama Puffy, and then from Eret when she took her psychology and sociology classes to become a counselor. It helps get to the root of the problem, I think. But you don't have to tell me anything you aren’t comfortable with, I just want to understand why you looked so upset earlier and didn’t want to talk to us.”

And. . . How exactly did he expect Purpled to answer that? His throat was seizing up just trying to form an excuse, to make some sort of dismissing sound that would end this really uncomfortable conversation. 

“If it’s something that happened during the session. . .” Foolish continued softly when all Purpled pathetically managed was a choked noise; though, at least he’d tried to turn and look at Foolish. “And if you can tell me, I can help make sure it gets fixed. It was a bit intense at parts, especially for those of us who aren’t used to studying ourselves this way.”

“It’s not like that,” Purpled managed, his insistence overcoming the break in his voice. “It’s just- I’m not happy with, with the place I’m at in life. And it made me think about that in ways I don't want to.”

Foolish seemed like he wanted to say something, waiting a beat or two that allowed Purpled a much needed breath. What he finally asked, whether he’d needed to rephrase it or had come up with a different thought entirely, was said so softly Purpled barely heard it, like he was as afraid to say it aloud as Purpled himself was to admit it. “You don't have a safe place either, do you?”

The question hung in the tense air. Once again, one beat, two. All Purpled had to do was nod, and suddenly he was holding back tears again- not sad, this time. He felt a surge of anger at the audacity Foolish had to say this like he knew . Like his situation was in any way the same. 

He couldn’t help but snap this time, feeling the surge of emotion in his chest reach the limit in milliseconds, “Don't you have your own damn house?”

And yeah, he did regret it a little when he saw the hurt flash across Foolish’s face; though he didn’t feel as bad when he really was offended. He was sick of people pretending they got it or whatever. 

“I do,” Foolish answered, the factual tone doing nothing to hide the wavering sound of his voice. “But it isn’t exactly comfortable- well, I mean, comforting. That’s a better word.”

Purpled stared blankly as he listened to Foolish correct himself, waiting to see where this went. He bit back another harsh reply, his curiosity stronger than his anger. 

“Every time I’m there, I know in the back of my mind exactly why , and it hurts. I know it’s my fault -my selfishness- that forced everyone else to leave our lives and our real home behind. And it’s difficult, Purpled. I don't like being there. But we couldn’t have stayed, either. There’s nowhere in that damn house I feel safe, and I’ve had too many breakdowns in my own room to even escape there, like I tried doing at first.”

And maybe it was because Purpled had never had anyone open up to him like that, or maybe it was because he wanted to scream that yes, someone finally knew, but it wasn’t the triumphant way he always thought he’d prove his struggling to other people, or even because he didn’t know what else to say, but he found himself staring right into Foolish’s eyes and whispering like the words hurt to say, “I don't have a home, either. But I lie and say I do.”

His vision blurred as tears finally started falling, his face scrunching up against his will as he tried to hide his face in his hands, the truth finally out. Sure, Foolish didn’t know the full extent of what he meant, but he’d said it , and now it could be used against him. . .

“Would you come with me?” Surprisingly gentle, startlingly close , Foolish spoke. A hand took hold of his shoulder when he nodded, and he was guided blindly away from the hallway they’d been stopped in. He had to take large steps to keep up, desperately rubbing at his eyes to try to stop his crying and regain his sight, but he didn’t get the chance. He was stopped again and pulled into a hug, and then he was sobbing into Foolish’s shoulder, his emotions feeling out of control. 

He was crying: because he was scared, because he was desperate, because he was lost and because he hated himself. And somehow, despite being in a situation practically out of his nightmares at this current moment, he felt safe enough to keep crying. And that was weird, once he was calmed enough to process it. 

Besides the initial thought of, I really thought being caught crying in a public place would be the death of me, Purpled’s first conscious realization was rather simple, surprising himself when he couldn’t think of the answer: When was the last time I was hugged like this?

His next was, I need to explain myself. 

Defend himself, really. Explain why he was so upset. That there was a lot more to his situation than ‘not feeling at home’.

Struggling to keep his breathing steady when he tried to speak, Purpled could only bring himself to say, “I’m living in a hotel right now.”

He felt Foolish shift against him, drawing him even closer and more into his side, so Purpled’s face wasn’t pressed against him anymore and he could talk better. He let himself be moved, though normally he would never even consider it. 

“The job at the shooting range barely covers the nightly cost,” Purpled said when he could manage it, his voice close to breaking with every syllable. “Basically everything I have goes to that. But, but I was barely let go from the mental hospital as it is, so I can’t tell them I’m struggling with money or why I need it; if they find out I’m not in a house with Dream and Punz like I said, they’ll force me to go back to them.”

He shuddered involuntarily, and Foolish steadied him. He hadn’t said a word yet, and his breathing had been so steady that it must have been intentional and for Purpled’s sake; both things did help him relax the slightest bit, so he couldn’t even be offended at the treatment. At least he’d stopped crying so much. 

“I have to, I have to send them weekly updates to prove I’m doing okay, and I always lie,” Purpled said between breaths, voice dropping to a whisper. He was trying to match Foolish’s rhythm and stay calm, though just trying to tell this story was making his chest tense with anxiety. “I hate that I always lie. But if I, if I don't do it, they have to send a counselor to monitor me full-time, and then everyone will find out. But without a counselor to give third-party clearance, I can’t, can’t get a real job to afford a car or better living space. So I just keep getting stuck like this. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.”

At a loss for what to say next and knowing he was at risk of breaking down again, he instead placed all his focus on breathing and managed to get to a steady pace. He’d stopped shaking so much- he didn’t even realize how badly he had been until the sensation was gone. 

After what must have been a few minutes, Foolish quietly spoke, “I’m sorry. I know that must have been so hard to say, and it’s terrible to go through. I can promise you now that I’ll do whatever I can to help you, okay? Is there anything you need me to do right now?”

Purpled thought about it, and pushed down his hesitancy to be honest: “Just stay here.”

. . . He didn’t honestly know what that meant. It could have been in that moment or long-term, specific to this place or in regards to the meetings they had together. He didn’t care what Foolish assumed it to mean. 

“I’ll stay,” Foolish assured him. Then, after a beat of silence, “Has anyone else been told this?”
Purpled shook his head, hoping Foolish could feel the gesture even if he couldn’t see it at the moment. Voice cracking slightly, he choked out, “Bad has fake paperwork. He thinks I live at my brother’s house.” And I really wish I did. . . 

“Okay.” Foolish’s tone was still completely calm, refusing to share how he might have felt about the news. He was quiet again, apparently thinking pretty hard, before slowly continuing with another question. “Are you okay with me talking? I don't have to say anything, but I guess I have some thoughts on the situation and how I can help.”

Understandable. Purpled weakly managed, “Go ahead.” He turned his head and buried it in Foolish’s neck, finding it comfortable- though he was probably never going to bring this moment up to anyone ever again, because it was very personal and emotional and none of their business.

“I’ve had to deal with something similar,” Foolish mused, seeming to be mostly thinking aloud. “After my attempt, I was going to be sent to a mental institution. People were. . . Concerned. . . About letting me be around the children. And really, they were right; if something had happened to them, oh gods, if they had seen me do something, I-” Foolish’s voice broke and he stopped, needing time to recover. 

And maybe Purpled was holding him tighter in return upon noticing this. He sympathized, even if he didn’t know what that would be like. 

“ But Eret and I didn’t want to leave each other. I didn’t want to be separated from my family, and to miss out on their lives while I still -by some god’s power- had the chance to be here.” Foolish’s voice had a wistfulness to it Purpled recognized but hadn’t heard in years, and it hurt to hear. “Mama Puffy took our family in, and Eret asked her if there were any conditions that would let me stay. She explained a similar thing to what you were saying- that if a counselor was there to monitor the situation, they could provide the clearance to do things like remain at home and return to work. And yeah, it was an uncomfortable idea in its own right, so Eret decided to apply for the position herself. She’s taken classes on psychology and sociology, and while the paperwork took a few months, they ended up allowing her the position. I don't remember exactly the circumstance or loophole that let it happen, but it worked out.”

Hearing this story, Purpled was already starting to catch onto why he was being told all this- not only were he and Foolish in a similar situation, but Foolish had found a solution. And whether or not there was a point to this besides attempting to reach out to him, Purpled could respect the resolve it took to be sharing in return- both as a way to comfort him and to guide him. . . Or whatever Foolish was trying to do.

“So your partner took on the role of counselor so your family wouldn’t have to change?” Purpled asked, finding his voice to make sure he was understanding properly. Because he was not about to leave this conversation without knowing what Foolish was going through. Equal exchange, and all that.

He slipped out of the hug, just barely, and dried his eyes one final time. His face probably looked terrible, but he was going to ignore that fact for a moment.

Foolish nodded in response to his question, expression solemn- for once, Purpled quietly noted. “She did. We were a bit rushed finding a new place to live, and it was ridiculously complicated getting through all that, but in the long run, it’s definitely made a difference. And as hurtful as all that was, what I mean by telling you this is not only can we be here for you, but we might be able to help a lot more than you realize. I mean- it’s possible for Eret to apply as your counselor with whatever institute your file is at, and I swear she’ll be understanding and actually help you through the situation rather than trying to remove you from it entirely.”

Ah. There was that too.

Purpled didn’t want to think about it, really; he’d spent too long avoiding the counselor problem to want to just accept someone he didn’t know would let him control the situation and do this the way he needed to. But he trusted Foolish. . . Clearly, after everything he’d just told him.

Purpled sighed. “I can think about it for a bit. But she has to promise to let me live my life . I know she has to report stuff to the Eggpire and to Bad, but if she’s going to help she has to actually do something for me , to get me to a better place , not back to the Eggpire.”

“Obviously.” There was a strange look in Foolish’s eyes that Purpled couldn’t place but didn’t mind- It was still gentle and kind. “I can tell her what’s going on whenever you’re ready, you just need to tell me. Or, if you’d like, you can explain it to her yourself.”
At this, Purpled abruptly shook his head, infinitely more comfortable with the idea of Foolish staying involved to help him get established with a new person first. Foolish didn’t seem to mind, or even judge him based on this answer. He reached out and took Purpled’s hand briefly, giving it an affirming squeeze that Purpled found himself appreciating, and stepped back again.

“Okay. Are you feeling alright now? I’m sure it’s getting pretty late- obviously if you need me, I can stay, I should just tell Eret what’s going on, at least. You know?”

“We can go,” Purpled resolved, actually meaning it. Honestly, it was the most productive breakdown he’d ever had, and even if nothing had immediately changed and he was still going back to a horrible living situation that made him want to die again, he now had options , he had a plan - loosely, anyway. And that part made him feel a little bit better.

“Right.”

Slowly, they made their way back. Foolish had to lead, since Purpled honestly didn’t know where they’d ended up, but apparently there was a little room at the very back of the library that was nicely out of the way. The receptionist didn’t even look up when they passed the front desk, which was a good thing because Purpled knew he probably looked like as much of a mess as he felt.

Once out the front doors, Purpled turned to walk away, willing to forego a goodbye before another difficult conversation started, but unfortunately, Foolish caught on, and the predicted outcome occurred.

“Wait, do you have to wait for the next bus, or do you walk?” 

Purpled resisted the very strong urge to groan. He said as matter-of-factly as possible, “I have to walk. Can’t afford the bus pass uptown like this. It’s stupid.”

“Is the hotel nearby?”

Right. Clearly there wasn’t one in a reasonable walking distance, and Foolish would know that. But Purpled tried to keep his composure a little longer. “Well, it’s about a twenty-minute walk. Annoying, but doable.”

“Do you want me to drive you back, then?” Foolish asked, thankfully not being dramatic about the whole thing like Purpled would have expected. Sure, he seemed a bit shocked, but he was being polite about it. 

Because of that, Purpled nodded, and he soon found himself in the passenger seat of a very nice car- of what sort, he didn’t know and didn’t care, but it just looked fancy , hence his assumption that it was probably something he could dream of affording.

He crossed his arms around himself and waited for Foolish to start the car before saying, “I get to pick the music though, otherwise I’m walking.”

“Hm, that’s fair.” Foolish’s smile had returned, accepting the change of subject and mood. “Go ahead.”

“But first, is there a genre you don't like?” Purpled asked with fake pleasantry. “Also- turn right here, then left at the light.”
Foolish nodded, following the instructions as he pulled the car out of the parking lot. “Ah, I don't like the acoustic southern stuff very much. It’s a little boring, at least for me.”

“Oh, I feel you,” Purpled answered truthfully, already looking up the most southern playlist the off-brand, free music app could possibly have and queuing it on his phone. “Too bad you’re putting up with me, loser.”

Petty as it was, Purpled enjoyed the satisfaction from making the choice, even if he didn’t really like the music, either. The slightly pained look of Foolish’s face the whole ten minute ride was worth it. And, surprisingly, Foolish still gave him his phone number after all that, promising to be there if he needed anything. Crazy.

Chapter Text

Quackity felt like he was the most boring person in the world. Or, at the very least, in Las Nevadas. The therapy group had revealed a lot about each of them, and with every session Quackity felt more and more dragged down by his problems and less interesting than ever.

Because of a follow-up doctor’s appointment that morning, he ended up driving straight to the library way too early, and had to browse books and pretend to be there for a reason while he waited for the appointed session time. 

When it was finally soon enough that he felt comfortable walking into the right room, he was still the first one there, and as weird as that was, at least he was free to sit back and use his phone for a bit. 

He looked up when he heard someone’s voice filtering through the hallway, surprised when he saw Foolish and Purpled walking in together. It was weird for three reasons, off the top of his head: One, he’d never gotten to a session before Purpled did, two, Foolish was rarely able to come early, and thre e , he’d never really seen the two interacting before, because of how reclusive Purpled was. So everything about this was a little confusing.

“Well, I ended up keeping it, actually,” Foolish was saying, unaware of Quackity’s presence yet and unknowingly making Quackity instantly curious as to the subject at hand. “I understand getting rid of it if there isn’t much significance to it, but I spent hours carving the flowers into it, just for us to use it as a wedding arch, so it didn’t really feel right to sell it, you know?”

“Oh, of course you did,” Purpled replied, and through the sarcasm, it sounded almost fond . “What’d you do with it, though?”

“Actually, we built it into the headboard of our bed- I did, mostly. There’s lights strung on it now too, and it’s pretty like that.”

“How romantic.”

“It is, actually.” Foolish had moved all the way across the room to his seat before even looking at Quackity, who then had to pretend he hadn’t been eavesdropping- and had to keep silent his definite agreement that making a wedding arch into part of the bed, while a sweet idea and a type of devotion Quackity could only dream of having with someone, was something very Foolish-esque to do. 

“Hey man,” Quackity offered as a greeting, finding nothing better to say. 

He got an equally neutral “Hey” in response, with Foolish distracted in grabbing something out of his bag that turned out to be some sort of metal fidget or puzzle composed of three pieces, which he then worked to take apart. 

Purpled might have waved, but Quackity wasn’t even positive that was the case. Which was unsurprising- he’d gotten this treatment from him the whole time, but it wasn’t encouraging. Purpled clearly wasn’t ignoring everyone anymore. How the hell did he and Foolish end up talking about weddings, anyway?

“So. . . How’d you two end up getting here together?” Quackity decided he may as well ask, though that was the least important question on his mind, hoping it was at least a decent conversation starter rather than something that would get shut down, like most of his ideas in other friend groups. 

“I drove him here this week,” Foolish explained easily, apparently oblivious to how Purpled did not seem to want that answer given out, all tense and frowning. “Might be a regular thing too- it just kind of worked out? And it was nice to talk for a bit outside of the group.”

“Oh, okay.” Quackity nodded along like he knew what that felt like- aside from sporadic calls from Charlie, whom he’d begun referring to by the fondly given nickname ‘Slime’, he hadn’t ‘hung out’ much with the other guys. He was sure they were nice, but he wasn’t really inclined to think he could casually go out to lunch with any of them when the first thing they’d known about him- before meeting him, even- was that he’d tried to kill himself. 

It was still a bit too awkward for him. 

Well, aside from the fact he’d moved in with Fundy’s and his roommates, Jack and Ranboo, about a month ago. But that was different; it wasn’t to get to know each other, it was really because Quackity needed a roof over his head. He’d barely talked to anyone, which he was sure the rest of them were all chalking up to him ‘adjusting’ but might soon suspect was actually avoiding them. Because -and he’d say this a million times, really- this was awkward . 

Quackity shrugged it off and leaned back in his chair again, turning off his phone and dropping it on his lap. He hadn’t even done anything useful with it, just scrolling through screenshots of discord conversations he’d taken from when he was still friends with Sapnap and Karl; he wanted to say he despised them after what they’d said to him, but if he was honest with himself, what he hated was what they said , and how he reacted, so he ended up missing them in ways he couldn’t have imagined he would. It was worse than if they -or he, for that matter- had died.

But he wasn’t going to be honest yet. At least not to other people- he already suspected that Bad knew more about the situation than he was letting on, and that alone was making Quackity hesitate. Even if that was a petty reason. Even if Bad was supposed to know what was going on.

Charlie’s arrival gave Quackity a reason to stop thinking about his problems, and he found himself getting up to return the hug Charlie enthusiastically offered him.

Charlie was a bit of an anomaly in Quackity’s life- the one person who didn’t seem to be walking on eggshells around him, but rather the opposite: He was unapologetically loud and cheerful, leading Quackity through the most absurd conversations on nothing in particular- like why it would be great to be a jellyfish, because they don’t even have brains. 

“What’s this for?” Quackity can’t help but ask as he sat down again, since Charlie has never given him an actual hug before. Not because he was complaining by any means- it was sort of nice. He’d needed a good hug lately. 

“You looked like you needed one, Quackity from Las Nevadas!” Is Charlie’s only answer, and he probably didn’t mean to be that loud- not that Quackity would complain, necessarily, but they were still in a library.

“Thanks, Slime,” Quackity offered in reply, the response automatic and absentminded, thinking about the last time he’d had a real hug from Sapnap or Karl. They’d only be ‘distanced’ for a few months, but on the few occasions he saw Sapnap, he hadn’t gotten a hug for obvious reasons. They were acting like they hated each other. And maybe Sapnap did hate him, despite his insistence otherwise. Quackity wouldn’t be surprised, honestly.

“Hi, Purpled, hi, Foolish,” Charlie’s cheerful shout broke through Quackity’s thoughts again, endearingly oblivious. He seemed to be in a good mood, unreservedly stimming by waving his hands and rocking back and forth. 

Quackity managed to put a weak smile on his face as Charlie sat down, keeping away any concern from the others as best he could. 

“So. . . Any fun news?” Charlie broke the short silence, oblivious to how much Quackity was relying on being left alone to appear normal. 

“Nope, nothing ever,” Purpled’s deadpan response almost could have been a joke? Quackity wasn’t used to any attempt at humor from him, so he had no idea how to react, but it got a laugh from Foolish.

“You’re moving in a few weeks,” he reminded Purpled- which, weird thing for him to know, but okay . It’s fine that they got close, sometime when Quackity wasn’t looking. That’s a good thing.

“That’s not fun,” Purpled replied, sticking out his tongue. 

Charlie practically giggled at that, a surprise to everyone -even himself, it seemed- but Purpled offered an attempt at a smile, too. So he was joking.

And Quackity. . . Quackity felt too tired to deal with all this. He had no idea what to do with all these new scenarios.

Foolish was humming something as Fundy walked in, but Quackity ignored both, curling into his seat and dreading the fact that the next seventy-five minutes of his life was about to sap all of his mental energy from him.

Charlie got up from his seat to give Fundy a hug too, proving that he was in a particularly good mood, which Quackity was trying not to consider a personal attack from some god who wanted him -and solely him- to have a bad day.

Quackity’s phone lit up with a notification of some sort, half buried in the fold of his shirt -which he could finally wear without a winter jacket getting in the way. Of course, picking up his phone would look really rude, so he refrained, but he did get a glimpse of the clock declaring it five minutes to the hour. Which, of course, was when Sam would be here. 

Quackity didn’t want to admit how much he actually missed having the whole group together. It wasn’t necessarily that Quackity knew Sam personally, he really didn’t, but he still missed Sam’s contributions to the group as a whole. He was the most steadfast and reasonable, and as the oldest, probably had the most experience with everyday life and surviving it, the kind of person Quackity would turn to for advice if he didn’t know how to fix a broken faucet or handle taxes. Not that he’d asked yet , but he felt that if he ever needed to, he could. 

It’d be more reliable than asking Fundy, whom he’d had to go to for help many times now that they were living together, and less stressful than asking Sapnap, which he used to do before Sapnap had chosen to side with Karl during their fight. 

But whatever.

Bad’s arrival kept Quackity from spiraling yet again , and for once Quackity was anxious to get the session started and think about something else. It was interesting that Bad has been showing up later almost every time, leaving the rest of the group -either polite enough or insecure enough to arrive early- with more time together, just waiting. 

“Welcome back, everyone,” Bad began, not even waiting until he’d sat down. He had his clipboard as usual, and Quackity caught a glimpse of the word relationships when he walked by. Which was. . . not a great sign. That, Quackity personally did not want to think about.

He mumbled a hi, only because everyone else did, and kept himself busy by changing positions in his chair while Bad did some sort of introduction to their session. Putting all his focus into getting his legs perfectly comfy tucked under himself, Quackity didn’t hear.

“. . . Like to discuss how they begin to become normalized behaviors,” Bad was saying when Quackity finally tuned back in. “These responses can be all too usual for us, and it can disrupt our daily lives when we let it become a first instinct. Yes, Charlie?”
Charlie’s hand was raised like he was still in school, waiting to be called on. He brightened up when his name was called, enthusiastically asking, “Is this based on what we talked about two weeks ago? The worksheet we did?”

“It is.” Bad nodded along, an amicable smile on his face. “I hope that made it easier to recognize what behaviors you defaulted to in a panic situation, and how frequently. We’re going to go beyond that a little bit today.”
Quackity still had that worksheet, the whole Fight, Flight, or Freeze one they’d been handed last time. It was crammed in a drawer with everything else he took home from therapy, too useful to throw away but too embarrassing to leave out in the open. He’d had mostly flight responses -shutting down, freezing up, becoming restless and avoidant- but he dared to think he’d rise to challenges if provoked. He’d done it in the past, surviving stressful situations by simply charging through regardless of how others opposed him. That, of course, had wrecked a good many relationships. But so had running away. So had trying to kill himself. 

He was just a mess, in the end. An anxious, incurable mess whose teachers told him to drop out of college and whose ‘best friends’ were all ignoring him.

“When we allow anxiety to trigger panic responses in us constantly, unmonitored or out of control, causing strong reactions to every stressful situation, those develop into everyday behaviors, becoming a response to small things as well as big ones. It starts to be a habit to lash out at everything, to let every small anxious thought escalate until it’s too much to think about. And overall? It can make a person more indecisive, defensive, flighty, or otherwise emotional to an unhealthy degree.” Bad continued his talk, careful never to meet anyone’s eyes or study anyone too closely. Quackity wasn’t fooled for a second, though, staring at the pen poised to write down anything out of the ordinary they said. “This can damage relationships particularly, and cause a lot of damage to our own mental health when it’s allowed to continue.”

“So. . . our brains might be in fight or flight all the time?” Fundy asked, sounding both curious and worried. “And that’s why small things can set us off and make us feel worse?”
“Exactly that,” Bad agreed. “So it will help to identify what reactions we’re having in a particularly difficult moment are caused by anxiety, rather than the conscious part of our brains that can properly comprehend the situation, and use coping mechanisms to stay calm and work out the actual problem. It’s easier said than done, obviously, but it’s important to try.”

“What about intrusive thoughts? How- how the hell do they even work?”

“Language, Foolish,” Bad chided immediately, before even considering the question. “Well, they are  a bit of an oxymoron.” -Quackity barely caught Foolish mumbling, “ what does that mean in English, though” , and he had to stifle a laugh despite himself- “They’re caused by anxiety, but oftentimes aren’t triggered by a stressor, just stimulation of the brain. I’d say it ‘escalates a situation based on unknown factors’. It’s based on a what-if. And yes, they can definitely cause these responses in us, a brain is going to react to any idea it has. The issue is that these ideas are unwanted and stressful, and can cause a lot of harm.”

“So it’s just my brain stressing itself out? For no reason?” Charlie clarified.

“Well, an increased anxiety-level or other hormone imbalances can be the reason, but it’s usually the case that there’s no real danger.”

Quackity was trying to take mental notes, really, but his phone buzzed against his torso, notifying him of yet another text. It was stressing him out a little bit, but he didn’t know if picking up his phone would look rude, even just to check and then move it to his pocket. 

He’s probably being too self-conscious. 

Quackity leaned back in his chair until his phone slipped off his stomach, dropping into the hand held tucked at his side. With his thumb and forefinger pressed on either side of it, he messed with it until he felt the click of it going into silent mode. There. Problem solved. 

“Intrusive thoughts can definitely worsen the anxious feelings a person is already dealing with, and cause a more extreme response,” Bad continued, attempting to put their conversation back on track. “It’s important to recognize that they’re not wanted and rarely true. They can be dealt with like any other feeling, and dismissed like any other idea. Then it’s possible to talk ourselves down from the fight, flight, or freeze reaction we’re experiencing.”

“So. . . My brain is stressing itself out. For no reason.” Charlie repeated, his uncharacteristically serious tone proving that he was trying to make a point, but keeping it lighthearted with the dramatic pauses.. 

“Yes,” Bad finally supplied. 

To Quackity’s shock, Fundy moved to pull money from his pocket -a few white and purple paper bills, Primes- getting up to hand it to Charlie, who met him halfway. Bad seemed equally surprised, but less amused, watching Charlie fold the bill and stuff it in his pocket with a furrowed brow. 

“Are you guys placing bets?” Purpled was the first to ask, receiving nods from both guilty parties. Fundy looked less than pleased to have lost, but a smug grin showed on his face when he caught sight of Bad’s stare. 

“This is not a gambling establishment.” Bad spoke slowly, somehow managing to sound very menacing because of it. Fundy and Charlie both stopped smiling at that. 

Unfortunately for Bad, Foolish had no apparent fear of being kicked out of the group, wholeheartedly suggesting, “We should be,” while looking directly into Bad’s eyes. 

It got Quackity laughing, despite his best efforts not to crack. He stifled it as soon as he could, but Charlie was already laughing along. 

“It had a nice ring to it,” Quackity added, trying not to break again suddenly much harder when Bad turned on him next with that startled look. “Las Nevadas Casino and Bar.”

“Yeah, throw some drinks in too,” Fundy agreed. “We’d probably be more honest that way.”

“Speak for yourself,” Purpled told him, and Quackity could overlook the sharp words for how Purpled, of all people, was joining in this joke. 

“Wait, you’re too young for alcohol. Scratch that.” Foolish was still doing the best at maintaining a straight face and selling the joke, whereas Charlie and Fundy where on the opposite end of the spectrum, snickering every time they tried to make eye contact. Purpled looked annoyed by the comment about his age, like it was offensive or something. 

Quackity had to keep swallowing down smiles himself, watching as Bad slowly looked more and more tired of their shenanigans. 

“Alcohol is where you draw the line?” Bad asked weakly, pushing his glasses up. “Not the use of alcohol to exploit others or gain information?”

“Yes.”

The decent attempt at sincerity had Quackity losing it all over again, embarrassed to be laughing but too glad he had something to laugh about at all to care. 

“At least he has that going for him,” Charlie told Bad. “I did underage drinking. I had bleach when I was eight.”

“Charlie, I don't think that’s the same thing-” Fundy cut himself off with a wheeze, barely able to get the words out quickly enough.

Bad seemed appropriately scandalized, waiting until it seemed everyone had calmed down enough before clearing his throat with finality. “I think we’re getting off-track.”

“I like this conversation better.”

“So I’d like to bring the conversation around a bit.” Bad ignored Foolish’s comment, which sounded rhetorical anyway. “What I hope you’re all understanding is that when anxiety is both constant and severe it can cause deeper reactions in us with equal power. The constant triggers from ordinary stressors can cause habits of aggression, isolation, or restlessness. In the end, it can cause problems in a lot of areas of our life, such as work or relationships. Does that make sense?”

To the credit of the group, they did try to nod along and give affirmation. And to Quackity’s credit, he was pretty sure he got it. He could definitely relate to feeling scared over small things and wanting to get away, either physically or emotionally. Whatever was quicker. 

“So, I have a few options for the next part of our session,” Bad said. “We can continue this discussion, and do things like talk more about the individual ways these habits affect us, or we could do more of a hands-on activity with the worksheet I brought. Or something else, if any of you have suggestions and things you’d like to discuss.”

  “We can place our next bets,” Fundy suggested with a foxish grin. “I bet we’re going to start catching ourselves getting anxious over normal stuff, like Bad’s saying, and then we’ll be super self-aware and too powerful. Then we can quit the group and start a casino.”

“I’m already dangerously self-aware, apparently,” Foolish commented, pointedly ignoring how Bad literally facepalmed at that. “Isn’t that right, Bad?”

Bad’s sigh was full of disappointment. His face still in his hand, he tiredly replied, “That’s right, Foolish,” in the same tone one might talk to a child. Foolish didn’t seem bothered by that.

“What does dangerously self-aware mean?” Charlie asked, with a sort of vigor and curiosity that almost distracted from how out of nowhere the question was.

“It means I can hyperationalize until I disassociate,” Foolish answered with equal eagerness, which Bad audibly groaned at. 

“Foolish, we’ve talked about this,” Bad tried, over Charlie’s surprise-filled, over-exaggerated ooh , which Fundy quickly joined in on.

“Oh, does Foolish do therapy sessions with you, too?” Fundy’s consecutive question was apparently a welcome distraction, since Bad suddenly wanted to be very invested in that conversation. “I thought you told me I was the only one here who did.”

“He used to, a very long time ago,” Bad explained. “I was his occupational therapist when he was a kid.” Foolish nodded along.

“Then why stop? Was it not working?” Purpled’s question caught Quackity off-guard; sure, the thought had also crossed his mind, but he wouldn’t dare ask. Though, then again, this wasn’t the first time Purpled had asked an out-of-pocket question.

“At some point, we realized it wasn’t really what I needed and I switched over,” Foolish told him, with less hesitation than Quackity would’ve thought. “He was just a family friend for a while after that, and I tried a couple different things. Group therapy is new, but it’s been good, I guess.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Fundy offered. “My bet’s still up.”

“I think we need to move on,” Bad said, with at least some finality that kept Quackity and the others from arguing. “Would you like to look at the worksheet I have for today?”

Receiving some nods and mumbled agreement, Bad reached under the top page of his clipboard and drew out a few sheets of paper. Following routine, he passed them to Charlie, who took one and gave the rest to Quackity, who similarly passed it on. Pencils were next, and then Quackity was back to waiting for Bad’s long, roundabout descriptions of why this was going to be super helpful to the point of annoying.

“So there are two sections to this,” Bad began, as slowly and carefully as ever. “The first is a checklist, which I think are satisfying to fill out. This one is about anxiety, and some of the ways it’s affecting your life; it will hopefully help us to recognize what’s going on and caused by anxiety that we may overlook because it comes so naturally and is triggered so often.”

A quick glance downward confirmed the fact, and Quackity couldn’t pretend to be upset. Checklists were easy and organized. Factual, simple, and quick. Nothing to worry about.

My anxiety causes:

The second-guessing of all my plans - yep. For sure.

Frequent decision-paralysis or procrastination - Well, not really. He was pretty impulsive, actually. Though long-term planning could be hard for him.

Guilt-oriented thinking, ‘Could have done better’ reflections - Sometimes, yeah. Every argument he’d ever had, every heat-of-the-moment bad decision. . . He thought about them constantly and knew exactly what he could have said better.

Difficulty communicating effectively with others, hesitation to speak up - No, Quackity had always been able to say what was on his mind, for better or worse. Anxiety never really took his voice away; his anger was always stronger, in those moments.

Difficulty trusting others and doubt in my relationships - That. . . Quackity had to think about. He’d never considered that anxiety was the reason he kept pushing down the thought of having another lover or a best friend . But that, come to think of it, was almost definitely true.

And that was that. He’d answered the questions.

Eyeing Bad to see if they were going to take another minute or not, Quackity snuck a glance at his phone, seeing the name Sapnap come up in his notifications. Just as he’d feared. He shoved the phone away again.

At least he could now mentally prepare himself for that trainwreck of a conversation.

“The second part of our worksheet today,” Bad started again after what felt like ages of dread building up in Quackity’s chest. “Is a bit of a combatant to the different factors listed above. You’ll see a few little boxes there, and just fill in with the first thing that comes to mind. No need to overthink it.”

Quackity looked down again, realizing his pencil had left some stray marks he was unable to erase. Annoying as it was, he forced himself to ignore it and did as he was told, picking whatever came to him in the moment:

A safe place for me is:

My bedroom - it may be an ordinary answer, but even in the new apartment with Fundy and some mostly-strangers, being surrounded by his things and knowing he had a space there was a comfort.

Something I love to do is:

Participate in debates - The debate club he’d been in at college had been the highlight of his week year after year; it was exhilarating, confidence-boosting, and a place where Quackity thrived.

Something about myself that I’m confident in is:

My quick-thinking - He’d gotten out of a lot of bad situations that way, and gotten into good ones, too. He’d gotten praise in the past for being able to keep up and work hard even in the most heated situations.

Something I firmly believe in is:

People change -  For better or worse, Quackity had seen it all his life. It was a normal, human thing, to be constantly changing. Physically, mentally, emotionally, whatever.

A person I feel safe with is:

Here, Quackity paused. He hated it, but he did. He couldn’t choose Sapnap or Karl because they’d chosen each other over him, and now he wasn’t talking to them. He couldn’t choose his family because that house of high-expectations wasn’t exactly for a warm and fluffy family. He couldn’t choose Professor Schlatt because that was stupid , and he had too many disagreements with the guy even if he did have a lot of respect for him.

Resisting the urge to groan in frustration, Quackity tugged his beanie down harder and set his pencil to the paper, vowing to write whatever name came to him next.

Charlie.

There.

And. . . it wasn’t a lie. Quackity could recall plenty of late-night texts he’d sent in a panic, receiving a response in seconds from a person who understood what he was going through. Every struggle he’d ranted about on the way out the door after each session, Charlie had a joke to make that would cheer him up. And Charlie had never once, even remotely seemed to lie. He wore his heart on his sleeve and asked every question that popped into his head.

Quackity was starting to trust Charlie a lot. A dangerous amount, maybe.

Folding up the piece of paper since he was done with it, Quacktiy absentmindedly flicked his pencil back and forth between his fingers and waited for everyone else to be done. Purpled was staring at the page as if it was about to murder him, Fundy was scribbling out whatever he’d thought of every few seconds, and Foolish was steadily working on something across the way.

The only other one who seemed finished was Charlie, who offered Quackity a smile when he saw Quackity look over.

He held up two fingers for Quackity to see, and though Quacktiy didn’t know what that meant, and said as much in his facial expression, Charlie was grinning like it was a secret joke between them. So Quackity decided to play along and nodded back like he’d received a secret code.

Charlie looked absolutely thrilled.

They went back and forth for a bit after that, making up random signals of increasing ridiculousness while they waited on everyone else. If Bad noticed them goofing off in the middle of a session, he didn’t seem to care. 

When everyone had stopped writing, Bad took the reins again, catching Quackity amidst a fully joking, yet incriminating gesture with a look so concerned it had Quackity instantly embarrassed, shoving his hands under his lap. Charlie offered him an apologetic smile from behind the hand that muffled his giggles. 

“I don't know what that’s about,” Bad started slowly. “But I’m willing to ignore it. We have enough time today to go around and share what we wrote down. For the first half, I’ll read the question aloud and you can raise your hands; the second, we’ll just take turns speaking. Sound good?”

He received a mixture of nods and various “okay”s, all mumbled as usual. It was even quieter than usual, in Quackity’s opinion. Though it had been a little while since they’d been encouraged to all share. 

“So. . .” Bad adjusted his clipboard upward for easier reading, leaning it against his crossed legs. “My anxiety causes me to second-guess my plans.”

Quackity and Purpled put their hands up, used to this routine. Quackity did wonder if Sam’s hand would be up with theirs. He had no clue if it would. 

“My anxiety causes frequent decision-paralysis and procrastination.”

Charlie and Foolish, this time. Fundy, the only one yet to answer, was looking intensely at the floor, and seemed pretty unresponsive. He might not answer any of the questions at all. Quackity was pretty sure he could get away with it, if he felt he needed to. He definitely wouldn’t judge. 

“My anxiety causes guilt-oriented thinking and could-have-done-better reflections.”

Absently, Quackity noticed that Bad hadn’t put his hands up for any of them, either. Not that he had to, being the therapist, it was just unusual for him to not participate. 

Fundy did put his hand up this time, though he was making a face Quackity really didn’t have the energy to dissect the meaning of, alongside Quackity and Foolish. Charlie was making a face like he wanted to agree but wasn’t sure. 

“My anxiety causes difficulty communicating effectively with others and hesitation to speak up.” 

Charlie’s hand shot up, and Foolish’s joined. Fundy’s was definitely tentative, and he made a face again. He was definitely trying to imply a sort of ‘ sometimes, maybe ’ with it, not that Quackity really saw a difference. 

“My anxiety causes difficulty trusting others and doubt in my relationships.”

Quackity’s hand was the first up. Purpled and Fundy joined him. 

Since he hadn’t been paying any attention to Bad, Quackity for once wasn’t sure if he’d taken notes or even looked at them while they completed the exercise. His tone had sounded completely removed, almost like some sort of recitation that they as a group didn’t really need to address. 

Was that his point, or something? A glance at their therapist gave nothing away; he was looking at the second half of the page and preparing to read that part aloud for them. 

Quackity, now a bit curious and a bit put off by it, decided to on pay more attention this time around, when-

Oh, damn it. 

Everyone was about to hear him call Charlie his best friend. Charlie was about to hear that he was Quackity’s best friend. 

Not that it wasn’t true or that Quackity wanted to change his answer, but it was going to be embarrassing, and maybe Charlie wouldn’t react well, and to the others it probably didn’t make sense. They didn’t know how often Quackity had texted a little red flag to Charlie when he needed help, or how Charlie was the only person able to make him laugh anymore. 

Charlie didn’t even know how much he meant to Quackity, because Quackity was having such a hard time even calling him ‘friend’ to his face. 

Charlie’s loud voice was able to interrupt Quackity’s panic, answering the question Bad must have already asked. “A safe place for me is here at Las Nevadas! I like it a lot here.”

One glance, and Quackity realized Charlie was looking at him and nodding. It’s your turn, he seemed to be saying. And Quackity would take what he could get. 

“Um, my safe place is my room,” Quackity said, trying to talk in the most normal way possible, masking his growing worry. Figuring he could elaborate, at least to acknowledge Fundy’s part in it, he continued, “Whatever room I have, really. It’s always made me feel safe to have my own space.” He gave Fundy a brief but genuine nod, the smile that he received well worth it. 

Bad gave them a moment of quiet, a gentle reset, before speaking. “The next question; Something I love to do is. . .  Have my sons over for dinner. It’s good to have them all home again. This question is supposed to be a reminder that even when anxiety makes things hard, there will be things that always bring us joy and we know we never have to be afraid of. If we can use these moments to remind us that things may not turn out as bad as we think, or that we still can make great memories from doing something we’re scared to, because there has to be a first time to realize you love something. Personally, I was worried that things had changed too much for my family to all be in my house anymore- that they could no longer get along like the family we used to, or that they’d outgrown me. But that was far from the case.”

Oh, so Quackity had missed the first question. Charlie had saved him from a real awkward situation, then. He’d have to thank him later, if he didn’t die of embarrassment or get cut off as a friend by the time the last question rolled around.

“I love spending time with my family too,” Foolish said, after no-one else had spoken up. “I know I can rely on them, and they make me really happy. A lot of friends are like that, too. And Eret. Eret especially.”

There was a gentle admiration in his voice when he said his partner’s name, and Quackity could only dream of hearing his name said that way. It caused a lot of emotions, really, but Quackity didn’t really want to dwell on any of it. He didn’t need to make it about himself, and he didn’t want to. 

“I love to message my friends,” Charlie added. “I can send them funny texts and stuff or ask questions and it always works out. I don't have to worry about sounding clueless around them because they’re always willing to help and hang out with me.” He looked at each person in their little circle, his smile bright. Quackity was touched, really. It made him feel better knowing that the feeling was at least somewhat mutual. 

Though, it was Charlie , the most friendly, encouraging person to ever live. Maybe it was a little silly to even doubt that he’d be happy about being friends with Quackity. 

Quackity just had to have the courage to say it back. 

“I love taking walks in the woods,” Fundy eventually said, sounding slightly stiff. “It’s. . . Yeah. It’s peaceful and such. And I like the animals.”

“That’s good,” Bad told him, as a way of comfort. Fundy seemed to appreciate it, at least a little. And Bad didn’t write anything down. 

“I love debates,” Quackity offered, deciding he didn’t want to go last again. “There was a club I was part of in college. It’s a fun experience, and the logic part of it is cool.”

No-one tried to tell him it was stupid, which was an improvement from the last friend group Quackity had shared the news with. Well, friend group may not be what he could call this, but still. It was different. He wasn’t sure anyone but Charlie actually wanted to be his friend, here. They were just moral support for each other because they were going through sort of the same thing. At least they had the supportive part somewhat down.

“I like going to visit my brother.” Purpled’s answer was clipped, his head low. “We’re getting along better now that we aren’t going to be living together. My stuff’s out of his way and I get more space.”

Bad nodded, a gesture which Purpled probably didn’t even see, since he was having some sort of staring contest with the ground. But he seemed understanding about it. Quackity figured this was what Foolish and Purpled were talking about earlier, the whole you’re moving soon bit that Quackity still had no point of reference for. But good for him, anyway. 

“Moving on,” Bad picked up the conversation. “Something about myself that I’m confident in is. . . My ability to listen, and empathize even when I don't personally relate. It helps me connect to other people, and it’s something I’ve worked hard on for years.”

“I’m confident in my coding skills,” Fundy chimed in almost right away, sounding proud of himself. “I’ve made some really cool things and added them to games. And funny things, too.” He was grinning again, cueing Quackity on to the fact that funny probably meant as chaotic as possible. 

Which, to be fair, Quackity would also find funny. He should ask to see Fundy’s work sometime. He was one of the few people who really could, after all; being in the same apartment as him, that is. 

“I’m confident in my friends!” Charlie said, which wasn’t technically the point of the question. “I know I can pick good ones who’ll support me and my interests!”

“Does that count?” Purpled asked, another unsurprisingly blunt question that, this time, lacked any bite. 

“It does, that’s a good quality for sure,” Bad told him calmly. “It’s good discernment, and emotional awareness.”

Purpled seemed to take that well, though his expressions never really changed much. 

“I think it’s. . . I’m confident in how I express myself?” Foolish tried. “Like, the way I dress and do my makeup and stuff. I’m not very self-conscious anymore? If that makes sense.”

“It does,” Bad assured him, and Quackity could somewhat agree. “Self-confidence comes in a lot of forms, and learning to love how we are , as well as what we do , is a very good thing.”

“I’m confident in my quick-thinking,” Quackity recited off the page. “I know I can work quickly and think ahead. It’s gotten me out of bad spots, and it helps me feel okay about myself and the things I have to say.”

He got a hum of agreement from Purpled, which was the only thing keeping him from wanting to sink into his chair and disappear after how he’d just admitted way more than he’d meant to. 

“It’s good to be sure of yourself,” Bad said, slow and calm. “As long as you aren’t always assuming the worst or trying to escape when there isn’t actually danger. The ability to sense danger is important, but entertaining our anxiety isn’t.”

Quackity instantly wanted to stop listening to the lecture he hadn’t asked for, but he could begrudgingly admit that Bad was right. He’d already been trying to remind himself that he didn’t need to be planning ahead so far during normal conversations, or telling himself that he had to be careful. 

  “I’m confident about using a bow and arrow,” Purpled eventually offered. “I’ve gotten really good at it.”

“That’s good.” Bad’s answer seemed mostly idle, filling the blank space while the conversation moved on. “The fourth affirming statement is ‘I firmly believe. . .’ And for me, I definitely believe that everyone has good intentions. They may seem selfish, but no-one wants harm to come to themselves or others for the sake of it. There’s always a reason that seems good.”

“There’s good in everyone, too,” Charlie supplied. “I think that, anyway.” 

“I believe it’s important to be loyal to people,” Fundy said, his voice tense. “Sometimes it looks different or gets misunderstood, but loyalty is really important. To me, that is. You know.”

“People change,” Quackity added, since they seemed to be doing a bit of lightning round. He didn’t really feel like explaining himself. 

“I think people are worth waiting for.” Foolish spoke next. “And not to let good people go.”

As usual, there was a brief pause before Purpled spoke. “I believe that there’s a price to everything. But. . . Usually it’s worth paying.”

Bad did seem to be taking notes this time around, though Quackity barely caught it. He had to wonder if his and Purpled’s more negative answers had anything to do with that. 

“Final statement for today,” Bad started, not wasting a moment. “A person I feel safe with is. . . Skeppy. He and I have been close for a very long time. I would do just about anything for him.”

“Eret.” Foolish’s answer was immediate, and endearingly predictable. “And Vegetta.”

That was a new name to Quackity, and he briefly wondered who was potentially comparable to Eret, but pushed it aside when he heard Charlie speak up:

“Quackity from Las Nevadas! And my other friends too, usually.”

“Charlie.” The name tumbled from Quackity’s mouth before he could stop himself; Charlie turned, a curious look on his face. “I trust Charlie too.”

Quiet for a moment, where Quackity expected Fundy to speak. Instead, Purpled shrugged and said, “My brother, Punz.”

He muttered something else that Quackity didn’t hear, but Foolish must have, because he looked briefly shocked, a warm smile eventually crossing his face. At least it was a positive thing, though Quackity wished it hadn’t been such a secret. 

The last to speak, Fundy eventually seemed to settle on something. “Ranboo.”

Bad had this strange sort of look on his face, almost satisfied and almost sad. “Those are all very good answers. These may seem like simple things, even stupid ones, but they aren’t. They contribute to who you are- who you really are, not what your anxiety makes you do or what other people think you should be. Thank you for sharing. You’re free to go now.”

Before Quackity even had a chance to stand, Charlie was bounding out of his seat and leaning over the armrest of Quackity’s chair. 

“You really trust me?” He asked, sounding painfully excited. “We’re each other’s friends?”

“Yeah, we are.” Quackity couldn’t muster up the same enthusiasm, but he really did mean it. He was just scared and tired from- from everything, really. 

Charlie hugged him again, somewhat awkwardly given how far he had to bend down, but it was comforting. When he spoke, it was quieter and altogether gentler than Quackity had ever heard, so much like the warm hug they were currently sharing. “I’m so glad I can call you a best friend.”

Despite himself, Quackity could feel his eyes sting with tears, the same ones he’d pushed down earlier in the day when Sapnap had tried to text him from George’s phone, being the only one in the ‘friend group’ whose number wasn’t blocked- at least until that happened. He was emotional for a different reason this time, sure, but it was still overwhelming after such a mentally exhausting day. 

Leaning further into the hug and shaking off the tears, Quackity mumbled back, “Me too, Charlie.”

Charlie let go first, straightening up and securing a smile again, letting Quackity take his time picking up his phone and standing again. He was careful to keep the screen pointed away from himself, dreading having to read any of the messages he knew were there, by way of some social media app he forgot to block Sapnap on.

“I gotta go before the bus leaves without me,” Charlie told him, extending a hand. “Come with me?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Quackity nodded. “Sure. The bus stops close to Fundy’s place too. I’ll ride with you.”

Charlie’s excitement was well worth the sudden change of plans, and Quackity only had to stop Fundy on the way out and hand over his car keys so Fundy could still get back. This also gave Charlie a chance to put his earplugs in, so he didn’t seem to mind that they were stalled a bit. The bus still hadn’t pulled to a complete stop, anyway. 

Though confused, Fundy didn’t argue and took off, still acting weird. Quackity decided to ignore it, somehow feeling better than he had in a long time as he stood beside Charlie and just talked. And had a conversation that didn’t involve resentment or abandonment or miscommunications or forgetting each other. 

The highlight of it had to be when Quackity half-jokingly explained that calling Sapnap may actually be the death of him , and Charlie half-joked right back that he’d learn necromancy just in case. 

In the end, it was the least stressful trip home from therapy Quackity had ever had, and it definitely had to do with not being alone. Quackity had half a mind to make a routine of this, to just hang out with Charlie more. Even if he would have to buy an overpriced bus pass at some point. 

Sneaking onboard was probably only effective as a one-time thing.

Chapter Text

Fundy had been having a wretched, despicable, horrible week. Not only did visiting Philza go terribly , not only was Sam ghosting him, not only was Ranboo having even more memory problems than usual, but everything was Fundy’s fault. 

‘You don't take responsibility’ , Phil had shouted across the table, causing Fundy to flinch so hard something in his wrist cracked. 

The truth was, contrary to popular belief, that Fundy was trying to defend himself from ‘failing’ responsibilities he never wanted to take on.  He didn’t want it to be his job to manage the one-way communication he was currently having with all his friends, or to keep an eye on Ranboo when he tried to wander off and forgot where all his things were when he had to leave the house.

He didn’t want to be the one who had to ‘fix himself’ before crawling back to the family, or whatever else they wanted from him.

Phil just happened to be such a considerate and capable person that he never had that problem. 

Phil had such an easy, successful life carved out for himself that he was married - twice, counting his platonic marriage to that guy, Missa- had three children of his own, an adopted son called Chayanne, and two grandchildren by way of a certain Wilbur Soot: Fundy , the family’s resident problem child, and then perfect Tallulah, who was a quiet and charming ten-year old, and Wilbur’s real daughter .

Fundy had a half-sibling, apparently. It was a recent development, and the reason Phil had wanted to talk to Fundy in person earlier in the week. Though, Fundy had been told it was his own fault he never knew about little Tallulah , and that he should just come around more. 

Like it was his fault that Phil had disowned him, or his uncles never took him seriously, or his own father was never around. Like there was no reason Fundy shouldn’t get over himself and go to family dinner. 

The loud grinding of his teeth made Fundy stop his seething for just a moment. He couldn’t be too obvious, not with Quackity in the car beside him. Though his silence had probably already spoken volumes about his mood. 

For better or worse, Quackity hadn’t asked him what’s wrong. Neither had Jack or Ranboo. He wasn’t on speaking terms with many other people. 

But it was therapy day, and that meant talking about his feelings. 

Fundy didn’t like sharing his feelings, particularly while he was still feeling them. It just amplified whatever he was going through and made actually getting his points across that much harder. 

Quackity pulled his car into a parking spot, ignoring the screeching the old brake made, and turned the engine off again. All without a word or a glance his way. Fundy is pretty sure he’s still scowling, and that Quackity’s response probably has to do with that. 

“Three minutes early,” Quackity finally commented, all casual. 

“Like Sam would be,” Fundy added, filling the silence with the first thought he had. “That means we’re probably the last ones in. Unless Foolish is late again. It is an every-other-week thing at this point, isn’t it?”

Rather than joke back -probably because the joke wasn’t even good- Quackity shook his head. “I bet he drove Purpled here again. Who, for some reason, insists on being way early.”

“He does, yeah, but what does Foolish have to do with that all of a sudden?” Fundy finally turned in his seat, looked Quackity in the eyes for the first time the whole car ride, and all just to express his confusion. 

“I dunno,” Quackity mumbled. “It just happened last week, is all. They didn’t explain why either, which makes it seem like some new thing they’re in on.”

He sounded a bit annoyed, but his role and opinions on it was making Fundy all the more confused, so he didn’t make any more comments. 

He grabbed the handle of the car door instead, and Quackity followed suit. 

They lapsed back into silence during the walk to the library, leaving Fundy with nothing to do. He couldn’t even read the book titles for fun, he had them all memorized at this point. 

His current favorite was Petty Ways to Avoid Death , which was a self-help book that played off dry humor to make it worth reading. Bad had recommended it to him, but Fundy’s library card was currently expired, so he hadn’t brought it home to read the whole thing. 

Maybe he should just have Quackity get the book for him or something. Surely he had a library card, law books were probably crazy expensive on their own. The only college student Fundy knew who actually didn’t use a library card was Ranboo, and that was because he kept forgetting to renew it and return his books, or left it in the wrong bag when he left the apartment.

Arriving at the little back room, Fundy and Quackity were indeed the last ones there. Even Bad had gotten there first, though he usually arrived right on the hour.

Fundy stepped around Quackity when he stopped to give Charlie a fist bump and say hi, curling up on the couch where he always did. He was already really warm in his sweatshirt, but he was planning to keep his sleeves rolled up and as much of his back off the couch as he could. That would just have to be how it was.

“Welcome, Fundy, Quackity,” Bad acknowledged, though it came off slightly passive aggressive.

Fundy shrugged, not in the mood to answer. He didn’t feel very welcome many places at the moment. Las Nevadas was an exception.

“So. . . do you win the bet, or does it go undetermined?” He asked Quackity instead, referring to how they’d arrived last. He wouldn’t normally, seeing as he was about to lose money, but it was kind of funny to bring up gambling in front of Bad again, and he would take joy where he could get it.

Bad’s sigh was definitely worth it, even if he made no comments.

“Ah, I definitely win,” Quackity announced, because obviously. “We didn’t bet anything, though. I just knew I was right.”

Fundy pretended he had to consider it, though he was immediately in agreement with saving his Primes. “Sure. Whatever.” He’d never been so relieved to have a grin come naturally to him, returning the rare, slightly crooked smile Quackity offered him.

“Can we put the bets aside and begin our session?” Bad asked weakly. After a look of faked mind-reading, Fundy and Quackity both nodded. “Thank you. I’d like to go back to our check-ins, and just reflect on how these last few weeks have been, and what it means for your mental and physical  health lately. You’re welcome to share anything you feel like.”
Well.

Fundy kind of felt he’d done enough ‘reflecting’ on his week because it’d been on his mind the whole time just how angry he was, but that probably wasn’t what Bad wanted. Taking a deep breath, he tried to think more about how it was affecting other parts of his life , and less about what had just happened.

He’d definitely been tense and in a bad mood, and a bit snappish with other people because of it. He hadn’t felt like doing any chores or everyday work, and he’d been more tired. That was probably all related to his stress.

“I feel good!” Charlie started them off after what was probably five minutes of silence. “I had the whole week off work, so I visited Foolish and got to meet his kids. And I went to the store and bought myself ice cream because it’s self-care and I had a good time!”
“That’s wonderful, Charlie,” Bad told him, in the same tone he always did when he didn’t have much to contribute. “I’m glad you’ve had it easier this week, that’s very good. Remember that if you need to set new, or more, boundaries in order to care for yourself, then it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Sure thing!” Charlie’s smile seemed a little forced to stay, after that, but it was decent advice. 

“My week was okay,” Quackity said, sitting rather tensely on the edge of his seat. “I got in an argument with Karl again. Sapnap keeps defending him, too. But it’s whatever. I have better friends now.”
Bad’s eyes widened, and he looked like he wanted to say something, but never did. Fundy had no clue what could have shocked him so much, and clearly Quackity didn’t either. At least not for sure. He seemed less confused, but not by much.

“Sapnap is. . .” Bad prompted, his brow furrowed like this was some sort of mystery he had to get to the bottom of.

“My ex-fiancé,” Quackity responded dryly. “Don't get engaged to your friends while drunk and in college, kids.”
“He-” Bad quieted again for a solid minute. Clearly Fundy wasn’t the only one entirely lost, because Charlie and Foolish were both making faces. Though Charlie’s looked more intentionally quizzical and Foolish didn’t seem to know he was doing anything at all. What had he called that? Forgetting he could be perceived? Which was a sort of funny concept to Fundy, particularly in these moments. And apparently Foolish experienced it almost constantly. “I’m sorry to hear that, Quackity.”

“Something wrong?” Quackity asked- pretty defensively, Fundy noted. Though it was fair. Bad was acting a little strange.

“No, I just- I think I know who you’re talking about, is all. I was surprised.” Bad’s voice sounded uncharacteristically unsure.

“Small world,” Quackity huffed.

“My week sucked too,” Fundy added, just to change the subject. And partially to offer some condolences to Quackity. “I got in a fight with Phil. Apparently Wilbur has a new daughter, and Phil thinks I’m not doing enough for the family.”

“Making it sound like a mob family, right there.” The comment, surprisingly, came form Purpled, and it did startle a laugh out of Fundy. The idea of Phil being some bigshot boss and organizing some crime thing was- a funny image, but not even an implausible one. Tommy liked to call himself and Wilbur the crime boys , after all, and Techno did look like he could kill a man without remorse. He also hated traditional governments, which made sense for a mafia guy too. And Missa was obsessed with death and had a lot of friends Fundy never got to learn anything about- a lot of whom only spoke in Spanish around him, as well. Hold on. . .

Fundy started cracking himself up, right then. It was just too perfectly ridiculous. Honestly, if only Fundy’s life misfortunes could be explained that easily.

“Turn in all the valuables!” Charlie added to the joke, holding up two finger guns and pointing them at Fundy’s chest. “Do everything we ask!”

“No! Just kill me now!” Fundy faked fainting, the hood on his sweatshirt cushioning him as he dropped over the back of the couch a little. “Please!”

“Don't beg too hard, Bad’s sitting right there,” Quackity added, his delivery notably less boisterous than usual. The attempt was a good thing, though, and reassuring. 

Bad didn’t interrupt them there, even if he could have. And probably should have. He waved them off, letting Fundy and Charlie get readjusted in their seats in their own time.

It was kind of cool of him, actually.

Fundy was feeling slightly better than he had all week, honestly.

“I’ve been doing okay,” Foolish spoke next, fidgeting with the cuffs of both his sleeves, rubbing perfect, even circles along the cloth. “I’ve been missing Vegetta recently. So has Leo. But I’ve been trying to spend some extra special time with her, and I think she’s feeling better. I did get a little sick, though, because we went to the park for a few hours and there was pollen everywhere.”

“Who’s Vegetta?” Quackity asked. “You’ve mentioned the guy twice now with no explanation.”

“And Leo,” Charlie quickly added.

“My platonic husband and his daughter,” Foolish was surprisingly quick to explain, needing less time to process both questions than usual. “Vegetta works overseas and isn’t around very much, so I take care of Leo and Roier for him. Though Roier mostly takes care of himself now, being an adult and married and all. But still. They’re my family, too.”

“Ah, that clears up nothing.” Quacktiy’s tone was light and joking, but Foolish still looked a bit embarrassed anyway. “Is platonic marriage an actual thing? And, sorry, you actually had four kids this whole time? And one is married?”

“Yes, yes, and yes!” Foolish brightened up again. “Platonic marriage is an old tradition that nobles used to do; Eret introduced it to me, and she and I were platonically married before traditionally. Then I platonically married Vegetta a few years later, and adopted both Leonarda and Roier. Roier’s an adult now, and he married Cellbit. So now I have a son-in-law, too. I would have mentioned it sooner, but it’s sort of hard to explain? And sometimes people think it’s still weird, so I don't usually tell people at first?”

“I can vouch for this, Eret told me about platonic marriage too,” Fundy said. “And Ranboo is platonically married to Tubbo, and Phil has a platonic husband. Also, it’s not weird. The whole point is to be ‘best friends forever’ or whatever.”

“That’s really cool!” Charlie exclaimed. “So you get to be married as friends?”

“Yep. It’s like- the government recognizes that you’re together for life, and you guys can get tax benefits and buy property together and share custody, but you aren’t expected to be lovers .” Fundy’s words were a bit jumbled as he tried to come up with them, but he was pretty sure the point got across. Foolish was nodding along, at any rate.

“That’s- really interesting,” Quackity said after a moment. “In a good way, I mean. It sounds good.”

“I’m not very familiar with it myself, but it does sound like a lovely idea,” Bad agreed. “I understand that being apart from someone that close to you is very difficult. I’m sorry to hear you and Leo are both struggling, but it’s normal and okay. And you have each other. If you want, we can talk more about that and make sure it doesn’t become too much.”

“I- right, you are my therapist again, aren’t you?” Foolish asked, with a sort of apologetic smile. “I was about to make a joke about not having to tell you, but never mind.”

“I am your therapist again, yes.” Bad looked a little tired, in a strange, almost reminiscent way? “I’ve almost always been your therapist.”

“Not when did the trauma-focused CBT,” Foolish reminded him.

“Right, not then.” There was this tone Bad always seemed to use with Foolish, something reminiscent of how Phil used to talk to Fundy. When he was growing up, that is. It was sort of like the way Missa talked to him currently, during the few occasions Fundy hadn’t managed to avoid him. Not chiding, just. . . something. Fundy wasn’t quite sure what it was.

“My week was okay.” Purpled eventually said, finding it a good time to move on. “I’m more stressed now that it’s over, though.”

“Any reason why that you’re willing to share?” Bad gently prodded. 

Purpled looked like he’d rather die, but eventually, witheringly , said, “I have to move out next week. Half my stuff is gone right now.”

Bad hummed a thoughtful note. “That does sound stressful. Do you have someone helping you?”

“Foolish is,” Purpled mumbled, barely loud enough to hear. He was bent over the armrest of the sofa with his arms crossed, his face completely buried in his sleeves. Fundy wasn’t even sure at what point that had happened, but Purpled seemed close to having a meltdown. And, by some twist of fate, looked the most vulnerable Fundy had ever seen him.

“That’s good,” Bad spoke warmly, working with the scrap of information like it was precious extravagance. He didn’t seem to mind he was carrying the conversation at all. “I really do believe this new situation will work better for you, even temporarily. Even if it’s hard to adjust to at first.”

“There are kids,” Purpled muttered, something about his tone different than usual. Almost concerned, Fundy noted. Or scared. “I don't know how to live in a family home.”

“You’ll adjust,” Bad repeated, gently but firmly. “You have people looking out for you, and that’s the most valuable part.”

Purpled nodded briefly before seeming to completely shut down, curled up on the couch with his head buried in the fabric of his hoodie. Foolish, the only one close enough to touch him -physically and emotionally, probably- reached over and placed a hand on his shoulder in silent affirmation.

Purpled didn’t react much to it at all.

On the other hand, Fundy was thinking about the words I don't know how to live in a family home. It resonated with him, though he wasn’t sure this was the best time to approach Purpled about it. He didn’t really understand much about Purpled’s situation, really; he knew that Punz was Purpled’s brother and that they had lived in the same apartment, but for some reason it wasn’t working out. That was about it.

No-one else was in the picture.

As much as Fundy resented his family and wanted to be disconnected from them, part of him was scared that one day he wouldn’t be able to even tell anyone his family’s names. He’d have no-one , and then if he stopped existing nobody would even know.

At least where he was now, Phil would be notified to plan a funeral.

“Thank you everyone for sharing,” Bad said. “It sounds like everyone has had a bit of a rough time, which is understandable. These things happen, especially towards the beginning of the year. Things are changing, and people are growing now that winter is over. Some of you are moving on, and some of you aren’t. Either way, healing comes in different forms, and it takes time. For now, let’s focus on today, and why we’re here. The short answer is to support each other, and that’s what today’s exercise is about.”

He paused, and Fundy expected him to pull a worksheet from under the currently blank clipboard’s page, but he didn’t. Instead, he put his pen down and folded his hands together, and that was the precise moment Fundy noticed the ring on his left hand.

Not technically , he’d said about having a lover. The ring said differently.

Fundy was intrigued.

“So last session we shared one thing we believe,” Bad began again, once he had everyone’s attention. “And a lot of you said things like don't give up and look out for each other . It’s all good and true, and I think we could all benefit from sharing a little bit more advice. We’ve all been through hard times. You’ve all been at your worst before. What’s something you can tell each other about that experience? What’s a way it affected you? What’s one reason you’re here , rather than back there?”

He paused for a breath then, but it somehow felt like he was taking the opportunity to say something he hadn’t been able to before, while he had everyone fully listening.

“The truth is that even when you’ve all felt a similar way, the experience was different. You’re all different ages, you’ve all reached different milestones. Some of you went to college, some of you didn’t. Some of you had a difficult family situation, some of you experienced great heartbreaks, some of you felt you just had no time. But you’ve all lived, and that’s valuable to yourself and to others around you.”

The words settled into the quiet room, their effect clear.

Fundy wasn’t sure exactly what advice he had to give, but it still struck him somehow. Bad had a point, about how even their vastly different experiences led to them feeling the same lows. And highs as well, maybe. They had the potential for it.

“My advice to you all,” Bad said. “Comes from me as a person, not me as a therapist. It’s from a person you maybe don't know all that well yourselves, but who has lived through and partaken in so many relationships, in so much emotional human experience. Feelings are important to me. I’ve lost people, and grieved and mourned and cried and pleaded. I’ve wanted to die, too. I’ve thought myself a million horrible, untrue things. And I’ve loved, so so greatly. The range of emotions humans can experience is seemingly infinite, and we can’t really understand it. But somewhere on that spectrum, we’re all there. We’re all something, and maybe a lot of things at once. My advice to you is something I’ve learned after a very long and difficult life: It’s easy to view kindness as a luxury, when all it really needs to be is acceptance of the truth. Vulnerability, compassion, the work of our hands, the happiness we offer each other all comes from acceptance. Of what we want, need, and have. Be kind to each other, and to yourselves.”
After a moment of silence, Quackity spoke up in a low voice, “Something I’ve learned. . . if that people aren’t as important -or unimportant- as their emotions make them feel. Sometimes we feel really big and sometimes we feel really small. We act accordingly, you know? We yell and fight or we run and hide. But it’s not that deep. The universe is a lot bigger and a lot smaller too, all at once. It’s a speck of dust and it’s a giant red sun in the sky. So we can be both, and that doesn’t really change us.”

That did resonate with Fundy, and he was pretty impressed to hear Quackity say it. It was an interesting look into how his mind worked, what he thought was important, and maybe a lot of what he battled with.

Able to recall a thousand shouting matches, his father’s manic episodes, and his own breakdowns from childhood to where he was now, Fundy could definitely relate to feeling too big or too small. Quackity did have a point, though; it didn’t actually make him different, really. It just made him feel differently about himself.

“I think I have some advice,” Charlie said, his voice a bit shaky. He couldn’t seem to keep his gaze in one spot, constantly looking over each of their faces like he was searching for something. Before he actually talked, he stood up, like he was presenting some sort of talk. “There’s actually this phrase I don't like, it goes, uh, you learn something new every day . And it’s usually true, but it’s also kind of not. It’s- it’s imposing. Sometimes we don't learn stuff, and it’s okay. Or sometimes we do, but it takes us a while to process it, not just one day! And that’s okay, too. I used to try to learn everything, but lesson after lesson got really tiring. And some of it I heard, but didn’t really understand. It was really hard. So I think it’s okay to slow down, to take things easy or stick to what we know, and maybe to not learn. Maybe we can say, ‘I don't care!’ when someone tries to tell us something, and keep doing it anyway. When that’s healthy, I mean.”

He sat back down, pushing his glasses up and leaning sideways over the armrest of his chair. Quackity patted his shoulder comfortingly.

Foolish was the next to speak, fidgeting his hair intensely and in a way that looked slightly painful, twisting and tugging at it.

“I’ve heard this phrase, ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves. And it’s interesting- hold on, Bad, I’m getting there. Give- give me a second .” Foolish, referring to how Bad looked slightly unsure and ready to protest, laughed lightly. 

He paused, getting his thoughts back on track, and started again, “It was interesting to hear because I don't- I’ve never thought that way? As some who, who prioritizes other people over myself. Every time. I- I was surprised by it, but I guess it’s the idea that to be better to ourselves, we have to be worse to others. That if someone is about to hurt us, we have to hurt them first. Which I don't believe, but I did want to- I wanted to point it out. That maybe there is no. . . better? In being mean to everyone else. We won’t have more love for ourselves if we stop loving other people. That is just not how love works. It doesn’t get divided up, it gets shared. It gets bigger, when people love each other. When I stop loving someone, it hurts me. There’s a part of myself that hides, a part of me that this one person could always bring out. That they loved and drew out of me. So. . . don't stop loving people. It doesn’t fix anything to have less love going around, that just doesn’t make sense.”

Ah. 

That was an interesting -and relatable- one, to Fundy. He could attest to it, in some ways; reuniting with Eret after years apart had brought out something in him he’d forgotten about; the style of jokes he used to make, he was suddenly making again. The things he’d been interested in he suddenly remembered facts for, and wanted to learn all over again. The smile she could always bring to his face was suddenly there.

Then, on the other hand, there was some sort of beast inside him that came out snarling around his father. Fears he had, that smoke smell he always despised, that tension whenever Wilbur seemed too happy . Manic.

But there was also. . . Curiosity. The warmth of getting answers to questions. That ache of being held as a kid because he’d scraped his knee in the rocks of the river or burned his hand on Wilbur’s lighter. The comfort he’d felt when Wilbur sat with him while he was sick, which was so, so often.

He didn’t get those moments anymore, either.

He was a kid, of course he’d loved his dad.

But he hadn’t considered that he would never love anyone else the same way. Never fear anyone the same, either, probably. Hopefully.

“Purpled, are you bleeding?”

The sudden question took Fundy back to the present moment, looking over to see Purpled pressing the fabric of his hoodie against his fingers, hiding his hands completely in the sleeves. 

“It’s fine,” Purpled muttered. “Just messed with them too much. It happens, they’re all dry from the stupid weather.”

“Do you want to take a break for a moment?” Bad continued to be calm, even with the worry lines that showed on his face. “Someone can help you clean that up if you don't want to get it yourself.”

“I’ll get it later.”

“If you’re sure.” Bad’s lips were pursed in clear disagreement with the decision, but he didn’t press any further.

Purpled didn’t seem keen on speaking again, which meant it was Fundy’s turn to give some life-changing advice to everyone.

He started by clearing his throat, both stalling for time and trying to make sure he didn’t embarrass himself with how high his voice got when he was tense.

“I guess I’ll go next,” Fundy said, already slipping into his speaking in front of the class voice. “Honestly, one thing I’ve been learning is. . . just how heavy other people’s opinions are gonna weigh on us. Good ones and bad ones. They all carry expectations and stuff. But people aren’t really that consistent, if you ask me. And maybe we- I, at least, carry around a lot of stuff I maybe need to let go of. Or something. I think maybe the whole talk about ‘if I were more this or less that’, is maybe not about good or better or worse. What if less talkative meant fewer good conversations with friends, or more patient meant letting abuse go unnoticed. Maybe, um- maybe irresponsible just means still growing and not- and not a failure. Not better or worse of a person. . . It all means different experiences would happen. It means a different person than who we are, sometimes. Or someone we don't know who to be, but nobody else can actually tell what we are or what we need to be. They don't have a clue, either.”

He was rambling, running out of words when he was finally starting to get somewhere. Wracking his brain, he tried to rein in exactly what he meant. And yeah, maybe he was talking a little bit to himself, too. But it felt really good to finally say it like he meant it.

“It’s like, we are who we are, whatever people tell us. It’s a burden, it can hurt us, but whatever we carry around is just stuff in the bag. Not part of our actual bodies or brains. We’ll put it down when we’re gone and we won’t be buried with it.”

Ooh, that was an okay analogy. Bad looked pretty happy with him, Fundy noted. More than a little bit. And. . . proud, maybe? 

Is that what Fundy was catching glimmers of?

Purpled shifted in his seat, not ready to share his part. He seemed to be thinking pretty hard, or at least pretending to be.

“It’s going to get exhausting,” he said at last, keeping it much more direct than anyone else had so far. “Not going to college doesn’t mean less stress or less work, a better living space doesn’t mean better sleep or fewer worries. It all sucks sometimes. Relationships are exhausting, especially when you’re doing all the pushing and pulling. Jobs are exhausting, even when they pay well or cater to your interests. People are exhausting , no matter how nice they try to be. So get good freaking sleep, and try again.”

Bad cracked a smile, either at the speech -which was good, short and sweet- or at the fact that the exercise had gone without a hitch and everyone had done some self-reflection. Either way, Fundy was feeling pretty proud of them all too, so it was fine.

Proud.

Yeah, he was pretty happy with how they were doing. Satisfied, excited, even. They were doing cool things!

“Thank you everyone, you did a wonderful job,” Bad said, and it sounded like he meant it. “I hope at least some of it resonated with you all. The human experience is really so beautiful, and there’s so much of that to share with each other.”

He got a few nods, notably from Charlie, who seemed the most outwardly engaged in the whole situation. Fundy was pretty sure he saw him nodding along and grinning almost the whole time, out of the corner of his eye. It was endearing.

“I have a few small things to talk about next,” Bad continued. “I was wondering, first of all, if you guys would be willing to change up our therapy sessions a bit, and go somewhere next week? I’d like if we could start working on some practical application to our talks, and an easy way to do that is to take the whole group out and share some experiences. We can go to parks and such, or plan bigger outings, like going to the history museum. It could be really good for us to do once in a while.”

There was a pause where everyone processed it, before Quackity finally joked, “So he’s finally had enough of us?”
“Maybe this is a disguised way to get us to act nicer,” Charlie added in, his grin broadening.

“Does he think we’ll act better in public?” Foolish asked, further proving his statement, somewhat unfortunately, with a small scream that was almost definitely a tic. Which was just poor timing, honestly, but a little funny.

“You all act just fine, usually,” Bad replied tiredly. “It’s meant to help you engage in social activities and to apply some of our discussions in a controlled, real-life environment where we can still support each other.”

He was rewarded with another vocal tic, this time a very convenient swear. At least Foolish apologized when Bad hit him with a resigned ‘ language. ’

“He’s definitely making that up,” Fundy put in, seeing a chance to join in on the joking. “It’s an elaborate ruse to make us spend quality time together.”

“What does that mean?”
“What, quality time?” Fundy turned in surprise, squinting at Foolish. “It’s when you make a point to do nice things with someone. Wait, or elaborate?”
“Ruse. . .”

“Oh.” Fundy ended up more embarrassed than Foolish probably was, immediately feeling bad but knowing he had no real way of knowing. He just sort of jumped to conclusions. At least Foolish wasn’t offended.
“It means a trick,” Quackity took over explaining, clearly hiding his laughter by talking with how his voice stuttered. 

“This is not a trick or ruse,” Bad insisted calmly. “We don't have to do it if it makes any of you uncomfortable, but it’s purely to give you all some new experiences with the things you’ve been learning.”

“I don't have a car,” Charlie said next.

“If the bus doesn’t stop near wherever we decide to meet, I can drive people.” Bad said it so plainly, continuing to act like it was no big deal. Maybe to him, it wasn’t. 

“Without Sam?” Came the next question, this time from Purpled.

“He can join us in these activities when he comes back with no problem. For now, yes, we may have to do the first one without him.”

“Where are we going, then?” Quackity prodded.

Bad sighed. “Is that a yes, we’re doing this?”

A few glances around the room, and everyone came to an eventual yes. Charlie seemed most excited, unsurprisingly, but Fundy was finding himself pretty unopposed to the idea himself. And Purpled didn’t even glare while conceding, either.

“Well, how about we take the session to a park next time,” Bad suggested. “It’ll be an easy start, just a change of environment. The weather is finally nice, too.”

“Sounds like a plan!” Charlie saluted, a motion which Foolish’s tics copied a second later, with an accompanying whistle. Fundy bit his lip to hide his smile- he thought it was kind of cute, but didn’t want Foolish to feel self-conscious or anything. He knew a lot of being mocked for disabilities and conditions, and he would never want to come across that way.

“Good, I’m glad for that.” Bad paused briefly. “One more thing for you all before we conclude. A few sessions ago now, I asked you all to write down some questions you had, even if you’d never know the answer to them. Well, I’d like to extend a moment today to ask questions again, and maybe you guys can answer them for each other. Whatever you’ve been wondering.”

“Um, who would win, the Ender Dragon or the Wither?” Charlie asked, earning a snort of laughter from Quackity and a smile Purpled ducked his head to hide.

“The Wither,” Foolish answered immediately.

“Biased,” Fundy retorted, equally immediately. Not only because he thought the Ender Dragon was definitely a more powerful mythical creature, but because there was definitely a certain someone who was partial to the myth of the Wither.

“I’m not,” Foolish defended. “Why would I be?”

“Eret.”

Fundy remembered Eret’s fascination with The Wither very clearly, and in the last few months of meeting her again, it appeared that was still going strong. And it was very obvious how much effort Foolish put into understanding and loving Eret’s interests along with her. So half his opinions -and his support of monarchy, Fundy learned- were mostly based on what Eret preferred.

“No-” Foolish stuttered a bit. Like a liar. “No, the Wither could destroy the crystals the dragon uses to heal. It can do a lot more damage, too.”

“And the Dragon’s levitation attack would do nothing,” Purpled added, finally emerging from the metaphorical barrier he’d had up all session. 

“But the dragon is cooler!” Fundy argued, without any real heat. Honestly, he had no real preference, since he didn’t really like fairy tales anymore. “It has claws and teeth to attack, too. And its breath does damage.”

“Can the Wither be physically damaged?” Quackity asked, joining in. 

“I think so! It was killed by a human in the myth,” Charlie said.

“By splash potions, though,” Purpled pointed out.

Eyeing Bad, Fundy was slightly surprised to see him patiently watching, unbothered by the rather silly conversation they were having. Even if it probably wasn’t what Bad had meant them to be discussing.

They went on talking for a while , too; ten minutes past the session time, to be exact. At some point Bad did lightly warn them that they were outside of their booked time slot, but no-one had anywhere to be, so the conversation went on and on.

The drive home with Quackity was better after that- probably the most peaceful ride Fundy had been on all week. Quackity seemed to be in a better mood too, he noted, even if he joked that they couldn’t be on speaking terms after they’d disagreed over the mob fight.

It was nothing, really. Things were infinitely better.

Especially since, just before the week was over, a text appeared on his phone that had him literally shriek in surprise and excitement, much to the chagrin of Ranboo and his sensitive ears. 

Economics homework immediately abandoned, Fundy yanked his phone out from its place half-under Ranboo’s elbow to type up a reply, relieved that the silence had finally ended. 

From Sam, in Las Nevadas GC:

So I heard we’re going somewhere else for our next session?

Was no-one going to clue me in? /lh

From Fundy:

You’re alive :D!

From Sam: 

I am!

Chapter Text

Charlie hopped off the bus at Manifoldland Gardens stop, his sneakers kicking up some of the morning dew and dirt as he crossed from the sidewalk to the grass. He was excited, practically skipping down the hill to the meeting place Bad had set up for them and shared via text message.

He had that message pulled up on his phone still, just for his own peace of mind, so he knew exactly where he was going. It also had the added benefit of reminding him to re-read his evaluation thing again, which was saved on his phone after Bad had texted it to him earlier that week. 

They’d had a brief discussion about it in-person at Bad’s office, basically outlining what therapy might look like for him personally as well as what the group was working on. It was helpful, letting him know what to expect and keep track of his own progress, but he needed to read it a few times if he was going to remember what was on it.

He had vague bits of it in his mind, stuff like find space to be emotionally vulnerable and have new experiences were on there in a few different places and wordings. He was also supposed to practice ‘adult things’, like handling phone calls and asking employees at the store for help. Simple things, really.

Charlie was pretty sure he could see a few people gathered at a table in the courtyard, just specks in the distance. Purpled’ brightly colored hoodie and Foolish’s distinct hairstyle -which had recently changed, Charlie remembered being really impressed by how cool it looked when Foolish shaved the sides to make it more manageable in the summer- were a huge help in identifying their group, at any rate.

Charlie hopped from stone to stone across the courtyard, kicking up more dew, and made his way leisurely across to the table where most of them were already waiting; Purpled was on his phone in the middle of one bench, taking up as much space as possible. Perched on the edge in a cross-legged position was Foolish, chatting with Sam, who was nearby in his wheelchair. Bad was at the other side of the table, writing something in a journal of sorts, his glasses only halfway up his nose with how his head was tilted. 

Charlie waved as he sat down at an open spot across from everyone but Bad, not wanting to interrupt their talk. Sam waved back, which made it all the more real and exciting that he’d finally been able to come back. Charlie had never asked why he left, but something must have gotten better, and that was all Charlie cared. 

He hoped they were all getting better, really.

Foolish was tapping a rhythm out of the wooden table whenever he wasn’t actively speaking, and Charlie decided to join in, drumming his fingers along the edge and making a hollower sound. It was fun, and no-one seemed to mind, so Charlie was able to stim in peace for a few minutes, his mind wandering to when Quacktiy and Fundy would arrive so they could get started. Not that he was even bored, he just liked having as much time as possible with the whole group. There wasn’t much conversation when they were waiting, was all.

He wasn’t really listening to Sam and Foolish talk, though he was catching a few words here and there about disability; mobility this, ableist person that, et cetera. Which was all cool with Charlie, and something he did want to talk about with his friends if they were ever willing to share, but he just couldn’t focus on it in the current moment. 

Someone was walking down the sidewalk with their phone in hand, a kid was shouting about whatever game they were playing, and there were at least three squirrels gathered in the tree over Charlie’s head. That all took a little bit of energy to process too, so was it really his fault if he was only getting a little bit of the conversation here and there? He could always ask some other time.

There was something about being outdoors that just woke Charlie up and made him more alert, which had its upsides and downsides. There was so much distraction to being outside. He was never the best at staying put during school field trips and all that. So what.

Quackity and Fundy finally arrived, chasing each other across the courtyard from the opposite side Charlie had. Quackity was shouting lighthearted swears as Fundy overtook him, aided by his much longer legs, and it was a good thing there wasn’t anyone else really around at the moment to be annoyed by it.

Other than Bad, obviously, who looked unhappy but used to it.

Quackity’s first real words to them when he came stumbling to a stop was the exclamation, “You brought a dog!” Which definitely confused Charlie until he stood and leaned around the table, finally seeing the dog that had indeed been brought and was sitting at Sam’s side.

Full of excitement, Charlie sidestepped the table and crouched down, his grin widening when the dog looked over with a little smile of its own. It wore a bright green vest that declared Service Dog At Work - Do Not Pet, which was fitted over its fluffy white fur.

“This is Fran,” Sam introduced, a soft look in his eyes as he watched Charlie’s excited bouncing. It was hard for him to resist leaning in and petting Fran, but he was doing his best because he knew it was the right thing for him to do. “She’s been a bit worried about me, and since we’re just going on a walk today, I figured I could bring her along. She doesn’t like the car very much, so I try to avoid taking her places when I don't need to; otherwise I’d have introduced her to you before.”

At attention when her name was called, Fran wagged her tail happily, brushing dust and grit across the stone courtyard like a miniature broom. 

“She’s cool,” Fundy said, crouching beside Charlie to also get a good look at her. “I like her.”

“If you don't mind saying, what’s she do?” Quackity asked nervously, almost mumbling and quickly correcting himself, “What’s her job, I mean?”

“I don't mind,” Sam’s smile was warm and reassuring. “Her main task is actually as a mobility aid, she can help me pick things up or reach them when I can’t, for example; she’s gone through training to be a hearing dog for me as well, in the case I don't have my hearing aids or something. If it weren’t so damn expensive I’d try to get through some psychiatric training to help with my PTSD episodes; I know she could do it, but that’s not an option right now. She’s still emotional support through them, anyway. She does a good job.”

“That’s cool,” Quacktiy offered somewhat awkwardly, over Bad’s muttered ‘language’. “I don't know much, honestly. But it’s cool. I respect it.”

Sam nodded. “I’m not surprised. You can ask any questions you want, I don't mind. After the session, at least. But don't call her name, please. It’s distracting for her.”

“What time is it?” Fundy asked, standing up. Charlie followed suit, giving Fran another wave before returning to his seat, waiting for further instructions.

With a quick glance at his phone, Bad answered, “It’s about time to start the session, actually. Are you alright with taking a walk? The path over there loops around and has a nice trail under the trees, it should be less than an hour for sure.”

Receiving a few nods, Bad stood up and started to lead, Charlie falling into place beside Quackity in the middle of the group. Purpled was hanging back, nearest Foolish, who seemed to be watching them all in a fondly careful way to make sure they were all doing okay.

Fundy trailed just behind Bad, able to follow even with his gaze firmly fixed on the ground. Sam was after that, with Fran staying close to his side, except when she’d bound ahead, removing sticks or trash from the path for him before returning. She deserved all the head pats, Charlie decided. 

Once they were well on their way, leaving the courtyard and the scattered amounts of people to walk the trail, Bad started their session with that same tone he always did.

“So this time, I wanted to take a moment to revisit why we’re doing this today; not just therapy sessions in general, though it’s good to be aware of that and our goals associated with it, but more specifically why we’re setting aside time to surround ourselves with people, participate in activities, and generally be perceived. It’s something I’ve been thinking about lately. Why do we put ourselves out in the world? How does it feel to know we’re being seen by others all the time? How do we manage the stress that pretty much inevitably comes with it?”

He paused, like he usually did, but it seemed to be more about letting his questions sink in than waiting for them to be answered. Maybe even to keep thinking about it himself. 

Charlie couldn’t see Bad’s expressions from his spot, which wasn’t making this the easiest conversation to follow, but he figured he’d get clued in if he had to do something other than think. Reflect, that was the word Bad liked to use.

“There’s a lot of uncertainty surrounding social situations,” Bad continued, as Charlie had been hoping. “We all understand, at least to some degree, that nobody shares all the same views as us, and that society and our current culture has a very limited perspective. There are few things society can agree on, even if almost every individual person thinks it. It’s hard to know when it’s safe to express ourselves, isn’t it?”

Another pause followed before Bad turned around, still walking -which Charlie had to give him credit for, that kind of coordination was tricky- with an amused expression on his face. “You guys are going to have to do more than nod this time around. Sorry.”

Startled and sheepish, Charlie chuckled, joining Fundy’s huff of laughter in filling the silence.

“You’re not sorry,” Purpled replied, somehow sounding both venomous and hurt.

Flipping back around, Bad’s smile was still audible, devilishly apparent -which happened to be one of Charlie’s new favorite phrases- when he said, “No, not really. It’s good for you guys to participate even in small ways. Answering questions is polite. And healthy for us.”

“Oh no, not Bad telling us what’s best for us,” Fundy fake mourned, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead like he was about to faint. “What gives our therapist this right? The audacity.”

Charlie fully laughed this time, saved from the embarrassment of it not really being funny because Quackity joined in. 

“He’s got a point,” Foolish added. Which just wasn’t true, so it was probably a joke in response.

“I believe you all signed the paperwork,” Bad told them knowingly. “That gives me the right to advise and to guide. So. . . Since we can’t do any exercises on paper at the moment, I’ll mostly be asking you guys questions myself. We can discuss it all as much or as little as you all feel comfortable with. Sound fair?”

“I’m nodding,” Charlie pointed out, doing just that. 

Bad laughed, which was a huge win because Charlie had never heard him actually do that before. 

“Thank you, Charlie. I’ll assume the rest of you are as well.”

At this point in the walk, the path was narrowing a bit and leading into some trees- nothing crazy, just a few intentionally planted, decade-or-so old plants that lined either side in an orderly way. It cast fun shadows over the sidewalk that Charlie hopped over as he fell into line behind Quackity this time.

A few more squirrels skittered away at his movements. Walking a sunbeam balance-beam this time -ha, he liked that- he swayed side to side trying to keep a straight line with his feet. A few times, he almost tumbled into Quackity, who was walking normally -his hands shoved into his jacket’s pockets- and paying attention to something ahead.

Oh, Bad was talking.

“Big social spaces can be overwhelming, and the world is mostly just a big open space.” Bad had his lecture voice on as Charlie tuned back in, his voice a perfect match to the gentle light and pale trees. “That can make every excursion seem like a lot of effort and altogether strenuous, and that makes it appear a much harder task than it is. But breaking all that down into smaller, more manageable, more true pieces is possible. It starts with identifying our limits, and understanding that not everything is going to hit those limits just because our anxiety warns us that it might.”

They slowed down a moment to let a couple pass on the other side of the path, quiet aside from Bad’s greeting as they walked by.

“This park is part of the big social space of the world, and I’d say it’s pretty quiet and calming,” Bad began again. “And I know I could go on forever and get interrupted a thousand times, but I promise I’m getting to the point. What I intend to say is that there are ways to handle these situations, to go out into the world and to know that you’re going to be okay. Even if things don't go exactly as predicted. So my first question for you all to discuss. . . What are some ways we can prepare to handle social situations, and what ways can we manage our stress and anxiety about it?”

“Oh!” Foolish spoke right away, struck with some idea, and gestured to the bag that was slung over his shoulder. “I have an anxiety bag! Well, technically two; one is a small purse for just the very necessary stuff. But they’re always packed with useful things so I feel prepared for being away from home and not having everything I want to have on hand. Headphones and safety pins and chargers and stuff.”

Bad nodded along, but didn’t add any comments yet, clearly waiting for more responses. And how come he was allowed to nod? That wasn’t quite fair.

“I like to make a bucket list of stuff I want to get done, so I know exactly what I need to do,” Charlie chimed in, proud to finally have something useful to say and eager to share his favorite pastime with everyone. “Then I don't have as much trouble figuring it out while I go. And I can plan the best way to get everything done.”

Quackity took his hand from his pocket and gave Charlie a thumbs-up, which was pretty much the best thing Charlie could have asked for.

“I tend to predict what’s going to happen and talk myself through it,” Fundy added thoughtfully. “I kind of tend to think about bad things, but then I know what could go wrong and usually it isn’t that bad.”

In the next minute or so of quiet, Charlie was able to count patches of clover and the flowers that peeked over the top of the grass. It looked pretty, and it made Charlie happy. He knew someone would probably come mow the lawn and get rid of it all eventually, but he was glad he was able to see it for a little bit. 

“Those are all good,” Bad said, distracting Charlie and almost making him misstep on one of the cracks in the pavement. “I think being pessimistic is understandable, but it’s important to not take that worst case scenario as fact. Usually it’s just our intrusive thoughts saying all that, and entertaining it too much will make it harder for us to feel prepared or safe if we always expect bad things to happen. Does that make sense?”

“I don't like high expectations,” Quackity commented, and even though it sort of came across as a joke, Charlie had a feeling it wasn’t really that random. “At least I get to be pleasantly surprised sometimes.”

Charlie was the only one who could see Quackity’s expression, because Bad and everyone else were too far ahead, but the way it shifted to slight guilt made it safe to assume Bad had frowned or looked disappointed. 

Absently, he realized Quackity had started to get in front of him while they were walking, and Purpled had gotten even further back, side by side with Foolish. 

The path started to curve steadily, and Charlie leaned into it as he followed it along the edge, putting one foot right in front of the other. 

“I think one thing that makes it extra difficult for us, at least in a collective way,” Bad started again, slowing down for just a moment to look at them. Charlie bumped into Fundy because of it, and his hushed apology was met with a reassuring wave. “Is that society is so big and so general that everyone will have moments where they feel out of place or without help. Being in spaces such as stores, or restaurants, or even a park like this can be a reminder that we aren’t always accommodated for, or that the strangers -or even friends- around us may not relate.”

The courtyard that they all started from is in sight now, the path starting on a slight decline that had everyone shifting their pace. A split second of nonverbal communication and Foolish was placing his hands on the handles of Sam’s wheelchair to help steady him, and Fundy went back behind Quackity to avoid stumbling into him at their change in pace. Purpled slowed down so Charlie could continue taking only two steps to cross each square of pavement- without even asking or making a rude remark about it. That was very thoughtful. 

Charlie was happy with how smoothly things had moved, even if no-one else really noticed, a smile crossing his face when he saw it all come into place around him. He had more trouble keeping off the cracks of the sidewalk and looking ahead, but he kept his pace as steady as possible and managed. 

Bad gave them a second to adjust, or maybe he was just waiting in general. 

“Even if there are people who don’t accept or understand us,” Bad said slowly. “I mean, look around you. We do understand. And you all reached out to each other. There are places we can go and things we can do that will make having good experiences possible, and ways we can find each other even when we’re all in a vast world. I’d say being here for each other and, and being vulnerable makes everything seem just a little bit easier sometimes. Does that make sense?”

“Yep,” Charlie offered, remembering he couldn’t just nod. The others followed suit- except Purpled, who had yet to react to anything as far as Charlie had seen. 

Honestly?

Maybe it was rude to say, but Charlie was beginning to suspect that Purpled was an alien. 

That’s the best conclusion Charlie can come to, anyway. How can someone have so few facial expressions, so little change in tone, and such hidden emotions?

And even if he wasn’t, he may as well have been with how hard it is for Charlie to communicate with him. And that’s a problem, because Charlie really wants to be friends with him. 

He couldn’t really tell if the feeling was mutual, though. He knew Purpled had made friends within Las Nevadas- Foolish talked about him pretty often and it was clear that Purpled liked Sam a lot, but Charlie isn’t sure it’ll be that easy for him to get close to Purpled. 

He was hoping Bad’s point was true, and that everybody was being vulnerable in their own way. Surely if Purpled didn’t trust him, he wouldn’t share anything at all. But he’d answer almost anything Charlie asked, and he did contribute to their activities and have given some good advice before. 

So there, anxiety. 

Charlie and Purpled could be friends and just not know it yet. 

“So. . . This whole session is about the power of friendship?” Charlie said, mostly to fill the silence and partly to verbalize his thoughts. 

Fundy chucked at the joke, but it was Purpled’s reaction Charlie was paying the most attention to, just in case. Friends laughed at things even when they weren’t funny. And, well, the corner of Purpled’s lip did turn up just barely, like he was forcibly keeping down a smile, but at least Charlie saw it. He was proud of himself for being able to do that much. 

“Friendship is very powerful,” Bad agreed amicably, over Foolish’s soft whistling. “The world changes when people are there for each other, every time. My life would be very different, and far less easy, without the people in it today. That includes all of you.”

He turned around at the sound of Quackity’s doubtful snort, looking offended. His pace slowed again, and Charlie shifted to four small steps per sidewalk square. “I mean it! You guys are special to me. It’s so important to me that you guys are getting help, and that I can be the person who’s here for you like others are there for me. I can make a very humble difference, and it proves to me watching all of you that- that there's still hope in the world! And that other people are fighting for their lives too, and they’re willing to come to me.”

Charlie really was touched by that, and wondered if the same could apply to himself. The point of group therapy was to help each other, right? So maybe Charlie had been the person there for everybody at times too. They certainly did for him, and he cared about them all a lot. 

  The idea that he was fighting for his life also resonated with him a lot. It sounded sort of empowering, putting it that way rather than saying he was lost or struggling or picking up pieces. He liked it in that way. 

They were back in the courtyard now, and Bad was leading them to seats again. The walk had felt good, and not too long, but Charlie was grateful to slide into a seat between Quackity and Purpled. 

“Aw man, we messed up the seating chart,” Fundy joked, sitting on Bad’s right. “This feels weird.”

“You can move,” Purpled pointed out dryly, receiving a dramatic eye roll in response. He was technically in the right spot, directly across from Bad with three people to either side. “Just saying.”

“He’s right though, why are we sitting like this?” Quackity said, with an accusatory glance around like someone was intentionally messing with him. “Get back in your spots, losers.”

“Suck it up.” Sam’s usual droning voice made the words almost comical. At some point while they were settling in, Fran had hopped into his lap, despite being a bit big to do so, and was watching Bad intently. Not in a mean way, or even like dogs normally would be focused on a stranger. She was just watching. 

Quackity pulled a face. 

“At least we have each other!” Charlie told him, waiting for the joke to be made about not caring, or for an ‘ew, I’m not. . .’ Fill in the blank. Quackity said neither. 

Instead, he leaned in, a smile filled with fake pain on his face. “Yes! Charlie, save me. This is an attack against all I know.”

“Don't worry, I’ll protect you,” Charlie assured him, unable to stop the broadest of grins from forming. “It’s my honor, Quackity.”

“Whatever shall you do.” Bad, of all people, joined in, bemused in both tone and expression. Much to everyone’s surprise, it seemed. “Looks like you need to stand up for each other.”

“Oh, stop making this a life lesson! This is bullying!” Quackity playfully snapped. “You’re my therapist, support me!”

“It’s time to learn the hard lessons, Quackity,” Bad replied instead, getting oohs of shock from Fundy and Purpled, mimicking by Foolish a second or so later. “Sometimes things are going to be different, and that doesn’t mean anything’s ruined. You’ll get through this.”

“Oh, he’s got you there,” Foolish told Quackity, causing the other to collapse into Charlie’s lap like he’d fainted. Unfortunately, Charlie hadn’t been expecting that, and they both tumbled backward off the bench and onto the concrete ground. 

Fundy’s head popped into view first, once Charlie managed to catch himself on his elbows with Quackity still on top of him. 

“You guys okay?” He asked, getting two nods and taking that as enough to disappear again. 

Quackity got off and Charlie pulled himself from his ground, his arm a little scraped but not even hurting that much. 

“We’re good,” Charlie supplied, when Quackity was just keeping a dramatic glare fixed on his face. 

“Good to hear,” Bad said. “We have a few minutes left in the session, so what questions and ideas do you all have to share?” 

Charlie already had a question, one of his favorite ice breakers that usually helped him figure out who in a new environment he’d get along with easily. In this case, he was hoping it’d get Fundy or Quackity talking, or make Purpled and Sam laugh, or maybe Foolish or even Bad would be able to share a fun fact about something they researched or experienced a long time ago. 

Loudly, Charlie proclaimed, “I have a question, actually! It’s a pretty controversial topic nowadays; do humans need all their bones to be considered human? And if not, at what point in the bone removal process are they something else?”

He saw Quackity’s expression first, almost bursting out laughing at the way his jaw had dropped in shock, as much as his scar allowed. 

“Wasn’t there a philosopher who touched on that?” Sam asked, as if that were a normal thing for people to think about, even philosophers. “I think I’ve heard that question before.”

“Aristotle, physics,” Purpled supplied. Which was new information to Charlie, but he could put potential philosophy nerd on his mental list of things he knew about Purpled. 

“What’d he say?” Foolish asked next. “Is the bone discussion really that popular?”

“No, he basically said that things are made up of all kinds of other things, and if you take them apart they just have the potential to be, like, a human or whatever, so technically even when they’re completely taken apart they could be human.”

“That’s. . . interesting,” Quackity scrunched up his nose- probably more in thought than in distaste. “I don't really wanna talk about this anymore. Like, the idea of a human with all their bones removed is just gross.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Sam said solemnly, and Charlie almost believed him just for that, but then he tried to visualize it himself and discovered what Quackity was saying.

And. . .

Well, a person with no bones would be very mushy.

Like a slime, except it would probably still have skin.

“I’m with Quackity,” Charlie decided, managing to sound cheery. “Let’s move on!”
“Why did you ask, though?” Fundy leaned across the table, fingers laced together like a detective doing an investigation, this image aided by the sneakiness in his voice. “Got something to confess, Charlie?”

Very seriously, Charlie replied. “Yes. Fundy from L’manberg, I don't actually have all my bones. But. . . I think I can still be human, according to the physical Ares-turtle.”

And Purpled laughed, actually audibly laughed at that, and Charlie grinned the widest he probably ever had. 

Bad looked thrilled as well, and Charlie was pretty sure the look in Sam’s eyes was fondness, though both were seen only through the squint he couldn’t help but have with how he was smiling himself.

Quackity, being his most true self at all times, of course, stared like he was witnessing a miracle. “You can laugh?”

Purpled reached over Charlie’s lap to swat at Quackity’s arm. “Yes. You’re just not funny.”

Charlie quickly ducked out of the way and stood to the side, observing as the two went back and forth, not-so-lightly hitting each other until it just about devolved into a slapping contest.

Across the table, Foolish was laughing squeakily, like the sound the windows made when Charlie cleaned them, and Fran’s full attention was on them too. Fundy looked a bit confused, his eyes on Charlie rather than the quickly escalating scene before them.

“Did you call me Fundy from L’manberg?” He asked, head tilted.

“I did, that’s where you’re from!” Charlie told him. It was a bit silly of him to forget, even if he didn’t live there anymore.

“How’d you know that?” Fundy pressed, not quite accusatory but a bit confrontational. Charlie shifted on his feet.

Oh.

“I’m a spy, remember?” He joked, hoping he could keep up the good mood. It wasn’t like he’d actually dug into Fundy’s personal life at all, but didn’t want to mention that Fundy’s dad, Wilbur -who frequented his sandwich shop to supposedly ‘keep an eye on the competition’- was the reason he knew and remembered this sort of thing -since Fundy probably mentioned it himself sometime? At any rate, it could be uncomfortable. 

Luckily, Fundy took it with a grin. “Oh, yeah?”

“I thought you worked in retail,” Sam put in, saving Charlie by making it a talk between all of them, making it a joke rather than a confrontational, one-on-one talk. 

“I do!” Charlie told him. “Come visit the Chuckle Sandwich Shop sometime, it’s great! You can get bone-free sandwiches if you want.”

“Aren’t all sandwiches boneless?” Quackity immediately cut in, incredulous. “I mean, they should be, right?”

“As much as people are!” Charlie agreed.

“Wait, no-” Foolish looked genuinely confused, and Charlie sort of felt bad, as much as it was funny. “That can't be right. Wait.”

Bad lifted his arm gently in a moment’s warning before reaching over and placing it soothingly on Foolish's forearm. His voice was hushed almost reverently, almost fearfully. “It’s okay. Don't think too hard about it.”

“Yeah, I want to double-check what bones Charlie’s missing,” Fundy said. “Just, like, baby teeth, right?”
Charlie opted not to answer that, just staring into the distance with his smile fixed in place. For comedic effect, obviously.

“Just teeth, right?” Quackity echoed, sharing the same slightly worried, slightly amused look.

Charlie grinned wider. “Hey, let’s discuss one more thing: If you have someone else’s human bones, does that make you a human or are you still whatever you were before? Like, if a bear ate me, is it a bear or a human?”
“We’re out of time!” Bad declared over the various groans and winces the question got. “You guys are welcome to stay and chat, I’d hate to stop you from enjoying yourselves, but I have another meeting to get to. Sam, are you able to get one of them to help you pack up your wheelchair?”

“Yeah, Foolish will,” Sam answered easily, before asking, “You can do that, right?”

“You’ll have to show me how, but sure,” Foolish agreed, glancing up from his phone and the unanswered texts there. “Are you in a hurry?”

“No, I think we can stay a while,” Sam turned and offered Charlie a small but genuine smile. “I want to hear Charlie’s opinion on the bear situation.”

“Oh! Well, I think since the bones are in the bear’s stomach, it doesn’t count,’ Charlie eagerly began to explain, pausing to wave goodbye to Bad as he walked away.

“No, please, just kill me now,” Purpled begged dramatically- another sign they were friends, Charlie was pretty sure. Friends responded to normal things in overly emotive ways sometimes. “Foolish, take me away, please. I can’t handle more of this.”

“We’ll go soon, don't worry,” Foolish said lightly, allowing Purpled to wallow in his misery with no apparent guilt. “If it really bothers you, go take a walk or something, ‘kay?”

Fundy’s laugh could be described as chittering, and sort of fox-like. He spoke between gasps for breath. “He hit you- he just went, run along now, like- oh gosh.”

Purpled’s stare was withering, his hand clutching his chest like he’d been shot.
“The adults are talking,” Quacktiy teased, causing another fake fight to ensue that Charlie barely dodged, rolling onto the ground and coming back up a foot or so out of range.

He walked around the table to take the seat left by Bad, now between Fundy and Foolish, to get safely away from this and any future attacks.

Fundy patted his arm comfortingly.

“Welcome to the side of good,” He said, with fake solemnity. “We’re glad to have you back.”

“Good to be here,” Charlie responded with a nod. “You think we’ll be recruiting anyone else, Captain?”

Fundy surveyed the opposite side of the table, where Purpled had managed to get Quackity into a headlock, despite being much smaller. Somehow, he managed to make his expression look calm and distant, like an actual captain of whatever they were pretending to be.

Fundy shook his head. “Unfortunately not, soldier. It’s hard to say if they’re able to be saved. It’s chaos down there.”

Keeping down a chuckle, Charlie agreed, “Seems like rough waters, captain.”

“You know we can hear you, right?” Quackity strained to get out of Purpled’s grip, his words a bit raspy, probably from being in a less-than-ideal breathing position for the last few minutes.

“That is our intention,” Fundy replied, in the same voice as before, staying stone-faced as Quackity flipped him off.

“Subjects. . . demonstrate aggression. . . when contacted. . .” Foolish pretended to be writing the words down on his hand. “Potential to be. . . saved. . . indeterminable.”

“Hey!” Quackity stuck his tongue out. “I am determined to kick your ass, by the way!” He slipped out of Purpled’s hold at last and stood up, keeping distance between himself and everyone at the table as Purpled sat down again, unbothered.
Looking up, Foolish very plainly offered, “Watch your damn language.”
Fundy started cracking up. “Yeah- yeah, what the hell, Q. Use your words more nicely. What would Bad say if he were here?”

“I hate all of you,” Quackity told them. 

“Don't worry, Quackity, we love you!” Charlie told him earnestly. “I think we can determine you’re worth saving after all, even if you were rude before.”

“Well, thanks, Charlie,” Quackity said with a sigh. “At least you’re on my side.”

“What about me?” Purpled asked, phrasing it like a taunt while something in his eyes suggested differently.

“You’re worth saving too,” Sam said with calm determination. Akin to his usual way of talking, sure, but clearly meaningful. 

“Yeah, you’re our friend!” Charlie agreed, realizing only after he’d said the words that they came so easily. “I’d save you for sure! Any of you!”

Yeah.

That felt good. And true. And good. That was the better part, the part that was making Charlie feel so much at once he thought he might explode. But like, in a not bad way?

If he thought about it, Charlie was probably the happiest he’d been all year- happy, he was happy, and so much more but all good things. This last hour or so had been all laughs, all good people who never mocked each other’s depression, or anxiety, or sensory problems. There was teasing, but the unbelievable kind. The kind Charlie remembered hearing as a kid, with his friends from all those years ago, before they became stuffy politicians or reclusive scientists. 

Charlie liked this kind of friends a lot.