In Robbie's experience, that was the reason behind his contact with the psychiatric field, and he has broadened that to mean the only reason he himself could have to sit down with a shrink again would be hitting rock bottom for the third time.
But he got flustered at the look and the argument. It was harder to maintain two separate narratives, Vance being better than him and Robbie, himself, being better than when he was being subjected to therapy sessions, with Vance flipping the table and considering counseling. In the new world order, where did Robbie fit in? He couldn't begin to know. It was all wrong.
And Robbie couldn't tell Vance that he was wrong about impartial doctors who only want to give you wonderful help. It would make the whole conversation messy.
But then Vance made it messy, and Robbie raked his fingernails against the inside of his wrist. Tried to hide it by blending it into a full arm scratch, like he's taking care of a huge itch. He wished he had done something earlier, so he could just brush against a scratch or cut and feel it, because it made him breathe easier. Diaphragm to chest to shoulder to arm to skin. The focus shifted, and he found his voice again, flat and forced. "I didn't die."
It was important to point that out, for Vance now and... for then, too. Robbie didn't deserve to be listed with the others. "It was Nita, Dwayne, and Microbe. Zack. You probably forgot. It's okay - you didn't know him."
Not like Robbie, who knew him and had trouble remembering him because they'd treated the guy like a leper. His voice wavered a little. "Angie's in remission, half the rest are retired, and ... you're never going to be the one that's alone. You're always going to have friends and a team because that's just you. You saved the world. Pretty much by yourself. I think we're all going to start sleeping on your floor because that's where it's safe."
There. That was... easy. The truth shall reassure. Although - Robbie privately hoped that exactly how Badass Vance was remained a secret, because he'd selfishly rather Vance's floor be un-occupado whenever Robbie wasn't feel safe with his own thoughts.
no subject
But he got flustered at the look and the argument. It was harder to maintain two separate narratives, Vance being better than him and Robbie, himself, being better than when he was being subjected to therapy sessions, with Vance flipping the table and considering counseling. In the new world order, where did Robbie fit in? He couldn't begin to know. It was all wrong.
And Robbie couldn't tell Vance that he was wrong about impartial doctors who only want to give you wonderful help. It would make the whole conversation messy.
But then Vance made it messy, and Robbie raked his fingernails against the inside of his wrist. Tried to hide it by blending it into a full arm scratch, like he's taking care of a huge itch. He wished he had done something earlier, so he could just brush against a scratch or cut and feel it, because it made him breathe easier. Diaphragm to chest to shoulder to arm to skin. The focus shifted, and he found his voice again, flat and forced. "I didn't die."
It was important to point that out, for Vance now and... for then, too. Robbie didn't deserve to be listed with the others. "It was Nita, Dwayne, and Microbe. Zack. You probably forgot. It's okay - you didn't know him."
Not like Robbie, who knew him and had trouble remembering him because they'd treated the guy like a leper. His voice wavered a little. "Angie's in remission, half the rest are retired, and ... you're never going to be the one that's alone. You're always going to have friends and a team because that's just you. You saved the world. Pretty much by yourself. I think we're all going to start sleeping on your floor because that's where it's safe."
There. That was... easy. The truth shall reassure. Although - Robbie privately hoped that exactly how Badass Vance was remained a secret, because he'd selfishly rather Vance's floor be un-occupado whenever Robbie wasn't feel safe with his own thoughts.