Chapter Text
“I am young, I am twenty years old; yet I know nothing of life but despair, death, fear, and fatuous superficiality cast over an abyss of sorrow. I see how peoples are set against one another, and in silence, unknowingly, foolishly, obediently, innocently slay one another.” - All Quiet on the Western Front
xx
Elizabeth Mary Kentworth had been with the Alliance for a long time. A very long time. Some would have suggested she was with the Alliance before humans had even discovered space travel, but to ever verbalize the thought would have earned them a sharp glare from their CO and a small, subtle smirk from a somewhat amused Kentworth herself. Others said she’d never really aged—she’d just shown up looking old and thin, liver spots on her knobby hands and wrinkles around her bright green eyes and thin, pink stained lips. It was completely inconceivable to many of the younger soldiers that she had once, very long ago, looked just like them.
The truth was really quite ordinary. She’d attended university for psychiatry at a normal age, graduated at a normal age, and specialized in a field that was, at the time, quite normal. Human expansion and squabbles of territory and resources produced no small amount of psychologically troubled men and women who needed assistance healing that piece of their life that had been irrevocably changed, and Kentworth was among seven others who were hired by the Alliance to help with some of their tougher cases.
The soldiers Kentworth dealt with weren’t your standard sort. They were the violent ones—the ones who had been known, on occasion, to act aggressive through no volition of their own. More comfortable with a pistol in their grasp than anything else, they sat in every session highly alert and mistrusting, their glassy eyes staring hauntingly back at you, demanding an explanation as to why they were just ‘so fucking fucked in the head’.
It had been a tough first year. One of her colleagues had quit in the first month. Her patient threw a chair out a window. A second left after six months, unable to cope with the stress of listening to men and women graphically depict their living nightmares, day in and day out.
But the rest stayed—for a time. Eventually retirement or death pulled them away from the clinic. New bright eyed graduates joined the ranks and more drifted away. Kentworth stayed, however, even when given the chance to scoop up her hefty pension. She’d contemplated it for a little while, mostly on days when her back was becoming a nuisance and her husband pestered her about it.
But then the Reapers attacked.
It was like the First Contact War all over again—only this time worse. Soldiers were coming in droves needing assistance, and Kentworth couldn’t stand back and let them go without help.
‘Just one more year, love,’ she’d told her husband as she left for the rubble of Vancouver, ‘one more year and I’ll be done.’
XX
Two years later…
A soft rap at the door was all the warning Kentworth was given before the door to her office swung open and a young, barely legal looking recruit strode through the door with a datapad in hand. Stopping in front of her desk the boy swung his hand up and saluted her stiffly, eyes staring ahead and back ramrod straight.
“Ma’am, a report for you, ma’am.”
Rolling her eyes, Kentworth tried her best not to laugh at the poor lad and instead waved her hand about. “No need to be so formal,” she said, reaching for the datapad.
The boy relaxed a fraction and handed the datapad to her, back going straight again and heels slamming together as he saluted her.
You really cannot fault them for their enthusiasm…
“You’re dismissed,” she said, smiling distractedly as she flipped open the document and began to go through it.
A new patient it seemed. Nothing unusual about him, really. Born in the year 2154 on earth, joined the Alliance when he was eighteen; saw action on Torfan, participated in the Battle of the Citadel, and survived the Reaper War; a year spent in hospitals followed by an honourable discharge due to ‘physical limitations’; displays acts of aggression, hypervigilance, depression, mood-swings, night terrors, and violent outbursts.
All common in her line of work.
She scrolled down further and stopped dead in her tracks when an Alliance issued photograph came up.
“Wait,” she called. Tearing her gaze away from the haunted blue eyes, she watched as the soldier stop just in front of the door and swung around.
“Ma’am, yes, ma’am.”
“Who told you to give this to me?”
The boy blushed, obviously having forgotten that necessary detail. “Admiral Hackett, ma’am. Told me to give it directly to you and to no one else, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” she said. Waving her hand she allowed him to go, catching yet another salute out of the corner of her eye.
Placing the datapad down on her desk, she stared out the window, peering through the scaffolding of nearby construction sites and toward the Pacific Ocean. Tapping her bottom lip she sighed and closed her eyes.
This was going to be anything but easy.
XX
“You want to explain this to me?”
“I needed someone I could trust, Elizabeth. This isn’t a normal case by any stretch of the imagination.”
“You’re going to have to stop saying that, Steven. It is a normal case to me—it’s you and everyone else who is trying to make it into something more.”
Hackett sighed heavily over the comm-link. “You might have that luxury but I don’t. This has to be handled with discretion.”
Kentworth frowned and leaned against her desk. “Only because he’s a potential patient and his rights to privacy must be respected. I don’t care if he’s the king of the galaxy—he’s just a soldier to me. A soldier who needed help years ago.”
Hackett nodded. “I know. We should have… we should have seen it sooner.”
“Well on that we can agree,” she said. Sitting back in her chair, she steepled her fingers together, old joints creaking from the pressure. “When was the original evaluation done?”
“Just before he was discharged from the hospital a year ago.”
Kentworth pursed her lips and sent Hackett a hard stare through the comm-link, hoping her anger would translate well through the fuzzy image. “He’s been diagnosed with extreme combat PTSD for a year and no one did anything?”
“I didn’t know the details,” Hackett replied, sounding very weary and very tired. “If I had, you know I would have brought this to you immediately.”
She believed him. His tone was raw and bare, military formalities stripped away. He sounded much like a father, ashamed he’d let his child go. And in many ways, he was the closest thing the lad had to a father now.
“Well… I suppose you were under a lot of stress yourself,” she replied. Sighing, she brushed a white strand of hair behind her ear and tried to clear her mind. Berating Hackett was getting them nowhere. Straightening her back as best she could, she locked eyes with Hackett and began again.
“How and when did you finally connect the dots?”
“A few days ago. There was a report that came in to us about an ex-Alliance officer who assaulted a reporter. The reporter apparently had a red light on his camera and flashed it in front of his face. It took Major Alenko and two other civilians to subdue him.”
“Jesus Christ, Steven!”
Hackett looked just as angry at himself as she felt. “You can reprimand me later, Elizabeth. Right now I need to know you’re going to help him. He needs the best—he deserves the best. Only you can help him.”
There were others who could—Kentworth never deluded herself into thinking she was special or the best of the best. Asari were particularly good at healing wounds to the mind. But humans seemed to prefer humans—the slower but more familiar approach.
“Has he agreed to this?” she asked eventually.
“Not yet.”
“I can’t help someone who won’t even admit they need it,” she said. This was getting ridiculous.
“We’re working on getting his consent. The man is stubborn if nothing else, but he will agree. What I need to know from you is if you’re willing to take him on.”
“Of course I’m willing. I wouldn’t turn away someone who needs help. I didn’t come back to Vancouver to be choosy.”
“Thank you, Elizabeth. I’ll inform you of any updates.”
“You’d better…” she said, eyeing Hackett. Sighing again, she sat up. “Take care of yourself, Steven. I don’t want to see you in my office, too.”
Hackett smiled then, the curve of his lips familiar and heartening. They’d known each other longer than most Alliance officials, both having given their lives and then some to the cause. “I’ll try my best. I’ll keep you updated.”
And then he was gone, leaving Kentworth to comb through the file of her new patient.
XX
It was almost two weeks before Kentworth heard anything further on the case. Truth be told she’d almost gotten to the point where she thought it would never happen. Sometimes—actually, most of the time—soldiers were too damn stubborn and proud to admit they needed help. For centuries the reaction to soldiers with PTSD had been to tell them to just get over it—that whatever they were feeling had to be bottled up and shoved away. While it was more understood and accepted as another unfortunate repercussion of war, the old stiff-upper-lip mentality of the military world hadn’t changed much since… well, since war existed.
But not all soldiers fell into that trap. For some it was easy to admit they were troubled and needed help; others took a little longer, needing a gentle push in the right direction. And then others still had to undergo a truly terrifying loss of control to realize they hadn’t been in control for a very long time.
Most of her patients fell in the latter. Her new one was no different.
It was on the eleventh day after she’d spoken to Hackett when her secretary told her she had a new patient coming in on the Friday. It was an afternoon session, near the end of her work day. Only half an hour—long enough for both of them to know if they were going to communicate and work well with one another. The key to success was often finding the right therapist. If the patient was uncomfortable and didn’t trust you, you were dead in the water.
On the day Kentworth went through his file one more time before shutting it and locking it. She’d read it, studied it, and then disregarded everything she’d read almost immediately. She didn’t want any preconceived notions to make it into her evaluation. She wanted to see the man herself—speak to him, let him explain his side of things and observe him as he did so.
She wanted to know the man first—not the patient and certainly not the legend. Just the man.
“I’m excited to see him,” her secretary said eagerly.
Kentworth quirked a brow and pursed her lips. Lowering her datapad she eyed the young woman. “Now now, Helen, don’t treat him any differently from our other patients. He’s just like any other man when he’s in here and will be afforded the same respect—no more, no less.”
Helen sighed and took the datapad, stacking it on top of the others that seemed to take up permanent residence on her desk. “I know, I know. It’s just, have you seen the vids of him?”
“Yes.”
“And? Isn’t he handsome?”
“Honestly, Helen…”
“What? A girl can look, can’t she?”
“She can—so long as she does so professionally. Now do as I say and respect the man.”
Helen pouted. “You’re no fun.”
“I am a slave driver, I know. Terribly unfair of me but that is what you get when you work for me.” She winked and headed back into her office, a newly brewed cup of coffee in her grasp. “Send him in immediately when he arrives,” she said over her shoulder.
She’d only had time to take one probing sip to see if her coffee was cool enough to drink when Helen’s voice chimed in through the intercom, telling her that her new patient had arrived and she was sending him in as soon as he’d signed a few papers (emphasis on papers and not magazine covers or any other paraphernalia they’d plastered the poor man’s face on to.)
They signatures didn’t take long. Placing her coffee down on an old napkin she used in place of a coaster, she eased herself slowly up from her desk and walked around it, just in time for the man of the hour to come through the double doors of her office.
He certainly cut quite the image. Tall and broad, he stood in the doorway like he was ready to inspect his crew, an air of authority sitting on him like a well-tailored jacket he’d worn for years. His hair was still cut military short, following regulations he was no longer subject to, and the way he pulled his shoulders back and kept his back straight gave away just how long he’d been in service for, the pose more natural to him than the relaxed slouch of a civilian.
It was his bright blue eyes, however, that caught Kentworth’s attention. They scanned the room quickly, surveying all entrances and exits, windows and doors, before falling on her, the elderly woman near the desk with a pen sticking out of her messy bun and a tissue stuffed up her sleeve. The look he sent her wasn’t kind but also wasn’t hostile. He just gave her a quick once-over, taking her in just as she’d done to him. It wasn’t until he seemed satisfied he wasn’t walking into some trap that he moved further into the room and—
The illusion was gone. The strong, military stride she’d expected to see was instead a slow, measured walk assisted by a cane. He leaned heavily to one side, grip firm on the handle, and she noticed the limp he was trying to cover-up immediately.
“Dr. Kentworth,” he said. He looked like he was about to salute but changed his mind at the last second, instead extending his free hand for a firm handshake. His voice was softer in person—the gruff, commanding voice she’d heard in the vids through the years worn away to something more personal and natural.
“You must be John Shepard,” she replied, smiling and returning the shake. It was steady and confident. “Please, take a seat wherever you’re most comfortable.”
She had three possible seating areas for sessions. Her desk, which was never her most popular choice and one she disliked as well. She hated how professional it seemed. The desk made it feel like she was their boss and therefore on a higher level than they were.
Her second spot was in the centre of the room, a coffee table and two chairs by the large open windows. Casual and intimate, it offered a nice view and as much sunlight as the Vancouver skies would offer on any given day.
The third was where Shepard immediately went for. It was off in the corner near a set of bookshelves where old paper books were bound and placed in alphabetical order next to antique skulls of alien creatures and earth animals. There was a couch that sat against the wall and gave a perfect view of the room and, most importantly, the door. Her chair sat in front of the couch with her back to the door. It was of no trouble to her but she’d seen how her patients reacted to being put in her position—how much stress it caused them to have their backs exposed.
She watched as Shepard took a seat on the couch, back to the wall and gaze straight ahead, first on the door then on her as she pulled out her datapad and made a small note at the top of the document.
Hypervigilant. Scanned room for all possible exits. Took seat in corner against wall—can see everything around him.
Sitting down across from him, she folded one leg over the other and rested her chin in her hand, elbow on her knee.
“So, John—may I call you John?”
He nodded. That was all. Just a terse nod before looking away and out the window, seemingly relaxed were it not for the glances he kept shooting toward the door, and how he held on to his cane like he’d be more comfortable using it as a weapon than a walking aid.
Sitting back slowly, she watched as Shepard did everything in his power to give away very little.
She was beginning to suspect he hadn’t really come of his own volition. Someone had pressured him into attending and he was not happy about it. Hackett said he’d get him there, but he didn’t say anything about getting him to like the idea. It reminded her much of a small child who had been forced to wear his Sunday best to attend church, and was going to do everything in his power to make his annoyances known.
That did not bode well. She’d have to find the right angle to get him to open up and agree to stay.
“I’ll let you get settled,” she said, rising to get her coffee she’d left on her desk. She wasn’t about to let it go cold for the sake of watching Shepard brood in a corner. The short walk would also give her time to figure out how to get him to open up—just a little bit. She needed to show Shepard he could trust her. That she wasn’t going to judge or coddle, nor make him feel like it was a weakness to come and seek help.
That was one of the challenging things about working with soldiers; they were protective of their strength and feared weakness and loss of control more than anything.
Tough shit; you need to admit your weaknesses before you can build yourself back up.
Returning with her coffee she sat back down. Taking a sip, she opened up her file and began preliminary notes, letting Shepard get settled, and ignoring the look he’d sent her bad knee. That was something they seemed to have in common at least.
After about ten minutes of silence and careful deliberation, Kentworth placed her coffee down on the table between them and folded her hands onto her lap. Sitting forward, she caught Shepard’s eyes and kept them on her.
She was going to be direct with him. That was all there was to it.
“Listen, John. I know you don’t want to be here and frankly, I wish you didn’t have to be here either. But the truth of the matter is this: you need help and you know it more than anyone else. But you’re not going to get that help and continue your path to recovery if you keep denying your struggles. So what I propose is this: stay for the short session today. You don’t have to say anything or do anything. Just sit with me and enjoy a cup of coffee. But in two days when you come back—because I know you will—I want you to talk. It doesn’t have to be anything important, but I want you to talk to me and share a bit of yourself with me.”
Sitting back in her chair, she raised her brow questioningly. “Do we have a deal? A day of silence and coffee in exchange for a conversation next week?”
I better not have just shot myself in the foot. If the man doesn’t like a bargain…
It took a tense few seconds but eventually Shepard nodded. “Deal,” he said quietly.
Kentworth beamed. “Excellent.” Turning on her omni-tool she paged Helen. “Helen, be a dear and bring in another coffee for Mr. Shepard. Oh, and a few of those biscuits—the ones with the chocolate on top.”
“Right away, ma’am.”
“I can’t promise you this is going to work,” Kentworth continued once the coffee request had been made. “I also can’t say that I am going to fix you. I can’t fix you. I can help you to heal, however. It’s going to be tough and exhausting and you’ll probably strongly dislike me for the first little while. I’m not going to coddle you. You’re going to hear the truth from me—no little white lies to protect your feelings. But I am also going to respect you, John. And I will listen to you and I will help you. I will do everything in my power to drag you up from that fast current holding you down so you can breathe again. It won’t be easy and it won’t be fast, but it will be worth it. You’ll just have to trust me.”
Shepard just stared across at her, heavy brows drawn together, full lips pulled tight in a frown that seemed a permanent fixture on his already severe features. But there was something new in his gaze; a spark that she’d not seen before.
Helen showed up moments later with the coffee. Placing the tray on the table she smiled at the two before hurrying out, acting professional despite her earlier babblings.
Pouring Shepard a cup, she smiled up at him. “Now, back to important business—cream and sugar?”
He smiled then. Small, but it was there.
Only fifteen minutes into their first session and already an improvement. Kentworth was hopeful. Now if only she could make Shepard hopeful too.