Written for the "therapy" square of angst_bingo.
If dirges and lamentations could put off death,
Men would be singing forever.
- Creon, Antigone
Death; and the living are guilty for the dead.
-Messenger, Antigone
_
Patient Name: Owen Harper
"I don't want to be here."
"I know, Doctor Harper. But your superiors at the hospital are requiring that you come to me for therapy, and frankly, I think they have the right idea. You're clearly hurting and need help."
"And I don't want any."
"Your fiancé died in hospital two weeks ago—"
"I know that!" Owen rubs the corner of his left eye convulsively, already feeling the sting of tears under the rage of grief. "I damn well know that, so leave me alone."
"Are you sure there's nothing you'd like to talk about, Doctor Harper?"
"There's nothing—there's no one left, so it's not like it matters anymore."
"Father, mother?"
"I never knew my father and my mother is a fucking frigid bitch who I haven't seen since I was sixteen. Now stop analyzing my childhood and leave me the hell alone. I don't need to talk to you shrink pricks anyway." Owen stands up. "I'm going out to drown myself in alcohol. Tell them whatever the hell you want; I'm not coming back here."
Slamming the door feels good for a moment before he remembers again that Katie is dead and he can't go back to his cold and empty flat because she's not there to make it home.
Three hours later he winds up wasted and sat in the humped mound of dirt that covers her far too fresh grave. He clenches the dirt in his fists and screams "Come back! Give her back!" at the darkening sky. There's no response. He never really expected one.
Owen puts his head on his knees and sobs pitifully. It's not like there's anyone there to see him, and Katie's dead, so she can't cry at him crying, either. He's alone in his grief and he has nothing left but a life to store in a bottle so he can drink it away until everything else is gone, too.
Patient Name: Ianto Jones
Ianto sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. He wonders if Lisa is doing all right in his absence.
"Can we get this over with? This is my one mandatory psych visit."
The psychiatrist whose name he doesn't even know opens his both with a slightly annoyed smile. "All right. How are you doing, then, after the incident at Canary Wharf?"
Ianto blinks blankly at him. "All of my friends are dead. There were over eight hundred people working there. Only twenty seven survived. My entire department was converted. I was three people behind the front of the line when everything shut down. This all happened within twenty-four hours. How do you think I feel?"
"I think you're in shock, Mr. Jones. I can prescribe you some anti-depressants as precaution."
"Don't bother."
Months later, he's back again. He is quiet this time, thinner, dark circles under his eyes. He's dressed in jeans that are too big and a black hoodie that drowns him. His hair is wild and unkempt.
"You're seeing me again, Mr. Jones?"
"It's required." Ianto states dully.
"I see. What happened?"
Ianto stares at the clock, straining to hear the faint ticking. "My girlfriend died. Was killed. And another girl."
"How did this occur?"
Fingers drum and twitch nervously on arms. Eyelids flutter to keep tears away even as the face is motionless. The dark hoodie swallows the man and consumes everything about him. The eyes are dull, shocked and remote.
"I thought I could save her. I couldn't. It was all useless. I got people killed. I got her killed. She's not ever coming back. It's all pointless."
The psychiatrist marks something down in his notebook. "I'm going to prescribe those antidepressants now, is that okay Mr. Jones?"
Ianto's focussed on the far wall, his thousand yard gaze distant and exhausted. He wraps his arms around himself. "Don't bother. I just want to sleep."
Patient Name: Gwen Cooper
"There's just so much death. Sometimes I think I can barely handle it. Other times, I'm grateful for it; it reminds me that I'm alive."
The psychiatrist nods and Gwen shivers at her cold understanding.
"All my friends died. And it was horrible. At first I couldn't get over it, I couldn't stop thinking about them. I was in tears all the time and my colleagues weren't and I was so confused. But then I started to get over it and they didn't. And I moved on and they didn't. The worst thing is that when my friends died, when my colleagues died, when the people around me were killed, I loved it. I felt like I was better than them. Because I survived when they didn't, and that meant I was stronger and faster and smarter and better than them. It's awful, isn't it?"
"It's human nature, Gwen." The therapist folds her hands in her lap and looks calmly back. Gwen shakes her head.
"Well, it shouldn't be. They were my friends. I loved them. And I felt happy at their deaths! Because it made me feel important! That just isn't right."
"What about now?"
"Sometimes I still think I was the best. But sometimes I wish it had been me that died. Sometimes I realize that they were better than me at everything. Tosh was a genius, and Owen was the best doctor I've ever seen. And Ianto was everything Jack needed. Sometimes I think maybe if I die, something will be set right and they'll come back. But then I remember that I'm never going to see them again, not ever. The only thing left of them are memories."
Patient Name: Rhiannon Davies
She grimaces and swipes at her cheeks with the backs of her hands. "I just forget he's gone sometimes, you know? We didn't talk much, but sometimes I nearly ring him up to tell him he should come visit. I pick up the phone and then I remember."
"It's natural, Rhiannon. You've lived with him your entire life."
"I know. I just wish he could come back. I wish he'd never taken a job with special ops. They killed him. He saved so many people, but it didn't save him."
"It's all right to remember him, Rhiannon. You don't have to forget him in order to feel better."
"I know. But some days I can hardly do anything but think of him. It never used to be this way. But now I wish I'd been kinder to him when we were kids. I wish I'd helped him after our mum died. I wish I hadn't been so quick to dismiss my dad and how he treated him. He didn't come round much because he thought we didn't like him. He thought I blamed him for mum's death like our dad did. But I didn't. I didn't."
Rhiannon fumbles in her purse for her wallet. She pulls it out and rifles through the contents, retrieving a photo that's creased after being folded and unfolded countless times. She hands it to the therapist. She has the image memorized. A faded colour picture of her brother and that Captain he'd thought so highly of. They're standing with their backs to the Bay, arms around each other, grins on their faces. The Captain has an ice cream cone in his hand, Ianto a bag of chips. Rhiannon always smiles at that. Ianto never has liked ice cream. The Captain is grinning widely his gaze on the photographer, but his head is turned toward Ianto. Her brother is looking at the Captain with a softness in his face that Rhiannon hasn't seen since they were children. Her brother's lips are quirked in a gentle smile, and she can see his thumb resting against the bare skin of the Captain's neck. It's an intimate photograph, but she loves it because it's a part of her brother that she never got to see. It's Ianto being real.
"After he died, I went to his flat. His special ops colleagues had taken most of it. But that man—his name is Captain Harkness, he was Ianto's boss—he came to me personally and gave me that photograph. Ianto loved the Captain, really loved him. I can't—"
"Can't what?"
"I can't decide how to feel about him. This man got my little brother killed. He let Ianto die. But when he came to see me, he knew the truth about our father, and so many other things. Ianto never liked to tell people that our father worked at Debenham's. Always lied and said he was a master tailor. I don't think he ever lived up to my brother's expectations. But I don't think Ianto lived up to our father's expectations, either. Anyway, the Captain knew about our father, and he talked so much about Ianto. He nearly cried when he gave me that photograph. Said he had to go travelling. Said he blamed himself for Ianto's death. I told him I blamed him, too. He said he knew that, and that he wasn't surprised. But Ianto loved him, and would have done anything for him, I could tell."
"I think you should let that one sit. Perhaps this Captain will visit you again, and you can talk to him."
"I hope so."
But Rhiannon knows the Captain won't be returning. She knows because Gwen told her that Jack had left Earth. She knows because the Captain also returned something else to her that night: the stopwatch that had been their grandfathers, the one that Ianto had held so dear.
Patient Name: Suzie Costello
"And what do you feel is your greatest fear?"
"Dying."
"That's normal, Ms. Costello."
"Yes, I know. Especially in my line of work."
"So then why do you think you're in need of therapy?"
Suzie shrugs and strokes across the weave of her skirt. "Because I'm obsessed with death. We all are. The human race in general, but in my line of work moreso than usual. But where I work, we talk about death and dying in an abstract way. Numbers and commands and data. I want to discuss it conceptually. The fascination with it fascinates me. It begs to be talked about and pondered about and thumbed through like a good book."
The therapist frowns and writes down something that takes a few moments. Suzie is not worried. She knows her own mind.
"And why do you think you have a need to discuss and conceptualize death?"
"To conquer it. To move beyond it."
"To move beyond death?"
"Yes."
"Why do you want to move beyond death?"
Suzie watches the darkness in her mind swirl around. Torchwood has done this to her. Torchwood and that glove. And she realizes now that she doesn't even care. The tears in her eyes are those of determination and triumph, not sadness, and some childhood part of her dies at the deadness of her self and her voice.
"To stay out of the dark. To keep going in the night. Because living is everything. And I still don't know how to live."
Patient Name: Emma-Louise Cowell
Emma plays shyly with her hair as the therapist pulls out a pad of paper and a pen. She feels young and tiny, but at the same time it's as if a thousand years have passed since she was taken in by Torchwood.
"So, Miss Cowell, you said you were referred to me?"
"Ah—yes. Torchwood. They said you are a therapist that knows—what they do. About the aliens and the time thing and all that."
"Yes, I do. I'm often on call for them."
"I'm…I'm from nineteen fifty-three, originally. I flew here with two travellers and now I'm the only one left."
"And your companions?"
"My guardian, John…he didn't like it in this time. He didn't understand and he'd already lived most of his life. He died. Killed himself in an automobile. Diane, she was the pilot that flew us here. She disappeared. Doctor Harper said she flew through the Rift."
"And how have you been coping with this?"
"I have work in London," Emma brightens. "I've been working there for nearly a year now. And I've got a boyfriend. He helps me with it. Helps me when I'm feeling lost in this time, too. And Gwen, she calls now and then. But she thought I should have someone to talk to."
"Why's that?"
"Because I hate being the only one left." Emma dabs at her eyes with her handkerchief, but now that she's begun, the tears won't stop. "I'm stuck, lost in a time I don't understand. Sometimes I feel like I know just what John was thinking when he died. Sometimes I think I'd be better off gone from here. Like I'd be less lost, less lonely. I just don't want to feel like that anymore and I don't know how to stop."
Patient Name: Martha Jones
Martha flops back onto her sofa. Sometimes she hates her psychiatrist, even if she is UNIT-briefed. Talking about the trauma of her year of walking that never even existed can be painful. Especially since no one truly understands. She knows things about this woman that will never be revealed. She knows that her psychiatrist was the second in command for a rebel group that eventually was stationed in Camden. She knows that the woman cross-trained herself in field medicine and fighting, and that she compromised her own safety and health to help others. She knows that her psychiatrist died protecting her team, screaming mutiny over the whirr of Toclofane, determined to the end.
Sometimes she can't help but think of the fire-eyed, lined face of her memories, and be shocked at how different it is from this calm, tired gaze in front of her.
She thinks back to earlier today.
"Last week we ended with Japan. Would you like to pick up from there?"
Martha is reluctant. "I guess."
"You seem hesitant."
"Japan was the worst part of that year."
"Then it's also the most important thing for you to talk about."
"Yes, I know."
Her psychiatrist uncrosses her legs and poises her pen."Tell me the first thing that comes to your mind when you think of Japan."
"Screaming. Screaming and fire. There was a woman. Hitomi Sato, she worked for the RAF during World War Two. She was my guide. She taught me Japanese and helped me across the country. She translated for me until I learned enough to tell the story myself. She lost so much to help me. Her husband was tortured for information about my whereabouts, but he gave nothing away and was killed. And she was killed as well. I was the only one who got out of Japan alive. Saxon burned the entire island. The Toclofane killed whoever might still have been alive. I watched the fires burn. You could see them from the middle of the ocean, miles out."
The therapist is silent. She has nothing to say. It's usually like this, and Martha is okay with that. She just wants to talk about it. She wants to get it out. Her family doesn't want to hear it, and she doesn't want to tell them. They have their own pain and trauma from that year.
"There was a little baby boy, that year. An infant, not even a year old. The Toclofane killed his mother and he just lay there in a bundle in her arms. He was crying 'Haha, Haha' at her and she didn't move. She was dead and her eyes were just staring at her child. I couldn't move, I wasn't allowed to move, I couldn't let the Toclofane find me. Someone else ran out to take the baby, grabbed it from his mother's body. The Toclofane ripped them both to shreds and there was nothing we could do. We had to keep running."
Martha doesn't realize she's crying until the therapist reaches across the gap and waves a tissue in her line of sight. She nods her thanks and blows her nose, wipes her eyes.
"I think that's enough for today, Doctor Jones."
"Yeah," Martha sighs. She runs a hand across her hair. "It's just so hard sometimes."
On days like this she feels completely alone.
Patient Name: Maggie Hopely
"I have this friend. He said I should try therapy. Says it's good to talk about things. Gets it all out so it doesn't hurt anymore. I talked to him for a while, but his job keeps him busy and we don't meet up as often."
"Very good. And what would you like to talk about?"
"I think—no, I know I'm depressed. My husband died in a car crash about two years ago on our wedding day. I walked to the nearest town. My wedding dress was covered in his blood."
The therapist makes a note on her sheet and Maggie sighs. The memory is less vivid now, but it still hurts.
"Everyone said time would make it better, but it didn't. I waited a year and on the one year anniversary of our wedding and—and his death, I was going to kill myself. But that friend, you know, the one I told you about, he saw me up there on the roof and he came up to convince me not to jump. I didn't even know him, then. He saved me, and he showed me that things could get better, and they have. But they're still not great."
"And this friend? He is still available to talk with you?"
Maggie nods, thinking of the warm coffee shop where she and Owen meet up when they can to talk. She thinks of Owen's wry sarcasm and genuine concern for her, his gentle smile and the way he simultaneously brushes things off and cares too much.
"Yeah. But he works for a branch of the military, so he's not always around to talk. He's a doctor. A surgeon, not a psychologist." She knows about Torchwood now, of course. You can't tell a girl you're actually dead and not let her in on the secret of your job. He tells her about the cool stuff, the pretty stuff, and leaves out the horror and pain that she knows lies behind his eyes. "He said it would be good for me to have someone like you if he can't make it to see me."
"You're friend has good sense. Thank him for me."
"I will."
Maggie thinks of the alien song and the beautiful lights. There is no way she can thank Owen enough for saving her and showing her how to live again. She thinks of Captain Harkness's sorrowful expression when he knocked on her door, and reverent way he'd handed her the pulsing alien message. "You keep this," he'd said softly. "You need it more than we do, now."
Patient Name: Jack Harkness
John Hart finds Jack on a labour planet, toiling away in a factory making books. His hands are stained to the wrists with black ink and the pads of his fingers are cut and torn from the sharp paper. He wipes the sweat from his forehead and leaves a streak of black along his temple.
"Come with me, Jack." John pleads, hoping he can pull the captain out and away from the cloud of misery that surrounds him.
"I can't."
"Well, why not? You're not bound to this backwater planet. You're allowed to just hop on my ship with me and leave. We can go travel the stars again! Be partners again, have a little fun!"
"I'm done with fun and travelling the stars for now."
"What? Why? Come on, Jack. Let's get out of here."
"I'm not done yet."
"With what, this stupid little job? You can up and leave whenever you want."
Jack's expression is solemn and commands attention when he finally turns away from his work. His face is drawn and his eyes are dark with sadness. "I work to remember them. Whatever their age was when they died, that's how many years I work, in whatever profession I can remember them best by. I've already done Suzie. This is Estelle. I've got so many left, John, so many. I can't stop until I've finished them all."
"You're not to blame for their deaths, Jack!" John bursts out. People in the factory stop and stare, and he looks down for a moment in apology. Work resumes and he turns back to Jack, voice softer this time. "It's not your fault. Their deaths are not your fault. You shouldn't be wasting your time doing this."
Jack hangs his head and leans heavily over the conveyor belt he's been working at. "I'm not wasting time, John. I have all of time. I have more time than all of these people in this factory put together."
"And what do you do? Work nonstop, without eating, without sleeping, until you die? Then get right back up again and keep doing that for years?"
"Yes! It's what I have to do. Now leave me alone, John. I have to get back to work."
"What are you getting from this?" John gestures widely to the factory.
"I know it's not perfect. It's not going to absolve me of their deaths, but at least I'll have done something with their time that they'd be proud of me for."
Jack turns away and goes back to his work. John watches the tiny shadow of the man he used to know toiling away, trying to relive his friends' lives in order to remember them. It's as if he believes if he works hard enough, if he does enough, maybe they'll come back. Jack's head is bowed, his shoulders slumped and heavy with grief, and John wonders if maybe there's nothing left that can fix the pain that Jack is living with.