Du Hast – Rammstein: Sehnsucht (1997).
The German words hast (have) and hasst (hate) are homophones. The entire song is really built around that wordplay.
The chapter titles are all going to be songs relevant to the chapters; in some cases, the song was actually in the chapter (e.g., here, Erik is listening to Du Hast). I really like linking music to fiction, but I find traditional songfic (where the lyrics are interspersed with the text) distracting, so I think this is a good compromise.
Shingo the Pest – I was wondering if anyone was going to call me on the in-characterness of the whole younger!Tony/older!Steve thing. I agree that it is ostensibly out of character, but I think it will be believable in context.
"Wow. A psychiatrist named Dr. Strange." Erik slouched into an oversized chair. "That's just asking for it."
Stephen Strange raised an eyebrow. "I'm getting advice on nomenclature from a Syrian Jew named Erik?"
"My dad was American. He liked the name."
"Was your mother an expatriate too?"
"Sure, she emigrated from Syria to Lebanon. Which you already know, because children can't legally file their own asylum papers."
"Indeed. I would like to ask you a few questions about Charles."
"I can't really stop you. Yet."
"When you hear Charles' voice, where does it come from? Behind your head? Inside your head? To the left? To the right?"
"It doesn't come from anywhere. It just is."
"And Charles himself is the same way? He doesn't have a location, he just is?"
"No, he lives in downstate New York. But I'm not going to give you his address."
"Why not?"
"You're a psychiatrist named Dr. Strange. If this were a horror movie, the audience would have been screaming, 'Don't go in there!' as soon as your office door opened."
"Does Charles recognize you as the Master of the Universe?"
"We're both the Masters. That's why we're friends."
"What about you makes you Masters?" To his credit, Dr. Strange pronounced Master with a capital M.
"Again, I'm not going to just give that information out to someone who looks like a B-list mini-boss in Quentin Tarantino movie."
"You've been watching Tarantino?"
"I'm from Syria, not Mars."
"How do you sleep, Erik?"
"Lay down, close my eyes. It's not complicated."
"Do you find you have a lot of worries or fears?"
"Check."
Dr. Strange looked down at the chessboard. "So it is." He slid his king to the right, but the game was already over.
"Check."
"I would like to inquire about your mood, Erik."
Erik repositioned his knight and stood. "Checkmate."
"Sit down. Our time here isn't finished yet."
Erik sighed, tipped over Strange's king, and sat back down.
"I would like to know why you and your mother left Syria."
"I don't really understand it much...there were some bad guys and stuff exploded and-"
"Don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you."
"Okay, there was heightened anti-Semitic sentiment in response to settlement building in the West Bank."
"What sorts of things were occurring?"
"Vandalism, harassment, small-scale explosive ordinances, usually motion-triggered: urban landmines for those too lazy to be martyrs."
"How long did it take you to get from your hometown to the Lebanon border?"
"I don't know. A couple of weeks? I wasn't really keeping track of the calendar."
"Was it a difficult journey? A dangerous one?"
"Stop asking stupid questions."
"Do you feel better, safer in the United States?"
Erik shrugged. "I'm safer, I suppose, but I won't feel better until I go back there."
"Why do you want to do that?"
"I'm going to bomb that whole fucking desert into glass."
"How do you plan to do that?"
"That's a secret."
In the car, driving home. There was never any real traffic, one of the benefits Rochester could lord over larger cities.
"What did you think of Dr. Strange?" Ororo liked him because he did counseling and medication management; most psychiatrists did fifteen minute appointments and left talk therapy to the counselors.
"He's acceptable." Erik stared out the window.
"Acceptable?"
"Yes, when I rule this world, he will be given a favorable job in the mines."
It was often very difficult to tell whether Erik was joking.
"Did he write me a prescription?" asked Erik.
"Yes, but he said you would probably refuse to take it."
"What's it for?"
"Ziprasidone."
"That's an antipsychotic. I'm not psychotic."
"Well, I suppose that's why he thought you would refuse to take it."
"He's a smart man."
Erik lay flat on his back, under his bed. Better to be underneath something. That way, if the ceiling collapsed-
"Charles? Charles? C'mon, I know you're there."
I don't want to talk right now.
"What's your problem?"
Shut up, Erik. Go away.
"I won't tease you about your music this time, promise."
They were fighting again. Charles sounded like a whisper. My mom got hurt.
"I don't see why you don't just kill him."
I can't do that.
"Sure you can't. Just wait until he's asleep and slit his throat. Or poison his food. Or mess up the brakes on his car. Syringe full of bleach. C'mon, there's lots of ways."
That's not what I...Just leave me alone, Erik.
Ororo had given him headphones. Probably that social worker's idea.
They weren't allowed headphones on the ward, anything with a cord or a cable, really. It didn't matter that suicidality was the one symptom Erik had very conscientiously never displayed. If some kids got cords, the reasoning went, the suicidal ones could get their hands on them.
Erik put the headphones on, plugged them into his phone where all his music files were.
This was much better. He felt better with his music. On the ward, he was only allowed to play music if the staff okayed it since he had to play it out loud for everyone and they disapproved of just about everything that wasn't Frank Sinatra or Disney Singalong, so the sort of music he liked to listen to was rejected out of hand. An orderly named Paul had nixed Rammstein without even finding out what the lyrics translated to. (To be fair, the translations probably would not have helped his case.)
Erik had gotten back at him. A day later, Paul got called in for questioning by his boss and a pair of FBI agents. Seriously, who was stupid enough to look up child pornography at work? Or, more accurately, who was stupid enough to type in their logon where Erik could see it?
"Charles?"
No response.
Erik held out his hands, ringing them around the nail he had pried up from the floorboards. It was easier with the music. He hadn't been able to do it in the hospital because they took his music.
"Move," he hissed, "move."
The nail remained defiantly motionless.
"Move!"
He had to be really angry. The music reminded him of being angry, but it wasn't the same as being in the moment.
"Charles?"
Why wasn't Charles answering? And that stupid clock. With it's stupid little red light. Erik really hated that clock. It looked like and there was dust everywhere and you can't see anything. Move you stupid little nail. I'm the Master of the Universe. I'm the Master of the Universe and now that I have my music back I can make you move and I am stronger now and I can rule this place and where the hell is Charles?
Ororo stood a few yards behind Erik, who was pacing in the street. "I woke up," she said, "and I didn't know where you were."
"I left you a note."
"In Arabic."
"Urdu, technically."
"There's a treadmill in the basement, for when you feel like you have to move around."
"I know."
"It must have been difficult," she said, "to answer Dr. Strange's questions."
Erik walked past her, back into the house. "I'm going to run on the treadmill."