This chapter written, once again, by Brooke Stardust

Notes from Mama Lobster: I see your clacks of approval and wave my crusher claw in sheepish thanks! And thanks to Argentum. I think I kind of needed to hear that? I can't pretend it's not disheartening to have not gotten a bigger response, but all of you still reading have been so wonderful. I can never thank you enough.

Basket Case

== Dave : Detox

Comfortable and safe your ass. You have never felt something so absolutely physically awful as this in your life. Even being killed on your quest bed at least had a light at the end of the tunnel. This is just making you wish you could just shoot the fuck up and get everything to stop. All you can feel is need, need, need.

The nurses keep telling you that it'll be over soon. You're starting to think they're lying just to keep you in this hell. If this is the punishment for everything you've done, you sure as fuck deserve it.

Doesn't mean you have to like it though.

== Dave : Begin

You're sitting in an office. It's bright and airy, overlooking a small stretch of private beach. The window is cracked open and you can hear the salt water moving lightly against the sand. You suppose that it's supposed to be soothing, but right now it just sounds like a metronome.

"Mr. Strider?" The doctor across from you brings you back to the moment. She looks like you suppose Kanaya would look were she human. She's long and elegant and has an air of professionalism about her that you're very not used to, what with being surrounded by Hollywood scum all the time.

"Yeah, sorry," you're not really, but it doesn't matter. "Just," the waves crash again, "Thinking about what brought me here."

"Interesting," she sits back, putting down your paperwork. "Why don't you talk through it?"

You snort. "You really think you have the time?"

"How about starting at the end?" She glances at the paperwork and nods to herself. "You checked yourself in here. It wasn't the act of someone else. Why don't we begin there?"

"A six year old girl told me I needed to fix it." She watches you patiently as you shift in your seat. "My niece," you explain. "Best bro's mistake kid. She busted in. No, wait. Fuck. I guess she walked in. Door must have been unlocked. To my apartment, I mean. I don't even know how she got there."

The scene is playing itself out in your mind with a clarity your words could never create. You can see Casey standing, avoiding glass shards. You can feel the cravings you fought that night surging through your veins. You can hear John on the phone, panicked and urgent.

"Mr. Strider," the doctor looks concerned. You realize you've been scratching, and quickly move to sit on your hands.

"Sorry."

"What were you seeing just then?"

"Nothing."

She gives you a look and you realize there is very little you will be able to get past this woman. You're not used to people not going along with your shit. They usually bend over backwards to appease the great Dave Strider. As far as you know, this woman has never heard of you or your films. The thought unnerves you a bit.

She is silent, watching intently as she waits for you to change your answer.

You sigh and dig your fingernails back into your arm.

"Well..."

== Dave : Continue

The next few days turn into a bit of a blur. You've been hiding behind the emotionless façade of a coolkid for so long that it feels foreign and awkward to discuss any feelings you may have. Talking about actual issues proves difficult and uncomfortable.

So, a lot of the time, you listen.

You learn that your therapist's name is Dr. Amy Ford. That she's been doing intensive drug rehab therapy for eighteen years. That she's heard of you but never bothered with your films, however she promised to make time for them soon. You learn that just being here and admitting there is a problem is a big step. That as long as you can get though today without using, you might have the chance to get through tomorrow.

It isn't so bad, once you get used to it. The days are very much planned and structured and, after all the time you've spent in such an erratic life style, it's nice to have some organization.

You wake up at the same time each morning, eat breakfast at the same time, go to one-on-one therapy with Dr. Ford, have lunch, answer your mail, hang out in the common area, have dinner, check in with your doctor, and go to bed. Everything is set to a strict schedule and free time is kept to a minimum. You suspect it's to keep your mind from wandering to using or getting lost in flashbacks.

All things considered, it is helping. You're so busy from moment to moment that the acute need you had in the beginning has started to dull down to a constant ache. It won't ever leave, you've been assured of that fact, but it's becoming something that you think, in time, you might even be able to get used to.

As it stands, you haven't talked much about the experiences that lead you to where you were. You mention the past few months, recalling them with an almost eidetic memory, but you're not sure that you're ready to mention anything earlier. Dr. Ford seems to trust what you're saying, but you don't know if that would last were you to start bringing up the fucking video game which destroyed a universe.

== John: Write

You do. Every week. You're not even sure if Dave is reading them, but you chug out letters like it is part of your job.

You haven't quite forgiven him yet, but you figure someone needs to show him they care.

Every word feels painfully like something your dad would write. You make sure that each letter expresses how proud you are that Dave's still there and that you know it's a difficult journey, but you're so excited to see him when he gets out. You pepper your pride with updates on how things are going back at home. How you are thinking of getting a new (used) car, how Casey's been doing in school, or how the last concert you played went.

At times, you worry that your updates might be too mundane and ordinary for someone in this extreme situation, but Rose assures you that keeping things realistic is the best way to go about this. Sometimes it's okay to just enjoy the little things. Small victories are still victories, after all.

== Dave: Read

You spend a lot of time wondering what it was that you did to earn you such a loyal friend. There have been many times you wanted to just leave the center and go back to the familiar and numb lifestyle you were living, but you just can't imagine how disappointed John would be in you.

John's letters don't speak of anything thrilling or life changing, and they aren't especially well written, but they are filled with a rawness and emotion that you know is real. Every time you read through one, you can imagine John writing it, tapping the pen against the table while lost in thought. You imagine that he pauses almost constantly, making sure that what he's about to say next isn't something that would potentially set you off.

John is very careful to not mention Jade, you notice. It is a fact that you are both thankful for and terrified of. You don't know if he's protecting you, or protecting her at this point. You don't know if you could handle reading that she wasn't doing well...The last time you saw her, Jade was still dead to the world. Her dull eyes stared blankly ahead as the sterile hospital environment seemed to eat her alive.

No, stop. You can't go there. Not right now.

You make a mental note to bring it up in therapy though. As stupid as you think most of this psych stuff is, you figure it might make a difference. It's not like you really have a choice but to play along.

== Dave: Play along

It has been forty three days, four hours, eight minutes and ten seconds since you arrived at the center. A good portion of those days were spent removing all toxic chemicals from your body, but the remainder were spent going though pretty intensive therapy.

You have decided that you like Dr. Ford. She doesn't force you to talk or rush you into explanations. She is comfortable in letting silences play out, and allowing you to admit things at your own pace, whether or not she thinks that pace is a little bit slow.

Even after more than a month of daily meetings, you've still been holding back. She knows that you have flashbacks and are triggered by clocks, that you dislike dogs and that you're irrationally obsessed with time, but she still doesn't know why.

You just don't want to sound like a psychopath.

She is watching you again, letting you begin the session on your own terms. For the past two days, you have been sitting in silence. She's said you've made great progress, but there is only so much that can be done when all you're willing to talk about is the past six months.

== Amy Ford: Wait

This is a game you've played before and one you do not mind playing again. Dave Strider will talk when he is ready, and waiting is not something that bothers you. The silence itself is speaking volumes. You can only imagine what happens when he actually talks.

He shuffles in his chair, staring down at his shoes.

You're not sure what you had been expecting, but it certainly was not this.

== Dave: Sound like a psychopath

The silence finally cracked you and everything just comes spilling out. Every fucking detail about the game, how you watched yourself die countless times, how you and your friends became gods at thirteen while trying and failing to stop the destruction of a universe, how you teamed up with a group of aliens and fought against a queen for a ring in some fucked up semblance of a chess match.

You get so lost in the talking that you totally forget where you are. Every memory floods from your damaged psyche and you feel like you can't get them out fast enough. It's as though you could just pass them to her for safekeeping, and maybe forget about them forever and move the fuck on.

You talk until your throat turns horse and your voice is little more than a whisper. You're not sure how long you've been going at it, but the bright morning sky has turned dark and speckled with stars. You finally look up from your sneakers. Dr. Ford is still watching you, waiting to see if you've finished.

"That was," she pauses, considering her next words.

"You don't believe me." you offer.

"It's not that. There are parts I don't particularly understand, but, even if it was all false, which I don't think it is, it's clearly very real to you." She tucks a stray hair behind her ear. "And isn't that what matters?"

You don't know what to say. You've been spending months believing that, after you let it all out, you'd be laughed out of rehab. But she believes you. She knows that this is a very real thing for you, and she's willing to suspend her disbelief to help you work through it.

Dr. Ford is smiling at you knowingly, gathering her papers together and standing to guide you to the dining hall.

Welp.