Cloud Strife really needs therapy. I finally gave him some. This story takes place a couple weeks after Advent Children, compliant for everything from Crisis Core, FF7 OG and Remake, and Advent Children to the best of my knowledge and ability.

Disclaimer: I'm not a therapist, nor have I ever been licensed as a therapist. Things in this story are from my personal experience with therapists as well as research, and I recommend seeking out a therapist if you think you need one. That being said, Cloud really needs a therapist.

A child's scream startled Cloud Strife out of his stubborn brooding. Head snapping up and fists unclenching, he focused his gaze instantly on the picture window whose horizontal blinds half-covered the impressive view behind them. His fingers twitched in a familiar yearning to grasp his sword and prepare for battle, and he suddenly felt naked without the pauldron and gloves he'd become so accustomed to wearing the past few years. Heartbeat picking up in his vulnerability, he quickly scanned what he could see of the sunny, charming exterior for the threat.

The scream repeated itself and delved into fitful giggles as a young girl, flailing her arms about, ran by the window and away from her pursuer – a mischievous young boy holding out a crab and brandishing a war cry.

Letting out the sharp intake of air he'd been holding in, Cloud's shoulders drooped and he let his eyes find the comforting, familiar glint of steel from where his fusion sword rested patiently against the wall next to the door. Even though it was a handful of feet away, it was still the farthest he'd allowed himself to be from his weapon since the geostigma had first shown up.

His body unconsciously relaxed back into the cushions of the plush, velvety couch he was sitting in. He crossed his arms and resumed staring at his lap as if his dark pants and their years of creases were the most fascinating thing in the room.

There was a jostling of papers and then the steady sound of pen against paper. He chanced a moody glance up under his eyelashes at the other person in the room, an unassuming middle-aged woman with sharp, gray eyes and a round face. The patient expression she bore showed no signs of frustration or resignation, which was disappointing in part to his attempts to end this bullshit already. It had been a childish effort from the start, but he felt compelled to win some sort of contest in his silence. Instead of victory, her calm demeanor made him begin to get anxious at her apparently superhuman patience, something he decidedly did not possess.

His gaze began to wander, first suspiciously to the untouched glass of water sitting on the table in front of him that he'd been offered when he had first begrudgingly sat down, and then his focus changed to the table itself.

In his initial scan of the room for situational awareness purposes, he'd discovered three potential exits (the door he came in, another behind the woman – Doctor…Ayla? He couldn't be bothered to remember her name – and the third being the large picture window facing the warm, inviting beach) and at least six items that would do in a pinch for an impromptu weapon (although he was beginning to second-guess the chair once the doctor had settled into it), but only now did he study the rest of the room in detail. The table had a sleek, glazed surface and held a random assortment of objects. The glass of water intended for him was sitting on a hand-knit coaster, and three more in similar shades of blue were stacked in the middle of the table. A clear, glass statue of a dolphin was an object closest to him, and next to it looked to be a brand-new box of tissues. He inwardly scoffed; he wasn't going to be crying anytime soon.

From the table Cloud turned his head ever-so-slightly to the wall of bookshelves on his left. There were multitudes of books in sets of similar shapes and colors scattered in decorative arrangements throughout the shelves, except for two that stood apart: these had mismatched stacks of magazines and books that didn't match, unlike the rest. These shelves were located on the far side of the room, near the office desk, and he wasn't at a good enough angle to see what subject these materials were on. He made a mental note to check the subject matter if he had the opportunity before he was inevitably kicked out and sent on his merry way.

Which didn't look to be happening anytime soon…another cursory glance around his bangs revealed the doctor wasn't any closer to impatience.

Cloud, however, was.

His body was itching to go, to do anything except sit and play the long game. Now that he was cured of geostigma and didn't have liquid poison courtesy of his enemy flowing through his veins, he felt more physically alive than he'd felt since as far back as the Northern Crater two years ago. He felt restless, like there was something he still needed to do that he hadn't done yet. The idea of sitting still for a given period of time was not on his list of ideal ways to spend his afternoon.

Part of that probably had to do with the way his mind liked to wander into unforgiving territory when he was too still. He'd spent years running from his problems, only sitting still long enough to mourn those whom he hadn't saved. The images of those whom he'd lost – his ma almost seven years ago now, the Avalanche trio of Biggs, Wedge, and Jessie who had died when the sector seven plate fell in Midgar, and Zack and Aerith both around two years ago – flitted through his mind like freshly opening wounds, and despite that feeling of forgiveness that had washed over him barely two weeks ago while Aerith's water in the church healed him and everybody else from geostigma, he felt fresh shame and weight curl their way around his chest. The feeling threatened to suffocate him.

This was why he didn't usually sit still. His leg began twitching anxiously as he clenched his fists again and returned to watching the window and the laughing, happy inhabitants of the Costa del Sol beach the window framed.

Despite the lateness of the season delving into cooler, rainier territory, today's sunny, warm beach was full of tourists determined to enjoy that last small holiday. The sun, lower in the sky now, bathed the entire scene in a orange glow. Colorful towels dotted the landscape and smiles hung in the air like the stifling humidity.

There was a motion out of the corner of his eye and his gaze darted to it just to see the doctor reach for her own glass of water and take a few sips. After swallowing carefully and holding his stare, she set her glass back down on the table and smiled. Instead of smiling in return, Cloud looked back out the window.

Now that he had thought about them, he couldn't take his mind off the friends he'd lost along the way. That comfortable wave of forgiveness that had settled over him only a few weeks prior had now turned sour in the recesses of his mind and left an ashen taste in his mouth. That rosy memory, so bright and sharp as it was compared to the dulled memories from years gone by, felt like a false happiness. It sent a different kind of poison coursing through his veins now, one that felt even more unwelcome than the geostigma.

At least when Cloud had been fighting the remnants – those silver-haired beings who called him "brother" – he'd had a purpose. When he was mid-battle and his opponent was giving him a real fight, there was a song that rose in his blood from the sheer adrenaline of the moment. When he'd felt fury course through him after finding out what they had done to Denzel, he'd felt sharp and alert and driven. And since Sephiroth just couldn't seem to stay dead no matter what he did, that purpose should still drive him now… except he didn't feel purpose, he didn't feel that adrenaline of battle. Instead…

He felt worthless.

The weight of that truth crashed across his shoulders and hit his gut like a swift kick, and he almost doubled over at the crushing feeling that overtook him. He'd never been more than a hindrance to his friends; he'd burdened Zack with taking care of him for over a year and wasn't able to return the favor when Shinra had finally caught up with them. He hadn't been able to save Aerith, despite being right there when Sephiroth had taken her from him in the cruelest way possible. Just the thought of that glint of silver steel as it pierced her through the middle made a phantom pain erupt from his own similar scar. How come he got to live when she didn't?

And then there were the people of Midgar, the thousands they'd lost to Meteor. If only Cloud had realized sooner, if only he had done something to stop Sephiroth before it had reached that point…

Finally, there were Tifa, Denzel, and Marlene. The little 'family' as Tifa had called them had been together for awhile now, and there had been something about that idea of routine that had stifled him. Instead of talking about his feelings as Tifa had constantly encouraged him, he had ran away. When he developed the stigma, it had been almost a blessing as an excuse to stay away. Nobody needed to know he had been destined to die. Nobody needed to know he had been expecting to die.

Here he was, trying to do what Tifa suggested again, talk to a therapist about his problems, and he couldn't even find the words to begin. No, he was too stubborn for his own good and he couldn't even get his life right. The ring of failure, failure, failure coursed through his veins and slid that feeling of worthlessness further into his gut like the aching familiarity of a sword. It wrapped around his insides and left his lungs feeling strangled.

Cloud tried to focus on something external, anything to distract from the onslaught of pain and desperation that crept into his bones, but he found he couldn't see past his own lap. His breaths came in shallow pants and the room began to spin as he looked around wildly and tried to place his surroundings.

"…you hear me?" a kind female voice asked from underneath the wave of anxiety that threatened to consume him. He latched onto it and sought the source of the words, until he was able to see the therapist standing up with her hands raised cautiously and her face full of concern. He tried to speak but the edges of his vision were blackening and he couldn't make sense of what to say, how to describe the torture he was in.

"Focus on my voice, Cloud," she said calmly. "I'm going to look at three things in this room and I am going to say them out loud, and then I want you to do the same. Okay?"

What? He dizzily thought to himself as the room threatened to fade from view. Nevertheless, he gave what he hoped was a noticeable nod. She nodded back and offered a quick smile. She held up something. "I see a glass of water," she started slowly and gestured it towards him. He focused his gaze on it; it was indeed the glass of water she had been drinking.

She continued, "I see a red pen," and her other hand slowly pointed down. Cloud followed her fingers and did indeed notice the pen she had been writing with sitting at the edge of the table. It looked like it was about to fall onto the floor. The edges of his vision crept back and his breathing began to slow.

"I see a sword," she concluded as her finger adjusted to point towards his right. He followed it to his fusion sword resting against the wall where he'd placed it when he first walked in. "Okay, Cloud, now it's your turn. Tell me three things you see."

Cloud looked back to her and then did his best to comply. "The – window," he half-whispered as his voice rasped from the hyperventilation. He pointed through the window at the rapidly depleting sunlight as twilight fell over the town. The therapist followed his finger and nodded.

"Good job," she said encouragingly. "What else do you see?"

He looked around as his breathing slowed further. His consciousness was still wavy and he was doing his best to focus on what he could, but obviously something about this strange activity was working. His eyes fell on the bookshelf again and he noticed for the first time something that wasn't literary. "The candle," he pointed out as his eyes fixed on the soft green and the picture of a forest that reminded him of Nibelheim that adorned the front. It looked brand new; the wick remained its prestigious white.

"Great job! Now find one more item for me."

He took a steadying breath, closed his eyes a moment, and then opened them again. Then he pointed towards the table. "The dolphin," he concluded before squeezing his eyes shut again and clenching his fists. "What the hell was that?"

There was a shuffling sound and he looked up to see her settling back into her seat. "That, Cloud," she said softly, "was a panic attack."

"A what?"

She smiled at him and explained, "A panic attack is a buildup of anxiety that comes on so strongly it makes you panic. Usually there's a specific trigger, but sometimes it can happen at random. What brings them on is different in each person."

Cloud unconsciously pressed his palm into the fabric of his shirt, right over the spot where his scar from being stabbed by Sephiroth the first time was located. The second, fresher scar was a bruised but healed mess in his right shoulder, and it also gave a painful twinge.

The doctor whose name he couldn't remember leaned forward slightly to grab her pen and paper from where she'd left them on her desk.

"Cloud," she began carefully, "if you want my help, you have to give me something to work with. I am only here to help you work on finding a normal state. You're going to need to talk if you want me to help you."

He sighed to himself as he let the lingering effects of the panic attack die down. The corners of his eyes threatened to tear up as he thought to his "trigger" as she had called it.

"Okay," he finally said. "I'll do it."

As he walked out of the office a few minutes later, fusion sword resting comfortably on his back and a slip of paper for his appointment the next afternoon in his hand, Cloud took a deep breath. He didn't want to feel like a failure, and he didn't want to let Tifa or the kids down. They were expecting him to fix himself and he wanted to make them happy. If it meant seeing this woman and talking – hell, even having panic attacks – to do it, he supposed that was a sacrifice he would be willing to make. After all, if he once went to such extreme measures as dressing as a woman to rescue Tifa, how hard could therapy be?