A/N More with stiles. Why? Cause I love Howard. Wallace Shawn is a funny little man. Inconcievable! Thank you to all who've reviewed so far-the angst is slowly and surely getting, well, angstier. But I'm telling y'all right now because there's a big cliffie coming up-get to work reviewing, I don't post the next chapter until I get a review or two (want to make sure you all read one chapter before giving you even more to read!) so those of you that just lurk and read it, maybe try reviewing? I do take anonymus reviews...
Psychoanalysis is that mental illness for which it regards itself as therapy.-Karl Kraus
"Garret. Do you know why I'm here?" He shrugged.
"I'm assuming that it has something to do with what happened two months ago." He said and Stiles nodded.
"And what was it that happened again, refresh my memory?" He glared at the little psychiatrist.
"You know what happened." He said through gritted teeth.
"I do? Well tell me anyway." He rolled his eyes.
"You're testing me aren't you, seeing if I can talk about it. I'm not an idiot Stiles, fine, two months ago Abby died, you happy. And I'm getting over it, coping. That what you wanted to hear? That I don't need you to come in here and check on me?" The little man laughed at his rant.
"You may not think you need me but the rest of your staff does." He knew the glint of anger had shown in his eyes from the other man's reaction. There was a smirk on Stiles' face that he resented. He was the mouse that had pushed the button and that made him even more upset with himself.
"I've been here every day and working, it's not affecting my work performance." He said simply.
"Maybe not affecting your performance, but certainly the morale. You're not happy."
"My daughter just died, why would I be happy?" He snapped and Stiles shrugged.
"I don't mean giddy, jovial, just got laid happy. Though that's not happening either, is it? When was the last time you got some?" That was a question he wanted to answer even less.
"A few months." He confessed. Charlie Davis. That was the last time he got laid.
"While I'm sure your right hand is absolutely wonderful, maybe you should throw yourself headlong back into the dating scene. Stop you from thinking about her quite as much, feeling quite as sorry for yourself." He shrugged. He'd given up on dating. He was a fifty year old bald man man without millions, what woman would be attracted to him?
He knew he had the sex appeal to at least pick up a one night stand, but was that what he wanted? He didn't want a girlfriend, he didn't want to wake up in the middle of the night a fifty year old man having to explain away nightmares to a woman. "What did you do Garret, what did you do on the day she died?" He looked up at Stiles.
"Sit here kind of numb and drank until I passed out." Stiles nodded.
"And what did you do two days ago, on the two month anniversary?" He shrugged.
"Had a bit of scotch after work." He confessed. So it had been just a bit more than a bit. He had downed the better part of a bottle all to himself. He had passed out for the first time since she had died, he had broken his vow to himself not to have any more than three glasses when alone. He had downed at least six glasses, probably more, not able to stop once he started. He couldn't remember anything past the sixth.
Only thing he knew was that he woke up the next morning passed out on his couch, with no recollection of what had happened after the sixth glass. "So you wouldn't say that you're depressed? No suicidal thoughts? No survivors guilt?" He met Stile's glare, knowing that looking down would tip off Stiles that the other man had gotten just a bit too close to comfort.
Wasn't survivors guilt normal though? Wasn't it normal to feel survivors guilt, feel bad that he was the one alive and she was the one that was dead? "No, figure I might as well suffer a few more years on the planet." He had thought about suicide, but only when he was really drunk. And every time he thought about it, he decided that he could never do it. Every time he thought about it, he knew he was far too arrogant to take the coward's way out.
More than once the thought that he was drinking himself to death crossed his mind, but he didn't care about that. He wondered if it would really be a bad thing. But he was sober now, those thoughts were far from his mind. He knew he wasn't going to actually stoop that low, he wasn't a coward, he didn't run from the pain. "Alright, but do something Garret-how much have you been drinking? How often?"
"Every now and then." He said and Stiles stared him down.
"And how's your social life, you go out with your friends?" He nodded.
"I go out with Jordan as much as ever, along with Nigel and Bug and Lilly." Stiles nodded.
"Do you drink a lot when you're with them?" He could see where this conversation was going.
"I'm not turning into an alcoholic Howard, I'm well aware of how much I'm drinking, and it's not that much. Or that often." He only drank when he needed it to cope, when he needed something to make him feel better. Stiles cocked his head to the side and considered him.
"You know, I could prescribe you something, but you wouldn't take it. I could stick you on Paxil, or Zoloft or something, but I know you far too well, you probably wouldn't even get it filled." The other man was right, he did know him too well. Especially not with what happened to Abby, antidepressants had caused her to die, if in a roundabout way. "So instead, I'm going to tell you this. Sleep more, and drink less. You look like shit Garret, and I mean that in the nicest way possible. And try to get laid. But there's nothing I can do for you if you're not going to talk. I can give you all the advice in the world, but I can't make you follow it, just listen, will you?" Stiles stood up and shook his hand.
He didn't want to talk about it, especially not to Stiles. The psychiatrist walked out, leaving him alone. He studied his reflection in the brass of the Victrola. Did he really look that bad? A little haggard, there were a few bags under his eyes, but he didn't look that bad, he looked pretty good all things considered.