Possible C/W: a *certain character* in this chapter holds negative biases and attitudes about therapy; also panic attacks, and mentions of familial death.

Chapter 3 of What's Up, Danger?: We've Had Some Dark Days

10:40AM, Tuesday—Dr. Singh's Office

The therapist looked over the brim of their rectangular glasses' frames at Jason. "How would you feel about group therapy?"

Jason snorted and reclined back on the couch. "You've got to be kidding."

He agreed to individual therapy and had been going to sessions semi-regularly for almost a year, but group? That was for the real weirdos; the ones who loved to talk about their feelings and hold each other's hands while singing Kumbaya in a circle, or doing some shitty craft projects.

No thanks, pass.

He learned to stomach—and even on occasion liked— his psychotherapy with Dr. Singh. They didn't push him too hard, and they accepted Jason's instant "no way in Hell" when they mentioned prescribing him medication in addition to the weekly therapy sessions ("No drugs," he sharply responded. "Not drugs, prescribed medication," Dr. Singh argued to no avail with Jason). They worked with his purposeful vagueness about some of his problems. He couldn't exactly mention that he'd died—violently, and then was resurrected via Lazarus Pit by the League of Assassins. That was something he felt he needed to work up to a lot more before dropping that bomb (ha!). If he was even going to mention it all. He was certain that not everyone told their therapists everything.

However, he talked about growing up on Park Row and providing for himself after his parents died (well dad and step-mother, the story of his short and explosive reunion with his biological mother was another…landmine topic). He mentioned his more-than-strained relations with a father figure and some things about his 'brothers' and 'sisters'. He talked about his daily anger and frustration. The alienation of being the black sheep of the 'family'. And sometimes he just sat there in silence for forty-five minutes with Dr. Singh because he didn't feel like talking at all.

Bruce and the others tried to push him to talk to Dinah Lance or Megan Morse once he had "cooled down" and recovered for several weeks after his initial rampage through Gotham. They even suggested that he go see Leslie Thompkins, a close family friend, but even she admitted that Jason's needs were outside her wheelhouse.

He knew killing people wasn't exactly a healthy way to deal with his issues. And at the time he hadn't seen it as that, working through his issues, he thought of it as a solution to the ever abundant problem with crime in Gotham.

But he didn't want to talk through his feelings with some "Leaguer" who could potentially report everything he said back to Bruce. It had practically been an ultimatum after he had agreed to a truce: be institutionalized or get therapy. There was more yelling and more punches thrown at one another, mostly, if not always, instigated by Jason. He was anger and wrath personified and rolled up into one steaming mess of a person.

It wasn't until one day when he was sitting on the roof of some rundown laundromat and smoking a cigarette, Cass—Orphan— silently wordlessly sat next to him, and leaned her head on his shoulder that he relented.

And all of this head-shrinking was on Bruce's dime, which was the cherry on top of his trauma-sundae. Bruce had caused some of the internal scarring, and he was going to damn well pay for it. Hell, he could more than afford to. Beating up criminals and gangbangers wasn't exactly lucrative.

Dr. Singh threaded their fingers together, not all surprised by Jason's reaction, his tone of voice and body language sent a clear message. They usually let Jason dictate the pace and tone of the sessions, but today Dr. Singh decided to nudge the young man a little harder.

"I'm not saying that we still can't have our weekly meetings," they continued as Jason rolled his eyes, "but I think the additional support system would be beneficial. You've mentioned that you don't feel like you can open up to your family. Maybe a group would be a good outlet. You don't have to give them your real name, so there's some anonymity. Just…think about it."

"It's not that I can't open up to my family," Jason grumbled, "it's that I don't want to."

Dr. Singh tapped their index fingers and sighed. It was the response they had expected.

Dr. Singh pushed back the long sleeve of their shirt and glanced at time on their wristwatch. "Well, our time is up for this week—"

Jason jumped to his feet and snatched his motorcycle helmet off the side table.

"—your assignment is to give my suggestion a little more thought and we'll pick up where we left off next week." They usually tried to end their session with a summary of what they discussed, but Jason often had one foot out the door as soon as the minute hand hit 10:45.

Jason was heading out the door when he turned his head and flashed Dr. Singh a smirk. "Really, you're giving me homework, doc? School's been out for a while now."

10:40AM, Tuesday—Dr. Rocha's Office

Sabine felt tiny flecks of sweat bead on her forehead. When did the small doctor's office start feeling so warm and humid? Her hands felt clammy as she finally relented and told Dr. Rocha (who didn't mind if Sabine by her first name, Carla) about what was troubling her. It only took over a half over for her to build up to it and the end of the session was drawing near.

"I dreamt about it last night—I mean her. The body…her body, laying there, lifeless." The words seemed to spill out of her mouth on their own.

The sudden immensity of feelings that rushed through her were like a cork popping off a champagne bottle, explosive. Her ribcage felt like it was being crushed. Her lips and tongue became dry, making it hard for her to swallow. Images of the dried up body with a black sheet dress clinging to its emancipated form flashed before her eyes. Black eyes open wide. Mouth twisted into a soundless scream. Fingers curled.

Sabine stopped fidgeting her hands and took one shaky, deep, deep breath through her nose. Then exhaled. Her heart pounded. She placed her palms flat on the chair, the rough canvas texture of the fabric grounded her and reminded her of where she was. She took another deep breath. Then she exhaled again. After the sixth breath, her heart no longer felt like it was trying to violently burst out of her. She licked her lips, swallowed, and the memory's power over her weakened.

However, there were things she still couldn't bring herself to talk about. Things about her mother and childhood that had been…too strange, too bizarre. She didn't know which parts of it were dreams and which parts of it were real at times.

But maybe everyone kept some secrets from their therapists.

Carla sat back and stared at the young brunette woman. "It's been a while since you've talked about your mother or mentioned the incident."

"Yeah," Sabine said shakily, letting the suffocating weight of panic slip away.

"I think when I'm stressed…I think about her more and what happened. And all the time alone studying and reading, my mind wanders."

"Do you think living alone also makes it worse?" Carla asked.

Sabine rolled her teeth over her bottom lip. The studio apartment was her tiny haven, all 450 sq feet of it, but coming home from night classes, or work, or the library, to emptiness and silence in a city that was so vibrant and alive with noise was certainly jarring. There were nights when even the footsteps of our neighbors in the hall or above her made her jump. Or the time someone had stopped in front of her front door and jiggled the door knob and she saw the shadows of their feet underneath the thin crack before they gave up and moved on.

"Yes."

"I know I've suggested it in the past," Carla said, "but have you given more thought to an emotional support animal?"

Sabine sighed and relaxed her shoulders. "My landlord doesn't allow pets. And besides, I'm hardly ever home between work, classes, and study groups. I'd feel guilty. I'm happy just feeding the local strays." She tried to smile even though her eyes said the lack of companionship was slowly killing her inside.

This line of conversation felt eerily familiar. She remembered the apartment roof and the vigilante with the red helmet, and made a sour face for a second.

"So no to an ESA," Carla waved a hand in the air as if to shoo that idea away, "then how about—and hear me out—group therapy?"

"Group therapy?" Sabine echoed back hollowly.

"Yes. I know it sounds intimidating, but it can be a good source of support and it might help you feel…," she paused and gave the young woman a caring look, "…less alone."

Sabine folded her arms and leaned back. Did she feel alone? She certainly felt lonely, even though she spent most of her time surrounded by other people in school and at work. But alone? Maybe. There was hardly any time for major introspection between reading hundreds of pages of literature and case studies a week and writing essays. And her academic advisor told her that if she had time to socialize or have a social life, she wasn't spending enough time studying.

Carla looked up at the circular analog clock above the door to her office. "We're just about out of time for today. Think a little more about my suggestion in the meantime, all right?"

Sabine gathered her backpack, which was heavy from the weight of her laptop and a reference book, and stood up. She adjusted the shoulder straps before pausing by the doorway.

"Umm, about group therapy," she said, facing the doctor, "I think I'd be interested in that. I mean, it could be worth a try."

Carla smiled and waved her off. "You don't have to make up your mind right now, but I'll try to gather a list of meeting groups for you to look into."

Jason tapped his foot, waiting impatiently for the elevator doors to open. He hated how all doctor's offices—regardless of the doctor's speciality—had the same distinct smell of disinfectant.

He held his motorcycle helmet under his arm and watched the little white lights above the elevator door slowly descend in number. 8, 7, 6, and…finally 5.

There was the familiar ding!-and the doors peeled open with a long groan.

He stepped inside and the sound of soft classical music filled his ears.

His index finger jabbed the 1B button and it lit up.

The doors began to slowly creak close when a voice called out and he heard the sound of scurrying feet.

"Hey, can you hold the doors, please!"

Jason's hand shot out in front of the closing doors and after a few seconds a young woman joined him by stepping inside the elevator.

Her face was flush and she was slightly out of breath. "Thanks! I hate waiting for these elevators, sometimes it takes five minutes for it to get to the right floor."

Jason nodded in acknowledgement. "No problem."

His pupils dilated slightly as recognition dawned on him; dumpster girl. Well, he shouldn't really call her that, but it was hard for him to forget the face of the person who slammed a dumpster lid on him and threw pointy broken pieces of ceramic at him when he was just trying to thank her.

She was petite, the crown of her head maybe coming up to his mid-chest. Her dark brown hair looked like an overgrown pixie cut, with the front strands pushed to the side. He could see intricate line work from a tattoo peeking just over her v-neck shirt collar—not that he was trying to look at her chest, but noted it was a point of interest—which she had thrown a dark green and blue unbuttoned flannel over. He noticed the way the black straps of her heavy backpack dug into her shoulders and guessed she was most likely a student.

Sabine stood next to him and pressed the button for the lobby with her thumb. She glimpsed at the black-haired stranger from her peripheral vision, noting his imposing stature and sturdy frame. On his face she saw a faded scar that ran along the side of his cheek. One word came to mind to describe him: surly.

Their eyes met out of their peripheral glances and both immediately and awkwardly shifted their gaze away from the other.

Jason coughed and Sabine rubbed the back of her neck as the elevator doors finally slid close.

The elevator jerked as it began it's torturously slow descent downwards.

Maybe I should take the stairs next time, Jason thought, not that I need to get the extra steps in.

Despite the tinkling of music coming from the small speaker overhead, Jason felt the need to fill the void with conversation. Or maybe it was just to satisfy his curiosity. Or maybe he felt that being chattery was part of his charm.

"So," he drawled as the slow elevator finally went past the 4th floor and it jolted again, "come here often?"

Sabine cocked her head and raised an eyebrow, giving him a judgemental stare. "Are you…are you really trying to pick me up in an elevator?"

Jason blinked incredulously. "What? No, I—that didn't come out right."

She breathed out noisily in relief and stifled a light laugh. "Sorry, sorry. It's just that last week a guy in this elevator asked me if I wanted to go to his apartment and see his coin collection, so I'm just a little on guard."

"You passed on looking at a coin collection?" Jason's lips curled upwards in amusement. "Sounds like a great first date to me."

"Yeah, great until the GCPD finds my head in his freezer."

Jason lolled his head to the head and looked thoughtful. "There are worse things to find in a date's freezer."

"Oh? Like what?"

Jason gave her a half-shrug, which meant for her to use her own imagination.

The elevator dinged and the doors slowly opened up to the lobby of the building.

Sabine readjusted the straps of her backpack as she strode out into the lobby. She paused, briefly looking over her shoulder at him, and parted her lips as if to say something else, but decided against it and walked out of the reception area, through the double glass doors, and onto the sidewalk.

Jason leaned his back against the side panel of the elevator and waited for the doors to close once more, taking him to the basement parking garage where his motorcycle was parked.

Maybe taking the elevator hadn't been such a bad idea.

A/N: Thank you all so much for reading! :3

Musical Inspiration- Dark Days by PUP

My biggest debates this chapter were whether to give Jason that white streak in his hair, and whether or not to go too deeply in Sabine's backstory with her mother. Hopefully, I kept things vague but still interesting.