Hey all!

So, this chapter is pretty much just an interlude, a bridge between the last chapter and the next. Basically, this story is kind of split into two parts: the first part, where we deal with Connor and Hank, and their mental illness. Then, we hit the second part. The part where the "government conspiracy" tag comes into play. So, things kind of change next chapter. Not dramatically, since we still focus on Hank and Connor and their problems, but we have an added plot. Feel free to take a guess what you think will happen!

Anyway, thanks to all the kind comments last chapter! As well as the birthday wishes. ^-^

I do have some bad news, though. Because college started up last month, I've not had much time to write, nor will I for the foreseeable future. I've already written up until chapter 17, but after that I don't know when the next update will be. After college ends in May, I go to Ireland for study abroad, and then after that, I go to New York to visit family. So, my time will be limited. But! We still have 8 chapters until then. And they're all super long.

Enjoy!

After the week that Hank had just had, he was pretty sure he wanted to just curl up in bed and sleep for a month.

Groaning heavily as he took a seat before Dr. Rose, Hank looked at the woman with a "can you believe this shit," look, to which the woman replied with an amused smile.

He'd had his last meeting with her on Tuesday, two days prior, where he'd actually gone through with his plan to let the doctor in, just a little, at first.

It had been so fucking hard. Much harder than he had first anticipated. After years of keeping everything inside, bottling everything all up, trying to share his feelings had been very hard. But luckily Dr. Rose hadn't made a big deal about it. She hadn't done that condescending thing where a doctor will go, "oh, Hank, I'm so glad you've finally decided to share your feelings!" Heh. Condescending bastards. Nah, Dr. Rose had just listened to him, smiling encouragingly.

Hank had never much cared for the woman, for no good reason. She had only ever been nice to him and had never even acted exasperated at his shit. He just thought she was too nice; it set his teeth on edge. No one was that nice without an agenda.

But he was grateful for it, now. It had been so hard to talk about his feelings. He hadn't even brought up the can of worms that was Cole. He'd just talked about his feelings of worthlessness, and how hard it was to find the effort to keep going some days. She had asked him soft questions about it, never pressing too hard, keeping her face gentle and kind. While he usually hated people doing that, feeling like they were treating him like a live wire, there was something comforting about it when Rose did it.

Rose had asked him, conversationally, what had brought about this change in him, what had made him want to get better, and he'd told her honestly that it was Connor. If he couldn't tell his fucking therapist about his conflicted feeling, who the fuck could he tell?

So he'd mentioned how the kid had gotten under his skin in such a short amount of time. How part of him felt like he'd do anything to make the kid smile. Rose had just smiled at that, not telling him he was wrong for his feelings, or that it had happened too fast. In fact, when he'd brought up his concern that things were moving so quickly with Connor that he didn't know what to think, she'd been very supportive.

"I can't say that it isn't a little concerning, gaining such a rapid attachment to Connor as quickly as you have. But, Hank, it's not necessarily a bad thing. You'll have to keep your eye on it, as such an intense relationship can sour pretty easily sometimes, and you could be masking your pain by latching onto Connor, but as long as you are aware of that fact, I think your friendship could be a beautiful thing. You and Connor both need someone, Hank, to help each other out. That's why I recommended Connor to be roomed with you, specifically. I felt that you two could be very good for one another. As long as you remember that, I think you'll be fine. Just be careful about becoming codependent, okay? Make sure to make some time for yourself, while worrying about Connor. Like you're doing right now, by confiding in me. Alright, honey?"

Hank had nodded slowly at that, the words resonating inside him. Yeah, maybe things between him and Connor were moving fast. Maybe he was quickly realizing he'd do anything for the kid, and maybe it scared him a little. After all, he had already lost everything once. He wasn't sure he could do it again.

But it could also be good. For them both, he hoped.

After watching Connor's breakdown the other day, Hank had only felt more confident in his plan to get help. He couldn't help Connor as he currently was, so full of self-loathing and self-hatred. If he could get help, he'd be better able to help Connor. Learning the kid felt like a fucking machine had struck something deep inside him. Yeah, Hank sometimes had the thought that Connor didn't appear quite human, his actions just a little too mechanical, but he'd never thought the kid actually believed that he wasn't real. That he was just a machine. It had concerned him greatly.

So, he'd get help. He'd help Connor, best he could. And things would get better. Despite the doubt that lingered in his mind, he felt determined. He hadn't had anything to live for in years, save for Sumo. But there was something different about having a dog depend on you, and a living, breathing human being. If he could do one thing in his pathetic life (and he'd have to stop thinking like that, Rose had told him gently), it would be this. Get better, so he could help Connor get better.

So, that in mind, Hank settled into the cushy chair, sprawling across it in a lazy manner, like usual. He watched as Rose took a seat, smile bright on her face.

"Hello there, Hank. How are you feeling today?"

Hank took a second to think on it, before shrugging his shoulder.

"Not half bad. Bit annoyed at North and her fucking dance class, but otherwise fine."

"And why are you annoyed at North? What did she do?"

What hadn't she done? The class had been particularly brutal that morning. Markus had convinced Connor, who was still a little stiff around the man, to join the dance class with Hank. North had been pretty vicious to the poor kid, causing Hank to grow defensive on his behalf. The class had been tense, North glaring at both Connor and Hank, while trying to help out the other patients learn their moves. Hank told Rose as such, watching her frown gently.

But, despite the rude teacher, Connor had enjoyed it, Hank felt. He'd looked content afterward, glad to be moving and doing things. Other than stealing fucking bleach and scrubbing the walls. Which, who the fuck steals cleaning supplies from a fucking hospital? Jesus. Maybe he'd have to teach the kid about morality. While he was still grateful for the booze, hidden away behind the mirror in the bathroom (and had been utterly ecstatic when Connor had informed him whose booze he'd stolen and how pissed the man had gotten), the cop in him couldn't help but disapprove. But, as long as he wasn't hurting no one, what should Hank care? If cleaning the disgusting room made Connor happy, Hank would steal a hundred bottles of bleach.

Hank was brought back to the present moment when Rose hummed.

"That wasn't very nice of her. I'm glad that Connor had you to stand up for him, though. That was very kind of you."

Hank felt his ears burn as he sunk into his jacket, shrugging the compliment off.

"Ah, it was nothing. What else could I have done, let her fucking talk to him like that? Connor may have made mistakes in the past, but he's doing his best to learn from them and move on. That's what fucking matters, yeah?"

Hank watched as Rose beamed, nodding deeply.

"Yes, Hank, of course it is. Now, how did group session go with the both of you? Did things go better for Connor now that he's in your group?"

Connor had been moved from his initial group to Hank's group, after Rose had realized that Connor hadn't been receptive to the first one. Hank's group was full of the more serious cases, those who had attempted suicide or had deep depression. Connor hadn't fit perfectly well, but he had done better, Hank felt, sitting beside him. The kid had even spoken softly about Amanda and had mentioned briefly about her abuse. How she would punish him if he did anything wrong. How she'd look at him with such disappointment if he showed even a hint of organic emotion. He didn't go into great detail, something holding him back, but it had been something. Hank had grinned at the kid encouragingly when Connor had looked at him for assistance, eyes wide. That seemed to help calm him down, giving him the courage to open up even a little.

"Yeah. It went well. I can't speak for him, but I think the group works for him."

Rose smiled at that, nodding.

"Good, good. Now, if you don't mind, why don't we start talking about how you're feeling, Hank? Can you tell me more about where your feelings of worthlessness began? Once we trace that back to the start, maybe we can work out a plan on how to fix it, alright?"

Hank nodded slowly at that, part of him not wanting to go into it. He already knew where the feelings began. It had started when he had been six and had watched his father get laid off, turning the already gruff man into a goddamn nightmare who took his pain out on his wife and son. Hank didn't want to delve into the memories, but knew Rose was right. Until he worked through the negative memories, he'd never get better. Unfortunately.

So he told her. About his childhood. About how it had felt, watching his father drink every day, coming home from bars late at night, drunk off his ass. How it had felt, watching his mother slowly deflate, losing the brightness in her eyes. What it had been like, watching his mother also fall into the drink, both parents drunk more often than not. He'd had to take care of them both, cleaning up after their messes, while contending with his father's bitter anger. He couldn't count the amount of times he'd had to clean one or both of his parents up, vomit covering their bodies, his father calling him pathetic, worthless. Nothing. And then, he remembered the time he'd come home and found his mother lying prone on the ground, empty bottle of aspirin beside her hand, vomit thick and foamy on her lips. He'd blamed himself, for that. He'd been out on a date at the time, so happy that the girl he'd been sweet on had finally agreed to go out with him. Had he just been there that night, had he not stayed out so long…

Hank scowled at himself as tears filled his eyes. No. Fuck no. He wasn't about to start crying again. He'd cried way too much over the past year. He wouldn't shed anymore tears on his worthless parents. Rose spoke softly to him, assuring him it wasn't his fault. He just grinned sardonically at her.

"No offense, Doc, but so many people have told me that, I find it a little hard to believe. I shoulda been there for her. I knew she was depressed. I should have… I should have been there."

"You weren't responsible for your parents, Hank. You had a right to spend time to yourself. You had a right to be happy. I know it's hard to believe, but can you please do something for me, over the weekend? Try and tell yourself it wasn't your fault, at least once a day. Even if you don't believe it. Even if it feels wrong. Just tell yourself that, once a day, okay honey?"

Hank scowled at that but shrugged. He'd try.

After that the two talked about his feelings, what it felt like when he messed up, the like. It was still hard to do, the voice in his head demanding he keep his feelings to himself still loud, but he pushed passed it.

Nearing the end of the session, he watched as Rose took out a piece of paper from her folder, handing it carefully to Hank. The words 'Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT)' were printed in blocky letters at the top.

"Now, Hank, in addition to you telling yourself it wasn't your fault, I want you to try and do this sheet for me, okay? Have you ever heard of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy before?"

When he shook his head, Rose began to explain, saying how it was a therapeutic technic that helped someone change their base thoughts and core beliefs.

"Basically, the next time you have a thought that you are worthless, that you are to blame for what happened, I'd like you to write the thought out. Then, I'd like you to write where you are when it's happening and what you're doing. Next, I'd like you to write down how the thought makes you feel, how it affects you. Finally, I'd like you to write down a new way to phrase the thought, and then write how that makes you feel." Upon seeing his lost expression, Rose smiled, taking out a second sheet. "It can be a bit confusing at first, so why don't we do one together as an example, huh, honey?"

Hank agreed carefully, eyes wary as he looked at the sheet, split into neat columns asking for each of the things Rose had mentioned.

In the last ten minutes they had, Hank and Rose worked on the sheet together, picking his thought of "I'm fucking worthless" to work on. They filled out the when and where he had felt it, Hank picking the instance from several days ago, when he'd broken down after his visit with Sumo. It was hard to describe how it had made him feel, ears burning as he felt embarrassment rise. He hated telling how small it made him feel, how sad. How worthless.

Then, together, they figured out a different thought for him to focus on instead of the idea that he's worthless.

"Now, Hank, it doesn't have to be a complete 180. I don't want you to just write down "I'm not worthless," or something. That's not what this is about. Well, unless you actually feel that way. No, this is about retraining your brain, so you don't fall back into the habits of thinking so lowly of yourself. This is about giving yourself a different perspective, so to speak. So, what's a small way that you think you can change your mentality from 'I'm worthless,' to something more positive?"

Hank thought about it but had no idea. What else could he say, other than 'I'm not worthless?' He didn't feel like that, but he didn't know what else to put. He said as much to Rose, who smiled kindly at him.

"Well, why don't we start small? Why don't we say that, 'maybe I feel worthless right now, but overall I know I have some worth.' Would that work, Hank? Can you try and replace the thoughts that you are worthless with the thought I had said? Remember, this is a way for you to change how you think. It has to be something that you actually believe."

Hank pondered it for a second, examining if he felt it to be true. After a second passed, Hank nodded slowly.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think I could feel that."

Rose smiled widely at him, before writing down the new thought on the paper. Together, they worked out how the new thought made Hank feel. He had a moment of frustration when he realized it didn't really make him feel that much better, that it didn't make him relieved or anything, but Rose just shook her head.

"That's not what this is about, Hank. You're not going to start to feel better right away. This will take time. You've had over 40 years to get these thoughts ingrained in your head, it's going to take some time to change them. So it's okay to start small. After all, isn't feeling nothing better than feeling small and worthless?"

Hank shrugged his shoulder at that, supposing that it was an improvement.

"As the months pass, you'll start to notice that it'll get easier and easier to have more positive thoughts. It will take some time, though, so don't feel frustrated when it doesn't work right away. If you try and do this whenever you have a bad thought, mentally changing the thought into something more positive, your brain will start to recognize the new thought as true. This, paired with your medication, should help you start to feel happier, Hank. And you deserve to feel happy, sugar. But it's going to take time."

Hank felt a lump form in his throat at the thought. He had always known that it wouldn't be easy, but the thought of how long this was going to take, and how hard it was going to be, made a spark of anxiety rise in his heart. God, this was never going to work, was it? He'd never get better. Never. Never. Nev-

A gentle hand touched his own, starling him out of his thoughts, wide eyes meeting Rose's kind ones.

"Now Hank, honey, I don't want that to discourage you. You've already done so much in such a short amount of time. Even being here, asking for help, shows how far you've come. Don't focus on the journey ahead, Hank. Focus on the distance you've covered, how extraordinary it is that you're here, now, pushing aside your discomfort to ask for help. Yes, it will take a while before things get better. But they're already so much better than they had been, and you should be proud of that, Hank. More than proud," Rose encouraged gently, her hand squeezing his in support. Hank swallowed the lump in his throat and smiled stiffly back. Okay. Okay. He could do this. He was an adult. He could get better. He could try.

"Yeah. I. Yeah. Thanks, Rose. I ''preciate it."

"That's why I'm here, Hank. To help. Now, unfortunately we are out of time, but I will see you again on Tuesday, alright? And please, call me if things get too heavy to deal with alone. I promise I'll listen, no matter what, okay?"

Hank nodded, startled to realize he meant it. Rose smiled yet again, before removing her hand and standing up.

"Now, you go on and enjoy the rest of your day, okay? And do your best to fill out that sheet, if you need to, and we can go over it next time. I'll see you later, Hank," Rose said, walking over to the door. Hank followed suit, heart a jumbled mess as he followed the nurse out the office, back into the common room.

As he passed the door separated the two spaces, he heard a happy voice call his name, Connor filling his line of sight a moment later. Hank couldn't help the grin when he saw the kid, a grin on his beautiful face.

"Hank! How'd the session go?"

"Good, Connor. It went… really fucking good."

And he was surprised to find he meant it. Yeah, it had been hard, but he felt better about things now. Lighter. He had a plan, now. It would take time and it would be hard. God knew it would be hard. But it was going to work. He told himself that, as he waved Connor goodbye, the man going into his own session.

It would work, he promised himself, looking in the mirror later, eyes heavy with pain, heart overwhelmed once more at the task before him.

He'd get better, he determined, grinning at the sight before him, Connor playing so gently with the little girl who came to read to the patients.

No, it wouldn't be easy. No, he wouldn't get better overnight. And yes, he'd have relapses into those negative thoughts, those negative feelings.

But he had hope now, for the first time in years.

And that's all that mattered.