Warning: Brief rough sex.


Helena's foot tapped against the table separating her from her silent client. The silence sliced open old wounds, splitting the stitches she patched up with her own therapist. Her IT band was on fire, tensing and holding onto her knee. She stretched her leg further, knocking over her glass of water slightly, spilling and bringing attention to her gaff. "Oops," she took a tissue from her desk. Why were there so many tissues?

"Do people cry often in your office?" Sephiroth questioned, taking in the little boxes around her room, and a large congregation of them in the open cabinet.

"Well," Helena pondered, "there's no shame in that, I think."

"Should I be crying?" A perfect eyebrow arched in response to Helena's misplaced statement. He didn't want to think of a session in which he would feel like crying. When was the last time he cried? When was the last time she cried?

Helena's eyes rested on his nose, ignoring the thoughts swarming lately. He's wearing a different shirt. That PICC line looks intriguing. What time is it?

"I don't think you should cry unless you think it's necessary. How's your chest?" Helena instinctively pointed to her collarbone where the line rested on his own chest.

"It's… annoying. Hojo, well…," He trailed, buttoning his shirt below the tubes. Helena's cheeks roasted and her chest caved at the thought of raw flesh and tubes shoved into veins.

"It must hurt like a bitch," Helena spoke, mostly to herself.

"It's unpleasant. But, I'm used to it." Sephiroth's fingers made easy work of buttoning up his shirt. A soft blue, tucked into his pants, outlining his tightened chest and puffing out when breathing deeply. Tell him.

Helena could do nothing more than smile and nod, letting out a small breath. "I think that's it for today's session. Anything you think would be useful for you to work on for the week?"

Sephiroth leaned back and extended himself to look at the clock behind him, his shirt outlining his intercostal muscles. "That went by very quickly. I think I have a lot to think of…"

"Have you considered journalling? You know, keeping track of what you're thinking."

Sephiroth snapped back, looking at his therapist with a deadened expression. "Does it look like I have considered journalling?"

Helena noted the hostility but decided to avoid writing it down in her session notes. Hojo would most likely shuffle through them and find some reason to stop the progress her confident voice was reassuring her.

"It's a suggestion. It might be something to consider now that we are exploring this anger you are noticing."

Sephiroth caved at the sight of his therapist sitting upright in her chair suddenly, snapping to attention. Just as he imagined the SOLDIERs would do when he commanded. Helena was quiet but fiery, delicately constructed like a house of cards but softly holding his anger like none have tried. "I'll try it."

Client ID: S-01-01

Therapist: Helena Menninger

Client Summary: Client expressed a "shift" in his anger, client reported that he no longer feels it as present in certain situations such as meetings.

Helena looked up from her computer, noticing the door was open. Sephiroth must have left it open when he left – she remarked that there was a bit of a commotion down the hall. She stood up from her seat cautiously, inching towards the door and rubbernecking around the open slit. Sephiroth was standing, hands clenched by his sides, easing in and out. Genesis's was gesturing grandly, voice progressively increasing at the silence provided by the silver-haired man. The secretary felt uncertain but Helena felt bold.

"Is everything okay?" She slipped herself between the men, observing the change in Genesis; shoulders dropped, hands snapping to his side, to attention – a habit.

"You know what? Fuck this!" Genesis screamed, pushing a fake plant on the ground as he made his way to the emergency stairs, perhaps to release the pent-up rage that lingered in his body, on the neck Sephiroth drew on him.

Sephiroth turned to the elevators, his head hanging lower than what was customary for the First. Helena was so tempted to place a hand on his arm, leading him away from the anger he was so desperate to release but she knew better. Sephiroth pushed the button, calculatingly reserved, a hollow feeling creeping over him – the burning ravaging every organ he ever had.

"Sephiroth, it's okay to be angry at him."

"I'm killing him." Sephiroth pushed the button again, this time with a degree of anger Helena observed to be incrementally increasing in his behaviours.

"Have you made an appointment? Do you want me to make a note to discuss it?"

His hands were at his side, grasping at the densely knit fabric. Helena wanted to hold his hands, gently cupping his face but thought against it. What kind of therapist are you? There's something wrong here. Maybe, but she knew what it was like. She knew the growing silence was only to hide a sorrow burrowing through, gnawing at the tender flesh of the heart. It was hard to be angry. Even harder to be sad.

"I'll just journal about it," Sephiroth cynically snapped, not knowing why.

Helena knew she was getting too close and took a step back. "I'm here if you need it."

Sephiroth nodded agonizingly slow. Be straight, be narrow. Stand to attention. "Thank you, Helena."

Incident report

Client ID: S-01-01

Therapist: Helena Menninger

Therapist was alerted to an argument in the hallway.

Helena sighed and stood from her desk. It was four and time to rush home before rush hour. Her small apartment, a perfect fit for her: alone and lonely. She didn't understand why she was so eager to head home. It could be because any alternative to her office was appealing. Her apartment would offer some reprieve from the bustle and hustle of her work life. She often disconnected in a flurry of dissociative dream-like states, eating at her table alone, sleeping alone. She was getting used to it, now pushing on thirty. She loved her freedom but often thought what it would be like being her friends, paired off, much like Shinra advertised. It was clear that Shinra was on a different path than they were towards the beginning of the war: sell Mako energy, the perfect family, SOLDIERs were human too. She couldn't see what Emma thought of Genesis. She didn't see what Sephiroth wanted of the broken pieces. Helena sighed again. She needed to go home.

She rolled herself in her shawl, the weather slightly warmer than last week; Midgar heading into spring. Not like it matters. Nothing grew in Midgar. Helena sat on the train bench, taking the train down to the Slums. She heard somewhere (it was probably her mother's Planetology nonsense) that the Slums once had names for each area. The Slums weren't as dirty as the Upper Plate folks would describe and she didn't think it necessary to tell her office mates that she lived in the Slums, taking nearly an hour to get to and from the office.

Helena looked through her bag for a distraction, noticing she brought her office phone with her. She opened her emails, scrolling through the mountain of unread emails, knowing full well that if she opened them there would be a read report to the sender. She hated them for their policies and their restrictive hold on her work. But there was one email that stood out from a surprising sender.

From: s01 shinra

To: hmenninger shinra

Subject:

Helena;

I apologize for my recent outbursts. It is unbecoming.

I have brought a notebook from the office.

Helena stared at the email. As brief as it was, it was a sign, she knew it was a sign. For a moment, she felt honoured and respected. But then swallowed her pride. She needed to be level-headed. She needed to be a good therapist.

The feeling lingered, however, even as she entered her apartment. She never felt so elated and wondered why. Sephiroth reminded her of something disturbingly like herself. There was a sadness, she was aware and knew she needed to touch in session, carefully, slowly. She wanted to be the therapist he needed. She wanted to succeed at her work, showing off to her small family, showing off to her team, but there was something else that dawdled along her mind. Her thoughts often carried her in session but she was skilled enough to ignore them, tame them, pay attention to what was most important to her: her sessions. Perhaps that was it. She was a good therapist.

Helena slipped in her housecoat and began making dinner – a frozen dinner she bought from a local market that she was assured by the cashier was very tasty. Then a knock. At first, Helena thought she imagined it or perhaps it was her neighbour receiving a visit from his girlfriend. She would often hear them, slamming the bed against the wall, occasionally letting out a scream. But the knock was so clear that she placed her fork down, next to the microwave, and attended to the door.

"Sephiroth? How the hell did you find out where I lived?" Helena snapped, a sudden surge, feeling encroached. Sephiroth's hand clenched the side of the door, pushing through Helena's hardened grasp. "What are you doing here?"

Insisting through her softened barrier, she felt something akin to melting. His hands grasped at her neck, driving her backward onto her kitchen table, slamming her back into the side, tossing over the saltshaker. She wanted to drive against him, two open palms pushing at his exposed chest, but she thought against it. Her hands gently felt their way, she felt the tubes collapse under the weight of her struggling – his hands pulsating against her throat with each breath he took, tubes to follow. It was aggressive and yet gentle. He was wearing his black satin shirt, opened towards his last rib.

His hot breath against her ear, words sending shivers down her spine, "you want this, don't you?"

Hard barriers and bodies collided. Hands pushing turned to pulling towards. She did. Realizing she wanted it so badly, two lost humans looking for something larger than their meager existence. Her hands searched for the tubes and held them. Kisses down his neck, hands feverishly unbuckling his leather belt. Tearing her away, hands from neck now opening her housecoat, exposing her to the cool air – Helena refusing to pay her hiked electricity bill.

"You want this."

"Yes."

And then the microwave beeped. Helena took out her meal and sat at the table – it smelt good. She needed to call someone; she needed to call her therapist.


A/N: Helena's got this. I think. Or she might be losing it.

Song of the night: Shameful Metaphors, Chevelle