Chapter Text
Quackity was, assumedly, the last person to walk into the back room of the library for the therapy group he’d signed up for- this was fitting, in his opinion, because he was also, assumedly, the one least excited to be here. A friend had recommended this therapist, who asked to be referred to as Bad, to him several weeks ago and this group had been presented as an up-and-coming option- Las Nevadas, Bad called it, and the six current members were all there because of their mental health struggles and consequent failed suicide attempts. Despite this ‘reassurance’ that the others would understand and respect what he was going through, Quackity was dreading actually showing up.
He was running a few minutes late, but that wasn’t actually out of a lack of preparation or even spite; he had expected the therapy session to be held in one of the library’s conference rooms, and when he couldn’t find anything, had to experience the humiliation of going to the front desk and asking the librarian where his therapy was supposed to be held. She’d directed him down the hallway and to a ‘little nook’ in the back that was supposedly ‘more comfy and suitable for the nature of the meeting’. When he finally got there, he slumped down in the armchair left vacant for him, pretending his face wasn’t burning with embarrassment, and tried to take in his surroundings and the new faces without appearing to stare.
The room was more comfortable, admittedly- Bad had made a good decision swapping the stuffy gray room and folding chairs for a warmly lit sitting area surrounded by books. Quackity could admit that much, even if he hadn’t relaxed completely yet. Bad was the only one Quackity recognized, thankfully, and it was only because he’d looked up both the office Bad worked at and his records there that Quackity knew what he looked like. Despite this town being relatively small, it seemed he wouldn’t have to face the awkwardness of encountering old college classmates here or anything; though he was slightly surprised to notice two of the guys seemed a bit older than college age- in their late twenties, at least; one looked pretty put-together in a black turtleneck and dark green coat, keeping a decent posture, and the other looked southern, like Quackity himself, but perhaps closer to the eastern Deissempii border, his suspicions further confirmed by the expensive-looking cloak bordered with shells and beads in a traditionally Undynne Desert fashion. Nothing wrong with them being older, really, but Quackity had thought he’d see more of the ‘depressed, overworked students’ sort of look here; though really, none of them seemed to fit that stereotype- maybe Quackity himself and the guy on the couch who looked only eighteen or so, wearing a purple hoodie that was definitely a very conscious, confusing choice on his part. Quackity didn’t know quite what to think about either of those things.
“Well, I think we can get started now.” Bad clasped his hand together, sounding rather cheerful given the situation they were in. At least his tone was gentle, keeping him from sounding too overbearing. And maybe Quackity was starting to overanalyze out of social anxiety. “I’ll give us a little opening to the session and let you all introduce yourselves. The plan is to take it easy today and start to learn about each other. I have a topic to cover if we have some extra time. Now, I’d like this to be as calm and comfortable for everyone as possible, so I won’t call on you unless nobody speaks for too long. But I’ll try to let you talk when you’re ready.”
He glanced around the room for general approval, not that he probably needed it when he was the therapist. Quackity was on his far right with only one person in between them, so that was most likely why Bad’s gaze lingered on him a second at the end, softening slightly. He tried to brush it off and ignore the humiliation slowly creeping back up on him.
He tugged his beanie down, hiding as much of his hair as possible even though it was definitely sticking out on the back of his neck.
“So here’s what I’d like: Please introduce yourself with your preferred name, age, and -if you’re willing to- what sort of work you do or are studying for. And then a fact about yourself.” Bad continued after a moment, breaking out into a smile. “And not a fun fact- Really, I don't want you guys to tell us something super fun- it can be boring as you want. Just something you think makes you a little bit of who you are.”
Bad was doing a good job of looking reassuring, which Quackity would give him credit for. It almost made Quackity feel guilty for not trusting him, but that thought was going to be squashed immediately or Quackity was never coming back to another session with this guy. Instead of speaking up like Bad had asked, Quackity stared at the carpet in the center of the room and waited to see what other people would do, figuring their answers would say plenty about them and give him a better idea of how to not give away too much right off the bat. How to fit in, as it was. Make him seem at least okay, if not normal.
“I’ll start?” Bad finally offered, sounding just the slightest bit disappointed that no-one was ready to talk yet. “You can call me Bad. I’m a licensed cognitive behavioral and occupational therapist, and I’m thirty-nine years old. A boring fact about me is that I listen to ‘old music’, according to my son. It’s just from the seventies, though.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” the person on Bad’s left offered, but didn’t reply further. He was, frankly, the only one here who looked more unhappy to be here than Quackity himself was, but his comment did make him seem a bit more approachable. Unfortunately, the reasons he looked unapproachable outnumbered that fact- his arms were crossed, his narrowed, pale brown eyes made his expression turn to a scowl, and his arms -what visible of them under his coat, anyway- were littered in small burn scars, making him seem all the more intimidating.
It took a few more agonizing seconds for anyone to reply, though Quackity wasn’t surprised at that. No-one wanted to go first, admit that to everyone who they were and why they were here. Even though they all saw this part of the session coming; even if they all clearly wanted to get to the ‘feel better’ part. They had to get to know each other eventually, after all. But Quackity wasn’t jumping on the chance to relive the old middle-school ice-breakers, either, so he had nothing to say for himself. Idly, he tried to guess who would go first- maybe the guy with the graying ginger hair sitting across from Bad? And while that little ‘boring fact’ bit didn’t make it any easier for Quackity to come up with something, he did respect the attempt to relieve the pressure. And he could think of plenty of boring things about himself- He wore a beanie to cover his hair every day because he was self-conscious about it, his handwriting is poor because he broke some of his fingers once and they became crooked, he thinks the Manbergian food he’s had to eat since moving here is bland in comparison to the meals his family used to make at home. . . but all of that is too honest and too easy for Bad to pick apart as ‘a discussion topic’ or a ‘problem he developed’ for Quackity to want to say any of that.
Eventually, the guy sitting between Quackity and Bad spoke up, pushing up his thick-framed glasses before he did. His tone was even cheerier than Bad’s, and he smiled casually like he was talking to friends already. “Hi, everyone, I’m Charlie. I’m very human. I’m twenty-five and work at a sandwich shop with my friends right now, and. . .” He drew out the word, face scrunching up in thought. “I have all my bones! That’s boring, I think. It’s normal.” The kid on the couch made a noise, something like a disbelief, shifting in his seat so he wasn't quite so turned away from them all. He muttered something, probably what Quackity was thinking- this is going to be good. Because when a session starts out with someone insisting twice that they’re normal, human, and have bones, you know you’re with a weird crowd. Quackity didn’t remark on that, though, only blinking away his surprise at this sort of introduction as a tentative hand raised and the next person -the ginger guy- introduced himself, on Quackity’s immediate right and having tucked himself away in the corner of the couch like he wanted to dissolve into it- or, at any rate, to give the kid sitting next to him way more space than he probably deserved.
“I’m Fundy,” the guy offered awkwardly, retracting his hand quicker than reflexes could avoid boiling water and tucking it away in his sweatshirt pocket again. “I’m twenty-two and a computer science major, though I’m thinking about dropping out because it’s super stressful and I’m not even learning anything. And, um, my boring fact is that I can crack all the joints in my hands. It’s fun.” He tagged the last statement on with a shrug, trying to get the attention off of him by meeting the eyes of anyone else in the room. Quackity had never averted his gaze so instantaneously, still not ready to talk about himself.
“Hey, my name is Foolish.” Someone else took pity on Fundy and went next- the southeastern person across from Quackity, whom Quackity is pretty sure has been trying to subtly hide his anxious tics from the rest of them, or is at least noticeably fidgeting. “I’m twenty-eight and an architect. Or I was, anyway. I have time off right now.” He hesitated a bit, a hand brought up and dragged through the braided sections of his hair. “Something boring. . . I failed my economics class in college. Twice.”
Fundy offered a hum discernable as both pity and relatability, while the guy on Bad’s left assured him that ‘economics suck anyway’, both of which Foolish nodded some appreciation at, but he left it at that.
At the motion, light metal clinking drew attention to the chain across Foolish’s nose bridge piercing. The gold metal was barely visible against his skin tone, and Quackity probably never would have noticed otherwise.
“Well, I’m Sam,” the guy Quackity had been absently keeping an eye on finally offered, the sulking look disappearing from his face for just a second as he looked up to introduce himself properly. “I just turned thirty, actually, and I’m a mechanical engineer. And my boring fact is. . . I guess it’s that I’m still in love with my highschool sweetheart. We’re just friends now, but. . . you know.” He glanced away again rather than waiting for their reactions, clouded eyes scanning book covers Quackity was too far away from to read himself. Bad pursed his lips, sympathetic, but didn’t offer any comments; Quackity wasn’t sure what he’d expected to hear, but he’d assumed their therapist would have offered something.
The kid spoke this time, offering an entirely unhelpful, “Ha, old.” The point got Sam’s attention again, though, and he offered the kid a confused, clearly disagreeing look. But rather than let Sam defend himself, Quackity decided then he might as well get his own introduction over with. Even if the timing was petty.
“I’m Quackity, twenty-four and a law major. I’m taking a break from getting my master’s degree in law because my teachers said I should ‘take care of my mental health first’.” He took a second to think of his own boring fact, eventually settling on, “I like watching football, but I’ve never played it.” With that over with, he leaned back in his chair and hoped everyone’s eyes would turn away again. He made the mistake of glancing at Bad and realized that he was writing things down, clipboard masterfully tucked away behind his crossed legs. It made him feel even more insecure about his situation, metaphorically retreating back into his shell after the cozy atmosphere and lighthearted beginning had started to draw him out.
Probably to be difficult, the kid waited a second or two too long before doing his own flippant introduction. “My name’s Purpled, I’m nineteen. I work at a shooting range. And I’m right-handed, but shoot a bow better using my left.” He pursed his lips tightly when done speaking, drawing Quacktiy’s eyes to his snake bite piercings. Quackity might have asked about them, but this guy, Purpled, did not seem to want to talk more than he had to, and Quackity planned to leave him alone.
Bad finished whatever he was writing and looked up with a light smile, apparently satisfied. “Alright then, everyone. Thank you for that. You guys are welcome to start a conversation if you’ve got anything in mind; it’s good to get to know each other a bit. There’s some tables and chairs around the room if you feel so inclined to split off and talk, I’d call you back for important stuff. But maybe we all get something started together today, alright?”
Quackity didn’t know who he was talking to, it all sounded very rhetorical and not worth paying attention to. He had nothing to say, he didn’t know these people yet. And he didn’t really want to just pour his life out yet in case something went wrong.
To help himself find some semblance of stability, he looked around the room again and repeated everyone’s names and jobs to himself, clinging to what little information he had hoping he’d feel better about the whole ‘group therapy with almost-strangers’ thing: Sam, an engineer; Foolish, an architect; Purpled, a weapons instructor; Fundy, a student; and Charlie, a store owner. He and Charlie were closest in age, though Fundy was the only one who mentioned still being in school like him. He could work with that a bit, if he wanted.
“So where d’you go to school right now?” He asked Fundy, somewhat timidly. It wasn’t too bad though- Fundy was sitting right next to him, so it seemed natural enough and went okay- Fundy even leaned over the couch a bit to talk to Quackity better, and that was a win.
“The community college up north of here,” Fundy offered, the accompanying eye roll coming across as lighthearted. “It kind of sucks, but it’s cheaper, I guess. If I need a piece of paper to prove I can work a good job, might as well just do it, is how I feel. What about you?”
Vaguely, Quackity could hear a quiet conversation starting on the other side of the room too, but barely paid any attention. He shook his head, answering, “I’m either paying for good lessons behind that paper or not at all. The stress is the same, so I see it. Law is hard to study at any place- ask anyone.”
Suddenly worried he was coming across as boastful, Quackity shut his mouth, about to turn away from the conversation, but for some reason Fundy didn’t pick up on that and responded wholeheartedly.
“I mean, fair enough, dude. Must’ve been tough to get through four years then, huh? Good on your teachers for giving you a break. Mine sure don't.” His laugh was a bit skittish, like he was afraid to be loud. The chittering sort of sound was like one a woodland creature would make, Quackity noted.
“Do you live on campus?” Quackity’s next question came easily, somehow, and he found himself looking up to properly meet Fundy’s eyes- they were a warm brown and upturned, reminding Quackity again of some sort of carnivorous animal.
“Nope, a couple friends and I are renting out this old apartment about ten minutes away. It’s fine, saves me from needing a car, even, ‘cause Jack has one I can borrow and I walk to all my classes- the area’s a bit messy, though.” Fundy explained it all nonchalantly enough, but his wide eyes and distractedly thoughtful gaze suggested that maybe he’s holding a lot about the situation back. “Sucks when it rains and I still have to walk though.”
Quackity hummed some sort of agreement, trying to remind himself to relax and stop scrutinizing everyone. When he vaguely heard Fundy ask him about his living situation, he tried to push down his own panic and be just as calm: “I lived on campus, yeah; can’t right now though, because I have the whole year off, so I’m looking for a place before I move out in eight weeks.”
“Maybe you should move in with us.” It’s obviously a joke, but Fundy’s mischievous grin wasn’t actually mocking; it seemed like he meant it- the sentiment, anyway. They had only met fifteen minutes ago, really, so it couldn’t be too serious.
Fundy, whenever he wasn’t speaking, seemed to be picking at the skin of his face and lips, which Quackity knew could be painful after a while. It seemed like a harmless stim at the moment, and Quackity didn’t want to make him self-conscious, so he didn’t mention it.
“Maybe I will,” Quackity offered in return, despite himself. He let a smile reach his lips, tugging and stretching the scar running down his face.
“Where are you moving?” Charlie asked, joining their conversation on Quackity’s other side. He looked genuinely invested for someone with no idea what they were talking about, an almost childlike sincerity showing on his face and in his posture.
“Somewhere, possibly to Fundy’s apartment,” Quackity explained, finding Charlie’s behavior easy to entertain. “I dunno, we did just meet. At therapy, no less.”
“Therapy is a great way to make friends!” Charlie told him, as if Quackity had said otherwise. “That’s how I met a lot of my friends, since no-one stuck around after school. Bizly and Condi don't care that I’m weird and we like each other a lot.”
Not knowing what to do with that information, Quackity was left with no answer, tugging on his beanie as if it could go any further down his head. Fundy managed to save him and keep the conversation going, saying he’d made friends with the guy whose therapy appointments were always right after his because they’d meet in the hallways every week. Which was a weirder story, in Quackity’s opinion, but he had nothing useful to say about it, either.
The tapping of Fundy’s sharp nails on the couch’s arm kept their conversation at a steady rhythm, letting Quackity take a mental step back and shove down more of his anxiety.
Finally, Bad reigned things back in for them, apparently able to catch a lull throughout the room and speaking up. His pen was resting against the paper, ready to take notes on and dissect everyone’s next words, and Quackity winced inwardly, wishing he didn’t see it. He’d almost managed to forget about it while talking, but now his anxiety was making him freeze up again.
“Well, everyone, I think we have a few more minutes to talk to each other, and I was hoping to do something a bit more as a group.” Bad seemed to be thinking rather hard, like he didn’t know what they were going to do yet, either. “This might seem a bit juvenile at first, just let me explain: This is something I do with younger age groups in therapy together, usually siblings or classmates, and it works pretty well. Normally, everyone would take turns saying something they like -not a favorite thing, necessarily- and everyone who also liked it would raise their hand to show that they have that in common. But to change it up a bit, I think we should find common ground specifically in light of our mental health, our current situations and our goals. So I’ll list a couple things, and please just raise your hand if you relate.”
Quackity appreciated that Bad spoke slowly and offered short pauses every now and then; it gave him a chance to process -and stress over- everything that had been said, and it was probably intentional in that regard. Though maybe he didn’t want Quackity to be anxious over everything he was hearing. But in this case, Quackity was worried he was about to be, firstly, called out by his therapist; secondly, judged by the other strangers in the room who may or may not be going through the ‘same things’ ; and thirdly, have his mental health issues be tallied up on that little clipboard for Bad to reference later.
“If you’re not comfortable saying anything, that’s okay, but I’d encourage you to try being open with each other. We can go over anything in personal sessions if need be. But ultimately, this is an exercise in trust and accepting what we’re dealing with, so we can find ways to handle it as a group. Let’s begin.”
Bad flipped to the second page of his clipboard and slowly read off his list:
“I’ve been struggling with my mental health for a long time.”
Four hands raised, which surprised Quackity slightly- not in the context of the questions, but simply that anything had happened at all. Thinking about the question himself, he was fairly certain his depression and anxiety didn’t get bad until he started law school and moved towards adulthood, and he wasn’t sure three years counted as a long time, personally. The people who agreed were, in total, Fundy, Sam, Foolish, and Charlie- plus Bad had put his hand up, either to encourage them or in honesty, or both. Only Purpled and Quackity hadn’t raised their hands.
Bad read the next one: “I feel like I’ve tried everything already and that it’s barely helped.”
Charlie and Fundy kept their hands up, and Purpled’s joined them, wrapped in a bandage from some presumable injury. Bad’s hand went down, which helped Quackity feel that he was being truthful with them too. Quackity wouldn’t say that he’d tried everything- really, just the medications that had made it worse and a previous therapist who treated him like a child and had too tight a schedule for Quackity to keep alongside school.
“I feel overwhelmed with the things I’m expected to do, big or small.”
Quackity counted the hands again: Sam, Foolish, and Fundy. Tentatively, he lifted his own hand, getting it barely up to his eye level. Bad offered the slightest of nods in his direction, and it felt wildly reassuring, a quiet acknowledgement that nobody else had to see. And it was true; Law school had been difficult on good days, and his parents were the ‘tough love’ type who wanted a successful son. There were few times he didn’t feel a pressure weighing on him, invisible and deadly.
“I want to reach out to people without guilt or fear, even if I’m not sure that I can.”
Quackity was the first to have his hand up this time, followed by Sam and Fundy, then a hesitant Purpled. Fitting or ironic, one of the two. Quackity knew his anxiety got between him and getting help, made worse by the fact that the one time he’d told his mom and received medication things went even more downhill for him. It made it hard to see things going right if he trusted other people, but then again, that’s why he was being put in a group session or something.
The next few questions went quickly, fixed on a obvious point they were moving towards.
“Anxiety is one of my greatest struggles.”
Foolish, Quackity, and Bad.
“I feel isolated, whether I’m with people I love or left alone.”
Sam, Charlie and Purpled.
“My experiences have affected how I see other people, and how they see me.”
Bad, Fundy, Foolish, Sam, and Quackity.
“I feel like I need to put on a brave face all the time.”
Quackity, Charlie, Sam, and Purpled.
“I blame myself for things out of my control.”
Foolish, Sam, and Bad.
“Others’ desires for me get in the way of what I really want for myself.”
Fundy and Charlie.
“I’m worried that I’m affecting others negatively or burdening them.”
Fundy, Foolish, Charlie, and Quackity.
“I find the future terrifying and unclear, and I don't know what to do.”
Everyone, really. Quackity would think anyone who hadn’t agreed to be in denial. But they all knew in the back of their minds that such fear was probably what affected each of them the most, made them desperate, and consequently brought them all here.
Then the questions shifted, slightly, and it took Quackity a second to notice but he did catch on, picking out the language that made it seem more uplifting, less bleak, and less isolated. It was annoying to recognize, honestly. Quacktiy tended to hate when anybody was trying to get a specific answer out of him, no matter how subtle.
“I want to find comfort in other people and let them know me. . . I know how hard I’m trying and that other people want to help. . . I want things to change even if it’s difficult and scary.”
Quackity had stopped looking at whose hands go up now, he knew what Bad was trying to do; he knew this was about making it out so they were ‘all in the same boat’, getting them acquainted through trauma or something. Maybe he had a point. But Quackity definitely thought that he was in his own boat anyway, that everyone was. They had problems in common, sure, but they had their own experiences too.
It didn’t mean they couldn’t get along. But it meant this exercise was biased.
“And that concludes our session for today, I think,” Bad eventually said, sliding his pen into its slot on the clipboard as a painful reminder to Quackity that he’d been documenting this little exercise. “I don't think this room is going to be used for anything for a little while, so you’re welcome to stay a bit and talk or pick out a book, I’m sure it’ll be refreshing for you all. And if you have any questions or things to talk about with me, please come to me, I’ll be up front. I’ll see you all in two weeks for sure, and some of you sooner.” With a smile to sum up with thoughts, Bad stood up from his armchair and stretched, taking his time walking from the room and leaving them to mingle. Sam and Foolish apparently resumed their conversation from before as they picked up their respective bags -Sam’s being a durable, presumably work-oriented messenger bag covered in as many keychains as could fit on its clasps and zippers, and Foolish’s a similar kind cross-stitched with a little regional flag Quackity didn’t recognize. Once Sam’s crutches had been retrieved from behind his chair and securely placed, they started to make their way out together, with Foolish in particular talking all the while, but Quackity tuned them out and just remained sitting a minute, not in the mood to talk. Overall, it hadn’t been a bad session. He just didn’t feel any better about himself yet, which was annoying but probably normal.
Fundy offered him a wave and a grin on his way out, otherwise hurrying on his way, and just as Quackity was ready to drag himself up and out of the room, Charlie stood and turned to him expectantly.
“Can I have your number, Quackity?” he asked, with the same happy-go-lucky tone he’d used this whole time. “It’s okay if not. I just want a way to connect outside of group and get to know you better as a friend?”
“We’re not friends yet,” Quackity told him instantly, realizing after the fact that it was a horriblething to say. To make it up, he somewhat begrudgingly, held out his hand to take Charlie’s phone and put his number in. At least Charlie seemed excited, unbothered by the harsh and clipped tone Quackity had accidentally used. “Here.”
“Thanks, Quackity,” Charlie said, immediately opening a text conversation and sending a message, Quackity’s own phone vibrating in his jacket pocket with the notification. “We don't have to be friends yet, but that was nice of you. Talk soon!” He waved with both hands and scurried off, probably to catch some of the others and get their numbers too. It was almost funny.
Quackity ignored the twinge of a smile on his lips and walked out, taking the winding hallways slowly and mentally processing what he’d just been through. It. . . wasn’t bad yet. Not too promising on the surface, but maybe Quackity was just being too bleak. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his bright blue jacket and pushed the library doors open with his arm instead, greeted by a chilly wind that snapped his thoughts out of his own misery and back into the situation he was in.
He made it to his car as quickly as possible and got in, all but slamming the door shut to keep the cold outside. Resituating himself on the seat, he pulled his phone and keys from his pocket, pausing momentarily to open the text when he noticed it waiting on his lockscreen, slowly typing out his response.
From (xxx-xxx-xxxx): Hi :D
From Quackity:
Hey
It seemed a bit lacking, but Quackity decided he’d be conversational later and put his phone aside, starting up the car instead. The old thing took a second to start and even longer to warm up, but soon Quackity was on his way, heading back to the university campus he was supposed to be saying goodbye to soon- despite thinking of that every time he pulled into a parking spot outside the dorm room, there was less dread this time, maybe because he was distracted. And maybe because he was smiling as he remembered Fundy’s offer to give him a place to stay even though they barely knew each other. It was funny to think that someone would want to just look out for him like that.
Just maybe, though.