Chapter Text
Zavala found himself in a rare free moment as he observed the Traveler in quiet contemplation. It was early Spring now, and despite the omnipresent wind chill at the Tower’s parapet, he could see the burgeoning bustle in the streets below. It had been a uniquely dark Winter this year, and he was welcoming the cheer of a fresh Spring. The gardens would be in bloom soon, and he could almost smell it. The peace and quiet was shattered by an absolutely mountainous Titan whose name escaped Zavala at the moment. With a sonorous, bassy voice he cleared his throat and began, “Zavala, sir. If you have a moment I’d like to discuss a proposal for maintaining Guardian readiness.”
Zavala turned to look at the Titan and cocked his head. “I have very few to spare, but if you can keep it brief I’ll see what I can do.” No matter how hard he tried, weariness crept into Zavala’s voice even when talking to rank-and-file Guardians lately. Bringing Osiris on had earned him vital breathing room but even the elder Warlock’s labors were a bandage on a wound in deep need of full triage. The Vanguard system, such as it was, barely functioned when all 3 members were alive and active. With both himself and Ikora completely consumed by external concerns, they had barely any attention remaining for the internal duties which also required their attention.
The Titan removed his helmet and held it underneath his arm. He kept his hair closely cropped, though he had grown out a luxurious beard. His dark skin was marked by a handful of visible scars, which he wore like trophies. Each was earned in defense of something or someone he held dear, after all. “Awesome! Thank you sir.” Despite looking like some kind of mythic hero, he was extremely soft-spoken. His voice was deep but it carried a quiet kindness. “Sadly, I don’t believe we’ve interacted much. I’m Gerard. The proposal I’d like to make is about Guardian health. Specifically, I’m worried about the mental health of those of us on constant deployment. Which, come to think of it, is basically everyone,” he trailed off, rubbing his chin thoughtfully through his thick, curly beard.
“And what do you propose?” Asked Zavala, quirking an eyebrow.
“I’d like permission to start counseling Guardians in a semi-official capacity. I couldn’t personally take on many patients but if all goes well in piloting this, we could begin setting up support groups and other resources.”
“Would you mind elaborating, Guardian?”
Gerard nodded and continued, “sir. Ghosts can heal all of our physical injuries. However, I’m growing concerned with the rate of accumulation of psychological injuries among my fellow Guardians. We don’t have any way to treat that right now. While there are numerous practicing therapists within the city, they’re not adequately trained to deal with the unique issues faced by Guardians. I’m certain it would be possible, but lightless therapists would struggle to truly understand the relationship between a Guardian and a Ghost, or the unique trauma of death and resurrection, or even just the unique anxieties that come from being an immortal amnesiac warrior drafted into an eternal war.”
“And you believe you are qualified to provide better care?”
“Yes, I do. I awoke with a certain… knack for talking people through distress and during downtime I’ve been in contact with lightless psychologists to hone that into something more officially therapeutic. I believe I may have had some experience in this before resurrection, given the speed with which I took to this. I presently hold the closest thing the City has to a formal certificate.”
“Very well. You can do this with my blessing. We’ll give you a spare space within the Tower. As you said, the state of our Guardians’ mental health is just as vital as training and equipment. Please, keep me updated on your progress. I believe we may need more like you very soon.” Zavala turned away back to the Traveler as he finished. He did not mean to be rude or dismissive, but he needed to let his guard down some as the conversation had taken a great deal out of him. Perhaps if he could find the time, he’d look into talking about his own struggles. He snorted in amusement at the thought.
Callix grumbled at the thought of … well, all of this. At getting his arm twisted by Zorah into doing this. At being some kind of guinea pig in a new "mental health" program for Guardians. That he would be tricked or cajoled into discussing things he wouldn't even talk to his closest remaining friends about. And at Pistil being even smugger than usual about all the above. Walking in to the temporary office space, Callix couldn't help but sneer at the sneaky, disarming banality of it. Seeing seating, and seeing as he was early, he sat down in a huff and crossed his arms impatiently. A few moments later, he crossed his legs, too. Moments after that, he began to drum his fingers on the opposite arm. He would continue to fidget in this irritated manner for 10 minutes. A mental figment of Pistil mockingly asked, "anxious are we?" He ignored that, grinding his teeth instead of talking to himself.
The last man he expected to see came through the door. And he looked markedly more… domestic… than Callix remembered. He sputtered, "wait… Gerard, is that you?!"
Gerard grinned and said, "it's the sweater isn't it? You just don't recognize me outside of my usual 'walking battle tank' getup, huh?" To punctuate the good-natured teasing, he tugged at its collar.
"... I mean, cable-knit atrocities aside, I figured you'd be blowing up some Cabal or training New Lights?"
"Oh! Well, I'm actually the one who proposed this to Commander Zavala. Consider it triage of a different kind. I just didn't think my first patient would be an old friend."
"Friend of a friend, really." Callix retorted. "How is Adrienne lately? Heard from her at all?"
Gerard merely shrugged his shoulders at the question and replied, "has anyone? Once she got it on her head they might stick her behind a desk… well, you know how she is about getting tied down. Anyway, the past aside, let's take this into my office. I want you to feel comfortable and, frankly, my chair is comfier than standing for an hour."
Callix snorted noncommittally, shook his head, and followed him. The office he was led into was cheerfully decorated, comfortable and intimate without being stuffy and claustrophobic. It was brightly lit without being uncomfortable, and a large, bright window looked out over the City below. In short, it was a conscious manipulation to engender forced familiarity and openness. His back was figuratively up immediately. It reeked of condescending pity in here. Condescending pity and… Matcha? He sat down and was answered by the sound of water heating up in a kettle. "Tea?" Asked Girard, preparing the pot and checking a selection of loose blends. "And by extension, any preferences therein?"
"And I suppose that's meant to tell you something about my personality or something?"
"It's supposed to tell me whether or not I should get another cup out, actually. But if that's a 'no' then..."
Callix flopped onto the plush sectional across from Gerard and replied, "black is fine."
"Then I'll let the water hit full boil. While that's going on, why don't you tell me about why you decided to come in?"
"Zorah made me," resentment evident in his tone.
"I know she made the referral for you but if you're half the Warlock I remember, I'm not sure a young Guardian like her could make you do anything. Why are you really here?"
Callix tensed up, looked out the window and spat, "no amount of fireballs could have stopped her incessant pity. She wore me down."
Unbothered, Gerard then replied, "but nothing said you actually had to show up. Nothing actually says you have to be in that chair, in this room. You can actually walk out right now, if you think that's best. I'm perfectly comfortable sipping tea and waiting for my next patient to come in."
Callix was somewhat taken aback by the response. Why was he still planted in this chair? It certainly wasn't because spending a Spring afternoon in this room seemed like the greatest fun he could be having. Did some part of him really think this could do anything? Had he already been played, manipulated? The thought troubled him. The silence between the two men was punctuated by the click of the kettle coming off of boil and Gerard carefully pouring it over the tea. They sat for another few minutes of silence. The tea has steeped. Gerard removed the strainer, depositing it gently on a plate presumably placed out for exactly that purpose. In further silence, he poured each of them a cup and very gently placed it on the end table next to Callix. The lack of dialogue persisted as the tea began to cool to a comfortable drinking temperature. Gerard took a sip, placing the dainty-looking cup down with the smallest of thumps, though it could have been a hammer dropping for how thoroughly it shattered the quiet. Like an ocean wave, they sat in ebbing and flowing silence as one or the other would pick up and sip the tea, say nothing, and place the cup where it had rested.
Callix honestly began to feel nervous, which was ridiculous as he had no expectations. Clearly he could say something but simply chose not to. So why did it bother him that no words had passed between them? Did he really want to answer that question? What was he afraid of here, exactly? He furrowed his brows in immense concentration. What had thrown him off about this? Was it because he knew the man who would be picking and prodding at his scars? Was it because the manipulative comfort of the room had snared him with its spell? Was it because it was simply unbearably awkward to sit in absolute silence with exactly one other person?
Or you're afraid it will work , said Pistil's mocking voice again. Again Callix ground his teeth and fumed. He knew that it was simply his subconscious mind giving voice to his own critical thoughts but the voice of his irritating little satellite doing the mocking agitated him genuinely.
"Just so you know, your time is up in ten minutes," Gerard helpfully mentioned, breaking Callix's introspection. "I could sit here all day but it would be unfair to the next patient after you. If you'd like to say something, now may be the time. Otherwise I'd be happy to sip tea in silence again, same time next week, until you feel like talking or quitting."
Callix fumed. Out of sheer obstinate resentment, he waited out the remaining ten minutes. Getting up to leave, Gerard opened the door for him and said, "for what it's worth, I don't think you'll quit. So, I hope we can talk more."
With that, Callix left feeling slightly humiliated and frustrated. Oh, he would be back. He was fucking sick of being accused of quitting, after all.