Chapter Text
“I’m feeling okay, overall,” said Ambrosius, with a light smile.
“Nothing notable going on?” the counselor prompted.
“Well, they do teach us coping mechanisms in the Institute. Just basic stress management, keeping up with exercise and self care, that kind of thing. So I attribute my feeling well to that,” Ambrosius said.
“No disruptions to your sleep?”
He inhaled deeply. “They teach us a regular method for getting to sleep well, actually. It’s all in the visualization, the calming breathing. And that has always worked well for me.”
The counselor scribbled a quick note. “That’s good to hear. And how are your relationships with others?”
Ambrosius smiled brightly. “My partner Bal, who you’ve obviously heard of, went through the same thing as I did, although obviously kind of different. So I have someone who knows what it’s like. And I have friends from the Institute, we all get along pretty well, by now.”
The counselor cocked their head. “What do you mean by ‘by now’?”
“Oh!” Ambrosius laughed. “Some of us had petty juvenile dramas in training. We’re all past those now. Mostly just spats about Bal, but you’ve likely heard the jist from the news.”
“Doubts about his social status?”
“Exactly,” Ambrosius nodded, with a knowing look.
“I see.” The counselor paused, reviewing their notes. “I have to say, I’m a little curious why you’ve come in at all. You don’t seem to have any areas that you’re concerned about.” The counselor looked over their horn-rimmed glasses.
“Well…I guess I just wanted to be sure,” said Ambrosius. “I felt like most people would want to check in with a professional after going through all that. But I suppose you’re right. I don’t really have anything I’m concerned about.”
“I’m glad to hear you feel that way,” said the counselor. Their own smile was warm and professional.
—
Ambrosius closed the front door behind himself with a final click, shutting off the afternoon light streaming in. He glanced around. No Bal.
He flung open the curtains and raised the window sash for fresh air. The sunlight revealed a few dishes on the coffee table, some crumpled blankets on the couch, and the throw pillows in disarray.
Tidying the living room, even with a pointed whip-crack of each blanket as he folded them, failed to bring about Bal. Finally, Ambrosius steeled himself and went down the hall to their room. He rapped gently on the door. “Bal?”
No response.
Ambrosius cracked open the door. Bal was lying on the bed on his side, facing the wall. He could have been asleep.
Ambrosius walked softly around the bed to Bal’s face. Bal was crying, silently, shoulders barely moving, like he’d learned at the Institute.
“Oh, Bal,” Ambrosius whispered, the tension dropping out of him. He put one hand on Bal’s face.
Bal’s eye twitched, and he drew in a shaky breath. He looked awful.
“I’ll get you water.” Ambrosius moved swiftly to the kitchenette, poured the water, and returned. Bal hadn’t moved except to drop his right hand over his eyes. Since the palm wasn’t solid metal, this didn’t do much to cover his face.
Ambrosius set the glass on the end table. He had planned a sweeping argument about going to counseling, but it would be cruel to use it now. Instead, he said, “Up.”
Bal pushed himself up, slouching over, and took the water. He coughed halfheartedly, and drank.
“Ugh,” he said, finally.
“Mm?” said Ambrosius noncommittally.
Bal grunted and drank the rest of the water. Then he slid off the bed and slouched his way to the bathroom.
“I was thinking about dinner?” Ambrosius called down the hall. No response, but that wasn’t hugely surprising. Ambrosius went into the kitchenette and pulled out the frozen chicken tikka to microwave. He started a pot of rice, tossed a quick spinach and carrot salad together, and set the table.
Bal emerged into the setting sun in the living room, looking less awful but still tired. He wore a ratty t-shirt and sweatpants. “Thanks,” he said.
His voice sounded fairly normal, maybe a little creaky. Hard to tell from only one word.
Ambrosius sat at the table and served himself. Bal dropped into a seat and added a splodge of chicken tikka to his plate.
“I went to the counseling appointment today,” Ambrosius offered.
Bal flashed a quick glance at him.
“It went fine,” Ambrosius added. “The counselor basically said I don’t need to go again.”
“That’s…good.” Bal added the rice lethargically.
“Tired?”
Bal nodded, scrubbing his eyes with his left hand.
Ambrosius hesitated. “So… do you want me to ask about going to see them? Or do you want to do it yourself?”
Bal sighed, and narrowed his eyes. “The counselor really said you don’t have any problems?”
“They didn’t literally say that. But they did say that I didn’t seem to have any concerns to talk about.”
Bal raised an eyebrow.
“What? You think I do have problems?”
Bal sighed loudly. “You don’t talk to me.”
“We are talking right now.”
Bal scoffed. “Don’t be sarcastic. I mean, you don’t talk about everything that happened. The Institute. The manhunt. The wall. None of it.”
“But you know what happened. Why do I need to tell you about it?” said Ambrosius, trying to lighten the tone with a half smile.
“That’s—you, you—” Bal stumbled over his words. His eyes looked dangerously watery.
“You think I should have talked to the counselor about it? But they knew about it, too.” Everyone did, but that was beside the point.
“I’m holding back an awful lot right now, just so you know,” said Bal, standing up suddenly.
“I’m confused,” said Ambrosius, since they were sharing their feelings.
“You’re supposed to talk about it anyway! You’re supposed to tell the counselor how you feel!” Bal punctuated this with a series of jabs: to Ambrosius, out the door in the general direction of the counseling office, and to his own chest.
Ambrosius was forcibly reminded that Bal had spent almost all his training in weekly or biweekly counseling, for one reason or another. “I know that,” he said weakly. He did know it, but it hadn’t seemed to apply.
“Then do it!” Bal set one hand on the back of his chair and sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “I’m feeling snippy today.”
“No, I’m sorry, too. Maybe I should make another appointment. But it seems silly,” Ambrosius said, thinking out loud.
Bal sat back down. “What’s silly?”
“I’m not feeling bad. So it seems silly to spend the counselors’ time on me. They’re all very busy nowadays.”
Bal gave him a long and canny look with those wide brown eyes of his. “Then what are you feeling?”
Ambrosius sighed. “I…” Then he paused. Then he remembered his chicken tikka, and took a bite, mostly to fill the time.
He was feeling both stressed and idle. Every time he came home, there was a distinct chance that he would need to handle Bal having some kind of crisis, which had happened about once every two weeks in the three months since the fall of the cannon and Nimona’s death. But he’d resigned his captaincy and gotten a livable pension, so he didn’t have that much to do. He went on runs only in the evenings, so nobody could see his face. He was thinking of trying to start some kind of fencing gym, since his status would give him a boost in finding a customer base, but he hadn’t materialized the plans into anything concrete yet. He felt a twisted pang of irrational fear when he saw the breach in the wall and sometimes when he looked at Bal’s right arm he felt so guilty he could cry.
“I mean…just kind of what you’d expect,” Ambrosius said.
“Alright.” Bal scooped his plate off the table and dropped it in the sink. “I can see you’re not ready to talk. Everyone—has—their own—timetable.” He said this in a deliberate, nearly sarcastic way.
“I didn’t mean it like that, I just meant that I just think it’s kind of boring. That it’s…” He cringed. “Obvious.”
“What’s obvious?” Bal said, almost shouting. “You can’t just tell me that your feelings are obvious without telling me what you’re even feeling them about!”
Ambrosius cringed harder. “The wall being broken makes me…anxious?” he tried, going for an easy one. “Not that there’s actually anything to worry about, I just have some residual anxiousness about it.”
Bal tilted his head. “That makes sense. Okay, so is this the main thing or is there more?”
“There’s more,” Ambrosius said miserably.
“Okay.” Bal blinked slowly.
It would be incredibly unfair to tell Bal that managing his crises was stressful. Ambrosius searched for another easy one. “I have to schedule my day around when the crowds are light, because I don’t want to be recognized?”
“I do that, too. Not sure there’s really a way around that one.”
Relieved that this was going so well, Ambrosius forged ahead. “I feel a little guilty sometimes about my part in—everything?” It was toning down the issue quite a bit, but it was broadly true.
“You were being lied to,” Bal declared. “Not your fault.”
Those were the biggest things that swirled around Ambrosius’ head.
Bal blinked owlishly at him. “That’s everything?”
“Yes, mostly,” Ambrosius hedged, feeling like the scum of the earth.
“Alright. Go tell the counselor all of it.” Bal waved a hand. “I’m going to bed.”
“Shall I schedule an appointment for you?” Ambrosius said hopefully.
Bal clicked his tongue. “Fine.”
“Great. I’ll try and get the same counselor for you, I liked them.” Ambrosius picked up the phone and dialed the number.
“Wh—Now?!” Bal said.
“Yes, the sooner the better—Hi, this is Ambrosius Goldenloin, I’d like to schedule another appointment with Counselor Troy, and a separate one for my partner…Oh, you’re booked next week…Emergency?” He glanced to the side and covered the mike. “Do we want to have an emergency?”
“No?”
“Okay, we’re going with no…Alright, two weeks out? Friday? That works…We’re already on file, even better. Great, we’ll see you there.” He hung up. Two weeks was a little further than ideal, especially since they were overdue for a Bal Crisis, but he could manage. “Friday the 16th, 2pm.”
Bal shrugged. “Alright, love. But I don’t think they’ll do much.”
“Why not? Weren’t you telling me I need to go to counseling?”
“Because I’ve been before,” said Bal, exhausted, and Ambrosius felt stupid again. “I’ve been many times. I’ve done it all. The breathing, the cognitive reframing, the irrational thought recognition. I know what they’re going to say. They kind of do all tend to say the same things.”
“Thank you for trying,” said Ambrosius, putting his own dishes in the sink. Bal came over and leaned his head on Ambrosius’s shoulder.
“Okay,” said Bal. “Now I’m going to bed for real.”