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Well, the 22nd century Thames is not exactly water. But Verona doesn't “do the Thames” either.
Weirdly enough, this phobia came into her life before it was completely destroyed (let alone rebuilt to any degree). She was three, she believes – because she doesn't remember, obviously (I'm not a bloody savant). No actual circumstances known, and it's too late to ask.
And right now, she sees, at the same time, two moments of her life, two memories, as if they are two lenses layered over each other. There's also a therapist to see – not in the meaning “you should see a therapist”, but a real-life Scovian person looking back at her from a stereotypical soft fake leather chair – but Verona doesn't care about them in this very second.
Let's get back to that turgid lens metaphor already, shall we?
Why couldn't we have gone with pills?
So, the Thames. Memory one.
She is drowning. She would really like to say something to the tune of slowly but steadily, but it happens fast, too fast for anyone's liking, except, maybe, the pig’s who’s pushed her there, into the oil and (almost 30% actual) sewage, the part of the all-beloved river that isn't flowing through the rich districts. However, he might be getting paid more for bringing people in than murdering – oh, I'm sorry, excusably homiciding – them. But there's no point in waiting for him to help her, so she is drowning.
It's happening fast, and Verona isn't really thinking all that, she doesn't even register that she's given up all hope, because the only thing she actually knows at the moment is no air no air it hurts darkness deafness black black black—
Unfortunately, cursing as a fourth-generation pirate, her favourite lesser coping mechanism, is also absolutely useless here.
Something slams into her body, or her body slams into something, or both, and the next time she's on the bank gurgling (would never know I'd be happy to make these sounds) spitting disgusting liquid that she will taste in his throat for weeks to come, and breathing.
“For sake’s fuck,” she mumbles and starts laughing hysterically as much as her poor lungs allow, “fucking brain damage already, eh?”
“Are you alright?” asks someone above her sprawled body.
“Fuck,” is the only answer.
“... I'll take it as a yes,” this someone says.
Small talk incoming?
“Could you maybe help me?” Verona croaks, trying to stand up and failing.
“I just fucking did, you moron,” the person snaps (ah, that's what happened) but doesn't seem to wait for a please and helps her get up anyway.
Oxygen-deficiency-induced prickly darkness doesn't bother her any more, and she takes a second to take in the surroundings, her saviour in particular.
Oh. I know you.
“Thank you,” she says sincerely. “Thank you.”
Min – the second-in-command of the Soho gang, their trademark tweed coat all soaked – looks at her and shrugs.
“No problem. You'd do the same.”
“I wouldn't,” Verona says (because your sense of humour deserves an award, uh-huh), and in response to a silent eh? motions at the river. “We'd both die.”
Min scoffs.
Wow, stop. Finish the taking in properly. Is that?..
Min has a smudge of green, quite gaudy green over their cheek and lips, and it's definitely not something of the Thames (well, most likely, you never know with this state of ecology).
“Did you?..” Verona gestures at her own mouth, which is supposed to be covered in the same green matter. Because it's her new lipstick.
“Of course.”
“Thanks,” Verona says again.
CPR is a knowledge she never wants to use. For obvious reasons, she doesn't want anyone to die on her, but also because she isn't sure she's able to coordinate her movements well enough for someone to rely on it.
“You’re welcome,” Min waves their hand, then looks Verona up and down. “It was platonic, just in case.”
Why the fuck are you stressing this, then?
“Do I come off as a sappy hopeless romantic or shit?”
“You do have a certain look in your eyes.”
Verona gives up.
Not enough resources to deal with this bullshit, I almost died forty seconds ago.
“Fuck you,” she says eloquently and starts turning around to go away. “Thank you, but fuck you.”
“As you wish,” Min takes a bow.
Verona hesitates and facepalms. Both face and palm are still covered in diluted slime – or congested liquid, if you want – and she shudders mentally. That one was fucking close.
“I know I'll regret that the second I finish that sentence, but…” she worries her lip, “would you like to go on a date or something? If it's okay with our rescuer/rescuee dynamics.”
“Sure,” Min narrows their eyes. “I think you might have a concussion.”
“Nooo,” Verona laughs. “I'm always that stupid.”
What a silly story, right? Way to go, Verona, rewiring your brain at that tender age (19, actually) so you associate death by drowning with romance. She's still terrified of it, and it wasn't the first or the last case of falling into water and surviving by chance only, yet this tiny thought is there somewhere.
Memory two is much more recent. It's a green – haha – reservoir with thankfully not radioactive, clean water and glowing New Aurum inside, and Ash, stuck by a fucking trouser leg like a dumb kid or a one particular not-so-much graceful aquaphobe.
What a stupid death it would be (why the hell would you even think that?!). Hers at least would have some political meaning due to the circumstances (a victim of police misconduct and stuff), but Ash’s… well, she is a victim of police misconduct too, except that it's her misconduct. And yet, Verona jumps in to save a pig who was exclusively saving her pig's ass.
Again, these are not the thoughts she had when it was happening live, they are a hilarious commentary (the therapist's nervous chuckle counts as a full laugh. See? Hilarious) she gives while relaying the events.
The point of the session isn't in the analysis of this association between drowning and stupid crushes (or a sea of love, if you go full sentimental and want even more metaphors), but it’s a conclusion Verona makes herself.
Maybe, my brain releases oxytocin after I’m fully submerged into water. Which is a stupid, but working hypothesis.
Not that it turned out bad, she continues inside her head, while exiting the therapist office and noticing Ash who's waiting by the door and beams when their eyes meet. No need for further experiments right now.