Location: Betsy’s Office
Date: August 13th
Time: 9:30am
Trigger warnings: some references to trauma as a result of sexual assault
“Grant, welcome back,” Dr. Dobson said, offering up the ever present mug of hot chocolate. As usual, Grant shook his head. Dr. Dobson placed the mug in front of him anyway. “Did you have a good trip? We missed you this summer.”
It was a relief, actually, being back in Dr. Dobson’s office. Grant knew most of the Foxes tended to see her with some reluctance, and once upon a time he’d been the same, but things had shifted as the years passed. Seeing Dr. Dobson was good for him, just like the medicine she’d prescribed him was good for him, just like the Foxes were good for him. The sessions left him feeling vulnerable and raw, but he’d rather deal with this shit here—on his own time, on his own terms.
Normally, he would’ve met with Dr. Dobson over the summer, continuing his therapy even when the school year wasn’t in session. This year’s trip to Texas had been the rare exception, but he was back now, at least. "Actually, I did,” Grant said, his spine straight in the chair and arms neatly at his sides. “I visited Zia.” In some ways, he spoke to Dr. Dobson with the same brusque tone he used with the press, even knowing that this wasn’t a trap or a threat.
“I remember you mentioning that you two were close last year. How’s she settling in?”
“Good. I mean, great, really. She got drafted for Atlanta,” Grant said, a proud smile tugging at his lips. “And uh, we’re dating now. I mean, we started dating at the end of last year, actually.”
Dr. Dobson’s smile widened. “Really? Congratulations!” She paused, and Grant knew what she was going to ask, even before she stared speaking again. With others he might’ve changed the subject, but he waited it out with Dr. Dobson. This was his fifth year with the Foxes, and he trusted her by now. She would never see him as a sob story. She saw far too many Foxes for that. “How’s that going? I know you’ve spoken to me in the past about the fact that too much physical contact can bring back unpleasant memories.”
A nice way of saying he used to flinch or throw punches when people got too close. These days he only stepped back carefully, firmly, kept people at a practiced, safe distance. Most people, at least. Not everyone. “It’s different with Zia.” He didn’t quite know how to explain it, but—“I trust her. She’s been through some similar stuff, and she understands I’ve got…more boundaries than most. Besides, we’re taking it slow.”
Dr. Dobson nodded, taking a sip of her own hot chocolate. “That’s great, Grant.” Another pause. “Was there anything in particular you wanted to talk about this session?”
Grant hesitated. For the first time in years, he didn’t want to get into it with Dr. Dobson. He’d exhumed plenty of skeletons from his past for her, but this time? That memory of standing on his mom’s doorstep, and walking away? That was fresh. That wasn’t something that had happened to him a decade ago, it was something that had happened only a few weeks ago. It didn’t help that he’d walked away because it felt like too much, too fast—bringing it up here and now would just ensure that stayed fresh.
He also knew better than to hide things from Dr. Dobson. For all that she made him uncomfortable, she helped too. Even Grant could see the way he’d changed since he started seeing her.
Once upon a time, Grant had thought he was stronger because of what had happened to him. Like surviving Haskell, and foster care, and the separation from his family made him stronger than anyone else, because they hadn’t suffered like he’d suffered. Now, after years of therapy, Grant had changed his tune. He was strong, but it was in spite of what had happened. Grant had fought like hell to get here, and that fight had shaped him, had impacted him, but that strength? That had always belonged to Grant, and Grant alone. Haskell didn’t get any credit. Haskell was nothing.
A few months ago, he’d assumed that meant he didn’t need to think about it any more, but he knew he had more work to do. The way he’d panicked on his mother’s porch proved that, so Grant cleared his throat, and didn’t lie to Dr. Dobson. “I found my mom’s address this summer. I went there, even. She’s still in Illinois. I didn’t make contact though.” Straight to the point. If he was going to do this, it was better to get it out in the open right away.
Dr. Dobson nodded, her expression carefully neutral. “Is there a reason for that?”
He’d spent the last few weeks considering that. Why had he tracked her down? Why had he walked away? “Zia’s family got me thinking about my own,” he admitted. He had no idea what was waiting on the other side of his mom’s door though, and things were good here in Palmetto. Games would start soon, recruiters would be coming by, the draft waited for him at the end of this season—if he let his attention slip for a moment too long though, if he messed up in a single game, he could lose it all. “But I can’t talk to her right now. You’re going to call this avoidance, but it’s not an emotional decision,” Grant said, firmly. “It’s just pragmatics. I’ll reach out after I’ve signed a contract with a pro-team.”
Dr. Dobson watched him quietly for a moment. “Grant. You’re smart. You know how to say all the right things when you’re in here, and that’s okay. I just want you to tell me how you were feeling, alright?”
Grant nodded, his motions somewhat stilted. How had he felt? “Scared. A little,” he admitted, slowly. “Talking to her again—even just seeing here again. I don’t normally have to think about that stuff.” He cleared his throat, making a conscious effort to keep his expression open, rather than letting his usual mask shutter down across his expression. “It’s my fifth year. The team’s better than we’ve ever been. We’ve got a real shot at the Championship title, and I’ve got a real shot at getting drafted. I don’t want to fuck that up just because I’ve got some nostalgic urge.”
“It’s okay if you aren’t ready, you know,” Dr. Dobson said. “But you’re the one who looked for her in the first place right? Don’t you think there was a reason for that?”
Grant sat in silence for a moment, eyes on the woman in front of him. “I don’t know,” Grant said. His least favorite sentence. “I need to focus on the draft. On this season. If we win, I have a chance. If we don’t...” And that was the problem. He didn’t have a plan for what happened if no one wanted him on their team next year. He didn’t want a plan for that. It simply wasn’t an option.
“Sounds like you’re having some anxiety about the end of the year already. Have you spoken to anyone else about this? Zia, maybe? Neel? Eliana?”
Grant shook his head. Not really, not yet, not beyond the superficial can you believe this is it conversations.
“That’s your homework for this week then, Grant,” Dr. Dobson said, with a smile. “You’re a long way off from the draft still. You’ve got time.” She glanced up at the clock, nodding to herself. “We’ve only got a few minutes left today. Does coming in every other week still work for you?”
Location: Betsy’s Office
Date: August 16th
Time: 2:00pm
Trigger warnings: murder, death, very slight self harm/the grayson typical self loathing
“How have things been for you? We haven’t seen one another since your last mandated session.”
“Great,” Grayson says, and his tone is dull. He accepts the offered hot chocolate though. “I saw my dad.” He takes a sip experimentally, and it’s too warm, but that’s alright.
Betsy nods. “You two are close, right? I hope I finally get to meet him this year. Is he coming to parents’ weekend?”
Grayson knows it’s not meant to be a challenge, but his expression sours anyway, because it feels like one—like she’s calling him out, because if he and his dad are truly so close, why hasn’t Grayson Sharpe Sr. ever set foot on Palmetto’s campus? He doesn’t like the feeling that she can see right through him. Like hell if Grayson’s going to get into it with Betsy though, and he’s got his story down by now. He’s practiced it enough.
So: He and his dad are close. He loves Dubois. Summers are great. It’s probably pathetic to point blank lie to your therapist, but who’s going to know?
“You also had your birthday over the summer, if I recall correctly. How’d that go? Twenty-one, that’s a big one.”
Grayson slouches further down into the chair. It’s probably obvious to Betsy, but he’s restless already. They never get far in his sessions. He’s got fight or flight down to an art, but neither of those are an option here—so he shuts down. Keeps his head down. It works about as well as it does back home, at least...which means it doesn’t work, but he doesn’t know what else to do. “I guess.”
She considers him for a moment. “So, anything you’d like to talk about today? How are things with the new Foxes? Are you all getting along well?”
He shrugs. No, he’s not getting along with all of them actually, but that’s his problem, not Betsy’s.
“You can choose a topic, or I can keep trying until you’re ready to talk, Grayson,” Betsy says, and her tone is just so fucking kind. Grayson hates it. Sometimes he wants to tell her the truth because of it, and he hates that even more.
In another situation, maybe he’d be drawn to someone like her. She’s genuine, she's smart, she’s maternal—or, at least, she’s what he imagines maternal looks like. His memories of his own mother are blurry, out of focus. Her life is overshadowed by her death.
It doesn’t matter who Betsy is though, because Betsy represents too many things that Grayson rebels against automatically. She asks too many questions, and she genuinely wants to help him, and that’s the problem. He has no doubt what she would say if he opened up and spilled his guts—some shit about how it wasn’t his fault, how he shouldn’t carry this weight if he doesn’t need to.
It’s her job to say things like that. It’s his job to ignore her. She wasn’t there when the gun went off. He was. He has the memories to prove it, and if those seem somehow sharper in comparison to the rest, that doesn’t mean anything. Of course he remembers what it was like to kill someone. That changes you, shapes you. Ruins you. Just ask anyone. “No, thanks.”
She’s also tenacious though, so when Grayson refuses to choose an option, she keeps going, nodding decisively. “Alright. How’s your dad doing?” For a split second, Grayson thinks she’s figuring it out, that he only wants to talk in here when it’s not about him and he can just pretend things are different back home—but that doesn’t last, because she keeps going. “I know this time of year must be very hard for both of you.”
Oh. His grip on the hot chocolate mug tightens, and it hurts for a moment, still technically too hot to hold. He doesn’t let go. He hadn’t realized that Betsy knew, but he supposes it’s all a matter of public record technically—that the anniversary of his mother’s death is coming up, only a few short months after his birthday. There’s a reason why he didn’t celebrate turning twenty-one, why he doesn’t ever celebrate. His birthday is just a marker. It means something much worse is coming.
Betsy watches him carefully, the one thing out of place in her neat office, and Grayson can practically see her mentally taking notes at his reaction. He’s probably giving even more away, the way he refuses to answer anything once he’s established his own fiction of being fine, of loving the trip home, but he can’t leave and he can’t fight her, so this is what’s left. He’s well practiced in the art of silence. He can shove it all away, let it all simmer over later, when he’s on the court, or when he finds Eliana or Kent at the gym.
Grayson takes another sip of hot chocolate, and doesn’t say anything. They can force him to come see Besty, but they can’t make him actually speak.
“I’m here to help you, Grayson,” Betsy says, infinitely patient. “I want to be on your side.”
Grayson knows she is. No one’s considering what he wants though. No one’s considering what he’d be giving up if he truly told Betsy what haunted his thoughts.
There are things Grayson can’t talk about, can’t even think about, because acknowledging them even in his own mind is a betrayal. He wants to stop caring so badly, but he can’t, so ignoring it is the next best thing. If he gives his fears space, if he truly lets himself consider the one question that’s haunted him since he was seven years old—he won’t be able to come back from that. I’m on your side, Betsy says, and Grayson’s furious thoughts say no, no one is, no one’s allowed to be, so stop looking so closely at me.
They spend the rest of the session in silence, and when the clock finally ticks down, Grayson bolts.
The wind had grown far too cold for a night that was meant to welcome the fresh breath of summer. Inkeri had grown reckless; she felt suffocated and antsy. No one would be surprised if she slipped away into the night, and even less surprised on a night like this. She'd just been engaged. No...she'd been engaged. Now it was just real— too real. Betrothed to Brandr's brother, yet not a soul knew what that meant. No, to the Clans, the bride-to-be was no doubt sneaking away with her suitor, or better yet taking a moment alone to still her racing heart and to gush to her friends. Except, Inkeri wouldn't consider herself a particularly giddy future wife. Balsi was kind; he'd be a brilliant husband. Keri knew her place, knew that this alliance was the best thing they could do to install some peace between the mountains and save them all. We can't all be like you, Keri. We’re not bastards with no responsibilities to worry about. Those blade like words had been true, once. Once, she didn't have to worry about anything other than living her life how she saw fit. But that had changed. That change had been coming for a long time, now.
Then why did it feel so...strange? She'd known what was coming. Sighing through her nose, Inkeri pulled the crown of flowers from her dark tresses, wringing the fresh summer buds between her nervous fingers. The wind made her hair fly into her face, sending a shiver racing down her spine and her horse’s breath coming out in a cloud of white. A cold wind— a strange wind, out of character for a night such as Beltane. Summer would explode into the world soon, and with it, a new treaty and a clan strengthened by the wedding of a heir and a...bastard. Inkeri was a bastard, damnit. She never thought she'd have to roll in the mess of an arranged marriage. She was supposed to be exempt from all this, wasn't she? Why didn't the people see how weird it was? But, Ivar was her father, and she was his only daughter, bastard or not. It turned out she had a duty, after all. Damn it all to Hel. Bran had been wrong. So, stupidly wrong. Bastard or not, fate came ready to strike you when you were down. Had come to collect those years of freedom. Damn him to Hel. Damn what they'd done in that cave, damn that he'd kissed her and she'd kissed him in the woods.
Inkeri shoved the crumpled flower crown back onto her hair, nodding her head to herself. It wouldn't be so bad. Balsi was good. He was handsome - big headed, yes - but he was kind. Maybe they were suited for each other after all. Maybe something good could come out of this whole endeavor; even if she had to move away from the snowy mountains, even if she'd have to live in the same village as Brandr, whose touch had stained her skin and whose body had already claimed her. Gods, she'd slept with him! She'd slept with her finances' brother. The gods always seemed to have a funny way of doing things, didn't they?
It was some time before the firelight finally faded behind her, the sounds and smells of Beltane no longer lingering in her ears and nose. The world was quiet, save for the howl of wind. The last snow had seemed to have fallen several nights ago, and it still blanketed the world in silence and white. Without the warmth of all the bonfires, Keri's skin erupted in goosebumps, and she closed her arms around herself as she began to shiver. She wouldn't be seeing much more of this. The quiet, the white snow...she'd miss it. Balsi's village was south of The Pass; its mountain's didn't have snow and ice year round like Inkeri's village's did. When summer came, the snow would melt with it there. It would take days of riding back north before she'd see her snow again. That wasn't something she'd get to do often. She'd be a Jarl's wife soon. That meant little time for leisure and free time. There would be no more sneaking away for adventures to North's Peak with Silas, no more stealing food and ransacking store houses with Ulric. There'd be no time for spilling her whirlwind of thoughts and fears to Rohan, and as for Eirik...
She'd get to see him more than the others, what with the treaty, but he'd be a jarl of another clan. Of their home. He'd have better things to do rather than deal with than his little sister. He'd have a wife, he'd have children no doubt...Gods, she'd have children too, wouldn't she? Inkeri didn't even know if she wanted children. How was a jarl's wife supposed to wield an axe when she had children clinging to her skirts? She could heal, yes, but without the thrill of bloodshed...that was the one thing they'd discovered they had in common. That battle hunger. Yet more than likely, she wouldn't be able to so much as touch a weapon in the coking days.
Inkeri's thoughts stopped sharply as horse reared in fear of something unseen and she was sent head first into the snow. Wait. The last snow couldn't have fallen only nights ago. She hadn't gone far, either— if she looked hard enough, she could see the Beltane fires no larger than stars on the horizon and he'd horse racing back to them. As she stood, her booted foot rammed into something metal— cold metal, despite the heat of the night at her back. It caused her to trip and tumble back into...snow, a yelp jumping from her lips. Yes, that was snow. Snow in summer. With a groan she rolled over, eyes narrowing in the dark, her only light the cloud covered moon reflecting off the white that blanketed the ground. She fanned her fingers out, searching for the object, until they met the cold kiss of frozen steel. Why was there snow on the ground? It was Beltane…it was the end of spring. The weather had been warm for months now. The bastard gave it a tug, and within seconds she was pulling a sword free from the frozen white landscape. As she pushed to her feet, she spotted the round silhouette of a shield cast not much farther away. It had marking on it she'd know anywhere; markings of a crafter's hands, of a man who cared more about the beauty of things rather than the damage a weapon could do.
Rohan.
Gathering her dress between now shaking fingers, Inkeri held tightly to the blade, running towards the shield as her heart leapt into her throat. Rohan hated the thought of blood and battle. He wasn't an easy opponent, a master of swords who could easily match herself, but he didn't like war. He wouldn't stalk off with his gear unless something was wrong. Why would Rohan be away from the village? Come to think of it, she hadn't seen him for several hours. He hadn't even been at the table when Balsi officially asked for her hand. Sliding to a stop beside the shield, her dark eyes scanned the horizon. Rohan would never leave his sword and shield. He'd put too much time and effort into making them. She dropped the sword next to the shield, cupping her hands around her mouth, and shouting as loud as she could "Rohan!" Several minutes later, there was still no answer.
The wind howled, but in that moment, it blew the clouds away from the moon. Light seemed to flood around her, and in that moment, Inkeri could see a figure collapsed on the horizon, lying still in a blanket of red. It was blood. With a scream, Keri took off into a sprint, collapsing by the cooling body. Blood dripped from his mouth, and a stab wound was where his heart should have been. Snow dusted the lashes of open eyes, but they only stared upward at the glowing moon. Keri pressed her ear to his chest desperately, searching for any sounds of life. No cloud of warmth seeped past his lips, and it seemed the heat had of his body long since vanished into the night air. Frost curled around the wound at his chest, his skin an unnatural blue. A body would turn blue with hypothermia, but this...this was like nothing she'd ever seen. No no no no no no.
Tears froze on her cheeks as she slammed her hands into his chest. "Ro! Rohan, wake up!" Inkeri sobbed, but try as she might, her brother would not move. He would not breathe. Rohan Ernouf...he was dead. A golden light and a pure heart had been blown out as spring was meant to blown away the winter, and as his little sister screamed and screamed in despair, she could see the shadows of tall figures moving out of the gloom in the distance. Through her frozen tears and screams of utter anguish, she could see them. The things of legend — the things Runa claimed were real each month — giants.
