Doc is barely three sentences into his spiel before Klaus can feel the prickling of tears at the edges of his eyes. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep them from falling. He hates this. He hates how good Doc is at this. Does he even realize, as he's talking, how many things he hits, dead-center-bullseye? Now, he moves over to one of the available chairs and sinks down into it. The cigarette rests still between his fingers as he balls his hands into fists in his hair.
Every single thing the older man says is all part of things he's carried with him for the last sixteen years, with no outlet to talk about it. Sure, he'd been in countless numbers of shrink offices through the years. Always court-mandated, never by choice. But there was only so much he could explain without being assumed high, or highly delusional or otherwise mentally disturbed. Sometimes it landed him a short in-patient stay, but it gave him a bed, regular meals, and got him high on the government's dime, taking high-powered medications he didn't really need for psychological issues he didn't actually have, so he didn't mind it much at the time.
His family wasn't an option; they'd all been broken apart and shattered for over a decade. And they had never been good at any of this stuff even before that. They weren't allowed to nurture those types of skills.
"Your emotions make you weak, Number Four. You have to put them aside if you're going to save the world. There are bigger issues to concern yourself with than feelings."
He can still hear the words in his head in a perfect echo of his father's sharp cadence.
So yes. Every word Doc said is true (and more that he didn't, and couldn't begin to guess at to say were, too). But it's the last part that catches in his chest wrong. This sudden burst of a desire to tell him it's not like that, to explain, and to defend his brother. Especially his actions here. His lifts his head, steals another quick drag from his cigarette before letting his hands drop back into his lap as he leans forward on his knees, eyes focused up on Doc. "No, no, no," he shakes his head. "I- it's not like that! He's been working- you know-- to- to--"
He rolls his wrist, cigarette tucked between fingers as he tries to find the right words. "get us all home, where we belong. And- and he's honestly been...really... really good to me, since--" Since he found him dead on the beach. "since we got here, you know? It's- I don't know. It's different, I guess." It's not, not really; it's just that things are so much more limited here, and they're all so closely in each other's orbits, it's impossible not to notice when things are off.
no subject
Every single thing the older man says is all part of things he's carried with him for the last sixteen years, with no outlet to talk about it. Sure, he'd been in countless numbers of shrink offices through the years. Always court-mandated, never by choice. But there was only so much he could explain without being assumed high, or highly delusional or otherwise mentally disturbed. Sometimes it landed him a short in-patient stay, but it gave him a bed, regular meals, and got him high on the government's dime, taking high-powered medications he didn't really need for psychological issues he didn't actually have, so he didn't mind it much at the time.
His family wasn't an option; they'd all been broken apart and shattered for over a decade. And they had never been good at any of this stuff even before that. They weren't allowed to nurture those types of skills. He can still hear the words in his head in a perfect echo of his father's sharp cadence.
So yes. Every word Doc said is true (and more that he didn't, and couldn't begin to guess at to say were, too). But it's the last part that catches in his chest wrong. This sudden burst of a desire to tell him it's not like that, to explain, and to defend his brother. Especially his actions here. His lifts his head, steals another quick drag from his cigarette before letting his hands drop back into his lap as he leans forward on his knees, eyes focused up on Doc. "No, no, no," he shakes his head. "I- it's not like that! He's been working- you know-- to- to--"
He rolls his wrist, cigarette tucked between fingers as he tries to find the right words. "get us all home, where we belong. And- and he's honestly been...really... really good to me, since--" Since he found him dead on the beach. "since we got here, you know? It's- I don't know. It's different, I guess." It's not, not really; it's just that things are so much more limited here, and they're all so closely in each other's orbits, it's impossible not to notice when things are off.