Who: Trevelyan & Revy What: A bit of a impromptu therapy session from a friend When: Today Where: Trevelyan's Office Rating/Warnings: Talks of patricide, a little hide for details of a violent criminal history, Revy's pottymouth Status: Complete!
It wasn’t like Revy to want to pour her feelings out like a waterfall of fucking vomit (with blood, considering the past events), but she knew what she’d become in the dreams - a trigger-happy hot mess of slaughter, with bouts of what Dutch had so affectionately called ‘Whitman Fever.’ There was very little remorse in the Roanupar version of herself, but in that line of job, feelings of human sympathy and regret had no place. It was a sure way of getting killed over something really fuckin’ stupid, and she’d been hardened into the role of a heartless killer - she was the muscle, the gunfire for the Lagoon Company, the main fighter that got the kill done with a wolfish grin meant for a sociopath.
Rock had been some kind of sandpaper to smooth out her rough edges some, but there was a degree of equivalent exchange in that - in return her influence had more or less managed to corrupt him. Her presence was poison to the Japanese businessman, and despite their relationship they were always making sparks with the friction they generated from being polar opposites. At least here she had enough wits about her to realize that her goddamn dreamself needed some serious psychological therapy, or just needed to go on death row to be put down like a rabid dog.
Here, her path diverged differently. In a good way, even - despite the repeat of history.
Never did she think she’d step one foot into Trevelyan’s practice, but here she was, gracing the his presence on an unannounced visit. Baring gifts, of course. “I got you something,” she smirked, and pulled out a legitimate copy of Pirates, the 2005 pornographic action-adventure film. It was the most expensive porn film ever produced; the plot was decent enough that they edited a ‘softcore’ version of it for the prudes. “I’ll pay you in porn if you’ve got a minute or two for a walk-in visit.”
If Revy was surprised that she’d managed to make her way over to Trevelyan’s office in Anaheim, the mage was even more surprised to actually see her here. He’d graced her with his presence at her at work a few times, but that was for the sole purpose of actually visiting. Her coming by for a ‘walk-in visit’ was definitely a switch to his afternoon, but he didn’t mind at all. In fact, he had some time in between sessions when he would have caught up on notes - however, that could be done later. She was one of the people he’d drop pretty much anything for - Max had always liked Revy, maybe because he did see the potential in her. The capacity for introspection and want to turn her life around, even in small steps - it was those those small steps that mattered; you couldn’t go from 0 to 60 too quickly.
“My favorite,” he laughed, referring to the particular ‘adult’ title she’d brought. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a legit copy.” It was hard to find, apparently, but he’d looked long and hard (heh) after their original conversation about such a cinematic triumph.
But he waved her into his office, shutting the door. There wasn’t a couch, he wasn’t channeling Freud, but instead comfy chairs - he sat in one of those chairs, rather than behind his desk. “What’s on your mind?”
“It’s expensive as fuck but I managed to haggle a discount,” shrugged the gunslinger, surveying the office - she half-expected frame inkblots, something stifling and obviously this is a room for mental cases but it was….homey, she guessed. Revy assumed lighting a cigarette would be frowned upon in these walls, so she brought something to ease that oral fixation habit. Lollipops were better than toothpicks, and she’d brought an entire goddamn bag.
The compact, leather satchel she carried like a purse was set on the couch before her ass came down on it. First order of business was to pull out one of those suckers - cherry flavored, gum in the center - and unwrapped it. “Well,” she started, thinking it through before she really let the cannons loose - she trusted Max, she doubted what she said would leave these very walls and endanger Leon’s employment. Best to cut to the chase. No bullshit, just straight to the point. “I put a bullet between my sperm donor’s eyes. I don’t feel bad about it.”
Which is what she was having a hard time coming terms with. The lack of guilt. In the dreams she’d killed him young, and it set the tone for the rest of her life. White feathers from the pillow, covered in blood. A pillow that crossed worlds and was shoved beneath her bed as an ‘out of sight, out of mind’ thing.
There was a science to putting together an office, when you were a therapist. Too casual and no one would take sessions seriously, too bland and you’d be mistaken for a robot. Max’s office was homey - it was a blend of professionalism (he had a smart-looking bookshelf and his degrees mounted on the walls, for example) and also touches meant for a humanizing effect. Warm colors, soft chairs, a side table that had his own knickknacks (there were a few from Skyhold that he’d brought over) - but the cleanliness of everything also meant structure and professionalism.
Nothing was an accident, really, but Max was good at what he did - and it wouldn’t do to have a shoddy office that no one felt comfortable in.
And nothing would leave the office either - he wouldn’t even take notes later, since he considered this as informal of a therapy session as possible. If Revy came back for future sessions, then he’d see. So he listened, around the crinkling that was unwrapping a sucker (a much better choice than cancer sticks) and her blunt words. “What happened, leading up to it?” he asked, since something had led her to shoot her sperm donor - er, father. Despite the fact that he didn’t sound like much of one.
Revy tightened her mouth around the lolly, her initial, wordless answer a shrug. But a ‘pop!’ sound was made when she took the candy out of her mouth, and she made a mental note to herself that these, in fact, were fucking shitty substitutes for cigarettes. Occupying her mouth with sweetness didn’t erase her craving for nicotine and smoke. “I wanted to try and see if there was something to salvage,” she continued. “I killed him in the dreams when I was a kid - fucked me up more than I ever liked to admit to everyone - but I figured why not try making an effort.”
It was a natural thing to want when you knew there was a parent out there, somewhere. He was all she’d known; her mother was out of the picture before she was even old enough to remember the sound of her voice or the features of her face. Yet he was still a piece of shit, and Revy was always better off without him than with him. “I knew there was always a chance of things going south. Call it a feeling, and I was right. He shot the person that came with me, so I returned the favor.”
Ironically, Leon had been brought as a precaution in case she did try to off him - she was so fucking terrified of repeating the same mistake and coming out irrevocably fucked up because of it. The moment the first shot was fired, all bets were officially fucking off. Instinct and reflexes kicked in.
Revy was an interesting person - she let her guns do the talking for her more often than not, and the life of crime she’d led, perhaps Trevelyan would argue did not really get a choice about when she was so young, caused a lot of damage in an emotional sort of way. She did not open up to other people easily and despite her bravado when it came to twirling dueling pistols, she seemed to doubt her own worth as a person. What was the difference between the dreams and here was that, despite how unhappy she was about the person she’d become, there it appeared as if the damage had been done - here, a different story.
“You’re worried that the lack of guilt you feel about shooting him means you’re becoming like your dream self?” he asked. “That there’s no turning back now?”
It was gritty and depressing, the thought of Revy in another universe where she was so hollow, so empty, that she’d accept how far she’d fallen into a pattern of sadistic violence. Max didn’t want that for her - he believed even she didn’t want that for herself, her softer sides very much there. You just had to be willing to use industrial drilling equipment to see them.
Her eyes narrowed, not in rage but in thought - because, well, guess she needed someone to somehow translate what the fuck she was even feeling into words to dissect the whole mess herself. Revy trusted Trevelyan with an intimate sliver of herself; probably because being friends with someone who propped you on all fours and took you from behind came with a degree of comfort she didn’t have with too many people. It wasn’t like she was some soft woobie cupcake deep down beneath all the iron barriers, but more like it took certain people to invoke some kind of companionship on her end - she could very easily not give fuck all about most of the population on this planet.
“It’s a slippery slope,” she shrugged. “It snowballed into turning me into the biggest asshole with a set of tits in the dreams - I’ve killed children if the job’s even asked for it, and conditioned myself to not care. Pretending became reality. It’s not like I’m going to suddenly go to a preschool and massacre toddlers, that’s -” Not it. Her sigh came out a little garbled, and frustrated. “I just feel like you have to be a certain stink of shit to kill off your own parent like he was just another scum off the streets.”
Maybe if the guilt was mostly absent, there was still some kind of residual attachment that lingered, probably? Like a sad, pathetic wish that it had all turned out different. Hugs were exchanged, they’d drink a beer together, bum cigarettes. Whatever their normal could have been, but the truth is not everyone wins the fucking lottery in regards to parenthood. In the end, some people aren’t meant for that sort of thing. All they do is ruin something they’re supposed to care for.
There wasn't a person with 'issues' out there who didn't attribute some of that to their own parents - and for a multitude of reasons. For what they did to their child, for what they didn't do, for the love they would never show.
"We all, whether we realize or not, place expectations on our home lives - or what we believe our parents should do," Trevelyan said. "We expect our parents to provide a stable life. We expect family, we want family. You thinking you're shit for doing what you did - it's because of those expectations not matching with reality. But overcoming that is accepting that your father was just all-around a really bad father. The reason for that, I can't say exactly - but he was a broken man from likely a broken home, who used his broken mind to build your broken home. It's a cycle."
But did it have to continue? No, Max didn't think so. It wasn't too late to take that anger and resentment, the letdown, and turn it around so that the world didn't feel the bomb that detonated when the realization finally hit that a parent couldn't do what a parent was supposed to do.
"I've seen people come back from seemingly insurmountable odds, Revy," he continued. "You can too. What is it that you most want to do with your life now that you're free from him? Something new, maybe? Something that you feel strongly about, and called to? Something that will prove to yourself that he hasn't broken you after all."
She had gotten a start with obtaining her GED. And it was a really good start. There was still so much left, so much life.
Come to think of it, she really didn’t know much about her father’s life. If she had any aunts or uncles, cousins, grandparents, the whole shebang out there - the concept seemed foreign, like her bloodline ended with him and only him but that didn’t seem likely. Could also be possible her mother was still out there, spawning with some other fuck up. Wouldn’t there be family there, too? Revy had an itch of curiosity but not one aggravating enough that would prompt her into some soul-searching mode of discovery. Some things were better off not knowing, and she didn’t think she would ever be ready for the emotional complications that kind of confrontation could bring. At least not so soon after what happened.
Her lips did less sucking, more biting at the candy in her mouth that had the texture of hard fucking plastic more than anything. “I’m not looking to be the next Mother Teresa,” came her snort, and she shoved the mostly-shattered lollipop to the side of her mouth to talk around it. “I’m alright with porn for now.” Some muscle work, too, because she didn’t think she could ever just full-blown quit the career. Mostly favors for people, like Chang and Kit, but both knew she was done with the more brutal side of things unless it came in the form of unexpected self-defense. “Kind of a loaded fucking question there, don’t you think? Do people usually have an answer for that?”
Because like hell she did. It’s not like she had any career plans growing up, not even when she was a wee little shit. Nothing realistic, anyway (being the first space pirate didn’t count). Revy assumed she’d die all guns blazing by this age, and she was alright with that. Though that was before connections were cemented, and she begrudgingly acclimated to a life outside of the constant firing of bullets and the snakepit of prison.
“Not loaded, no expectations for your answer.” Max got up from where he’d been sunk into the chair, briefly, to rummage through his desk - one drawer open, and he pulled out a large ziploc baggie, which he passed over. Try the trail mix, Revy - might help with the cravings for nicotine, keeping the mouth busy? He’d even gotten the sunflower seeds straight from his garden at home. “But your life is changing. It’s been changing - with what happened regarding your father, it will change even more. In a way, I think that’s a positive - this type of change, that is. And who knows, inspiration may strike you at any point.”
He settled back in his seat, legs crossed, hands in his lap. Well, the artificial fingers were laced with the flesh and blood - it didn’t even feel odd to him anymore. “Let’s talk about the somewhat immediate future. Would you like to make these impromptu not-therapy sessions more of a regular thing? Pro bono, before you ask.”
Trevelyan was a big advocate for mental health care provided to the community, oftentimes free of charge - that was what called to him, what he felt strongly about. He didn’t care about money.
Fuckin’ A. Revy took the bag, she didn’t even care if the saltiness of the nuts (haaaaaaaaaaaah) completely clashed with the artificial cherry flavor - the lollipop had given her mouth a little extra color. The moment she stepped out of here she’d be lighting up an entire pack at once, no joke.
A couple seconds of chomping allowed her to mull his words over. “Can’t hurt,” she admitted. “But, hell - just make sure you don’t get all bullshit formal on me, alright? I don’t want to be treated like a patient.” What she needed was a friend. A level-headed, emotionally and mentally stable friend with an academic background on this shit who knew exactly what the fuck he was talking about. Maybe next time, they could talk at the stripclub. “I guess I can help expand your porn collection in return.”
He said pro bono, which she appreciated, and the porn comment was - mostly - a joke, but she figured she could find ways to reciprocate. Buy the guy drinks, a lapdance, rotate his tires, fix a leak in his sink, shoot a bitch if needed (somewhat counter productive but that offer was always there for her small circle of friends).
"Naturally," Trevelyan chuckled fondly. He couldn't picture Revy sprawling on the sofa, hand to forehead, and speaking for hours about the details of her first memory - that was the false perception that people seemed to have of therapy, but Max was all about comfort for the client. In this case, friend - Revy was a little bit special, in terms of how he handled things, but it would do no good to be rigid in his practices all the time. "It'll just be an hour or so to focus on you. I'll ask questions and listen, and it can be anywhere. Wherever you want to meet next."
If she wanted them to talk in the Rear End (and if she wanted to buy him a lapdance he wouldn't complain either), then so be it. And just so she wasn't munching like a squirrel by herself, he reached for a handful of trail mix to partake as well. It was good to keep around as a snack anyway; sometimes he stayed late, and needed to eat something.
"Just, overall, think of what you'd like to accomplish with sessions and everything. Some goals, nothing signed in blood that says do or die. But more general."
It wasn’t a shit idea? Again, not like she’d thought long and hard about that sort of thing. Revy had never seen the point, but her life was in some kind of fucking limbo and figuring out a way to proceed was equivalent to walking into high-speed traffic blindfolded. “Yeah,” she mumbled contemplatively, followed by a shrug. “Next time with some liquid courage, I guess.”
Made the encounter that much more casual, and maybe the guzzling booze would make her relax more. Cigarettes and beer, that was when she was mostly in her ‘zen’ element - bacardi too, might as well just give her the entire goddamn bottle. Her liver could take it.
Her eyes veered to look at the clock quickly, a little more conscientious about it considering she did drop in unannounced with no appointment or announcement. Revy didn’t want to intrude too much. “Thanks, cocksucker,” she told him. It was a term of endearment. “We can play it by ear depending on how shit goes? I’ll head out soon, so you can whack off to Pirates or do actual work.”
Aw. A very unique way to express affection, by choosing that particular term of endearment, but such warm and fuzzies it invoked. "No, thank you," Max responded. For trusting him enough to involve him in something like therapy, and besides, he liked spending time with Revy. This could only be a good thing, all around.
"Whenever you want another chat, you've got my number. And if you need anything else regarding your GED stuff, I'm around for that too."
He'd have to get her something nice when she obtained that. Something all professional, to celebrate an important piece of paper. But anyway.
Pushing up from his chair, he'd go around to walk her out - and probably give her a hug with the Terminator arm, plus a kiss on the cheek for good measure.
That arm, jesus fuck. Revy didn’t mind the closeness with him much, and it’d given her a chance to get a good look at that thing - squeeze it a little over his sleeve, maybe, like it was muscle to fawn over and be impressed with. And she was impressed. “Way to make losing an arm look hot,” she smirked. “Good to see you all balanced and shit.”
There was no way in hell she could ever relate to what it must feel to lose a goddamn limb but she was glad to see that it didn’t set him back - he was still a contributing member to society with the obnoxious goody-goody desire to make a difference. The fucker was too much of a decent human being to hang around the likes of her, and yet their friendship came to be with ease. “Enjoy your porn with plot. Text me all the insight and character development shit you come up with from it.”
Or, again, whack off like a normal person but no doubt he’d get a kick out of it.