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[Sessions are booked and scheduled. Meetings planned and arranged. One client is exchanged for another, each face becoming a blur in the crowd. Personalities are observed and analysed. Problems are examined and assessed. People are directed and he is disappointed.

As it was thus, so it is now.

One more client fills the crowd. One more voice whines and complains. One becomes two, becomes three, becomes four, becomes five. Six minutes are spent observing a painting while he awaits his seventh client. But as much as he pretends they are clients, he thinks they are subjects.]

Enter.

[He does not move from his position and allows himself to be seen admiring a famous piece of art.]

[Well boy if you were looking for whining and complaining, the right guy just walked through your door. This was different than the last time he had seen Crane, but Chris supposed it was more professional or whatever. The furniture actually reminded him a bit of the Halliwell Manor. Except a little more stuffy. The manor always had a more airy feel to it. Actually, stopping to admire the wood tones and armchairs, he realized it reminded him of someplace else. And he hated it. He had been about to compliment him, and instead he just swallowed it, trying not to feel uncomfortable.]

Uh....nice choice of artwork.

[Seriously creepy. But he was never really an art person. He hadn't even finished high school.]

Hi. Want me to come back and leave you two alone?

[Of course the painting has an effect. Of course the immature brat denies it. The leaves outside are brown and falling off the trees and of course he needs to defenestrate the boy and see the stain he makes on the gravel. But he keeps his gaze levelled at the painting and speaks without emotion.

Life rarely affords all you desire.]

No. Come here and tell me what strikes you about this painting.

I think if you want to talk art history you seriously got the wrong Halliwell.

[Sorry Prue, although the two of them might look alike and act alike, Chris did not inherit or acquire her love and knowledge of art. Not really having a choice, he walks over and takes a seat near Crane, looking up at the piece.

Honestly it made his heart beat a little faster looking at it. Chris caught himself holding his breath. The colors, the image. It was just. Creepy. Was it supposed to be creepy? Was that what made it art?]

Seriously? Okay. It's......makes me uncomfortable.

Well, I can already see that. Have you lost the use of your legs?

[There is no need to turn and observe. One can feign laziness. One can act confident. But in the end those legs are refusing to stand because they are too tired to endure. His hands slide behind his back and clasp together. Unlike his charge, he appears unfased, comfortable with what the art suggests.]

There's nothing to fear about a painting. But a painting is open to interpretation, isn't it? Now, explain why it makes you uncomfortable.

[Chris rolled his eyes and sighed, utterly exasperated at the older man. Shoving himself up, he sulked and trudged back toward Crane, using his legs and crossing his arms across his chest.]

Happy now?

[Be glad Crane, he was only snarky to people he liked.]

The red sky is creeping me out.

[For someone who spent a good amount of time in the Underworld or dangling demons over the fiery pits, that was odd wasn't it?]

Do you always have it hanging here or is this an exercise?

[Crane speaks while observing the painting: the red sky resembling a cry from nature. Be it a volcanic eruption or a child's whimper in the dark. He declines to offer physical attention as his cold and clinical voice cuts through nonsense.]

Why suppose you are my only client? Stop thinking of yourself as the centre of the world.

[In reality, the world is society: a web of connections where each strand twists and bends. Or is broken.]

Now, perhaps this is surprising to you, but perhaps it is hanging here because I like it.

[Honestly, yeah, the thought had crossed his mind. Not that he was your only patient but that you mixed up the paintings depending on your own thought process. Be grateful he thought so highly of you.]

Wow, did I hit a nerve there? Believe me, I am far from the center of the world. Or the universe, or whatever people think they revolve around. I do think that it would be an interesting exercise though.

[Why? Because it's exactly what he would do. Manipulate his charges into seeing his point of view. He totally hadn't learned his lesson just because he almost got killed and everyone he cared about.]

Tell me why you like it then? Same reason you became a psychiatrist? Or whatever kind of special degree you have?

It is a reminder that we can be productive, regardless of our suffering. That we can produce great works irrespective of our despair. Or face the greatest challenges of our lives when we are too scared to face anything.

[Or anyone. In truth, he recognises the feelings of isolation, fear and loneliness. There is something deeply relatable about it for a man who struggles to relate to other people. It is a comforting depiction regardless of the terror depicted with every stroke of a brush.]

I find it convenient albeit benign for articulating painful and overwhelming feelings to my patients. It seems it just hits a nerve.

[His lips almost twist at the corners. Almost.]

So....suck it up and stop whining?

[Okay, that wasn't precisely what he thought Crane meant but, trust Chris to break it down to it's lowest possible denominators. And honestly, that's kind of what his family had been telling him for most of his life. Stop whining and get on with it. Crane just made it sound cool and honorable. Like the struggle against ones self was worth as much as a physical battle.

And then Crane used his own words against him. Chris scowled at him, annoyed (of course he was), that Crane got the upper hand.]

[Crane turns his gaze upon his client. Cold and observant, patient and calculating.]

Mr. Halliwell. I think you react like a man who has heard that nonsense from family since you were a boy.

[A boy. A child. And an intelligent man will understand he means in the sense of time.]

Now, you can suck it up and stop whining as they suggest. Or you can swallow your frustration and achieve something in spite of them.

[Well fuck. Chris honestly didn't expect to be called out like that. He probably should have, Crane seems to be good enough at what he does. He felt the fight just kind of deflate out of him, and his legs yet again stopped working as he sank down on the nearby couch. He sighed audibly, muscles which had been tense relaxing a bit.]

Alright, you win. What do you want me to do?

[Because Crane was right. He was a hurt child acting out even as a twenty-three year old. He was still angry at his father for playing favorites, he was angry at his brother for the abuse, and he was angry at his entire family for abandoning him and telling him to just suck it up. ]

[Progress. The joy of discovery and the thrill of control. Crane redirects his attention to the painting and ignores the pricking of his thumbs.]

Well, you can help yourself to a drink and stop taking yourself so seriously.

[Is there something unethical in how the only drinks available are whiskey and bourbon? He hardly cares. The man is an adult and makes his choices. Not that choices are ever your own.]

You know, I'm not sure when the last time I had a drink was.

[Reaching over, he grabbed the bottle of bourbon at random and poured himself a glass. He knocked it back neatly and then poured another. In all honesty, it had probably been over a year. So Chris' tolerance was low.]

I take it back, I do remember. I thought I won. I thought I'd gotten the last demon to get to my brother. I was wrong.

[He paused frowning, looking up at Crane.]

Does it still count if it's sparkling cider because your aunt has a problem with certain liquids? If not it's been a while.

[since he relaxed or since he had a drink?]

[Down in one. Down in two.

Crane examines the painting and explores his thoughts; imagining himself as the terrified figure. Eight months ago he felt connected with him. Now he can only imagine himself examining him.]

Well, I would hardly offer you a choice otherwise, would I? Carry on professing your aunt's choices matter if that matters to you.

[He shrugs. He could say he hardly believes they do; but they do, don't they?]

[This time Chris sips on the liquid, letting it ease his muscles and relax his brain enough so things just poured out. It totally didn't occur to him that was precisely what Crane wanted. He didn't even think about the fact that there wasn't a nonalcoholic choice, despite previously processing Paige's issues. Then again, drinking was against the Whitelighter rules.

What he fuck did he care. Chris actually smiled at Crane.]

That you're way of saying relax, or I'll get you drunk and make you relax?

So, you like the creepy painting because it's a reminder of perseverance or something? Of facing what scares us? And in a weird ass way it helps people?

[Chris repeated, actually using his words to try and summarize what Crane had told him before. Had he been paying attention?]

Of course it does.

[His words are spoken once his patient has finished. He waits, not out of courtesy nor civility, but the convenience. He can dismantle another dissension but has a schedule. Chris is not the only patient he is seeing today. Chris is not the only person he wants to control.

He takes his usual seat; the green armchair by the window. Notably, his reflection is only margically similar.]

I think you should notice how capable of critical thought you are once you stop pretending you are someone else except yourself.

[Chris, despite being told he was not the center of attention and agreeing he wasn't, still hasn't gotten it through his skull that Crane might have other patients today, before or after him. The thought going through his rather tipsy head of his was that Crane was kind of hot. It had been a while since he had any of that either.]

I'm not pretending!

[Chris' first thought was to defend himself, argue. And then he frowned, sighing and relaxed again. Recovering from his kneejerk reaction.]

Or I'm just good at repeating what you said back to you

Edited (html fail) 2024-10-05 23:52 (UTC)

[Crane remains upright in his chair. Hands folded in his lap, knees and ankles pressed together. His body is closed and guarded but his voice is placid. Too calm. Too controlled. And too wet and slippery to sound comfortable. To make someone feel comfortable.

He inhales and closes his eyes for a second.]

So what? Any client can repeat what I say. What I require them to do is absorb the information.

[And just like that Chris is reminded of Gideon again. Luckily for him, he's still tipsy, and takes another sip so he remains so.]

And you think I'm absorbing it? Like the bourbon?

[That was Chris' queue to take another sip. Look at him. Actually relaxing. Okay, he was relaxing by way of hard liquor but it was still working. His eye caught Crane's reflecting, and he kept going back and forth trying to figure out why it was weirding him out, itching at his brain.

The whitelighter re-arranged himself, turning to lounge on the couch. ]

All I need to do is let go?

[No matter how much he drinks, Chris will always find the bottle has refilled. Crane observes every sip and taste. Alcohol is a tool to get the information he wants. There are some who care for ethics; those he would offer juice and water. Criminals like Falcone? He allows them to provide and feel in control. Maladaptive subjects like Chris? Their lines are already blurred.

He leans back and maintains eye contact.]

Well, first I think you need to sit straight. Then perhaps I can see about teaching you to relax.

[Despite outright grumbling, Chris does what Crane has asked, and swings his body back so his feet are once again on the floor and his back is straight. Just like Crane asked. Like something in his brain just switched on. He finds himself eyeing Crane just as he eyed him, reflecting what the older man was giving? Or just doing what he was told and awaiting further instructions?]

Alright. Sorry.

[Crane was right. Chris' line was completely and utterly blurred. What a good therapist for noticing, thanks Crane.]

[Compliance. The patient seems susceptible to social influence. His eyes inspect his neck, descending to observe his chest.]

Now, this probably sounds ridiculous to you, but place one hand on your chest. Rest the other upon your stomach. Following this, inhale through your nose.

[He denies himself water and remains observant of a process he is in the middle of advising.]

Hold your breath for four seconds. Then exhale through your mouth, expelling all the air you can while contracting your abdominal muscles. The hand on your stomach should rise and fall as you exhale, but your other hand should hardly move at all.

[Susceptible to social influence. That pretty much described a lot of the Halliwells actually. Chris arched an eyebrow, kind of doubting what Crane was suggesting but did it anyway. It seemed similar enough to meditation and what he did to sense his charges, that he was in a way used to it. But it still didn't come easily to him. He pauses for a moment to eye Crane and voice his own opinions before continuing,.]

Yeah, I do, I feel ridiculous.

[But not as ridiculous as he felt when he couldn't use his own abilities because his emotions were in the way. Or how he couldn't heal or trigger any of his other abilities. Not necessarily because he was inferior, but because he was stuck.

And inferior.

It takes Chris a while. His own pulse increasing as he gets frustrated with his inability to complete such a simple task. When he stops thinking about it, stops thinking about how it's similar to the techniques whitelighters used, he does finally get it. All he had to to was stop comparing himself to everyone else. And just.

Breathe.

This wasn't so bad actually. There wasn't anything else he had to focus on.]

Edited 2024-10-06 01:28 (UTC)

Ridiculous.

[Word repetition. His reinforcement of negative thinking. He observes his subject and deliberately provokes further distress by mirroring his actions.

Inhale. Hold for four seconds. Exhale.]

The only way you could be more inferior at breathing is to be dead.

[Because dead men don't breathe, right?]

[ closed ]

[ chris ]

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