shirogane-atlas
Here is the start of a vent fic, featuring Shiro trying to make sense of the angst that has been his share in life. I don’t know exactly what I’m doing with this yet, and it will be posted to ao3 once it’s complete.
Contains spoilers for s7
- sleapy 😴
Session 1
“Why are you here, Mr. Shirogane? By the way, can I call you Shiro?”
“Everyone does.” There was no one left now who didn’t.
The room was smaller than Shiro had expected; though why he had expected a big room, he couldn’t tell you. The sofa he was seated on had the potential to be extremely comfortable. But he sat upright, refusing to sink into its softness.
The walls were painted a light, bright green, the color of a particularly enticing grape. A large window let in daylight that was then softened by a beige curtain. It was the embroidery on those curtains that drew Shiro’s eyes, for no reason other than to give them something to focus on.
“I’m here because…” Shiro kept his breath steady as he considered the question. Because he was practically ordered to? Too on the nose. Because of the war? Too broad. Because of Adam? Too narrow. “Because of what I’ve experienced in this war.”
The therapist nodded. She was a friendly looking person, dressed business-casual, out of place as a Garrison official not in uniform. Her black hair streaked with the occasional gray gave him an odd sense of reminiscence. But he didn’t dwell on that.
“Let’s talk about that, then,” she suggested.
Shiro nodded, drumming his hands on his knees. Talking about what all happened since he decided to embark on the Kerberos mission—that was something he could do with a smoothness that came from habit, a detachment that came from practice.
“My crew and I were abducted by the Galra when we were exploring Kerberos,” he began. “My CO was sent to a work camp, while I was taken to the gladiator pits along with his son.”
He made his way through the much rehearsed story for the nth time, losing track of the value of n. It wasn’t until he got to his initial escape that he noticed his doctor wasn’t writing anything down. She’d started the session with her stylus poised over her tablet, but now the items lay discarded on the seat next to her. Her eyes lingered not on his mechanical forearm–not even on his missing upper arm–but on his face. She was staring at him with an analytic expression that made him less than comfortable.
“Dr. Shaheen? Is something wrong?”
Her face turned pensive, but no less friendly. “Not wrong, necessarily.” She adjusted her position in her seat, uncrossing and recrossing her legs. “Why don’t we keep these discussions more informal?”
He noticed it was phrased as a suggestion, but her tone didn’t seem to invite argument. He shrugged. “Whatever you want, doc.”
Her posture deflated as if she’d disappointed herself. “I was afraid you might say that.” She gave him a sad smile that he didn’t know what to do with. “I think today was very helpful. I learned a lot about you, Shiro. How are you feeling?”
“Wait, that’s it?” It had only been, what, twenty minutes? “Don’t these things usually run for forty-five?”
She shook her head. “Like I said, informal. We can go as short or as long as we like. You’ve given me a lot to think about.” She reached for her tablet, switching out of the notetaking app to something else he couldn’t see. “How’s tomorrow for you?”
“I’m not doing anything.”
A smile. “Now you are.”
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