"We haven't talked about your father yet, Dave. We should talk about him."

"Do I have to?"

"I suppose not. But we've talked about your mother. Your brother and John. Your friend Karkat. We haven't talked about your father."

"I guess... It's for the best, isn't it?"

"We could make a lot of progress if you'd tell me."

"I guess. I can talk about him. Kind of been trying to avoid it. For obvious reasons."

"They're not obvious to me."

"Just. Okay, fine. So when my mom died he didn't take it as great as he could have... He did what any rational person would do, he got super depressed and wouldn't function for a few weeks. But when he did start to function again he was... Different."

"Different how, Dave?"

"Mostly angrier. He yelled a lot more about less impressive feats of stupidity. He just yelled at us for a while, but it got worse, and part of me thinks it's justifiable. I kind of killed his wife and all."

"Dave, we've talked about this."

"I know, just. If she hadn't gotten sick from me then she wouldn't have gone to the hospital where they figured out all the other shit was wrong with her and then her death would have been a fluke and I wouldn't have been the reason."

"How did it get worse?"

"Fuck, okay, jesus. So, like, it went from him being angry at both of us all the time, to him just being mad at me. And while he wasn't yelling at Bro anymore he had more time to yell at me, pretty much the only time he wasn't verbally abusing me was when I went to school or to some bullshit thing my classmates invited me to. It was when I was ten that it just... Escalated. Got way worse, like someone should have been calling CPS on this bullshit that went down next.

"So I was minding my own goddamn business when he gets home from work and decides 'oh hey let me go yell at Dave some more for some random bullshit I have concocted in my head' and he storms into my room, hackles up and hissing like a territorial tom-cat and I'm just sitting there taking it like I always did because yelling back never did any good.

"He gets pissed that I'm not responding or 'taking responsibility for my actions' and then he just... Reeled back and smacks the bejesus out of me. Like it wasn't a big deal. I mean it was a big deal to me, the only time I ever got hit was by this fat dick in my theater arts class who said my acting was shit and I punched him in the stomach.

"But it was different, it's like 'this is my dad I can't hit my dad, it is a thing that I can't do'. So I just sort of sat there, confused as shit and not wanting to fight back because I didn't want to get hit more and he storms off and slams some doors and it was like it was over."

"How did your brother react when he found out?"

"He didn't. Not really, for a while at least. It never got much worse than a smack or two until after Bro moved out, when I was twelve. I mean once he wasn't around it was like every day was Kick the Crap Outta Dave Day.

"Then I came home one day when I was fourteen and he was just." You make a nonsense hand motion here, searching for words.

"Hanging there." You look at the woman before you, legs crossed as she carefully writes on her pad of paper. She looks up when you stop and she looks as professional as ever as she asks this.

"How did your father's suicide effect you?"

You're silently thankful for her choice of phrasing it, and you let out a long sigh. You're not sure what you felt completely. You do, however, remember how relieved you were. You remember how guilty that made you feel. How you felt like you were responsible for his death as well.

"I hated myself." You say simply and she writes, setting the notepad to the side. "I was happy, but I was scared and I didn't know what was going to happen. Bro got custody of me and I moved in with him."

"You told me he wasn't around much. How did that feel?"

"Fucking awful. I just got there and he looks at me and says 'I have to go to work now, Dave, don't break my shit.' and just left for a few days." You look between the therapist and your hands in your lap, trying to come up with more. Fucking awful pretty much describes it though. You resign yourself to tell her more. "Even when he was around he didn't talk to me. Pretty much at all. He didn't find out about Dad hitting me until I let it slip while we were playing a video game." You sigh a bit then. "Of course, then he became unbearably motherly. Like he quit his great job and got one close to home, some hourly bullshit at a supermarket just so he could stay with me more. He went from indifferent to all up in my business in two seconds flat."

She nods slowly, a small smile forming on her dark colored lips. "Surely you must have enjoyed the affection. You hadn't had any for what must have been years."

"Just about eight years." You mumble and her smile falls again.

"I'm sorry, Dave." She says and you look up at her now.

"It's no big deal, Rose. I mean, I had you. I guess you were relatively affectionate."

"If i had been aware of your situation at the time I would have done something to stop it." She says with a serious nod. "However, we are at our time limit today. I'm afraid it's time for you to go home and me to see my next patient." She stands and moves closer, lowering herself so she's eye-level with you. "How have the nightmares been?"

You smile at this, rather proud of this piece of information. "Haven't had any in three months." You say and she nods approvingly, standing again and stepping back. You stand and when she offers her hand for a shake you push it away, opting to hug her instead. She responds by hugging you as well and patting your back.

"Thank you." You mumble and you hear the smile in her voice as she gives you your welcome.

"Now go home. I think there may be a surprise waiting for you." She gives your shoulder a squeeze and smiles at you and you take her advice, thinking that there better be a fucking present waiting at home for you. Six months of Lalonde-style therapy deserves a celebration.

When you get to your apartment and open the door, there's a surprising lack of parade floats, but there is a sign stuck to the wall in the living room, and a very happy looking John perched on the very edge of the couch waiting for you to return. You step in and barely see the fact that he was sitting before he's crossed the room and wrapped his arms around you. "Congratulations." He grins that goofy grin of his as he welcomes you home and you smile at him.

You enjoy his company for the next few hours, eat some celebratory cookies (John has a thing with cake you learn) and watch a movie until he has to go to work.

It's late enough by that time that you decide it's time to go to bed.

And as you sleep you are not attacked by nightmares. You are not fearful of your inevitable sleep.

You sleep peacefully, and dream about John and Rose.

OKAY so admittedly I was going to wait a bit longer to post this, but I couldn't wait!

IT'S OVER

THIS IS THE END

AND THEY SLEPT PEACEFULLY EVER AFTER

CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?

I want to thank you all a bunch for sticking with me through this (even though I'm a derpy spazz who deserves none of the luvin' I was given.)

As for the special thank you smut, it'll be on archiveofourown in a few days!