Chapter 2

Despite getting the lowdown from Lancer, and reading Danny's rather decorated permanent record, Connor Matthews still isn't sure what to expect of his newest patient.

But whatever preconceived notions he'd started to form, they're thoroughly shattered after the first session.

"Daniel Fenton?" Connor calls, leaning out his door.

There's only one kid in the waiting room, so there's not much room for error. But the kid is so ordinary in contrast to what the permanent record suggests, it makes him hesitate. The kid seems calm, if a bit grumpy, and is chewing on the end of his pencil as his head bows studiously over the worksheet in his lap.

Still, the teen's head snaps up when called. "Uh, Hi," Danny says, straightening.

Connor doesn't miss the way Danny sizes him up, the teen's blue eyes glancing from Connor's windswept brown curls, to his sweater vest, all the way down to the tattered sneakers, and back. The boy's shoulders relax a fraction.

"Uh, Mr. Lancer sent me—" he digs out the hall pass.

"I know. Sorry to keep you waiting." He'd meant to meet Danny right off, but another ghost attack in the halls meant he had to talk a student through a panic attack. It hadn't been a long delay, but still - courtesy. Connor motions Danny to the door. "Come in."

Danny stuffs the worksheet into his backpack - wait, is that a ziplock in there? Why is Danny keeping his homework in a ziplock bag? - gathers his things, and stands. He runs a restless hand through his messy black hair. "I, er, don't know what Mr. Lancer told you, but this is seriously not necessary," he starts, stepping into the counselor office. "I'm fine."

The second thing Connor notices - a troubling detail - is the way that Danny checks his corners. With the first step through the door, Danny's head makes a series of small movements - right, up, down - left, up, down - right, left.

Connor goes still. That behavior - it's something he's used to seeing from cops, when he worked as a therapist for the S.F.P.D. before moving to Amity Park. Checking to make sure a room is empty of threats, then making note of the exits. Danny's eyes also linger for a second on the lone security camera tacked to the ceiling before turning to face him.

Connor holds in a sigh. They haven't even sat down yet, and Danny's already thrown his first red flag.

Hoh boy.

"Rest assured, Danny, this isn't a place of judgment." Connor says.

"Sure," Danny replies, in a tone that says he suspects otherwise. He heads in, grabbing the chair opposite of Connor's desk meant for student visitors. "Listen, no offense, but I've done this dance before and I have to say. Not a fan."

Connor puts his hands in his pockets. "If it was with that crock, Spectra, I don't blame you," he says.

That earns him a sharp look from Danny. "Crock?' he repeats.

Connor gives a sardonic smile. "After she disappeared, the administration dug into her work history. Her 'Accolades' were pure bullshit. Did you know she was running a scam? She'd bully the kids in her care until they were too depressed to talk back or act out." He explains. "Made her track record look stunning, I'm sure."

Danny's looking at him now, straight on. Good. He's got the kid's attention.

"Fun fact," Connor adds, "Did you know she slipped up? One school in Missouri, she went too far, pushed the wrong kid over the edge. The boy came back with a gun and shot her and her assistant point blank. Very curious how Casper High managed to employ someone who was, allegedly, dead."

A startled snort escapes Danny before the kid turns away. "Only in Amity Park, I guess."

Ah. Connor casts a look at the boy. So he knew.

Okay. So. Given Danny's behavior, and demeanor, Connor suspects the traditional approach isn't going to work with this one. Time for phase two.

"Feel free to leave your bag anywhere," Connor tells him, and brushes past Danny, ignoring the desk entirely. It's not the only fixture in the room; along with a standard office desk and accompanying chair, Connor's got a long sofa and a low wooden table along the far wall, some beanbags scattered about, and an admittedly old tv on a wheelie-cart crammed in the corner. This, he approaches, snatching up the remote and turning on the device.

Danny seems confused. "…What?"

"Grab a beanbag," Connor says, leaning to unpack Lancer's Xbox from its fancy carrying case. "Or a pillow. Whatever works. It won't take me long to set up."

Danny stands there awkwardly, watching Connor plug the wires into the back of the tv.

"Are you telling me that Lancer… let me ditch English class to come here and play video games with you?" he asks at last.

"Well. That wasn't the exact agreement, but his wording was rather vague." Connor says. "He didn't not say I could play video games with you."

Danny stops to puzzle out that double negative, frowning.

Connor gestures to the tv. "Hey, if you're not interested, you're welcome to head back to class. I can't exactly stop you. But I suspect you'd rather stay."

Danny hesitates. "What's the catch."

With a click of a button, the console thrums to life. "The catch is… you're stuck as player two? C'mon, kid. Grab a seat. I've only got this thing for a week, tops, before Arnold starts complaining and asking for it back."

"Who's Arnold?" Danny asks, reluctantly dropping his backpack near the visitor's chair and venturing up to the TV.

Connor laughs a little. "You don't think Lancer's first name is actually Lancer, do you?"

"…This is taboo information you've just handed me," Danny warns.

Connor tosses him a controller. "Do with it what you will."

When Connor first met Lancer, he'd actually pegged the man as a gamer, much to the teacher's surprise. What Connor hadn't expected was that Lancer kept a spare console and a stash of games on hand at all times. He had a fair rig at home, but sometimes his mother "dropped by" to visit him for "a few weeks", and a man could only take so much. The school was typically quiet after hours, offering sanctuary and the plausible cover story that he might be grading tests. It was an open secret, though. Connor had it on good authority that Lancer sometimes even broke out the 'Box between classes, as a stress reliever.

Despite the man's vast library of games, Connor handpicked five games beforehand, just in case. He offers these to Danny now, splaying out the cases. "Your pick."

Danny settles into his blue beanbag, eyeing the options. DOOMED. Fable. Manhunt. Silent Hill 2. Journey.

"Eh—" he says, and plucks DOOMED from the pile. "This'll do, I guess."

"You guess?"

"Are we allowed to use cheat codes?"

"Like I said. This is a no judgment zone."

"Alright."

The cheat codes Danny uses, much to Connor's curiosity, are all to give his character cosmetic changes and then lets him skip a few of the early worlds, bypassing the tutorials. Nothing to depower the enemies, or level himself up, beyond giving himself a wicked looking blaster that's more flash than substance. It's not behavior that matches with the slacker cliché that Lancer had painted him with.

"Tucker, Sam and I used to play this all the time," Danny tells him, knocking off the mini-boss, a cyborg biker weilding a chainsaw, with relative ease. "It's a bit too easy now."

"You're welcome to try a new game." Connor says. "Manhunt's a violent shooter—"

"Hard pass on that."

Well, good. Not that Connor buys into the whole 'violence in video games' argument, but he's picked these games to assess Danny's mental state. To get a rough baseline on his moods. And Connor certainly can't say that he is disappointed that Danny chose to steer away from gleeful, cathartic murder.

"Silent Hill 2's a horror game, light on gore, heavy on mystery and atmosphere," - Danny shakes his head at that; cool - dodged the depression video game, "Journey's a relaxing experience, for the most part…"

Danny's head tilts in a that's fair nod. "Could use some of that I guess."

Connor makes a mental note. Stress. Gotcha. "And Fable's a story-based fantasy game where your choices determine who you become."

"I played that one. Didn't like it." Danny scrunches his nose up. "I never made it past the opening."

This is odd, because the opening is far from difficult. "Why not?"

"Didn't like the whole—" Danny flaps a hand. "Backstory. Where your family is killed by bandits or whatever and you're too weak to stop it."

Hm. Okay. That's…

Connor sets that thought aside for now. That's something that feels like a piece of a larger picture, something to untangle later. "Should I put in Journey, then?" he asks instead.

"Nah." Danny settles in, rubbing his left knee a bit as if it's sore. "Haven't had the chance to play this in a while. It's nostalgic."

"Ah, too busy lately?"

"Mmm." Danny says, apparently too smart to say yes and risk Connor asking with what?

Kid's gonna be a tough nut to crack.

The two of them play in relative silence for exactly four minutes, during which Connor positions himself at an angle where he can watch the clock, the screen, and Danny's face with ease and clarity. Those minutes of observation are enough to determine that Danny 1) does not have an attention problem, easily keeping up with gameplay while fielding Connor's occasional remark or request, and only fidgets to rub his left knee from time to time; 2) doesn't have any readily-apparent anger issues, as he deals with the frustrating flying enemies on level four with brisk movements and a clenched jaw, 3) has some pretty deep bags under his eyes, dark enough to rival Connor's own (but he's a teenager - so that tells him very little, in the end), and 4) seems to have some plant residue clinging to his jeans. From the ghost attack, maybe?

Connor waits until they enter the boss chamber before clears his throat. "So I would probably be remiss if I didn't ask a few counseling related questions while you're here, so. How was your day?"

"You're asking now? Really?" Danny says flatly as the Boss - a giant mecha worm - roars onscreen. "Your timing is terrible."

"As good a time as any." Connor says. His timing is excellent, actually, because while he's distracted with a complex task, Danny won't have the leisure of overthinking. "So?"

Danny shakes his head, quickly scouting the game arena for some cover. "My day could've been better," he admits.

"Anything you want to talk about?"

"Not particularly."

"I figured." Connor pauses a moment to toss a grenade at the Boss monster. "I hear you were late for third period."

A hesitation. "And seventh," Danny admits, apparently thinking Lancer will rat him out later, anyway.

"Did you get caught up in that ghost attack?"

A snort. "You could say that."

He takes it with a blasé attitude, which tells Connor that he, like too many other kids at this school, are far too overexposed to danger. Connor shakes his head. And to think, when he moved here, he thought working as a school counselor would be easier than working as an on-call therapist for the police department.

The blasé attitude could be from disinterest or from repression, though. So Connor asks, "What do you think of Phantom?"

Danny flinches. His character onscreen takes a pretty nasty hit.

"That's a pretty loaded question, isn't it?" he asks.

"Is it?"

"Given that my parents are the town's resident ghost hunters?" Danny huffs. "Yeah. Super loaded."

Connor sits back. "I… didn't know that, actually," he admits. Fenton's a pretty common surname, so he hadn't assumed. He studies Danny's face, surprised at the bitterness there.

"Yeah, well, they are." Danny furiously taps the buttons, trying to dodge a barrage of attacks. Connor, still at full health, doesn't bother, focusing more on Danny's face as he goes on. "And if I show even a little bit of positivity for Phantom, word gets back to them that their son is a fan. And if I don't, then you peg me as cynical and closed minded. So. Let's just skip that question, okay?"

"Danny," Connor says, pausing the game. Danny makes an affronted noise as the action stops onscreen. "Danny look at me."

Reluctantly, he does. Connor tells him, "Nothing you say to me - short of, say, verbally making a threat to yourself or others - will ever leave this room. Understood?"

"Psh," Danny scoffs.

"That includes secrets," Connor says, "Sexual orientation, sexual activity, drug use, past crimes, past abuse - anything that doesn't currently, immediately put someone in danger is fair game."

Danny doesn't respond to that.

Connor leans back, fixes Danny with a level look, and tries again. "So what do you think about Phantom?"

Danny's thumbs fiddle with the joysticks, the controller useless in his hand. "Sam's a pretty vocal supporter," he says at last. "Tucker is, too."

Connor nods and waits.

"My ex hates him," Danny adds. His eyes go to the side. "Maybe she should."

Another long stretch, where Danny's eyes go distant, and he seems to be lost in something. Connor prompts, "And you?"

Danny presses his lips together.

"He could do better." He replies.

The response sounds personal enough to be genuine, but vague enough that it feels like Danny's playing on safe ground. Connor leans back. "Yeah, he does leave a lot of collateral damage, sometimes," he tests the waters.

Danny's face crumples a bit, angry, still refusing to meet Connor's eyes.

"But," Connor adds, "He doesn't have to protect us at all. So I figure if he's trying his best, who am I to judge? I certainly wouldn't want to be out there, risking my neck on the front lines, day after day."

Danny grips his controller so hard, his knuckles go white.

"Do you feel safe?" Connor asks. "With all the ghosts around?"

A huff. "I live in ghost central. The stuff we see here at Casper High? This is kind of my normal."

"…But do you feel safe."

A long, long silence.

Connor's eventually the one who picks up the thread again, voice low and subdued. "Your parents are on the front lines, too, then, aren't they?" he asks. "As ghost hunters, they must be in danger a lot."

Danny's eye twitches a bit. "Is there a question here or what."

"Just an observation," Connor says. "I imagine it would put you under a lot of stress. Worry can really impact your wellbeing, and bleed into other areas of your life."

"So?"

"So your teachers are seeing a notable dip in your performance." Connor says. "I wonder if the two are connected."

Danny fidgets with his left knee again, and the repeated action makes Connor cast a look down at it. It's the same leg with the plant residue clinging to the hem. "Did you hurt your leg?" he asks at last.

"No," Danny says quickly. "I mean yes. I mean—this beanbag is just super uncomfortable, can I sit somewhere else?" The boy is quick to grasp at the change of conversation. His eyes cast about until they land on the sofa nearby.

Deflection. Another red flag.

"Sure," Connor says, willing to let this go, for now. "If you'd like to use the sofa, we can—"

He doesn't get to finish with, move the tv and then relocate, because Danny leans over and grabs the underside of the couch with one hand, and pivots the sofa from the wall to line it up parallel to the tv.

Connor nearly chokes in surprise. That couch is an old, heavy piece of furniture, and weighs 350, easy. Connor inherited it from the previous owner of this office, because the thing was such a pain to move that the old occupant didn't even bother. There's a reason the Tv is on wheels - it's because that couch is a nightmare to move, even with a moving crew. Did this scrawny kid just move it several feet? One handed? From a sitting position on the floor?

"You good?" Connor asks, a bit shaken, trying to remember if he's ever tried to move that couch himself. Come to think of it, he hasn't tried in a while. Maybe the folks who told him it was heavy were lying for kicks.

"Yeah, that's—better," Danny says, claiming a perch on the cushions, stretching out his left leg. He turns to face Connor. "Listen, Mr. Matthews, just - I know what you're trying to do, okay?"

"Do you, now." Connor asks, trying to refocus. He feels like he's half-forgotten the point of all this, himself.

"My sister's into Psychology," Danny explains. "And she's always picking at circumstances, or events, trying to figure out if I'm "traumatized"," he puts the word in air quotes. "But I'm not, okay? I really don't need someone to figure out where I'm broken, or how I need to be fixed. There's nothing wrong with me."

Connor shakes his head out, somewhat to recollect himself, and somewhat because he can't believe what Danny just said.

"That's not the point of this at all," he says. "Danny—there's no such thing as broken people. There's just people who cope well with the world they're handed, and people who don't."

He joins Danny on the couch, abandoning the game on the floor. Danny begrudgingly lets him.

"Some people," Connor explains, "Are handed really shitty worlds. They have more to cope with than most. Some adapt, some don't. And sometimes, when the danger passes, people who coped well will cling to the habits that kept them alive, even if they don't need them anymore. Therapy isn't about reprogramming people until they're some version normal - Therapy is helping them live their life the way they want to live it. This space is supposed to be safe for you to express your feelings, your coping habits, come to terms with who you are and who you want to be."

"Well," Danny says, "Right now I don't want to talk about any of that stuff."

Connor nods. "Alright."

"…Alright?"

"We don't have to talk about how you're feeling right now. Or how you're impacted by your parent's professions, or how safe you feel at school. Let's just put all that aside right now and address the big question."

Danny's hands ball into fists in his lap. "Which is?"

"What would help you do better in school?" Connor asks.

Danny almost laughs. "That's the big question?"

"It's today's question, anyway." Connor shrugs. "It's what got you into my office in the first place."

"Yeah, cause Lancer's a busybody," Danny says. "Look, I know he wants me to show up on time to class, and hand in work religiously, and be the perky A+ student my sister was, but I just can't. Okay? Either I'm going to pass, or I'm not. There's nothing you can do to help me."

"Accommodations can be made," Connor points out. "One word to Lancer, and he relaxes his grip."

"And the catch?"

"You seem to think there's a catch to everything, Danny," Connor observes. "How about we try this. You ask for something. I'll say yes or no."

"That'll never—"

"Ask."

"I want an unlimited hall pass," Danny says. "So I can show up as late to class as I want."

Connor thinks for a second.

"Done." He says at last. "What else?"

Danny sputters. "What do you mean, done? You can't do that—!"

"Sure I can." Connor sets him with a look. "As long as I don't feel you're abusing the privilege, I can give you full days off entirely."

"…You can?"

"What else," Connor repeats.

Danny seems more careful now. "…I want to be able to hand in late work. I can't say why, I just—"

"Done. Anything else?"

Danny seems a little dumbstruck.

"My conditions are: I'd have to see you once a week." Connor lists. "You'd have to show you're making an effort to keep up with whatever classes you miss. I'd check your progress on homework you're assigned to make sure you're not just putting it off indefinitely. And during these visits, you talk to me."

Danny clams up a bit. "Talk to you?"

"About anything." Connor elaborates. "About where you think you're headed and how effective your strategies are. How you're feeling, if you're up for it. Maybe keep an open mind about exploring treatment options. All I'm asking, Danny, is that you give me your best, and you try."

Danny stares at him for a long moment. "Really?" he asks.

"If you need it." Connor nods. "Do you?"

Danny hesitates. And that's one thing Connor can't figure out - why would he hesitate? "What if I—"

They're interrupted by a loud, banging knock at the door.

"Matthews!" The principal hollers, startling them both. She swings open the door, abrupt. "I need those forms I sent you—" She stops, though, as she sees the scene. "Oh—You're with someone. I didn't realize, I'm sorry."

"No, it's all right," Connor says. "Danny—"

Connor turns to find Danny's seat vacated.

Danny is on his feet, halfway across the room, with his back against the wall. He's heaving deep, unsteady breaths, eyes darting everywhere, looking for danger.

"...Danny?" Connor asks, concerned.

"I- " Danny hesitates, shoulders slumping. He looks like he might be calming down from the startle.

And then he gasps, a misty breath escaping his mouth, and goes rigid again.

"It looks like she needs your help soIthinkI'lljustgo-" the words rush out of Danny's mouth. In a blink he slings his backpack on and shoulders his way past Principal Ishiyama, bolting out the door.

"Young man, you need a hall pass-" she calls after him, in vain. He's already gone.

Connor rocks back in his seat, floored.

So. Hypervigilance. Combine that with stress. Irritability. Possible nightmares. Not to mention, self destructive behavior. ...is he looking at PTSD, maybe?

Christ, How many red flags is that?

Principal Ishiyama turns and gives Connor a frown. "What was that all about?"

He doesn't get the chance to explain - isn't sure how he'd explain, not while he's still piecing the picture together, himself - when the fire alarm spontaneously goes off.

"Attention, Casper High, this is not a drill. Please proceed to the emergency exits immediately. This is not a drill -"

"Another ghost attack?" the principal asks above the blaring alarm, seeming to echo his thoughts. "That's three today! At this rate, the children are going to be traumatized just by coming to school."

"Oh, you don't know the half of it," Connor says. He suspects that he doesn't know the half of it, either.

But he's starting to get a clue.