Here Comes The Son (Ghost Band / Papa Emeritus fic)

Through the Spillways

Three months.

Three months before the tour would resume again. None of the remaining dates following Copia's kidnapping had been able to be saved. There weren't even that many left to perform, but he hadn't been ready. It was three weeks after the end of his ordeal that he had been discharged from the infirmary, but even then he was in no fit state to go on tour. Even if Hell had said yes, their insurance company doctors would have said no. It brought a smile to his face that even the Devil was subject to public and personal liability insurance. It said a great deal about insurance.

But now there was a definite deadline and although physically healthy now, although not at full strength, Copia knew he had to do something about his mental state. There were factors that were obvious - he had almost been ritually slaughtered by a Prince of Hell. As a factor affecting his mental health, he would have to mark that up as a big one, but there were smaller, or at least less well known, factors that had made the experience that much worse for him. Childhood stuff. Bullying and loneliness certainly, but there was that other incident too. The one that had never been addressed.

He made his way down the Ministry halls; his leather soled shoes padding gently with the softest click. He hadn't known what to wear. What did a satanic pope wear to visit a psychotherapist for the first time? It sounded like the opening to a terrible joke and in many respects he wished it were, but here he was, pausing outside the office that had been assigned to her. In the end, he had opted for a simple black cassock and had forgone his paint. He knew that part of him hoped not to be recognised as he stepped inside, either by her or by others. What did that tell him about his feelings? His state of mind? Shame? Yes, shame was a large part, but he had no doubts that there were worse feelings to come.

His hand hovered at the door for a few seconds before bringing it down to rap sharply - he was committed now. He had expected a simple call to enter, so was surprised when a short, slender, red-haired woman opened the door, her expression one of empathy and understanding. Before she even said a word he felt somehow comforted solely by her presence.

"Come in, Your Unholiness." She greeted him as she invited him inside.

She held the door while he entered, looking to her for guidance over where to sit, and nodding as she pointed out a seat near a frosted window with a deep red velvet draped curtain covering half of it. The room itself was dimly lit, enough to see but not so much that it felt intimidating. As he pondered it, allowing his mind to take him wherever it needed to go, he felt that a bright light might pull the truth kicking and screaming from where it was inevitably prone to hide. No, this lighting would coax out the truth with comforting promises and gentle caresses to his soul. The truth was fragile and needed careful handling. The room was simple, two comfortable cushioned chairs, a table, a carafe of water, glasses and tissues. Somehow the tissues felt threatening; demanding his attention. He felt as if he was expected, or even required to cry. The tension in his chest returned as he found it hard to turn his eyes away from the small square box, ready, waiting, and insisting upon his tears. Next to his chair was a small wastepaper basket. The receptacle of used tissues. His breath hitched as he thought more about it, mainly because he had already considered it and was prepared, to an extent. It was the main reason why he had foregone the paint - smudged and streaky paint trails on his face was more likely to attract attention than no paint at all. But still, seeing it there. He found it strangely stressful.

"Please make yourself comfortable" she indicated the chair by the window again and he obliged, managing a polite yet virtually silent, thank you as he arranged himself in the seat, straightening his cassock so to avoid creasing it and ensuring the pellegrina fell neatly around his shoulders. The woman, simply dressed in a long black skirt and loose fitting blouse, now sitting opposite him, watched with an interested but non-judgemental expression and waited for him to be ready.