Psychiatrists were generally just as – if not more than -- nuts as their patients; they just managed to seem more socially acceptable. It was probably the MD behind their names. Go to school for half your life and all of a sudden society thinks you should be given more respect than the poor Schmoe who couldn’t make it. But Sydney honestly thought everyone was crazy; either some people dealt with it better, or they hadn’t had that event horizon moment to shove them off the proverbial cliff.
She looked down at that, mouth pressing together briefly before she looked back up. “I’m sorry.” For all of it. Everything. That his parents died, that he hadn’t been allowed to attend to his father either in sickness or in death. She watched David thoughtfully, wondering just how hard that had to have been for someone who so obviously loved his family. Who was so obviously loved in return by them. “They should have let you go.” Or at least should have had a grief counselor or whatever on top of the normal counselors.
With gentle guidance, they found their way into the dining area where the steampunk-looking coffee brewer stood shiny and copper, waiting to regale the next person with a story and hot drink. Syd looked over as well, a quiet laugh escaping in shared ruefulness. “They’re still your parents. Good parents put up with their kids’ shit.” Keyword being good, which the Hallers sounded like they were. Fiddling with the knobs and buttons, she got the machine percolating for two cups, Oliver’s voice piping in and chattering away soothingly. But it was white noise, what with her attention on David.
“What are your dreams like?” Did she want to know the answer to that question? Yes and no. No and yes. But it was an idly curious question, giving way to more important things. “Where—“ She stopped, eyebrows drawing downward. It was a good idea, and might help David deal with a lot of things. Closure was supposed to be important, right? But it was a delicate subject and Syd wasn’t always good with those. So her train of thought switched tracks – smoothly, like a planned track switch rather than a runaway train. “Where are we going?” She looked down at the coffee that had finished pouring out, then back up at David with a wry smile. “And we’ll probably need travel cups for this.”