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Sinjin manages to get up, though he'd rather be staring at the sky. He can walk, which is a surprise, and he makes it to his borrowed car. Hands shaking — he's in no condition to drive — he starts up the engine and peels out. No idea where he's going until he screeches into the lot outside of Harry's Hideaway.
He's covered in mud, soaking wet, bleeding, blackened… if he hadn't been here before, they might kick him out.
"I'm fine," he lies, before crashing into a shadowed booth. Fine. Yes. A bottle of scotch worth of fine. During the pause between one bottle and another, it occurs to him what he's doing — exactly what he didn't want to do. Drink through his problems. Drink leads to worse and no one can get their hands on worse like someone who used to cover the drug trade.
The rational, survivalist part of Sinjin's mind pushes him to his feet and over to the payphone where he searches the phonebook until he finds the name of a practice that looks familiar. A place someone told someone who told someone else who told Sinjin was safe. Or at least tolerant.
Three tries later, he gets the money into the payphone.
*
A couple of rings in and the secretary, with a rather nasally voice, answer. "Dooocter's office, how may I heeelp you?" She asks. When told who Sinjin wishes to speak with, she says, "Just a moment pleeease!"
Binx, also known as Doctor Robert Marvin Binx, has had a rather quiet day in the office. He's had a few visits, some family practice related, some psychiatric. All in all, however, quite uneventful. He's in the middle of scratching a couple notes in his notepad when he's informed there's a call for him on line three.
Picking up his phone and pressing the lit up number three button, he clears his throat. "Doctor Robert Binx, how can I be of assistance?"
*
"You're a psychiatrist, yes?" The person on the other hand is drunk and yet not nearly drunk enough. "Because I find myself in need of one." It's that or end up like dear old Mom and Dad and no one wants that. Sinjin does not want to be doing this and, yet, he is not getting better. He's getting worse. And he's too stubborn to let it slide.
*
"That's correct. I am a psychiatrist. If you'd like, I can pencil you in for an appointment soon? Would I be able to get your name?" Binx enquires, with the obvious sound of paper being flipped on his end as he opens up his calendar. "I can probably squeeze you in…" He ponders the pages in front of him, looking them over. "Monday, three o'clock?" This way, it also gives the person on the other end of the phone to sober up for a few days before coming in. He usually prefers his patients to be sober during the visit, anyway.
*
Monday. Three o'clock. Sinjin rests his forehead against the cold edge of the phone on the wall. "Sure." He has no idea what he'll be doing Monday at three. "I should be around." He needs to go back down after those things — Christ, he forgot to tell anyone about them, who the hell do you tell about really big living rocks around here? — and he needs something to make it suck less. The idea makes him want to throw up even though he knows he's going to do it.
The thing is, by three o'clock on Monday, he'll have convinced himself he's fine. "Look, I don't want to waste your time, and…" Oh, there's another bottle of scotch on his table. Sinjin starts toward it, gets one and a half steps before the phone stops coming with him, nearly drops it, recovers at the last second. "I'll probably be fine by then. Just a bad day." And he really needs to call someone about the rock thingies — golems, maybe.
*
"Sir…are you…" Binx chews lightly on his lower lip, looking at his clock. If someone needs him, one of the other doctors can see them. This young man seems to need someone now. "Where are you? Maybe I can come to you now, huh? We just talk. Obviously you're reaching out." He crosses his fingers, hoping he didn't make a mistake by pushing back the meeting time.
*
"Wait a second." Sinjin looks around, makes sure he is where he says he is. "Harry's. Westchester. Best kept…you know. Secret. That's the thing. You are welcome to join me," he says, remembering his manners. "I'm not going anywhere, not fit to drive even if I wasn't drunk off my ass. Which I am usually not."
Sinjin gets one step away before remembering that the phone is attached to the wall. All phones are attached to the wall at some point. Huge design flaw. He really just wants to get to that bottle because it will make everything better.
*
"I'll be there as soon as I can." Hanging up, Binx grabs his keys and jacket. Telling the others at the clinic that he's been called away to meet a patient, and he gets to his car and starts to drive. He knows the bar. He's been there before, so he doesn't have to go around searching for it. Once there, he walks up to the bartender and asks if someone had recently used the payphones here.
*
"Is that yours?" The bartender, unimpressed, points toward a booth out of the way where a slender young man slouches, long red hair elf-locked with dirt, faded fatigues torn, bloody…and possibly burned, there is a distinct impression that he may have been on fire recently. He's mostly dry so the mud on his clothes and boots is now just dirt. He's pretty enough, if you discount the bruises and the bloodied lip and the fact that he's obviously — even from this far away — very drunk.
*
"Probably." Binx sighs and offers a little smile. "Sorry. I'll take responsibility for him from here on out." He offers, moving to the booth that Sinjin currently resides in. Slipping in to the opposite side of the booth, he looks the young man over and smiles sympathetically. "I've come to help you." He says softly.
*
"Only had to go twenty-three years and ten thousand miles to hear that from someone." Sinjin's smile is sharp and charming, even through what's far too much alcohol for anyone to be drinking — especially someone his size. "Drink?" There's not much left in the bottle but Sinjin offers it anyway. "I'm trying to quit," he adds, with a little laugh
*
Waving his hand, Binx refuses. "No alcohol for me, thank you." He watches Sinjin with a close gaze. "You've come a long way, but here we are. You saught me out, and I came. I'm here because you need help. So I'm here to help you, in any single way I can. Now, tell me…what seems to uh…what's going on? You seem very disheveled."
*
"I'm a journalist," Sinjin says, as though that explains everything. No, no. He tries again. "I used to be a journalist. Then I quit. Then some people needed help, so I started again. This morning, I was on a story about the sinkholes. I went down one. I got caught. I'm claustrophobic. Next thing I know, I'm here. Drinking. I keep doing it. I can't do that. I can't fix it with this." He waggles the bottle. "I don't keep it in the house, but I just go out. It's not the alcohol. It's the reasons."
Then, he realizes he's forgotten something and offers his hand this time. "St. John Allerdyce. Sorry. I'm usually…I used to have my shit together. I did."
*
"Well, Mr. Allerdyce…" Binx starts off in a gentle tone, accepting the hand and shaking it. "If that's the case…" He reaches out for the bottle, intending to take it away. "Why don't we keep that away from you and we can work on getting you some proper help, hmm?"
*
"Please, take it. It's just the only thing that helps me settle down." Sinjin relinquishes it easily, runs his hands over his hair. "Christ, I'm a mess," he says, taking stock of himself. Is he leaving out any important information? He checks his internal files. Yes, yes, he is.
"Look, you should know, that shit the rumor pages say, it's true. But that's not my problem." That's not very clear. Not everyone reads the paper. Sinjin tries again. "I'm a queer. And a mutant. But that's fine." He waves it off, as if he's just getting it out of the way. "I do not need fixing. I like me this way. So, door is where you left it if you need it."
*
"I find alcohol rarely helps. It may feel like it's helping, but in the long run it usually just makes things worse." Binx says gently. "I'm here to help unclutter that mess." He places the bottle of alcohol on his seat next to him. "I'm here to help with whatever you need."
"Which rumors would those be?" The rumor pages like to share plenty of rumors. That's what they're there for, after all. "There's something we need to get straight as well, if I'm going to help you. As a psychiatrist, and as a person, I do not make attempts at 'fixing' people because they're queer or mutants. I personally happen to feel that queers and mutants don't need fixing. Or rather, that being queer is not a thing that requires fixing and that being a mutant is not a thing that requires fixing." He tells him, rather adamant on the issue. "And you didn't call me because you're a mutant who likes guys. No, you called because you fell into a sinkhole, you got a little hurt, perhaps? And…well, perhaps there's something else to it. But you'd have to tell me what that is."
*
"I didn't fall in. I went in. I blew myself out." Sinjin is owlishly specific. He taps the table between them — his fingers are scarred, they look like he's chewed the nails back but they aren't raw. "I knew I shouldn't have gone in. I shouldn't have and I did. I've done that since I was a kid. Stupid shit. It started to cave in and I panicked." Now that he's talking about it, it all seems so trivial.
"I wasn't always…no one likes tight spaces, but I wasn't always like this. I thought if I just avoided the problems," Sinjin says, picking up his lighter and flipping it, flicking it, compulsively. "I thought it'd get better. I…" He pauses, gathers himself. "A while back, I got caught by the Viet Cong when I was on a story. They thought I was a spy and treated me accordingly. For…a while." He shrugs, taps the lighter on the table, looks anywhere but at Binx. "Can't take a lot of things since then."
*
All Binx can really do for the time being is listen. It's part of the job, afterall! He nods along, pulling out a tiny pad and pencil from his inside pocket. He starts taking some notes. "You say you blasted out?" He's definitely curious about that. "It that…did that have to do witn your ability?" He makes sure to talk about that in a somewhat hushed tone.
"I can't imagine how difficult it must have been for you, being captured by the Viet Cong. They must can't have been easy captures to deal with. Have you been having trouble sleeping since then? Having nightmares? Do you have increased senses of axiety and claustrophobia?"
*
"Blew myself with a fireball." Sinjin shows off his burned clothing. His skin is intact. "I usually have it under control but, once in a while, I lose it. I don't use it much, it's not really useful. I don't make fire, therefore…" He holds up the lighter.
"And, yeah. Nightmares. If I sleep. Sometimes I just remember when I'm awake, if something reminds me. Claustrophobia. Hate any space I can't leave. Can't stand water. Don't even like taking a drink of water, showering, though I make myself do it." Sinjin shrugs again. "It didn't matter until I needed to go back to work. Writing. Talking to people. I keep ending up drunk and I…my dad used heroin, after the Korean War. I can't be him, you know? And I will be, if I don't fix this shit."
*
"Look, we're going to get this all figured out, okay?" Binx seems certain of this, at least. "We're going to work on this and work on it some more. I can't promise you overnight success, but with some time, some talking, and, if you're willing, some medication, we can get you back on your feet, so to speak." He shakes his head. "I think we can avoid you doing heroin. That stuff is not good for you. You won't be like you father. You'll be your own person."
*
"Look, I don't care what I have to do," Sinjin says firmly. "This fucking city. Shit happens here and people need help and I can't help them if I'm in the bottom of a bottle or puking my insides out or, worse, losing control and blowing shit up. I thought I could just run away here, disappear, but I don't think I can go anywhere and just leave well enough alone. So. If you've got something better than the bottle, well. I've been through worse, right?"
*
"First," Binx pulls out his wallet and takes out a card, nudging it across the table to Sinjin. "I want you to call in and make an appointment to actually have a counselling session, okay? I mean it. No amount of alcohol or pills alone will help with this."
Taking out a prescription pad, which he has a habit of keeping in his work jacket, he writes out a couple of scripts. "Take these to a pharmacy." He says, handing them to Sinjin. "They should help with the sleep and the anxiety."
*
"You were nice enough to come out here, I can do that. I did learn manners." Sinjin takes the card and tucks it into an inner pocket of a sooty satchel. He also takes the prescriptions, more warily. "Aside from the booze and the cigarettes, I've managed to stay away from everything else," he says reluctantly. "But, I'll try it. God knows, I'd like to be asleep."
*
"All I ask is that you try. And try…and, well, try! Trying is the best any of us can do in our lives." Binx looks Sinjin over for a moment more and says, "Would you like me to do something about your cuts and scrapes? I might have something in the car to help clean them up?"
*
Sinjin looks like he's about to refuse, then he nods. "I'm not in the jungle anymore," he allows. "People stare if you're bleeding on things. I can come out…" Standing works about as well as might be expects — which is to say, not at all. It's easy to forget how drunk one is if one isn't moving. Then, one is reminded. Thoroughly.
*
"Whoopsie daisy!" Binx is quick to stand and help stabilize Sinjin. "And maybe I should give you a ride somewhere, hmm? I can see about getting you home. Goodness knows you're in no condition to get there yourself, huh?"
*
"Yeah, I'll tell someone about the car. I shouldn't drive." Sinjin hangs onto Binx with one hand, gathers up his things with the other. The camera, satchel, and jacket have all seen better days — days when none of them were on fire. "I'm not usually this reasonable," he warns. "Asking for help and things." He lets Binx steer him toward the door.
*
"I'm glad I caught you on a reasonable day, then!" Binx responds with a wide smile. "It's always nice when people are reasonable." And being reasonable while drunk is certainly easier for Binx to deal with than some of the patients he's had. Once at the car, he gets the passenger side open and makes sure Sinjin is safely seated.
Digging through the drunk, he pulls out a big, brown medical bag and walks back to Sinjin, kneeling next to him and opening it up. "Now…this is going to sting slightly.." He says, opening a brown bottle and dousing a tiny bit of its contents on a little rag.
*
"Pain makes the most sense." Sinjin's elbows and knees, jaw, and palms are all scraped. "It's this point of clarity. And yet I'm too much of a pussy to do it on purpose. That, and I see no point in deb…" He has to take a couple tries at the word. "Debilitating myself. Which I'd have to do to make enough pain to keep me busy. I'm too impatient."
*
With a click of his tongue in the form of a tsk, Binx shakes his head and starts dabbing and wiping some of the wounds with the solution from the bottle, which causes an intense stinging on open wounds. "Now, where is it that I can take you? Do you live nearby?" He asks as he continues to dab any cut he finds.
*
"In the city, actually. Do you really think I'd survive anywhere as nice as Westchester?" Sinjin has to laugh at that, though he stops to hiss at a particularly stingy cut. "No, I'm down in the Village, close to good bars and a steady supply of young men who leave before I roll out of bed in the morning. I'd never make it out here."
*
"Alright. To the Village it is. But you never know, I bet you could make it up here, under different circumstances…like no holes in the ground." Binx murmurs softly. "Alright. All done with the cuts. Now to get you into town." He closes Sinjin's door, puts away the medical bag, and takes his place in the driver's seat. "If you feel the need to throw up at all, I think there's a little garbage bag in the door beside you. It might be hidden between some maps."
*
"I will not get sick in your car, haven't done that to anyone since I was eight." Sinjin slouches down in his seat. "I might fall asleep. But that's the worst of it. I only throw up when…" He gestures vaguely, then swallows hard. "…I have to burn someone. I don't. Don't do that unless I have do. But. None of that right now."
*
"No. None of that right now." Binx murmurs, but tries to make note of it, for when they meet next. "But do feel free to sleep. I'll wake you when we're in the Village and you can direct me to your place from there." He starts the ignition and starts on his way back to the city.