ferrisbuellean | IC CONTACT

[And, true to his word, Chilton was found sitting -- gingerly, hoping not to touch too many common surfaces -- at the edge of the community college's campus cafeteria. It wasn't difficult to decipher, with the aid of electronic search engines and maps.]

[Jeff's fashionably late, which is still quite an achievement considering he lives so damn close, but the idea of leaving Chilton in a cafeteria on his own, waiting, had it's own appeal. When he does eventually show, it's with the addition of aviators and a large coffee, seeking out Chilton and dropping cooly into the seat opposite. True to his word, not a single student even spares them a glance.]

This isn't gonna be an under the table shady trade, is it?

[He means hello.]

Do you mean literally? My hand inching towards presumably your hand, groping its way around the gum-stick underside of this industrial make of a pale, plastic table?

[It was perhaps evident that Jeff's plan had worked; Chilton was irate over being made to wait in this bustling cafeteria, all alone.]

You got a coffee when you knew we were meeting here?

[He glances towards the coffee, considers it, then shrugs a shoulder lazily with perhaps just a hint of amusement hiding behind that overly smug face of his.]

Well, I was running a little early, had time to waste. [So he wasted it all just to be late. You're welcome.]

Look, change of plans. [Time wasting and coffee aside, he's here for a reason and it's not to get bitched at by Chilton. There's a conspiratorial glance left and right before he leans in, elbows on the barely clean college table as he lowers his voice just enough to make it seem like this is top secret information.] I had an... accident while out on a date recently. I'm not really in the mood to play around with this any more. I need some kinda cure, preferably right now.

What kind of accident? Who witnessed it? How did this tie into your emotional state -- and, Jeff, I want to hear about it in precise language.

[Chilton, the stern authoritarian. He was quick to establish the boundaries of their intended conversation. It was easy for him to negotiate, of course -- he was holding hostage the prescription.]

How did you cope?

[Uugh, telling the truth is the worst. But if he can't tell the truth to a therapist in the middle of a college cafeteria, where can he?!]

I didn't cope, that's just it! I went off the fucking deep end. I mean, I'm at this top class restaurant. Suit and tie, ridiculously over priced menu, wine way over market value, good looking lady to spend my night with. It's flattering enough already, and then the compliments start rolling in and the appreciative glances from other women and... Yeah.

[A heavy swig of coffee like he's really wishing it was alcohol right now.] I flipped. Ruined a perfectly good suit too, not to mention trashed half the restaurant. It's only thanks to my date that I don't owe thousands in damage. This thing seems worse here than it was back home. If I take anti-anxietys here? I'm just gonna flip at every flirtatious glance. I need something that's gonna make me feel like I'm not the best person on this planet, which is going to be really difficult considering I am.

[And just maybe that's why he's shown up in sunglasses today, like they'll somehow give extra protection against all this. He can hide behind shades. They make him feel just that little bit more guarded.]

[Chilton considered, for a moment, that Jeff might be prone to histrionic tendencies. The sunglasses were duly noted, as was the dramatic handling of that coffee -- all elements, Chilton presumed, for the routine performance of Jeff Winger's life. Insecurity would be an ideal bone to pick in this psyche, but Chilton knew he'd have to bide his time for a more effective influence; the drugs had to come first.]

All right, Jeff. It'll be fine.

[Chilton reached into his interior breast pocket of his suited jacket, and pulled out the neatly folded papered prescription. He had decided on a benzodiazepine, as the obscure medical name might dissuade Jeff from investigating it too thoroughly.]

This is enough for three weeks, no refill. I want you to check back in with me after that period. If it's working, I'll continue issuing you a dosage.

Agreed?

[Biding time would definitely have to be done, and yet if Chilton really showed himself to be a therapist, he might just get lucky when it comes to getting deep into Jeffs psyche. The guy does love talking about himself, after all.]

Yeah, fine, whatever. [Mumbled as he reaches for the parcel, barely even glancing at it before it gets shoved under the table. He'd wrestle it into a pocket when he was standing up again.]

But I'm telling you, Doc. I don't need calming. I need like... something giving me anxiety. Screw your Narcissistic Personality Disorders, the only 'disorder' I have is being too perfect.

[It's like he doesn't even see the irony in that.]

You need a mood stabilizer. You're... Impulsive. Sensitive.

[Stark commentary meant to gnaw at Jeff, to provoke reaction, even as Chilton said it so matter-of-factly.]

Can't use Walt's pharmacy, I'm afraid. It was burnt down.

[Was that a dig? It might have been a dig.]

I'm not impulsive! [Said a little too sharply. Perhaps even... impulsively. Dohoho.

But then he's catching himself, shoulders hunching forward over his coffee as he cradles it.]

There's nothing wrong with me, I just got a crappy power that needs some work. If mood stabilizers are gonna help, then I need those. But uh, I can build some kinda mental immunity to his power, right? I mean, isn't that what happened with the Hulk? He could control his anger.

All right. I will humor this hypothetical. [But only because Jeff had so beautifully demonstrated Chilton's very point. Impulse control issues, NPD, heightened insecurity -- a veritable cocktail.] If the Hulk can control his anger even adequately, then why do we even know the Hulk's name to speak of? How do we know about those anger issues?

[Except for the part where there is totally nothing wrong with Jeff because he is pure perfection. Or at least close to it.]

Because that's his shtick. He starts off with this huge issue and, over time, learns ways to control it. Like how he learns to work with it in the Avengers. Do you even watch movies?

I don't have time to watch movies, because I have a thriving career and social influence.

[Chilton leaned back in the plastic, utilitarian chair, and crossed his arms.]

So you've basically just admitted that this character's control of his bizarre mental condition is a pure fiction?

[Rude, but it's pretty much the same thing Jeff would say to his TV addict friends, so he'll allow it.]

Pure fiction is bullshit around here. Everything exists. It's just basic logic, isn't it? You lose an arm, you learn to adapt without it. You lose your temper and turn into someone else? You learn to work with it. I could do that, right? I could learn to control my ego...

[And then he'd be truly perfect, mwahaha. ... Is thinking that egotistical? Shit.]

You must have... ff... faul-- limitations that you've learned to live with. [Can't even say the word fault, because it's such a dirty word.]

No, not particularly. I've worked around barricades, because none of my limitations [see, he avoided your trigger for you] were of a psychological impediment. There's something to be said about fighting your own brain, Jeff. And behavior is both a chemical and environmental product.

[Thank you, bro, for avoiding triggers.]

So are you saying I'm screwed? I can't live my life flipping tables every time I get an appreciative look. I mean, have you seen how pretty my face is? I get those kind of looks a lot.

You have two obvious options, Jeff. [Said Chilton, in his calming therapeutic voice.] Either submit to psychotherapy on a regular basis to address techniques in tandem with medication, or find someone who could painlessly castrate you.

I'm guessing the hormonal imbalance begins with your testosterone, but that could be more trial and error.

Castrate-- yeah, very funny.

[A sulky gulp of his coffee and then shoving it away like he's done with it. Or done with these suggestions, either one.]

My hormones are just fine. Even my oestrogen levels are considered perfect. They're not the problem. [His ego is the problem, he just can't admit that because, y'know, ego.]

Look, if I do that psychotherapy crap, can you promise me you'll actually be able to help it?

Of course, Jeff. My success is tied into yours, after all.

[Which is quite the lie -- but doesn't it sound reassuring?]

Think about it, won't you? And get back to me with your decision. I'll find the time to schedule you in.

[That sounds just like the sort of reassaurance Jeff has given to clients in the past. And then gone home and rolled in their money.]

Fine. I'll think about it. I can't guarantee I won't smash your place up though.

"Jeff smash"? How appropriate.

[He stood -- with a smirk and a wink, because Chilton could wield pop culture in his pretentious way, just as well as any psychiatrist! He took his leave with a swift, masculine nod.

A balance to his blip of humor.]

Hilarious, nerd.

[Nerds are so gross and not at all something he approves of, obviously. Because he totally wasn't talking about comics and stuff only minutes ago.]

I'll be in touch.

[For now, though, he'll stay where he is. Spend just a little longer with a college that isn't quite his but enough of a reminder of something from home.]

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