Talking it out (closed for CutieBooty)

[Spectacles]

With each thud of the heels of his shoes striking the sidewalk's pavement, he came closer to her office. His fingers drummed idly against his hip all the while, their motion reflecting the rapid and errant nature of his thoughts. It was inevitable. Tension welled up within him before any of these appointments. Here he was on his way to tell a woman things that could easily see him six feet under should she decide to share that information with a single soul. Thank God for doctor patient confidentiality, he supposed, not that it would save him.

He paused in the street, his gaze drawn to his own reflection in a building's window. Grey eyes looked back at him. There was a coldness in those eyes. It was in the way that none of his expressions ever touched his eyes. Fittingly, his lips were set in a straight line now, neither a smile nor a frown. He was stoic. Even his hair had decided to adopt this grey outlook on life. He was a man barely past his thirtieth year, yet grey streaks were predominant in hair that was once solely brown. But then, this worked for him. People generally assumed that he was older and more experienced than he actually was, and in his business, that was no bad thing.

His fingers visibly twitched against his side as he took note of someone looking out at him through the glass. His lips threatened to form an expression then but held off from committing the deed. It was an effort, but he pulled himself and his mind away from this random onlooker and began to again walk down the street. For a brief moment he thrust his hands into the pockets of his grey suit in an attempt to stop that incessant drumming. Yet, in the next instant, his fingers won out and were again in the open air and against his hips, his fingertips hammering out a tempo.

His feet paused before a building as his mind registered the fact that his destination was at hand. Casually, he glanced over the people walking along the sidewalks, searching for familiar (and thus potentially dangerous) faces. After a moment, he was satisfied that he knew none of them. He turned to walk into the building. The door's glass reflected a face composed of hard lines before his hand pulled the door open.

His feet unerringly led him on toward the receptionist's desk. At 5'6, he did not stand that much higher than the top of the desk, a fact that always made it difficult to talk to the woman behind it. Each time she leaned forward he could not help but get an eyeful of generous cleavage. But then, Kate was blessed in that regard and seemed entirely aware of her gifts. Not only was she aware of them, she was perfectly happy to flaunt them.

"Hello Mr. Lloyd! You can go on back; she's ready to see you." Her cheery disposition disgusted him all at once. There was simply something unsettling about anyone that was that happy all the time. Anyway, it wasn't his real name. Not using his actual name was only a small protection, but at least gossiping receptionists wouldn't be able to wag their tongues about him visiting a shrink.

"Thank you, Kate." His tone was as even keeled as ever, displaying no nuances of emotion. He turned from the desk and walked through the front room to the hallway beyond it. This hallway felt as tight as ever. He trailed one hand along a wall to reassure himself that there was ample room for him to walk. His strides forward paused when his hand encountered a familiar door. He looked to her name plate on the door and slowly exhaled before lifting that hand to softly knock at the door.

It worried him to come here. Anything he told this woman could someday seal him inside a coffin, and they wouldn't necessarily kill him before the burial. But it was impossible to both work for the Mafia and report on them to the police without developing issues that, if left alone, would worm their way into making him into a paranoid, nervous wreck. He had a touch of that naturally, anyway.

 

[CutieBooty]

Fourteen years ago, if someone had approached her and told her that she would one day be counseling men and women associated with the city's dark underbelly, well... it was a cliché, but she wouldn't have believed them. She could still remember herself as a freshman. Being accepted into a college like Harvard was a gift, one she had worked hard for. She was the quintessential, bright-eyed, nervous but excited young woman who "just wanted to make the world a better place".

She was someone who was happy with the direction her life had taken, as well. Oh, sure, there were some regrets, weren’t there always? But all in all, she could look at her life and smile about it. She really felt like she was doing well. Like she was helping people. She enjoyed her work, even if it was hard to cope with what she learned. She’d sometimes say, to close friends or family, “Sometimes therapists need therapists.” But, she was happy. She was in a nice building, with a nice office. She was fairly well known in the city as a good therapist. Everyone had told her she would go places.

It wasn’t like she was a miracle worker, but there was something about her that made her easy to talk to. You were told that therapists didn’t judge you, but sometimes you could see them doing it anyway. There was never anything judgmental in what she said, or in her expressions. And she knew how to listen when her client needed to talk. She knew how to talk when her client needed to listen. You were told that therapists weren’t your friend, they were just doing their job, but with her… it was just different.

The clock on her wall quietly chimed the hour. Time for her next appointment.

Dr. Myers stood up from her desk and walked over to the small file cabinet where she kept the records on her clients and pulled out the one marked LLOYD. She didn’t open it – she didn’t really need to. Most of the important facts she kept up in her head, and Mr. Lloyd was quite the interesting client. She had no doubt the things he told her were true – she knew full well what went on in this city. But she wasn’t someone who found his admissions exhilarating. Maybe she would have eight years ago, but now? Now, she simply wanted to help in whatever way she could.

She knew the name he had given her wasn’t his real one. She knew what a nervous wreck he was inside. She understood and accepted it. She wondered if he knew that she might not wake up the next morning just for talking with him, for knowing his secrets, and she couldn't hide behind a fake name. At least she didn't have much of a family to worry about, if things got that bad.

It was funny how she could already feel him before he knocked, when they had only had a few sessions together so far. Some people had accused her of being empathetic, and maybe she was. But whenever she had an appointment with Mr. Lloyd, she could feel him a few seconds before he knocked – feel his nerves, twanging like taut guitar strings inside her veins, making her tense. She took a deep breath, let it out slow, and walked to the door when she heard the quiet rap. Opening it, she smiled softly.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Lloyd, good to see you again. Come in, have a seat…”

There was a comfy couch for him to sit or lie on. After quietly closing the door, she took the chair just in front and slightly to the side of it, instead of the one behind her desk, per usual. It wasn’t allowed for her to lock the door of course, but no one had ever bothered them before.

Dr. Noelle Myers was an attractive woman at 32 – one of those women who had grown up a mouse and had bloomed right out of college, not into a sex bomb, but into a professional, naturally pretty woman who still believed herself to be mousy. She wasn’t very tall, standing at maybe 5’3”, if you were feeling generous and she was in heels. Her hair was thick, the color similar to chocolate, and usually done up in a loose bun at the back of her neck. Small wispy tendrils of hair had a tendency to work their way out of the bun and fall against her cheeks. Her skin was a healthy but normal peach pink. Her eyes were a dark, expressive green, with thick, full lashes; framing them were a pair of black, square glasses, which she often had to keep pushing up her somewhat regal nose. Her soft, pink lips seemed naturally inclined to dip upwards into a gentle smile.

As per usual, she was dressed in a long sleeve button down – today, a green that matched her eyes –, a pencil skirt, sheer stockings, and high heels. She was a soft woman, not a woman who was well-endowed and yet exceptionally skinny, but with a bit of weight in all the right places. Unlike her receptionist however, despite her ample bust, she kept her shirt professionally done up – only the first button was undone, to show off the only piece of jewelry she wore, a silver chain with an amber and onyx honeybee pendant. And the pencil skirt was just tight enough to hug her curves and make her look distinctly womanly, in a voluptuous way.

Again, unlike her receptionist, she wasn’t bubbly and cheerful, but quietly, calmly happy. “Can I get you a cup of water, or maybe some coffee? I’ve got some chocolate and peppermints in the desk as well…” She reached back behind her, picking up a clipboard and a pen. She shifted gently in her chair, crossing one leg over the other.

“So, Mr. Lloyd, how have you been since we last spoke? Are you feeling like our sessions are helping at all?”

 

[Spectacles]

With his fist raised, he prepared to again knock at the door. It creaked open an instant before his knuckles would have tapped the wood, and awkwardly, he let his arm fall down by his side. His fingers began at once, drumming out a rat-tat-tat against the smooth fabric of his suit's pants. It was a nice enough suit, its material a soft grey not too far off from the shade of grey prevalent in his eyes. The jacket draped itself a bit awkwardly across his shoulders, as if the shoulders of the suit were too broad to fit his slight frame.

His gaze flashed downward to acknowledge her presence as he found himself standing just a few inches taller than the woman in the doorway. His lips twitched into a barely there smile at her greeting. It was a fake smile. It was always a fake smile with him. He kept himself too guarded to ever allow a true expression to bleed through. But he followed her in, his eyes drawn to the back of her, to the way her skirt clung to the curves of her hips. It wasn't a rapacious glance. His eyes were simply afflicted with the condition of belonging to a male and thus noticed such things.

"Hello Dr. Myers. I'm fine, thank you." His mouth spoke the words as he walked across the room to take a seat on the couch. He wasn't fine, of course; his fingers had already begun to tap against the edge of the couch. It was simply one more polite lie. Everything about him was a lie. His chin lifted, his eyes focused on her, his lips again set in their customary, unreadable straight line. It was strange, perhaps, that he didn't choose to recline on the couch like patients in the movies always do. But then, he felt incredibly vulnerable anytime he assumed such a pose with someone else in the room. Vulnerability was not a survival trait.

"Coffee would be fine, thank you." His lips quirked into a smile, a real one, for the briefest of instants, amused by the similarity of his two statements. One was a lie; the other wasn't. The smile was quelled in the next moment. He spoke again, his fingers tapping the couch's fabric faster and faster with each new word. "I've been good, I suppose." He held his gaze on her own eyes, grey looking into green. "I think the sessions have helped with my nerves a little. I'm always anxious before an appointment here, but my tension is eased at least somewhat each time before I leave."

 

[CutieBooty]

Dr. Myers continued to smile even as he did not, even as he nervously tapped his fingers against his side, then the couch. She wondered if he even realized he was doing this, or if he even realized that it was a nervous tic. She marked something down on the clipboard before standing and walking over to the small coffee maker she kept at her desk. Some people thought it strange for her to have one in her office, but some clients preferred it to water, and she was all about making her clients comfortable.

Pulling two styrofoam cups out, she poured the coffee into them - it looked good, thick and rich and hot. She walked back to her seat, handing him one cup and nodding at the sugar and cream packets on the small table next to the couch. She took hers black and sipped it some before speaking.

"I'm glad I can be of help. Of course, if there's anything you can think of that would make this more comfortable to you, please, let me know." He was one of her newer clients, so there was still much for her to learn about him, his idiosyncrasies, what made him tick.

She noticed his usage of the word 'guess'. He always said it, as well, and she understood. Most other therapists would have asked why he kept saying that, but she didn't really need to. She crossed her legs again and spoke, in a rather prim, no-nonsense but still friendly fashion.

"I suppose there's no reason to beat around the bush, then. How is... work?" That was why he was here, she knew that. Because one did not live a normal, calm life, working as a double agent. He must expect a bullet in the back of the head every day. Why shouldn't he be nervous? Still, it was rather astonishing how calmly she brought up the subject. She knew what she was doing, clearly.

"Have you had any incidences?" Incidences referring to threats on his life, real or perceived. She didn't try to convince him it was all paranoia, she knew better than to do that. It wasn't all in his mind, and she couldn't promise him that it would all get better. But she listened, and she talked things out with him, and his secrets, his life, was at least marginally safer with her than with anyone else.

 

[Spectacles]

He watched her make the coffee. He watched everyone and everything around him at all times. Trust was not something he could afford. Even now, even as he spoke of his most dangerous secrets to this woman, this doctor; he did not fully trust her. His gaze fixated on her hands most of all. Hands and eyes, those were the two things that could tell you what someone was about to do. Especially the eyes. People's eyes betrayed them more than they realized.

His eyes went to hers as she turned, as she walked back toward him with the cups of coffee. He accepted his with one hand. The ripples in the liquid's obsidian-like surface betrayed the shaking of his hand. Still, he lifted the styrofoam to his lips and took a sip, swallowing the dark liquid, his gaze on her still over the brim of the cup. He took the cup from his lips and passed it from one hand to the other as he leaned over to set it on the table next to the packets of sugar and cream.

He looked to her again, allowing himself to contemplate her words. His tongue flitted out to lick over suddenly dry lips. "Work?" He considered the connotations that one word carried for him. He took time also to consider how exactly he should phrase his words without revealing explicit details that would inevitably lead to his demise.

One surprisingly still hand rose to provide a spot for him to rest his chin. It was his foot that moved erratically now, tapping repeatedly against the carpeted floor. It seemed impossible for all of him to be still at once; some part of him always had to act out and react to the rapid flow of nervous energy that moved through him. His lips moved again, and his words were softer this time. "Work has been difficult. My boss has been feeling under the weather, so his son has been making a lot of the business decisions."

A slight shake of his head preceded his next statement. "He's brash and heavy-handed. Subtleties are the bread and butter of my trade. They're how I've survived. But his actions have forced me to sing more than I'd like. Make noise the way he does, and questions will be asked. Questions I'm having to answer." He inhaled sharply as if that might still the maelstrom within him. In defiance the heel of his shoe tapped against the floor faster still. "The louder I'm forced to become in response, the more likely it is for a friendly hand to be the one that pulls the trigger and ends my life."

He looked into the emerald hues of her eyes again, his own eyes uncertain. It was strange to think that this woman, someone probably a few years younger than him, could help with the stress that could literally kill him. Yet talking to her did seem to help, to give him a moment to breathe. It was for those short moments when he could breathe again that he kept coming back to see her.

 

[CutieBooty]

As he spoke, she listened, nodded her head. The smile had faded from her face to be replaced with a serious, but concerned line. She might not know him very well, but he was her client, and for him to be in such a predicament, well... it was worrying to her. To him as well, of course. She wished there was more she could do to help him, but what he was dealing with was so dangerous, so far out from the normal. To try and help him more... well, her life was already on the line for him.

She shifted in her chair, looking down at the clipboard balanced on her knee. She tapped her pencil gently against it, but didn't write anything down, just listening to him, and in turn, forming her own reply.

"You live an extraordinarily dangerous life, Mr. Lloyd. It's no simple task to do what you do, to live with what you know... you know, we've talked about the danger ever since your first session." She paused, rubbing her hands together lightly. They were soft, well-taken care of, but no rings on the fingers. Her nails were done nicely, not too sharp or long, with just a clear nail polish on them.

"And I know that there are many things you haven't - and can't - tell me. I understand that and I'm not asking for you to tell me. However, we've yet to speak about... before."

She reached up, pulling her glasses off her eyes, blinking for a moment before reaching behind her to pull a handkerchief off her desk to clean the glasses with. While polishing the lenses, she seemed thoughtful.

"Before you decided to..." She seemed to be searching for the right phrase, something that wouldn't be too obvious. While she wasn't as paranoid, well... these sessions were extremely dangerous, she knew that, and not just for him. "Before you decided to... sing, is that the term you used? Even before you decided to work with your current employer."

She slid the glasses back onto her nose, adjusting them slightly. "Both decisions must have been hard to make? What made you decide to act the way you did, in both cases?"