Page 27 of A Queen and Her Knight

Strange Medicine

First posted in 2018

Set after the events ofLittle WolfandA Mate of One’s Own

Summary: Little Wolf in therapy. Gen. m/m

Tags: Therapy, some references to Tim’s past, including Luca and Silas.

Tim crossed his arms. Then he immediately uncrossed them, because crossed arms displayed fear and weakness for anyone to see. Arms locked across the chest and belly meant someone trying to hide their soft spots. Dr. Finch might be human, but he was good at reading body language—better, in a lot of ways, than Tim was. Which wasn’t surprising, since Tim was half a were at best.

The thought turned his stomach, made it roil unpleasantly with the reminder that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast: a granola bar. He’d been helping out all over the place and didn’t have time to eat, which meant he definitely didn’t have time to come all the way out to Carson for these ridiculous therapy sessions. Nobody had time to drive him, either. These weren’t that important, or at least, they weren’t worth inconveniencing everyone for. The sessions didn’t do anything to make Tim better, or stronger. Mostly, they made him feel like a small, shaky, frightened, whiny baby, and he hated them.

He bit down hard to keep from saying any of that and stared across the room at Dr. Finch. Tim had read all the man’scredentials of course. Dr. Finch was educated and had good reviews, even if he was human, but none of that mattered. He was Tim’s shrink because he was the only one in Carson. Wolf’s Paw, of course, didn’t have one.

Real weres didn’t need them. No one had said that, but it was plenty implied by the mere fact that no one had ever even heard of a mental health professional who specialized in weres.

Tim knew, deep down, that this was bullshit. He personally had met weres who could use a little help, more than him maybe. Weres who had lost their mates, or been Rejected-with a capital R, or been rejected-lowercase r by human packs, like Zoe had been. Butknowingandfeelingwere different things, according to Dr. Finch.

God, Tim hated therapy.

And no doctor should wear track pants to therapy sessions.

Tim glared at the human curled up in the big squishy chair across from him while sinking further into his own big squishy chair. Dr. Finch wasn’t speaking. That was a ploy to get Tim to talk. Tim knew it well, and had stayed silent for the whole hour—fifty minutes—more than once out of spite. The money was nothing.

But Nathaniel seemed to think these sessions were a good idea, worthwhile enough to rearrange his schedule to drive Tim out here once a week, or to ask Zoe to do it when he couldn’t.

So Tim stayed, and crossed his arms. He was more comfortable that way. And, whatever—he was a weak wolf. That wasn’t news.

Dr. Finch stared down at the notepad in his lap. “I’m content to get paid to doodle, if you don’t want to talk today,” he remarked in that easy tone that drove Tim nuts, because it was a lie. Dr. Finch was alert and attentive and waiting. Tim knew it and Dr. Finch knew that Tim knew it. “Of course,” Dr. Finch continued,“it seemed as if something was bothering you when you stormed in—sorry, came in so calmly and sedately.”

Tim lifted his lip and growled. Then he jumped. “I’m not supposed to do that to humans who don’t deserve it.” God, why was he even apologizing? “Not that I’m scary. At all.” He really wanted to pull his legs up into the chair and wrap his arms around his knees. “That was barely even a growl. It was absolutely pathetic compared to—”

He stopped and Dr. Finch looked up.

Tim’s stomach turned again, but he refused to glance away first. He was weak, but he was still a Dirus.

Dr. Finch had no expression. “Compared to other weres?” he prompted easily. “Or to—”

“Don’t.” Tim flinched, tightening his arms around his chest.

“Or to Nathaniel?” Dr. Finch continued as if Tim hadn’t spoken.

Tim hated that, hated that Dr. Finch knew about it, because Tim had given it away somehow. Tim hadn’t even known it was there. But that was standard for him, wasn’t it? Tim was out of touch with his instincts, with himself, with the amount of damage he had that other people didn’t seem to have. He hated that, too. That he was damaged and that he never even saw the cracks until he tripped over them.

He realized he was breathing hard. Other than that, the room was quiet.

Dr. Finch regarded Tim with interest that was probably meant to be gentle and nonthreatening. Not that he had ever seemed especially worried about upsetting the were in his office. “Have you worked on what we talked about?”

“You ask that every week.” Tim’s evasion was clumsy and obvious. Silas would have sneered.Silas, Tim thought,could fuck right off. This wasn’t a chess match. This was strange medicine that a real were shouldn’t need, but Tim apparently did, and some days were better than others, and today Tim hadn’t decided whether to talk or wait out the clock.

Thing was, he could sit in silence the whole time, but he’d be back next week. If not to talk about this, then something else.

Talking about everyday stuff should have been easier than telling Dr. Finch about Silas… or Luca. But sometimes it wasn’t. Sometimes Luca was easier, for whatever reason. Maybe because Luca was an obvious bad thing and Tim could prepare. He could walk in here knowing that he was going to bring up a memory and it would be messy. He couldn’t prepare for days like today.

Anyway, the bad stuff, the Luca stuff, he could talk about at home, with Carl or Robin’s Egg or Zoe. He could call Albert, if he needed to.

This stuff…. He couldn’t tell them about this.

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