bmblbee (bmblbee) wrote in bloodclaim,
bmblbee
bmblbee
bloodclaim

Therapy

Title: THERAPY
5/17
Author: BmblBee
Paring: S/X
Rating: Adult NC17
Warnings: M/M sexual situations, adult language, reference of violence.
Disclaimer: The Bee owns nothing in this world but her own peace of mind.
I have no claim on any of the characters or products named and make no profit
from my stories.

Summary: AU (Human? Vampire?)
This is the simple tale of a successful psychiatrist with a busy practice.
Dr. Alexander Harris lives and works in the rich and colorful area of the Florida Keys
and everything about his life seems right on track. Then, one day a man comes to
him for help. He is troubled with a history of violence that he hopes therapy can
teach him to control. Clear cut? Maybe not.




As always, thanks to the wonderful Petxnd for the amazing banners and loyal friendship


Spike crawled into bed just as the dawn was breaking over the horizon. The
therapy session had been horribly draining and when he left the doctor's office,
he started walking, aimlessly, and he hadn't stopped till he realized that he was
miles from his small rented apartment. He ended up exhausted and calling for a
taxi to take him back.

By the time he dragged himself in his front door, he felt as though he had been
run over by a truck. Dredging up all those old soul splitting memories had been
gut wrenching. He knew when he first came here that he would have to do that,
and he thought he had been prepared, but he wasn't. Thinking it and remembering
it were hard but actually saying it out loud was like a hot poker through his heart.

When he dropped his keys on the table, he noticed the red light blinking on his
answering machine and he stopped, stared at it and shook his head. He didn't have
to press the 'play' button to know who it was and what the bastard wanted. Spike
just scratched his head and he walked on past, refusing to listen to it. It was more
than he could take right now.

After all, everything that had been laid bare tonight had happened over fifteen years
ago. Hadn't he paid enough penance? Did he really need to delve in to the
sludge pool of his past in order to find resolution for the future? He is not the
same man now that he was then. Didn't that matter? Couldn't Xander see that?

No, truth was, deep down in Spike's heart, he knew what was important
and in the giant scheme of things he was a very minute little bug. Filled with
sorrow, resignation, frustration and desperate for sleep, Spike sat, naked on the
edge of his small bed with his head in his hands.

For now, he thought, this little play will continue to be acted out until the final
scene and all Spike could do now was exist till his next appointment with the
good doctor.

After pulling the drapes tightly shut, Spike scooted down into the blankets and
he wiped the tears from his cheeks as he muttered to himself.

"This had better be worth it. This had fucking better work."

And then he rolled over, pulled the covers over his head and fell asleep.


When the session had ended, Alex went straight home. There were no suggestions
of a late night dinner, no offers of a pleasant, chatty evening over a bloody steak.
Tonight all he wanted was to be alone and as far away from Mr. Pratt as he could
get.

He closed himself off in his den and he poured a tall, stiff drink. He hated the taste
of whisky and the dust on the bottle was proof of how seldom he sank to the point
where it was the only medicine that would cure what ailed him. The smell alone
brought back memories of a miserable childhood with parents more interested
in nursing a bottle than a son.

Each time the glass reached his lips, the odor caused flashes in his brain of a huge
man standing over him, screaming, threatening, stomping on his toys and smelling
like filth and unwashed flesh. Each swallow brought images of a woman, cold,
distant, a slave to both the alcohol and the defeated life she had chosen to bring
a child into.

It was ugly. It was sickening. It was not enough to make him stop. His years
of schooling had given him a more objective outlook and he understood the
painful addiction of alcohol. He had treated dozens of patients who struggled to
regain control over their lives. They were not bad people. They had a disease.

Alex snorted as he swirled the golden liquid around in his expensive crystal glass.
Apparently, despite all his degrees and accomplishments, he was still a Harris
at heart. His family would be so proud.

His parents had died nearly 15 years ago. It was time that had gone a long way
toward his distancing himself from the emotional quagmire that was his home life
and gave him a chance to look at the Harris' in a more detached light.

'They were drunks.' He told himself. It wasn't him that they hated, it was probably
themselves. Too bad they hadn't gotten in to a good program. A shame they
hadn't sought help for their addictions. He used all the professional words he knew.

"The pricks."

Alex refilled his glass and took another drink. Apparently, a dozen years was not
quite enough time for total understanding and forgiveness.

'Why now?' He wondered. 'Why the fuck is all this coming back on me now?'

Realizing he was in danger of falling asleep with his head on his desk, Alex picked
up the bottle in one hand, the glass in the other and he stumbled his way toward
the bedroom.

He peeled off his clothes and let them fall in a wrinkled heap on the floor. Everything
but the socks. The thought of having to bend over that far and engage in the complicated
activity of tugging off not one, but two of the snug fitting items was simply more than
he could imagine achieving.

By now, his bladder was bidding him to take notice. He considered ignoring it but
remembered the time in college that he had tried that. Money was still tight and the
hundred dollars he had to spend the next day for a new mattress meant peanut butter
and jelly for a week. Funny, but the full scholarships never covered those costs.

As time, and his training progressed, he understood his relationship with alcohol better.
His own therapy sessions with Dr. Everett helped him understand that because
he was unable to have an intimate relationship, the whisky numbed the loneliness.

They had tried to delve into that problem, and Dr. Everett said it was connected
to something traumatic in his past, but Alex was simply unable to recall or resolve it.
So, he lived alone. He dated casually but he understood that none of the women
or men he spent time with were 'the one'.

With a sigh, he sat down on the edge of his bed and poured one last drink. He
knew in the morning he would probably have one bitch of a hangover, but the
excessive amount of Jack Daniels now would insure that he burned enough
brain cells to prevent any nightmares later. And that was all he wanted tonight.

Just some peace.

"A good night's sleep. That's what I need. In the morning I'll take a hot shower
and report for work ready, willing and able to cure any problem that hits my
couch. After all, I'm Alexander Harris, Super Doc!"

With that pronouncement, he fell back, still clutching his liquid solace, he tumbled
on to his bed and he passed out as the whiskey spilled, sloshed and stained his elegant,
oriental carpet.

His sock covered feet dangled over the side of the bed and Alex finally found what
he needed most. Oblivion.
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