FicWad

In a calculating order, my fingertips tapped softly onto the leather lounge. His back faced me as he calmly stirred two mugs of steaming tea simultaneously. Everything about his demeanor was so serene, I could tell by the way his shoulder blades shifted in unison with his hands working the silver spoons.

Suddenly, the stirring ceases and he gives a curious glance over his left shoulder. I watch slowly as his long neck contorts, like a snake switching tactics. With that all-knowing smirk, he blinks and returns to the barrage of clinking silver-to-porcelain. I grip the cuffs of my leather jacket. My nails almost digging into the seams--I was so put-off by his patient heir.

"You know," He lifts a tray off of the counter and onto his desk, that smirk still playing on his lips; unscathed by the concentration in how softly he lie the tray onto the front of his desk. He snickers, "You can take your jacket off, at least," Grabbing the mug from the tray, he slowly walks it over to where I'd been sitting on the leather chaise. His long arms extend to me slowly in hesitation, as if I'd slap it out of his hand and run away. Don't be mistaken; I'd thought about it. His hand was close enough to me for me to feel the steam rise from the boiling tea dampen the small hairs between my eyes. My head draws back slowly as does his hand. It wasn't likely he'd force the mug into my hands, but I couldn't be too sure.

My shoulders shifted as my jacket loosened from their poise. The jacket slinked down my arms almost too fast. He stood there with the mug closer to his chest. I concentrated on the quivering spoon as he withdrew breaths. The spoon quietly clinked against the mug again, while my hands drew themselves threw the sleeves. He smiles an unreadable grin as my arms are free of the contracting pleather and I reach out to handle the warm mug. My trembling fingers, much like the spoon rattling around, they hooked themselves into the handle as my left hand guided the bottom.

"Thanks," It was all I could squeeze out. It came out like a squeak, that of a mouse being clawed within inches of its life. He returns to his desk, easing himself swiftly in a beautiful leather padded chair.

Everything looked so expensive in his office, himself included. The walls were coated with shelves, and the shelves were aligned with every book that had ever been published...ever. The carpet was low, but it was soft enough to cushion the sound of footsteps. It even smelled lavish; a light lavender scent with a hint of vanilla, thinly graced the air.

Lightly grabbing the edges of his desk, the swivel chair rolled it's way to the opposite side of the desk.

"Pleasure's all mine," He smiles, but it goes away as he looks toward the tall book case adjacent where he sat. Reluctantly, he lifts himself from his throne and begins to search carefully for something his mine left to wander. While he wasn't looking, I took a sip. It was fairly warm as it had cooled quite a bit. It was mildly comforting as it warmed the interiors of my body and depleted the goosebumps that had risen on my arms. My hands gained their stillness grasping the heat that radiated from the mug. It had taken me a few seconds to realize he'd put sugar in it.

The perfect amount, I grimaced.

He startled me as he spoke, "My apologies," He goes over his desk drawers again. "I'm never usually this unorganized," Apparently, finding what he'd been rummaging for, he happily returns to his chair with a sigh of relief. His arm had been shielding the treasure he lurked for inside of his drawers. For a moment he blankly stared at me. I take another sip, afraid I'd offended him. "Is it the sugar?"

Almost on instinct, the mug dramatically removes itself from my lips. My eyes shoot up to him, awaiting an answer with his eyebrows furrowed slightly and his mouth pursed.

"Um--I'm sorry, what?" I stammered like a fool.

"The sugar--I put it in your tea and I neglected to ask you how you--" I cut his drawn-out strategy of analyzation off with a hasty recoil.

"It's fine," He snapped back, looking down at what lie in his lap.

"Well," He sighed. As his eyes weren't fixed on me momentarily, I had the chance to survey him again. Sadly, he already seemed sort of defeated. "I guess I should start by introducing myself," He clears his throat. In that moment, I realize he hadn't touched his tea. Before my subconscious could validate a justifiable reason for him not to even have a sip, my conscious immediately traveled to his tactics of drugging my tea. He'd already put sugar in it without asking me, I reasoned. I looked down at what was left,

It's much too late, I sighed in defeat.

He continued looking down as he spoke. He was concentrated on something I couldn't see. With half of the mug low with tea, I finished it.

"I'm Benedict. If you're comfortable calling me Ben, as I introduced myself, that's fine too," His eyes snapped back to me. Walking himself over to me as the wheels in his chair rotated, I handed him the mug. "First thing's first, I'm a therapist--not a shrink. I've been doing this for about two years now, so far I enjoy it," He places the mug back on to tray next to his untouched (un-drugged) tea. "I'm from England--as you can probably tell," He wheels himself to sit directly across from me. Those eyes stare down my soul relentlessly. I felt like the eyes of the entire world had me in their sites. I shriveled under his gaze. "I was born in Hammersmith, my Mother's a lawyer, my Father--a judge, and I graduated all honors from Cambridge." He finished in one breath.

Am I supposed to compete with that?

"Now, tell me a little about yourself," His hands remain folded on his knees. I assumed he was supposed to be taking notes. The less documented, the better. I was already annoyed as he paraded all of his awards and trophies, and perfect family--as if it meant something.

"Okay," I was wilting under that cocked eyebrow and the grin that slowly played on his face, but I've been weaker and pitted against bigger adversaries. I was going to do something that would throw him off completely. I was going to shed the feathers of the shy swallow and give him full-on hawk. I was going to be completely honest.

"I'm Natasha," My voice shivered second-guessing my choice of strategy. I begin to revolve my thumbs around each other and focus on that alone. "I'm twenty-three, I'm a Graphic Designer who didn't finish art school--but it keeps the lights on," I was gaining that ounce of confidence back with every word. In no time, I was going o be able to look him straight in those eyes. "I was born in West Chester, raised on the lower east-side of Manhattan," That confidence evolved into full-on arrogance as our eyes battled each other for dominance. As my ploy gathered itself on its feet, I readied my defense. "My mother's an alcoholic with that rare gift of knowing what's best for everyone besides herself, and this was her idea." I finished in one breath, almost afraid he would kick me out of office, or right me a prescription to Lithium; but he didn't, he just stared.

With nothing left to say, he bowed his head and began to softly chuckle. I tried to mask the chagrin that roused my cheeks and clammed my hands.

He's got his work cut out for him, I groaned.

His head rose with a serious grin.

"Look," He spoke very easily but his tone made me a sunflower in the dead of winter; my leafs shook and stem was bound to snap. "You came here for a reason. You could have just-as-well walked out when you wanted to, but you didn't," I sat there humbling in his presence; devolving from hawk, to sparrow and back down to the meek swallow I resented. "There's something you want out of this," He looked down at his lap again. "I'm not here to judge you, or call you on your flaws, but this is a two-way street," His words humbled me back into reality. There were a couple of printed papers on top of two wired pads. "Here you are," He handed them to me. He zipped back to the cup on that held about sixty-three writing utensils.

"What's this?" I remained defeated in my own right. I read over the title,

CONFIDENTIAL SETTLEMENT AGREEMENT AND MUTUAL RELEASE

Big, bold letters in Garamond Pro, graced the top of the page, along with Ben's surname.

Cumberbatch, I held back a wild cackle, though, I made an inaudible snort. Benedict Cumberbatch, I subjected my face into my palm trying to hide the humor that rolled within my chest.

No way can that be his real name, I tried to contain the fit of giggles that bottled up.

"Read through it, if you like. It basically states that anything you confide within me, by law, cannot be discussed, distributed or reiterated to anyone else," It was nice to know that my word was safe but I couldn't tear my eyes away from that name. It wasn't hideous--no--it was more perplexing than anything. One-half of his name belonged to the papacy, and the other half was a drunken mesh of random letters from the alphabet. He was so prim and astute, I wasn't surprised that he'd introduced himself as Ben, too bad there was no shortening his last name.

"I know a confidentiality agreement when I see one," I quipped, grazing through some of the lines and flipping the page over to sign. With an annoyed sigh, I scribbled my signature on the line provided. "Here," My lips curled in an inevitable grin, thinking back to that mess of letters. "Cumberbatch," I snorted, trying to keep a straight face, but failing miserably. It sounded even more ludicrous bounding through my lips. So many consonants!

"Is it funny?" His smirk wasn't as playful as before.

"It' hilarious," His smile grows wider as he looks down at the writing pads on his lap.

"I have to say, I'm overjoyed you have a sense of humor," He mumbled with the rise and fall of his right brow. "For a moment, I could have sworn I was talking to a wet-paper bag," He clears his throat with a hint of ambiguity. Another exhausted sigh leaves the presence of my lungs as he hands me a writing pad. "But, I'm more than content with you exuding some type of emotion," Apparently, he wasn't game for putting up with any of my shit.

"What's this for?" I took it and nervously began clicking the retractable bottom on the pen, awaiting an answer.

"It's our first exercise," He flips the cover over, opening the book to a blank page. "I want you to write your name on the cover," I began to quickly print my name sloppily on the cover. "Legibly, please," I roll my eyes. I continue in a neater form. "Perfect. Now, open it to the first page," I did so, smacking the end of the pen against the paper. I really didn't want to keep annoying him, but it was so entertaining to push him to snarky counteracts and frustration. I didn't know why, but I loved it. This wasn't usually how I behaved around a perfect stranger, but something about him urged me to give him that reaction.

"Now what," He became increasingly impatient by the minute. I contemplated carefully how long it was going to take for him to refer me to another therapist, or kick me out of his office altogether.

"At the count of three, I'm going to ask you a question in which we'll both jot down a one-word answer at the same time. I'm going to try and match the answer you've written. After it's written, rip it off and throw it on the floor in front of you," He instructed politely. This had to be some summer camp-sleepover-bullshit, I've ever heard of. Were these even real methods?

"Is this really going to--"

"Just," He warrants. His voice was at a normal speaking tone but his bravado was what startled me. "Do as I've instructed, please," He readies his pen.

"Fine," Retorting, I did the same.

"Great," He positioned himself upright in his chair. "On three: one…two…three," He counted down, studying my demeanor. I sat back on the lounge with my legs crossed and the pad on my lap. Even if I never wanted to admit it, I was adjusting. "Favorite movie?" I almost went to write it, until I realized,

"Are you really going to try and guess that?" He looked around the room as if I had asked him something irregular.

"Yes," Duh, was what he really wanted to say. "Now write, please,"

Wait Until Dark

It was late 60's Audrey Hepburn film that cast her as a blind woman who fought of crooks, one of them played by Alan Arkin. It was truly my favorite, even though I'd liked to write something sarcastic.

I ripped the paper off of the wire and through it down in front of me. He hadn't even paid attention to it as he was still writing. With a sly smirk, he threw his paper down,

Girl Interrupted.

Asshole, As it was apparently only funny to him.

"Very funny," His laugh was quiet but it was as rich as his voice; bouncing off his vocal chords in deep tones.

"Okay," He giggled once more and straightened himself out. "That was just an example, I'm going to ask you questions that require much needed concentration. If you need to think about it, that's absolutely okay, I won't throw mine out until you're done," I nodded and awaited his next question.

"Who is someone you currently trust in your life?" That took nothing to think about,

No one

We threw our papers down almost at the exact second. I was too busy gearing for the next question to see what he had written.

"What makes you the happiest?" This question definitely took some digging deep to answer. I only really remember being happy when I was much younger. Maybe, thirteen years from then. Even then, I couldn't pinpoint what made me happy, because it was probably something completely illegal. I thought menially.

Money

I scribbled it, throwing it down onto my pile of papers to see that he wasn't finished writing yet. My eyes darted down to see what he had written for the last question,

Boyfriend.

There it was, in scribbled letters that I could barely read. And somehow, I could read it clearly. It didn't have to be legible, or in cursive, or in big bold Times New Roman. It sort of saddened me.

He threw out another,

Loneliness.

It was as if the wind had been knocked out of me. It wasn't the sharp letters that killed me, it was the accuracy of it. I didn't know whether to be apprehensive or…I just didn't know…

"What makes you the unhappiest?"

Another easy one...

People

I felt oddly content with this exercise. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to like it; that would be playing in his hand, and I wasn't about to forfeit all of my secrets to someone like him. I just enjoyed not having to say any of this aloud; I wasn't as evasive or nervous as I was coming into this. He might have been onto something, after all. Though, I wasn't about to admit that to myself.

For that answer he had thrown down Loneliness in another ugly handwritten response.

"Now, this one is going to be a little different. List me three things you want out of our sessions," I wasn't even sure how often or how many times I had to see him. This was all so informal, but I wasn't about to give up now. I started to ponder what I truly wanted in the first place…

1) Stability

That was a good one, I think everyone could use a bit of stability. I knew I needed a gratuitous amount to stay away from a padded cell.

2) Trust

I wrote that knowing that it wasn't going to just appear out of thin air. It was going to take some serious solitude and a better attitude to learn to trust anyone or anything…or to even be trusted.

3) I want to be fixed

The words almost wrote themselves. I thought about my long quest up to the offices and remembered that was all I could think about. I just wanted to be fixed.

He finished writing.

"Now, instead of throwing them down, we'll exchange them," This was nerve-wrecking. I hardly knew this man, how was I supposed to show him things I only thought to myself? He held his paper out to me proudly, as I was more than hesitant to hand him mine. He cleared his throat, noticing my holding out. "Thank you," We exchanged them gently between each other. Before looking down, he spoke, "Remember, everything you say or do is protected by that agreement you signed. And I'm not here to put anything past you," He, then looked down and began to examine the paper carefully. Watching him, I almost forgot to do the same.

emotional stability.

How did this man get into high school with what he called penmanship? Though, he was dead-on, that was something everyone needs in general.

Solidarity/a voice

Touche, I thought. It wasn't as vague as the first. It made close-to-perfect sense, in all actuality. One thing I did seek was harmony within myself. I was slightly skeptical, but more so curious, on how he came up with these answers.

FINISH YOUR STORY

The last one was weird. Honestly, I hadn't understood what he was getting at with it. He was spot-on with the first two--the second, especially. I just wasn't sure where he was coming from with this. Although, that had been his nature. It seemed he hid behind his own obscurity as if he was hiding some special power. The obscurity within him fit his weird name and uncanny facial features.

"Hmm," He began with an uncertain observation.

"What?" I don't know what made me so curious of his opinions, but I was. I was probably under that psycho-babble voodoo people talk about…by people, I mean my mother after her fifth shot of Johnny Walker Black.

"Do you feel you're broken?" It was an obscure question, but I had the answer rolling somewhere around my noggin. He wanted me to have more of a voice, anyway.

"I--" He ditches the writing pad onto his desk and gives me his undivided attention. "I don't feel as put-together--" I had to gather my words correctly, in fear, I hadn't been using the right ones. He graduated Cambridge University at the top of his class; so I hadn't finished art school but I wasn't about to sound like an imbecile. "I don't feel as composed as I once felt. I feel like…" I searched for something to follow up with. I thought he'd interject but he listened. I mean, that was his job. "I don't feel like I can relate, or understand anyone else…myself especially," His eyes turned softly as his facial expression followed. "There's a void, you know…" My voice weakly trailed off.

"But you're far from broken, Natasha," I gulped holding an emotional breakdown back and cleared my throat. "Do you medicate that void frequently?" I couldn't give him an answer, even though I knew it. I was positive he knew it. He withdrew himself as he didn't want to push the issue any further. He probably sensed the storm rising in my chest and the clouds that misted in my eyes.

"What did you mean by this?" I turned the page toward him and pointed at his handwriting. He smiled a thoughtful smile.

"The last thing you told me, as I recall it, was that your mother--a drunkard--suggested you come here and seek help,"

"Right,"

"The last thing you told me about yourself was that you were raised in Manhattan; there's more to your wanton quips and your--" He gets lost in his own answer. I watch as he exaggerates every word with the motion of his stem-like fingers. "--your sarcastic tendencies. There's a part of you that wants to do better and it's best to know exactly why that fire burns."

What the fuck acting school did this asshole come from? I was beside myself, almost to the point of an applause.

"Okay," I breathed. I went to hand his paper back to him and he handed me a manilla folder instead.

"I want you to keep that in this," He hands me the folder, he has his own as well. I place the paper inside of it as I watch him pick up the heap of papers we made on the carpet.

"How often do we have to do this--these sessions?" He took his eyes off of the floor and gave me that obscure smirk again.

"Until you feel this is useless to you,"

HA!

"I'd like to see you at least twice a week until we really start making progress," He returned to placing the papers in the folder. It made sense, it was nice to know he wasn't keeping me there against the will of all of my issues needing to be repaired.

He rolled his chair back to its rightful position, behind his desk as he checked his watch.

"Well," He walks over to me after scribbling something down on paper. He doesn't return it to me in the process. "I think that's all the time we have for today," He walked over to me as I stood and realized my butt fell asleep. I grabbed my jacket and purse from behind me and folded them over my arm.

Thank God, I honestly couldn't handle anymore of it but it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.

"I think we made some striving efforts today; what do you say?" We locked eyes as he stood mere centimeters away from me. I could smell the cologne he wore; it was a soft, masculine scent of neroli and a bed of fully bloomed roses. It was oddly comforting.

"Yeah…" I nodded and gave him a small smile.

"It was nice meeting you, Natasha," The way he said my name, though! What was happening to me?

Pyscho-babble voodoo, My eyes squint for a second as I stuck out my hand.

"It's nice meeting you too, Benedict Cumberbatch," I couldn't help but giggle. This time, I didn't feel like I needed to hold it back. "Honestly, it sounds like Dr. Seuss," I couldn't stop myself.

"That's something I haven't heard before," I was sure to sense the sarcasm that parted his lips.

"I'm sorry," I gathered myself, clearing my throat. "I'll see you--"

"Wednesday, same time," It was just Monday, after all. "And you don't have to apologize, it was funny," It was the first time that day his voice didn't sound threatening.

"Okay, I'll see you then. Thanks." I opened the door to leave.

"Pleasure's all mine." He waved from the door way. I walked to the elevator and pulled out my phone. Unlocking the screen I realized what time it was.

2:17PM

"Shit…" I didn't have any plans that day, thankfully but two hours had gone and went. I also realized I needed a cigarette.

Bad.



Coming from the building, the sun hadn't made it's public appearance yet. As long as it hadn't begun raining yet, I was content. I turned into the alley and stood against the wall. There was a steel door that lead into the back way of the building. I exhaled, proud of myself that I sat two hours in a room--with a stranger--and didn't piss myself in anxiety or fear. The realization set in when I realized that I was going to be seeing him for God-knows how long and for twice a week. I wasn't sure how I felt about it.

I snapped back to the real reason I standing in that alley.

I need a smoke.

I opened my purse, instinctively grabbing the box of Marlboro Lites at the top. The only issue was, that weren't there. I scavenged around my purse like a squirrel looking for an invisible nut.

Lighter.
Phone.
Wallet.
Keys.
FUCK!

They were nowhere to be found.

"Shit…" I searched a little more, as the opening of the side door went unnoticed.

"Looking for these?" A familiar accent snapped me out of the hunt. I looked up to see Ben with that smirk that made all of his features like a masterpiece.

Ew.

"Thanks," I looked down, almost ashamed that he found me jonesing for an inhale. He stood next to me and did that weird staring thing he does. His right hand reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a lighter. The cigarette lies in between my middle and index fingers as he hitches a spark. At that point, I couldn't conceal the nicotine craving from anyone. I watched the tip burn just enough for the ash to show. I withdrew it from the flame and inhaled at once. I closed my eyes, relishing the small moment of revelry in that alleyway. I looked to Ben who sported his addiction to nicotine quite proudly. The yellow box of Natural American Spirits were tucked into his right-front pocket.

"You know," He inhaled without taking his eyes off of me, and exhaled through his teeth. "Those patches don't work," I was the first to snort in a small fit of unnerved giggles and that laugh rolled through the two of us; quite possibly scaring a couple passersby. Without registering it, I began to watch him laugh-inhale-exhale--repeat. I remembered being skeptical of him drugging my tea and laughed even harder.

Maybe he's not that stiff, I contemplated wile taking another drag.

Maybe.