2018 - September 28

Ben woke on his own, without help from his patient. That was significant enough to wake him even quicker than being prodded. But Tate hadn't left. He was sitting on the far edge of the bed, his back to the therapist, chewing his fingernails.

"Good morning," said Ben.

"I had a dream about Violet last night," Tate responded, skipping formalities.

Ben pushed himself up and rubbed sleep from his eyes. "Yeah? What do you remember?"

Tate turned his head and Ben saw that he was in teen form.

"She pretty much said the same thing you did," Tate said. "She said she wouldn't forgive me until I settled up with Westfield."

The therapist already knew what she'd said since he'd fed dream-Violet her lines. What she said wasn't quite what Tate took from it but, as usual, it was close enough that he didn't bother clarifying.

"How does that make you feel?"

Tate gave a short laugh. "How do you think it makes me feel?" He looked at Ben. Self-doubt and disgust registered on the teen's face briefly. "I guess... I guess I have to settle up." Tears sprang to his eyes but they didn't fall.

Ben had underestimated how quickly his patient would react. It told on how strong Tate's feelings were for Violet. "How are you going to do that?"

Tate didn't respond immediately. He didn't have an answer. "I don't know," he admitted at last, shoulders sagging.

Ben saw opportunity. He got up and moved around the bed to the side where Tate was sitting with his hands gripped tightly in his lap. Ben sat down beside him and put an arm around his shoulders. In the recent past when he did that, Tate leaned toward him. Not now. He just sat there under Ben's arm like a statue.

"If you don't remember doing something," Tate said after a moment. "And you never wanted to do it in the first place... Why does it still count?"

Ben didn't want to answer that question but he knew he had to. "Sometimes it doesn't. But... Tate. People died. A lot of people. You owe it to yourself to understand what happened, if nothing else."

"How?" Despite the tears that slid down his face, Tate's voice was steady.

After a moment of thought Ben suggested, "The internet."

Tate looked at him then, confused.

"Why don't we start with the internet?" the doctor suggested. "Maybe we can find some answers on the web and go from there? There's lots of information about the Westfield event online."

"There is?" Tate wasn't sure if he believed that. He still didn't really understand the internet, not having much exposure to it since Violet left his world.

"Trust me," Ben assured. "I'll get one of the laptops next session-"

"No," interrupted Tate. "I want to do it now."

"Now?"

Tate shrugged. "Today. I'm tired of running, doc." He smiled but it was fake and dripped with tears. "I'm tired of wondering what's real. I'm tired... of being afraid of what I am." He gave a short laugh or maybe he was just gulping air to keep from sobbing. Even he wasn't sure.

Ben looked at his patient for a moment. The teen's desperation struck a chord with him. It reminded Ben of himself back when Dr. Lanyon first took an interest in him. Ben felt a twinge of something like remorse, attached to no specific thing. He gave Tate's shoulders another squeeze.

"I'll track down one of the laptops," said Ben. "You want to meet me in my office in an hour?"

Tate thought about it then said, "Make it two hours. Chad'll bitch if I skip out early on breakfast."

Ben tipped his head and studied his patient's profile with interest. "You... care about that?"

Tate looked at him like he was high. "Uh. Yeah. You've had breakfast with him. You think he improves by dinner? If he starts out the day pissed off, by evening he's a fucking nightmare."

"I didn't know," said Ben, managing not to chuckle. He found it amusing that Chad would let something as small as Tate leaving breakfast early ruin his day. But it rang true to the man's nature.

"You'd know if you had dinner with us," reminded Tate.

"Ask Chad."

Tate tapped his chin thoughtfully. "How about you ask him?"

"Why?"

"He won't think you're trying to stir up trouble."

Ben couldn't help laughing at that. "Oh, he won't?"

The teen shrugged again and a small but genuine smile came out. "He trusts you."

"But not you?" asked Ben.

Tate looked at him piercingly. "Do you?"

The question hung in the air too long. There was no help for it. "To a certain extent," Ben said carefully. "But where meals are concerned? No. Not after breakfast. But I have to admit I knew better."

To his relief Tate's smile blossomed into a grin. "Yeah, you did say all hell would break loose."

"Yeah," agreed Ben. "And for that very reason I think I'll pass on asking Chad about dinner. But if you ever would like to invite me, I'd be happy to accept."

"So I decided what I'm going to do," said Tate, shifting subjects without warning.

Ben was fairly used to that quirk and after a last bracing squeeze he released the youth. "About what?" he asked as he got to his feet. He went over and rummaged through his bag, searching for his day clothes.

"Violet. Me. Everything," said Tate, turning so he could keep the shrink in sight. "I'm going back to Westfield."

Ben stopped rummaging and looked over at his patient. "What?"

"I'm going back to Westfield," Tate repeated. "This October. When I can leave the house."

Ben straightened, suddenly and genuinely concerned. "Wait a minute, Tate. Go to Westfield? Are you sure?"

Tate gave a little nod. "What's not to be sure about? I'm gonna do what you said. I'm going to look on the internet and figure out what I need to know. Then I'm... Then I'm going to go back there."

"I really think we should spend a little more time looking at how that might turn out," Ben cautioned.

"I've already thought about it," Tate said. "I don't care. I'm going."

"Tate," Ben said, very serious. "You have no idea what could happen."

"What's the worst that could happen, doc?" the teen asked with a dimpled smile. "I'm going at night when nobody'll be there. Not like I can kill anybody."

"Tate," said Ben sharply. "This isn't something to joke about. You really don't know-"

"No, YOU don't know!" Tate yelled, on his feet now. "You don't know what it's like having to be me! You don't know what I have to deal with every single fucking day! You act like you do but you just have the day pass, doc! You get to go home after visiting hours! I have to stay like this all the time!"

Ben was tensed, ready for anything. He hadn't seen Tate so worked up since he was coming off the sleep medication. "Just take a deep breath," he said. He could see the young man struggling to decide whether to listen to him or whatever wild impulses were driving the unhinged look in his dark eyes. Ben wished briefly that he had a sedative handy but he'd used what he brought with him last night.

"I want to help you," the therapist reminded in a calm voice.

"Then come with me!" Desperation make Tate's words crack. "Tell me what I need to know so I can make it all go away!"

He crumpled then, hugging himself like he was shot. He tried to hold it in but it a sob wrenched free. It left his throat hurting with the strain of trying to repress it. He was falling again, like so many times before, going into an emotional tailspin he couldn't pull out of on his own.

Then there was a hand on his back, warm and firm and gentle. A spark of light in the darkness. He pulled a shuddery breath. He looked up, face wet with tears, and saw Ben's kind face.

"I'll go with you to the school," the doctor said. "I'll be there for you. But you need to understand what it is you're going back to."

Tate shut his eyes and a few more tears slipped out. He thought he heard sirens in the distance. Then he felt Ben's arm over his shoulders. For a moment the blond boy did nothing. He just stood there half hunched over. Feeling. Then reached up and put a hand over Ben's. The therapist was tempted to let it go at that but decided to up the ante. He caught the teen's hand and used it to tug him into an embrace. Tate resisted only a little then planted his face against Ben's chest and hugged back, getting his shirt wet. He liked the way Ben smelled: Clean and strong and like a dad should.

They stayed that way for who knows how long before Ben gave Tate a gentle pat and released him. "You should get down to breakfast before they wonder. I'm going to go find one of the computers. Come to my office this afternoon - two-ish - and we'll do some research. All right?"

Tate nodded then he shrank to boy form. He still looked red-eyed and puffy. "Thanks, Doctor Harmon."

Ben waved the thanks away. "Go clean up. I'll see you later."

...

When later came Ben was prepared. He not only had one of the laptops but he'd spent the day researching. He had, of course, done some of that back when he found out who Tate Langdon really was but Ben had so many bigger things going on in his life back then, he hadn't spent much time looking at details.

It was quite a story.

After Tate joined him, again in teen form, Ben had him sit beside him on the leather couch. The computer was on the coffee table, open and facing them. Ben folded his hands between his knees and looked at Tate.

"What's the last thing you remember before you died?"

Tate's brow furrowed briefly. He hadn't expected that question but he quickly realized where Ben was going with it. "I don't know... Um." He scrunched one eye shut, regarded the ceiling and thought hard. "I guess..."

Memories started to filter through in flashes. Pacing the floor of his bedroom. Pacing, pacing. Not sleeping.

"I couldn't sleep."

"The night before?" Ben prompted. He picked up the notebook beside him and jotted that down.

Tate nodded. He shut his eyes and tried to focus on the memories but it was like trying to make out a radio signal through static. "I wasn't- I was having trouble sleeping all week. All month. Bad dreams." Larry. Lawrence. Beau. He opened his eyes, opened them real wide. "I got some... I got some crystal from this guy I met in the school parking lot. I thought maybe it would make me feel better."

Ben quietly took notes. Seeing Tate with the bullshit stripped away was intriguing to him. "Crystal meth. Did it make you feel better?"

The teen snorted softly. "I don't know. I don't remember."

"So... you took the drugs and immediately after you don't remember anything?"

Tate thought about it again. "I did the stuff and I remember the alarm clock going off. Then there's just nothing till I was standing outside the school. I had, um. I had my duffel bag. And... I had a gun in my other hand. And I could see the school. All the cars."

"Where did the gun come from?" asked the therapist.

"I had it in my room."

"When did you get it?"

Tate glanced sideways at him and his expression was the same disoriented, sleepy look Ben had seen on him when he was waking up in the morning after sedation.

"I... Got it a few months before."

Ben's brows inched up. "So you had the gun for a while. What about the other two?"

Tate stared at him.

Ben motioned to the computer in a silent explanation for his inside knowledge. "You had three guns with you that day, Tate. Do you remember that?" He paused, then corrected himself: "Did you get those guns the day you went to the school? Or did you get them beforehand?"

"I... I got them before," said Tate. He could see the trap now but it was too late.

The doctor nodded curtly. "What were you thinking when you started stockpiling weapons, Tate?"

Tate looked at the computer even though there was nothing on the screen. "I don't know. I was thinking weird around then. I guess I was thinking... I was thinking I wanted to be ready."

"For what?"

"For... whatever," Tate shrugged. He stared unblinking at the computer screen. "I wanted to kill Larry. I knew a guy at the pizza place I hung out at who got me the handgun. But I just... It was just dreaming, you know?" He looked at Ben then, nose wrinkled faintly in self-disgust. "But then the guy said he could get me this shotgun. And it looked all bad-ass. He had both of them with him. I had the money so..."

"Jesus," muttered Ben. "He just gave you guns for cash, without any paperwork or anything?"

Tate shrugged and looked at him owlishly. "Isn't that how you sell stuff?"

Ben eyed him. "I have a feeling you know more about gun laws that that."

Tate had the grace to look caught. "Fuck gun laws. Nobody follows them. Nobody follows any laws in this country except the ones they want to. Red lights, incest, whatever."

"Incest?"

Tate shrugged. "Murder. Whatever. People do whatever they want. It's just stupid ones that get caught."

Ben frowned at his patient. "Tate. You were shot by a SWAT team in your house."

Catching the direct implication, Tate scowled. "I'm not stupid."

At that Ben set his notepad and pen down, sat back and just looked at the teen.

After a few moments the silence began to bother Tate. "What?"

"Nothing," Ben said, pursing his lips briefly as he shook his head. "I just noticed you'd slipped back into your act and figured I may as well get comfortable and enjoy the performance."

Tate was not amused. He remembered a conversation he had with Patrick about Guinea pigs and rabbits. "I'm not performing."

"Cut the bullshit, Tate," Ben said, unimpressed. "You didn't bring home three guns to kill your stepfather with."

"He wasn't my stepfather!" Tate said, kicking the coffee table hard enough to scoot it back a few inches and rattle the laptop. "He was just my stupid cunt mother's stupid prick boyfriend!"

"You didn't bring home three guns to kill your mother's boyfriend with," Ben said mildly, refusing to let the latest violent outburst throw him off. He did make a note of it though.

Tate simmered down and clasped his hands tightly between his knees. "One gun for each of them."

"Each of..?" Then Ben got it. "Are you saying you were going to kill your whole family?"

Tate was tempted to go with that. It sounded kind of neat and cold-blooded. But he liked his family too much to lie about something like that for long.

"No," he admitted. He fiddled with the silver snake ring on his thumb. "I wanted to be like a warrior. I wanted people to be afraid when they saw my arsenal."

"So you collected guns you were never planning to use?" Ben didn't believe that.

Tate smiled at him. "No. I thought about using them, especially on Larry. I just never... It never really seemed real. It was like a pretend game. The guns were just the equipment." He remembered how much power the handgun gave him the first time he fired it. He felt his hand twitch, wanting to fire it again just to feel that rush. "It was just how I de-stressed. I wasn't actually going to do it."

"But you did do it."

The words hung there till Ben pulled up the browser. He had a few bookmarks but he started with one that was mostly text. He pushed the computer closer to Tate.

"It's a description of what happened that day," said the doctor. "As best as they could piece together from the evidence. There weren't any cameras inside the school at the time so some of it's guesswork and forensics."

Tate looked at him for a moment then scooted to the edge of the couch and started to read.

...

Author's Note:

The title of this chapter is a reference to A Nightmare on Elm Street 3. The psychiatrists would start group therapy sessions with their sleep-deprived patients by saying: "Straight talk only in this room." Which basically meant the kids were supposed to be honest and not hide behind bullshit and posturing.

There was a subtle reference to Jewel's song Under the Water in there. It came from the movie The Craft, which also made it into the Coven one-shot I just posted. I think my subconscious wants to see it again.

I'm still not sure why Tate got all the guns. I think maybe he doesn't even know. Or maybe he was lying to Ben. I just don't know!

Next chapter Violet and Ben have a chat then it's time for October to take center stage. The ghosts are anxious for shore leave, starting with Constance. What'll happen when she takes Michael to the cemetery during the month of Samhain?