"I don't think this is healthy," Wanda commented, looking worried at her friend over her half-full martini. "Are you sure you can afford to only see this guy for a while?"

"He needs me, Wanda," Clarice told her. "More than all those other idiots do. They have problems with their mothers and their sisters and their cheating wives. Cicero has a serious, serious issue. He's on the verge of self-destructing. If I don't do this, he may hurt himself, or worse."

"Why not just report him to the police?" Wanda offered. "Say he's a madman on the verge of hurting himself, or someone else, and needs to be detained."

"So, what, he'll be locked away in some psych ward for the rest of his life, while his mother rots wherever she is?" Clarice rebutted.

"Well, what else did you get out of him?" Wanda asked. "I hate to ask the same question every night, but if you're not going to lose him, you're going to need someone to talk to about it. Otherwise it'll drive you insane too."

Clarice sighed, finishing off her third beer. She knew she required more than one or two that night, considering the day she had. "He told me he was from somewhere far away, had a somewhat dysfunctional childhood with abusive parents and whatnot – you're typical 'dysfunction'. Anyway, it drove him to want to do some not-so-great things with a certain gang or something, called 'The Dark Brotherhood'. I Googled that, and found nothing, by the way. Anyway, he had to move somewhere North, sort of a Viking place, and learned to love the cold, which is why he moved here, with his mother."

"A gang member?" Wanda said, furrowing her brow. "This keeps sounding worse the more you tell me about it. What if he tries to kill you? What if he's some sort of drug dealer or something?"

"Out of all the things I told you, that's what you take from it," Clarice remarked. "Besides, he doesn't like drugs. Don't worry about me, Wanda. I know what I'm doing with this guy. I think you need to meet him or something to really understand what's happening with him."

"Maybe I'll get to," she stated. "If he buys you another beer."

Clarice's eyes suddenly widened, and she quickly looked to the bar, where the waitress said he had been sitting each time he ordered her a drink. She sighed heavily when she found it empty, and she looked back to her friend. In her peripheral vision, however, behind Wanda, she saw a dark figure sitting in the seat, facing the pair. She could not see the face, but she could make out a pair of glinting eyes watching her, as though waiting for her to make a move. It was unmoving, relentless in its stare. She stared right back, not because she was trying to challenge the figure, but because she found herself unable to look away.

Wanda watched her friend's face fall and pale. Clarice's eyes were wide and fixed on something behind herself. She tried calling he friend's name, but Clarice didn't make a motion. Wanda swallowed hard, and inhaled deeply, bracing herself for whatever was about to happen, before turning and facing whatever was behind her. Slowly, she began to see a dark figure, the small glint of eyes fixated on the subject past her. She began to turn her body. She felt her blood boil, the hair rise on the back of her neck.

"Ms. Stoker?" a voice broke the chains pulling both woman towards the sight. Clarice's head snapped to the where the voice was coming from. Her heart was racing, unintentionally. Wanda allowed herself to breathe again as she watched the new subject standing there, bending over the table, facing the psychologist.

"Yes," Clarice said, sighing heavily. She blinked and looked to the person. It was an old client of hers. He just wanted to say hello, provide a pointless update of his own life (more about everyone else's life), say he was getting married, blah, blah, blah. Another person he helped survive in this cold, cruel world. I just want to thank you. Whatever, whatever.

When the person finally walked away, Clarice turned her head back to the dark figure which had loomed behind Wanda, and found the seat empty. There were no gleaming eyes, no suggestions of there ever having existed a dark presence there. Simply emptiness. A void.

The waitress took Clarice's beer bottles, and placed another fresh one down in front of her. Clarice turned her head to look at it, and widened her eyes slightly. She looked up to the waitress, not saying a thing.

"Yeah," the waitress said. "Another drink from the creepy redhead. This time, though, he came in and left right after paying for your drink. He didn't even have one himself."

"What does he drink?" Clarice asked the waitress.

"Rum and coke," she told him. "But he never finishes it. It's like he just likes sipping it for a moment, buys you a drink, and leaves. He's really strange."

"Oh, trust me," Clarice said, sighing. "That's an understatement."

"What are you writing?" Cicero asked, leaning forward, his hands either side of his face, elbows propped up on his knees. "I always see you with that clipboard. What about poor Cicero needs to be written down?"

"Oh, um, nothing," Dr. Stoker said, glancing down to the scribble of stars and doodles surrounding Cicero's name in bubble letters. She pressed the clipboard against her chest, looking up to Cicero, forcing herself to supress her blush. "Confidential."

Cicero frowned, tilting his head slightly. "Cicero tries not to keep anything from his Listener. Why does she keep things from Cicero?"

Dr. Stoker frowned, watching Cicero. She sighed, and placed the clipboard – face-down – onto the carpet beneath her. He watched her, sitting up straight. She uncrossed her legs, and leaned forward to regard him closer. He didn't remove his eyes from her, curious of his next move, but perplexed by the suddenness of a move at all.

It had been darker outside. She had a few clients in the morning, but cleared her schedule for the night, and planned for Cicero to come closer to the end of the day.

"I don't have any more clients today," she told him (this was true, after a few cancellations she had made the day before). "Would you like to grab a coffee or something?"

Cicero frowned and looked down to his strange boots. "It is dangerous to give Cicero coffee. Besides, it tastes like water and wood."

Dr. Stoker snorted, but covered her mouth before she could burst out laughing. She nodded. "Very well. You can get a hot chocolate."

Cicero looked to her for a small moment, before swallowing hard, and sighing, looking down to his clasped hands between his knees. "Cicero shouldn't. Mother wouldn't approve-"

"Cicero," she stopped him. He snapped his head up, looking to her with curious eyes. "Please. I want you to try to leave your house for a while. Go out there. I'll come with you. It'll be good for you."

Cicero shook his head violently. "I can't. Mother-"

"Cicero!" she said, louder than she intended. Again, his eyes focused on her, but they were wider than they had been before. She had startled him. She sighed and quickly apologised. "I want you to come out into the real world with me. I insist. Your mother can wait a few hours while you experience life."

Cicero watched her. His light brown eyes flickered to each of hers. Left, to right, to left, to right, in a constant cycle, while he pondered her suggestion. She was not allowing him to say no. He was not the sort of person to whom one would administer suggestions. Rather, he needed to be told what to do in order to agree with doing something. From this fact, she assumed that he had been told what to do his entire life, and was not given the choice to disobey – she was fairly certain that she had no idea how to disobey, only act based on what he was told (from others, or from his own fragile mind).

He grinned, sitting back slightly, watching her down her nose, head tilted slightly. He placed his clasped hands onto his stomach and slowly sneered. Of course, he could not refuse her. She was his Listener, after all.

Dr. Stoker and Cicero locked up the office, walked down the long, dimly-lit hallway, to the outdoors, together. They idly spoke to each other about things that didn't matter, which was something strange and new compared to how Cicero had spoken to her before that moment. It was proof for her (and perhaps for Wanda) that he was capable of standard conversation. They spoke about art and how he loved abstract artistry as long as it wasn't four different-coloured squares hanging side-by-side on a massive gallery wall, since that just doesn't make sense. We spoke about vehicles, and how he did not know how to drive, since cars scared him (he didn't trust them), but he loved riding horses. We spoke about gardening, and how he had a large mushroom garden back at his old house which was quite successful (though most were poisonous), and he didn't find it necessary to grow flowers when mushrooms are so much more fascinating. At any point, if he was to mention his mother, she would stop him and say something to deter him from the reference.

She managed to get him into her own vehicle and we left the downtown area, into the oldest part of the city where each building was tall, thin, Victorian, and made of ancient brick, stone, and wood. There were few houses; each building had two to three apartments. The trees were also quite old, massive, maple. The sidewalks weren't well taken care of; neither was the road, but it added character to the whole place. The air always smelt of freshness, especially when the atmosphere was dense with rain, as it was now. In the darkness, lanterns hanging from tall posts lit the road, as well as lights from the cozy homes. Many children lived in the area, due to the nearby elementary and high school. It was not cheap to live in this neighbourhood, but it was comfortable, and therefore it was worth it.

Cicero kept his head outside the window, looking around in awe. The speed limit in this area of town was very slow, due to the constant activity of children, so he could keep his head outside of the window without suffocating from a lung stuffed with wind. He inhaled the scent of the place many times, closing his eyes to enjoy himself. She glanced to him a few times from behind her steering wheel and noticed that he seemed to have a different glow to his visage – that of comfort, a lack of ample stress. The skin on his face seemed less taut, and she was sure if she was to touch the skin on his neck and shoulders, she would find the same thing. She couldn't help but smile.

Soon, she pulled up into a dark, stone duplex's driveway. Cicero was already out of the car before it was parked, breathing heavily in mock, exaggerated relief from some sort of torment. She rolled her eyes, and parked the car, before following him out of it, and to her narrow, tall building. Cicero was practically doing hand stands beside her as she unlocked the door.

The inside of her home shocked Cicero, mostly because it was absolutely nothing like her office. It was not covered in warm, calming colours. Rather, sharp, contrasting colours that would catch one's eye and refuse to allow them to falter. The entrance led to a narrow hallway, which lead to the kitchen at the back of the house. The kitchen's colour scheme was black, white, with red accents. The living room, which was to the immediate right, was themed deep purple, black, and white. The dining room which was right behind the living room was orange, black, and white…etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

"Ooh, ooh!" Cicero said, smiling broadly. "Cicero was not expecting this!"

"You should see my bedroom," she told him. "It's lime green."

Cicero crossed his arms and turned to face her. "You surprise me, Dr. Stoker. Cicero knew he liked you for a reason!"

"Oh, please," she said. "Call me Clarice. You're in my home, now. You're a guest." She told him where to put his coat, and she walked into the kitchen.

There, as quickly as she could, she got out a beer for herself, and, with shaking hands, began to prepare Cicero his drink that she knew he drank. She called back to him, and told him to make himself at home in the living room. She could envision him already doing so, but figured she might as well inform him, lest he try to venture into the kitchen. This was a test.

She walked into the living room, and found him already sitting on the couch, boots beside him, legs propped up on the table, hands on his elevated knees. She sat in her beloved Lay-Z-Boy chair which was beside the couch, and placed each drink on the coffee table in front of the furniture. Cicero threw his legs down and sat forward, looking to the drink. The moment he noticed what it was, he paused and looked up to her, grinning. She watched him curiously, eyeing and monitoring his reaction. He looked back down to the drink before looking back up to her, sneering.

"Thank you," he said, lifting the drink and sipping it. He widened his eyes slightly and looked to the glass. "Ooh! This one is even better than the one that bartender makes!"

Clarice couldn't help herself at that moment. She burst out laughing, uncontrollably, sitting back in her chair. He looked to her and laughed lightly, not really sure what she was laughing at. He laughed at her laughing, something he hadn't done in a long while, considering how he would mostly laugh at himself laughing. One she collected herself, she placed her beer down, and walked to her sound system, going through the CDs she had.

"Cicero, have you ever heard of Florence and the Machine?" she asked him, her index finger resting on "Ceremonials".

Cicero paused. "Flowers and the what? Oh! I should get Mother some flowers…"

Clarice frowned, pulling out the CD case from its slot in the holder, and removed the CD from the case. Cicero sat in his spot, watching her curiously. She placed the CD in the case, and skipped to the second song: "Shake it Out". The song basically spoke about a sort of hardship an individual goes through should sometimes be disregarded in order to allow people to live their lives normally. She knew this was a good song for Cicero, considering the "devil on his back" was quite large.

"Florence and the Machine," she repeated. "Probably my favourite band."

"Back where Cicero comes from, no one has a favourite bard," Cicero remarked, watching the stereo play the song as though it was about to consume him. "Mostly because everyone sings the same three songs, or plays the same few instruments."

Clarice sat beside him, watching him curiously. "I want to know more about you, Cicero. I want to know where you came from, what your life was like before you came here."

Cicero looked to her and smiled. For the first time she saw him, the smile looked gentle, and sincere. He sighed and shook his head. "Hmm… If Cicero was to tell you, you would never believe him."

She leaned forward slightly, returning his smile. "Try me."

Cicero frowned, looking to her for a long moment, before slapping his knees and standing, walking around the table. He bobbed his head slightly with the music, looking at the books on her bookshelves (these ones she had actually read). "Does Dr. Sto- Clarice have children? Where is her husband?"

Clarice watched him for a long moment, before looking away from him, up to her ceiling, trying to maintain the objective expression. When she didn't answer for a long while, Cicero turned his head to look at her. "…Clarice?"

"I'm a widow," Clarice told him. She looked back up to him, her eyes slightly red. "Do you know what that means?"

Cicero paused, frowning, looking away from her. He nodded. "I'm sorry."

"No, no," she shook her head, sniffing. She wiped her eye carefully. "It was an honest question. It happened a long time ago. It's in the past, now."

Cicero nodded again, looking back to the bookshelf. He examined the books, but he didn't really see them. A great many things were going through his mind at that point. Never before had he been taken to a therapist's house. Never before did he find anything out about a counsellor's personal life. Never before did a psychotherapist care that much about trying to get him away from an unhealthy situation. Never before had anyone been as concerned with him as a person, rather than him as a subject.

"Clarice…" he said, his voice low. He cleared his throat and turned to face her. She was watching him intently. "Cicero cannot tell you his sad, sad story. You'll think he's crazier than you did before. Cicero is… Um…" he cleared his throat again, fumbling with his own hands in front of himself. "He's worried you'll never want to talk to him again. He doesn't want to be alone anymore, Dr. Stoker. He doesn't want to hear the laughing."

Clarice watched him, eyebrows furrowed. He was making so much progress. He seemed to be moving away from the episodes, he did not refer to himself in the third person as much, and he even spoke of his mother less than he had before. His cognition seemed to be functioning on a much more adaptive state. Regardless of all these changes and advancements in his own world, he was still keeping things from her. This meant that there were still things which he was not prepared to deal with. Perhaps his childhood was so shocking, so abusive, so depressing that he was not willing to share it. Perhaps he still didn't trust her.

"You know you can trust me, right?" she told him.

He watched her for a long moment. His eyes scanned her face, her eyes, her posture. He saw her eyes fixed on his, watching him, assuring him. He felt comfortable, here. Calm. Placid. Unbothered by his outside, throbbing, detestable world separate from his sessions with this woman. What he was used to out there, back home, back where his world used to make sense… It was so different from where he was now. It was so advanced, so different – so difficult to get used to. But with this doctor – Clarice – things seemed to make sense. She eased him into understanding, and helped him speak how he wanted to, how he knew he could, and say what he needed to say (well, most of it). He turned away from her and watch the stereo. He began to hum the song which was playing.

"This song is great to dance to," he remarked, watching the digital bars pulse with the beat of the song on the tiny screen. "Cicero loves upbeat music like this. No bards back where he comes from played music like this."

Clarice stood and walked to him, placing her beer on the table. She kept a distant proximity from him, worried about moving too quickly towards him. "I want to know you, Cicero. Please. Don't be afraid of telling me what you're thinking. You need to talk to someone. It isn't healthy to keep it all inside."

He turned his head to glance at her. He looked worried, which she knew perfectly well he was. He was afraid of the consequences of telling her his incomprehensible thoughts or filling her with his past. It was a dangerous step off of a cliff which may end in an ocean, or on hard rock. Perhaps it was time he took the step.

"Cicero comes from a place called Tamriel," he began. He inhaled deeply, and plunged into darkness.