A/N: All is disclaimed. Jeremy has therapy. Well, he would, wouldn't he?

Worm

For several minutes now Jeremy had been standing by a door beside which a tablet modestly declared the name and qualification of his long-standing analyst. He had missed his sessions in the two weeks that Sarah had been here. In fact he deliberately avoided this door since Linda left.
He would have continued to loiter if the door hadn't opened.

"What are you waiting out here for? Come inside and have a nice cup of tea."
Jareth sighed, but bent down to the Worm's eye level to be polite.
"Tea?" he asked.

"You missed your sessions," said Dr de Vere as he took Jeremy's coat, "Was something the matter?"
They walked through to the room with heavy curtains, and Jeremy sat down on the couch, looked at his hands,
"You could say that."

Inside the Worm's house, Jareth felt rather comfortable. He hadn't been there for quite some time.
"What has been on your mind?" the Worm asked while setting the table for tea, "You ought to take better care of yourself."
Jareth laughed.
"You remember the story I told you about? There is a Goblin King who can hardly sleep, who sees another existence, which is both distant and close to him. It is within him and outside of him."

Dr de Vere adjusted his glasses and unscrewed the lid of his fountain pen.
"Please, make yourself comfortable," he suggested and leaned further back into his leather chair.
Jeremy positioned himself on the couch - the first few minutes were always so stupid, stupid.
"Linda had left again," he began hesitantly, flexing his long fingers, "Her daughter was supposed to visit us during her vacation. Linda never said- she'd left and Sarah arrived. She's staying. She unnerves me."
His account was cautious and disconnected.

"Now that I've seen her," Jareth told the Worm, "She has brought strange memories to me." They could be dreams.
"I see," the Worm said, and lifted his cup to his lips, "Have some cake. Fresh from the oven."
He remained quiet as the King hinted at Sarah and at her uncanny resemblance to her mother; and of his own resemblance to this unemployed English actor.
Most days, Jareth would not have much opportunity to talk. In the castle the goblins made less appealing conversation partners than the walls. At least the walls returned to him traces of his own voice.

He cannot stop speaking.

The nib of the pen scratches the paper.

"There are things I remember or things I dream, I told you before," he attempts to explain, "I am in a forest. I am in a throne room. I am flying, or maybe falling. But she is there, her face is right there before me. I am a whisper in the wind."
How long had she been there, asks the Worm, consulting his previous notes.
He does not know. He voices the idea that he had been entertaining, that Linda was only a copy. Only - he thinks - Linda trusted him as he promised her such gifts - only a copy.
Dr Worm nods along.
He wants to talk about his childhood - isn't that what he was supposed to do anyway? - but the tea makes his eyes heavy. He is exhausted.
Go on, says Dr Worm.
He sinks further into the couch, floats away from the worlds and descends into a warm darkness.
He begins.