A/N: Well, this chapter took a while to actually sit down and write, because real life and such. Thanks for being patient. And an extra special thanks for all of you who have been so generous and encouraging with your comments. I almost wasn't going to come back to this fic, but you've convinced me otherwise. Xoxoxox.
"So how are you doing, Ms. Keen?"
"I'm doing fine," Liz says. She settles herself into the overstuffed arm chair, her small pocketbook on her lap.
"You're smiling today."
"Yeah," Liz says. "I guess I am."
"Do you want to tell me why you are smiling?" The therapist asks this in his typical cat and mouse way. It has been six weeks of these sessions, twice a week, since. . . since everything. Sometimes she talks to him. Sometimes she tells him just enough to make him seem satisfied that she is making progress, or at the very least being honest. Once she even cried genuine tears. She had felt somewhat embarrassed afterwards that she'd broken in front of this professional stranger, but then she had comforted herself by telling herself that was what he wanted to see. What he had needed to see to believe she was making progress. Sometimes she's cooperative. Sometimes she plays into his cat and mouse a bit. Sometimes she just plays him.
She's not decided if he can be trusted. She's not decided if she trusts herself enough to trust him. She feels suddenly vulnerable and bare without Samar by her side.
"I suppose I will have to tell you, or else you will continue to prolong my return to the field." She says, trying to keep calm and appear light and unaffected by his probing.
"Does it feel like I am intentionally prolonging your return?"
"Look," Liz sighs. "The truth is, this is absurd. I'm not even an actual agent any more, so it is ridiculous that I am even having to come sit here with you and, what is it you say? ' Unpack my trauma?' I've done enough unpacking and moving and packing up again over the last year to last me a lifetime. Frankly I'm rather sick of it."
"You did agree to come to these sessions as a precursor to your return as a consultant to the Task Force. You're here of your own free will. Does it feel as though you are being forced to come here?"
"I agreed to come here out of respect for Harold Cooper, so that he could feel assured that I am doing okay," Liz says.
"Your colleagues care deeply about you," he says.
Liz thinks about her arms sliding around Samar's body in the shower. She thinks about Samar clinging to her as they kiss. She thinks about the night in the motel when Samar came to help her recover from her night terror. She thinks of Samar's worried face in the ladies' room of the museum when she saw Liz's piece tucked neatly into her pants.
"You have no idea," she whispers.
"Why don't you help me understand."
"Understand what, exactly?"
The therapist sits silently and still. He looks at Liz from behind his glasses.
Liz crosses and then uncrosses her legs. "I don't really know what you want me to say."
"Why don't you start with whatever it is that is making you happy this week. If in fact you are smiling because you are happy?"
"Well, isn't that why people usually smile?" Liz rather snorts the question at the man sitting before her in the loafers and cardigan. He looks like the quintessential shrink. She stifles a snicker as she wonders if the psychology program he attended had a class on what to wear to work when you are a shrink. "I'm smiling because I feel happy. Sure. Is that so wrong?"
"Of course it isn't wrong, Ms. Keen. It is a nice thing that after so much heartache you are feeling happy. I just wonder why. Why the sudden change of heart."
Liz considers this phrase, and then repeats it. "A change of heart," she says softly. She thinks of Samar. She thinks of how they held each other that morning, before Samar left for the Post Office. She thinks of how Samar kissed her, long and deep, how they had pressed their foreheads together for a moment before parting, almost as though they were attempting to sync their thoughts with one another. She thinks of how she whispered "Be safe and hurry home," against Samar's lips, how she felt quite certain she wanted to speak every word for the rest of her life against Samar's skin. She thinks of how Samar picked up her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist, biting her ever so slightly, before she turned and walked out the door, only letting Liz's hand go when it was absolutely no longer possible to hold on to her. She thinks of the hours and days they have spent with one another over the past month, growing close, falling in love.
She thinks of all of this and gets tangled up in the delight and thrill of the thoughts. She has to shake her head to bring herself back to the office with the man before her who is sitting oh-so-expectantly, and waiting for her reply. He reminds Liz of a dog who is sitting and waiting to be rewarded with a treat.
She will not treat him for his patience. Not today.
In no way does she want to share any of her happy thoughts with the bespectacled man sitting before her.
She's not ready.
She's not ready to crack the shell of the little habitat of safety and adoration that has grown around her and Samar. And she is not ready to disclose anything to anyone to put what they have in jeopardy.
Disclosing her relationship with Samar would most certainly put her return to work in jeopardy, and it might also threaten Samar's assignment with the Task Force. Agents "fraternizing" with consultants would be more than frowned upon. Although she has been assured by the therapist that she has confidentiality within the confines of his office, she knows better. She knows how this works. She knows he would have to disclose his concerns to Cooper, and there most certainly would be concerns.
She was a psychologist and an FBI agent, once upon a time, after all.
Liz frowns.
"Well," she begins. "I've been doing the meditation routines that you recommended. I think they are really helping. And I've been exercising more, since I got the okay from my doctor. I think it's all just starting to help me find my inner peace." She shrugs and looks up at him to see if she has passed the test.
He doesn't miss a beat. "That's wonderful to hear you have been working on your recovery so faithfully. Do you feel more ready to talk about Tom or the baby?" He's staring at her, watching her squirm. And then as though he is actually trying to add insult to injury, he adds, "Or do you feel ready to talk about Reddington?"
"I don't really think those things are very important to talk about anymore," Liz says, her voice steady and bordering on fierce. "I feel like I've just kind of moved past them."
"I don't believe that to be true. I don't believe that you believe it to be true either. Until you actually talk about the deaths of your fiance and your baby, I don't think you will truly be able to put the past in its place. I think it will continue to come back and haunt you."
Liz feels the color drain from her face. She looks down at her hands. She weaves her fingers into the strap of her pocketbook and clenches it, then begs her hands to settle down so the therapist will not see her involuntary stress response.
She wishes Samar were there. She swallows hard. She looks out the window.
"I think we have talked enough about Tom. And the baby." She searches for her smile. She thinks of Samar tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear and is able to look back up at the therapist.
"How are the flashbacks?" The therapist asks.
"I haven't had any in a couple weeks," Liz answers, and this part is true. Since she has been with Samar she has felt grounded, tethered to something good and kind and honest.
"And the night terrors?"
"I haven't had any of those either."
"This is good," he smiles. "How about your rage towards Raymond Reddington?"
Liz swallows hard again and tries not to shudder as she answers, " I think that is mostly dissipated as well."
"Really?"
"Really."
"What do you think has changed so dramatically in the past couple weeks?"
"Well, like I said, I've been doing the meditation," she lies, thinking of Samar's tongue sliding into her folds, thinking of Samar's fingers stroking her breasts, thinking of Samar's hips rocking against her body.
"I find that hard to believe," he says. "Just a couple weeks ago you were so enraged with Reddington you were having homicidal ideation. Feelings like that don't simply fade into oblivion with a couple weeks of meditation practice."
Liz looks out the window again. If only Samar were here. If only Samar were here, she could say it all. She could spill her guts out all over the cheap, imitation Persian rug right here in this office. If only she could say it against Samar's skin, whisper the words so that she felt her breath bounce back, warm and real against her own mouth.
"How are you feeling now, Ms. Keen?"
Liz scans her brain, wondering what words she can use to placate this man.
"I don't know," she answers, and surprises herself with her own honesty.
"My questions have made you uncomfortable in some way. Scared you? Made you angry, perhaps? So you have made yourself numb to avoid the discomfort. You're a psychologist, Ms. Keen. You know what this is. You are blocking the emotions, dissociating because they are too threatening for you. But I'm here to assure you that you are safe. This is a safe space to reflect on all of the difficulty."
"And if I don't want to reflect? What about that? What about if I just want to let it go and move on with my life?"
"These things can not truly be let go until they have been dealt with. By ignoring them or trying to walk away from them, you simply stuff them back down, suppress them, repress them. You are a wise enough psychologist yourself to know that these are defense mechanisms that do not work well over time."
"Wise enough?" She spits the words back out at him. "I graduated at the top of my fucking class! I was better than good enough or wise enough."
"Was?"
"I still am. I am perfectly capable of going back in the field today. I had a promising career as a profiler, one that I would very much like to get back to. One that was very successful and rewarding, until. . ."
"Until what?"
"You know until what."
"I do. Still, I think it is important for you to say it."
"Until Reddington," she growls. "There. I said his name. Happy?"
"This isn't about my feelings, or about me being happy. It is about you doing the work you need to do to heal. How do you feel?"
Liz clenches at the strap of her pocketbook. She's past caring what the shrink thinks about how she's presenting herself or how she's progressing. "How do I feel? Well, I guess I feel like that son of a bitch ruined my life."
"So you're angry?"
"I don't know," she says. "I thought I was angry. Sometimes I'm angry. But other times I'm just bored of it all. I'm tired of feeling sad, angry, hopeless, lost. I just want to feel something else for a little while. I want to forget that Reddington ever came into my life and made it unlivable, unrecognizable. I don't want to feel so confused. I want to feel happy or peaceful for a little while. Why can't I ever just have a good day? Why is it so impossible that I should just feel a little happy for a little while without having a professional poke and prod at me until I'm in pain again?"
"You've been through a lot," he offers. "It's understandable you would feel confused."
"Is it?" Liz's lips hitch up into a sardonic smile. "Is it understandable?"
"Of course."
"You know, it's funny."
"What is?"
"You don't actually understand at all. You don't understand any of it. You don't have a clue."
"Help me understand, then."
"That's just it. You'll never understand. No one will. No one will ever understand because I don't understand. I don't even know who I am, for fucks sake!" Liz pauses and takes a breath, shakes her head, exhales. "I lived my whole life thinking I knew stuff. Basic, boring everyday stuff, like where I was born, or what nationality I was. I had a hard luck story, an adoring adoptive father, a solid education. I had a husband. I had a shot at a normal, boring, bureaucratic career. I was just like anyone else. And then, he came along."
"Reddington?"
"Raymond fucking Reddington. Waltzed right into my life and turned it upside down, gave it a good shake like it was little more than a souvenir snow globe. You know what his first words were to me? He told me I was special, that he was going to make me famous. And as if that weren't insane enough, the truly crazy part was that I actually believed him! I spent the better part of a year believing he had my best interests at heart, that he was protecting me."
"You were on the run with him for quite a while. He protected you. You must have grown close. Perhaps you even found yourself caring for him? Those feelings must be complicated and difficult to comprehend. Would you like to talk about how you felt towards him?"
"At a certain point, sure, I suppose a part of me cared for him. And I suppose there is still a part of me that feels grateful he got me out of town after I shot the Attorney General."
"He saved your life on several occasions."
"Yeah. He did. He was the one who carried me into the hospital when I was bleeding out because of the baby. Did you know that? Of course you didn't. No one did. But I knew. I'd gone there to kill him for killing Tom, and almost ended up dying myself. How's that for irony?"
"Do you still want to kill him?"
"No. I don't. But I don't really feel ready to forgive and forget either. Everyone was always so curious about him, about us. They all wondered what his obsession with me was about. You want to know too, don't you. I can see it in your face, as you sit there, biting your lip, trying to steer me into talking about it without appearing overly eager or obvious. Well, you can relax because I'm not going to tell you. I'm not going to tell you if he was in love with me, or if we fucked while we were on the run, or if Agnes was really his baby. I'm not going to tell you how we were connected, or how I really felt about him. None of it matters. You know what he was doing? He was grooming me. Conning me into believing all those silly, little stories he told me. It was all a trick. A fancy slight of hand. And for what? I never got any answers. He took my father from me. He murdered Tom. He hid the truth from me. And now I'll never know. I'll never know who I am, or what I'm doing here. He took that from me. He didn't just take my family and my career. He took my identity!"
Liz stops here to catch her breath. The therapist's eyes seem wider, and his posture is impeccably square. He starts to open his mouth, but Liz speaks before he can.
"You want to know how I feel about all of that, right?" She says softly. "That's what you want to ask me right now. You want me to get in touch with my anger, own it, process it, let it all out, right? I get it. I do. I'm sure if I were sitting where you were sitting I would be urging my patient to do the exact same thing. But the thing is, in reality, when you are sitting in my seat, right here, it doesn't work that way."
Liz stands up. "Honestly, I feel pretty good. I walked in here feeling happy. And I am going to leave here feeling happy. Look at that! I think I made some real progress here today. And now I am done. You can put your day planner away, Doc, because I will not be booking another appointment. I'm done." She slings her pocket book over her shoulder and strides toward the door. "You can write to Harold and tell him whatever you want. Make your recommendations, such as they are. He'll give me my job back or he won't. I personally think he will. Either way, I will not be coming back here to talk to you anymore."
"I wish you the best of luck, Ms. Keen."
"Thanks, but I don't really need your luck."
As Liz leaves the office, she takes out her phone to call Samar and her smile returns.
