CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

XXX

"Hello, Jack," warm brown eyes crinkled as the psychiatrist smiled up at him. "Feel free to take a seat and get comfortable. Our intake sessions usually take about an hour, hour and a half, depending on your needs."

The young man felt weird, being in this office, alone, taking a seat while someone spoke to him like they had been best friends for years. But, to keep his mother happy, he obliged, trying to not let on to his awkwardness as he sunk into the soft cushion. Given this psychiatrist was in a town about an hour and a half away from Jasper, Jack could say with certainty he had never met this man in his life - yet he was nothing short of open with the young man in both verbal and non-verbal language.

"So, your mother informed me you were concerned about a recent incident that sent you to the hospital," he continued, "an acute stress reaction, which she then said caused the both of you to worry about PTSD."

"It's not-" Jack sighed, certain the shrink was expecting this. "I'm pretty sure it's not PTSD. I've just had some . . . stresses going on in my life that just kind of all compounded into one big fiasco."

A nod, gentle yet somehow almost condescending at the same time. "What kind of stressors?"

There was a moment of hesitation, because Jack was not stupid. Therapy had started the second he opened his mouth, and everything he said was going to be used, somehow, to get to the "root" of his problem; something he definitely could not tell this guy about. While talking about how he felt paranoid and unsafe would certainly call for a possible investigation, beginning to rant about giant robots and how he had been courting one would most certainly send him to a mental hospital. Though at this point, being admitted into a crazy house would probably be a welcome relief, as he already felt insane.

"School, work, the usual," he said, trying to remain as vague as possible, drawing out the session time.

"What's going on in school?" The psychiatrist tilted his head, looking briefly at the clipboard which he held in his hand. "You're turning seventeen very soon; you must be a junior in high school? Senior?"

"Junior," he would give him that, "homework and projects have been piling up, but it's not something I haven't handled before. I think it's just me worrying about keeping my grades up for when I eventually apply for college."

"And you work outside of school?"

"Yes," he was hesitant, yet continued. "But I only work about twenty hours a week, max. So I have plenty of time to get things done."

"You sound very confident in yourself," he was not sure if that was supposed to be a compliment as the psychiatrist continued, "now, post-traumatic stress is typically caused by, well, something traumatic. An event which leaves an impression on us, or times of extreme stress which push us towards our snapping point. Would you say this stress between school, work, and the other 'usual' stuff is the catalyst of your acute stress reaction? Or perhaps only the explosive elements set off by a separate catalyst?"

Jack chewed his lip. He could lie, obviously, and insist everything was just getting to him, but that would be much harder than just telling some of the truth. Surely if there was just one obvious problem they could get to the bottom of as quickly as possible, then the shrink would be more than comfortable to let him just sort stuff out on his own.

"I'd say . . . there's a separate catalyst," he said, continuing on before the psychiatrist could ask his next question, "a, um, friend of mine was . . . in a bad place. We hadn't heard from him in a long time, and I thought something had happened to him. He turned out to be okay, but I can't stop thinking about the 'what ifs' - what if something had happened? What if I could have done something differently, but didn't?"

"This bad place, if I may ask," came the probe, "is it a literal, physical place, or a mental state? Or perhaps both? Neither?"

"Um, I'd say more physical than mental, but a bit of both," Jack supplied helpfully.

Yeah, being on the Decepticon warship is a really bad place.

Another nod, a thoughtful expression, yet Jack had the distinct impression part of this was scripted.

"Is your friend doing better?"

"Yes."

"And yet you still focus on the past, the many different outcomes which could have come to fruition, though they did not," though the words themselves could have been taken as accusatory, it sounded like the psychiatrist was just stating facts, recounting what he had been told in a much more elegant fashion, "What kind of thoughts run through your head as these 'what ifs' come up?"

There was more hesitation, though it was because Jack did not know how to honestly answer the question, deciding it was best if he went the route he was certain the man wanted him to take.

"My own personal failures. How I couldn't help him more," he said slowly, carefully working around the subject matter. At the thought of the Autobots finding out about the route he had chosen he cringed; Optimus could most certainly misread what this was about, believing he was the whole reason behind Jack's mental breakdown. The young man felt a little guilty at the thought.

"And this stress became the apex of your anxieties," came the conclusion, though Jack felt it to be false. "Do you have a history of anxiety? Family history?"

"Um . . . family history. Not personal history," Jack at least knew how to talk about that, given his mother's background in medicine. "And depression. Maternal side."

Dark eyes assessed him for a moment, taking in his answers and deciding how to move on in the questioning. Jack squirmed a little, glancing at the clock and holy scrap it's only been ten minutes?!

"Tell me about your reaction, more in depth," the psychiatrist back-tracked just a touch. "What happened?"

Jack took a moment to think. "Er, it was shortly after my . . . uh, friend got better. I just felt . . . sick. Ill, you know, like someone had punched me a hundred times in the stomach. I threw up first, and that really freaked my mom out, which I think is what scared me. Then . . . I just couldn't sleep. I was up pacing all night, trying to wear myself out, but my mind was racing a thousand miles a minute. I shook, a lot. I . . . I just felt like something bad was going to happen, but I couldn't figure it out."

He was not sure what else to tell the psychiatrist, or how much he wanted, trying to downplay it just a touch on the off chance his symptoms were a bit more severe than he anticipated. When silence persisted in his pause, he continued.

"I didn't sleep more than two hours that night. Eventually I was tired enough to go to bed, but then my alarm rang and I had school. I ignored it . . . and when my mom tried to get me up we had a bit of an argument. I stood up, then I passed out. Orthostatic hypotension."

"Is that what happened here?" The psychiatrist tapped on his own head, indicating towards the bandage placed on Jack's forehead.

The young man nodded. "Yeah. Hit my head on the side of a dresser."

"Ouch," that sounded sincere, "anything else?"

Jack could not help himself as he fidgeted with a stray string on his shirt. "I just . . . I haven't slept well since then. I still feel on edge, some kind of sense of doom. I've been anxious."

"About your friend?"

"Yes."

The psychiatrist sat back, nodding thoughtfully. "I see. Well, I must agree with your physician on this; what you have described fits many symptoms for an acute stress reaction. Will it evolve into PTSD? Truthfully, only time will tell, but we can always continue therapy to prevent such an outcome."

Jack bit back his protest. I don't need therapy. "I . . . I think this was just a one-time thing," he said, trying to sound confident. "My friend . . . he's in a better place now."

When the shrink tilted his head, Jack realized how bad that sounded.

"Jack, your friend," he said slowly, cautiously, "is he still alive?"

"Yes, yes! Of course," Jack laughed nervously. "Yeah. I realize how bad that must have sounded . . . but he's alive. And doing well. Really well."

"I'm glad to hear that," how someone could sound both genuine and insincere at the same time was bizarre.

"I guess, now, I'm just trying to figure out why instead of feeling relieved, I feel scared," Jack tried to continue the conversation as awkward silence fell, earning a small blink from his therapist.

"We find, Jack, that in times of stress, our focus is solely on the next step ahead," the psychiatrist offered, "so, when we have time to relax, the psychological and physical ramifications catch up to us. That is further compounded by our inner confusion, perhaps what you are feeling now: I should be better, so why am I not better?"

"I . . . I guess. But the stress is now."

Another tilt of the head. "Now? I suppose I'm confused; you told me you have been stressed for some time."

Jack paused, finding he had leaned his elbows on his knees and was hunched forward. A part of him felt as if he had messed up, letting on to more than what he had originally planned. Talking about Optimus' return from Orion Pax seemed the easiest route to go - but it was not the true reason he was here. It felt like he was just continuing to lie, and lie, the deception building up to intolerable levels. He did not freak out because he worried about Optimus, but because he worried about himself, his mom, and their safety. Safety from a mech who he knew could not trust to not raise a hand against him, no matter how much he promised otherwise.

"Is there more to this story?" The prodding question asked tentatively.

His stomach twisted. June had assured her son he would be given full confidentiality in the psychiatrist's room; she wanted him to be able to talk to someone, even if it was not her. As much as that hurt her, he realized it was partially about his mother acknowledging he was growing up. She wanted him to get better, and not shrink away because he felt she was breathing down his neck.

Besides, she knew what it was like to be in therapy. This was not a new setting for her.

He took a deep breath.

"I'm in a relationship," he said, and the sound of it just coming off his tongue made his next words catch against his throat. "Or, I was. And I don't know if you could even call it that. I didn't."

"What did you call it?"

"Nothing," he shook his head. "I'm sure it sounds weird . . . we were together, but not . . . really. It's hard to explain."

"That is alright," the psychiatrist assured him, "do the best you can. Describe this to me."

There was a long stretch of silence as Jack tried to do exactly that. How would he describe it? How could he possibly encapsulate everything that was Megatron into enough words for the shrink to understand, and not realize Jack was sharing a bed with an alien robot? An alien robot who tried to take over his own home-world, then came to Earth to do the same, no less?

Additionally, how could he describe Megatron in a way that did not make him look like an utter psychopath?

Maybe that was his problem, Jack realized with a bleeding heart. He was trying to make it work with someone who was only doing this for his own personal gain. Jack's feelings were not involved, nor taken into account. He was merely a means to an end - a body which served to inhabit the satisfaction of Megatron's own desires. It would explain how he was abandoned so easily: once he clearly indicated he was loyal purely to the Autobots, the Decepticon leader cut his own losses.

His eyes stung at the thought; he was nothing more than a warm body for him to touch.

"Nobody knows about it," he said, deciding that was the best place to start, "except you, now. But I wanted to keep it a secret because . . . no one I know would approve. They wouldn't be angry with me, I think. Just . . . freak out a little bit. A lot." His throat caught, yet he refused to cry, or to let on to his own distress.

Throughout his explanation he received a few nods and soft noises of understanding, Jack realizing the psychiatrist probably saw where this was going - and anticipated it to be a gold mine. It would be yet another vein that he could use to understand the "trauma" and "problems" behind Jack's psyche. Though a misdirection, Jack tried to see how he could use this to his advantage, gritting his teeth as the thought of lying for his own gain made him sick. When would the deception end?

"Would you be willing to share the reasons behind keeping it a secret?"

He's Megatron. That's really the only explanation anybody needs.

"He's . . ." Jack stopped himself, almost saying he's significantly older than me, because that opened up more cans of worms than he was willing to divulge even to a therapist, alien robot or not, "well, a he."

Those warm brown eyes lit up just a touch, Jack having guessed correctly that the therapist would be interested in such a thing. When nothing was said to him, Jack continued, floundering for something else to add a bit more spice to the already simmering pot of tangled issues.

"And, um . . . he's, well, not what you'd exactly call a good guy," he decided, finding immense irony in the words - though calling him a bad guy was a gross understatement.

More nodding, the therapist finally asking another question once the silence became almost unbearably awkward. "You referred to this relationship in the past tense. What happened?"

Jack grimaced, feeling his insides tighten up just thinking about it. "I . . . it was my fault."

When it seemed like he was not going to share any more, his psychiatrist gently urged him. "Go on. Tell me as much of the story as you are willing."

Swallowing, Jack was unsure if he could tell him. Not because he struggled to find a roundabout way to explain it - that was becoming easier and easier as the session continued - but the painfulness of the reminder was borderline overwhelming. Not to mention he did not want the man to call the police, for his mom to find out and start asking questions. The psychiatrist knowing this bare minimum was bad enough. If June - the Autobots - found out . . .

Jack suppressed the urge to squeeze his eyes shut, to lash out and try to end the session.

I betrayed him.

Saying it out loud would make it true, and Jack was not sure if he was ready for that. Yet what else was he supposed to say?

"I broke his trust," he said finally, though that statement did not seem to fit much better. If anything, it squeezed his chest tighter. "I broke it right as we started to become real. I- I was reluctant to enter the . . . relationship at first because of what it was, but once we really started being together . . . I ruined it. And now I'm scared of what is going to happen next."

"Are you scared of him? Do you believe he is going to hurt you?"

Yes.

"No," fingers fidgeted, liar. "Not really. I'm just scared about what will happen if this all really does come falling down."

"What aspects of that scare you?"

His eyes closed. "I didn't think I was going to catch feelings," he said, feeling as if he was talking more to himself than the shrink in the other chair. "And when I did, I thought I would care. I tried to stay objective about this because it was an experiment, nothing more. But when it became more than that . . ."

"You now struggle with the emotional turmoil," the therapist suggested, "because things didn't turn out how you expected."

Jack nodded. "Something like that, yeah."

Another moment of silence, then the question came, its lance spearing through Jack like a kebab.

"Do you struggle with your sexuality?"

His spine stiffened without his permission, Jack not answering as he considered the question.

This had never really been about Jack's sexual preference - yes, it was one of the original reasons why he had readily rejected Megatron; but the more primary factor was he would rather be in a relationship with a human. Not to mention, of course, Megatron was the leader of Decepticons, which in itself was reason numero uno as to why he originally said no. More than anything, though, Jack had always found himself attracted to the opposite sex, with Sierra being his latest crush. Other guys, well, he had never really given a second thought, and having grown up in a single-mother household, he had very little exposure to the whole significant other part of life. June Darby only attempted to date a few times while he was growing up, however in the end she decided the single life was better suited for her. As a result, Jack merely assumed the default, finding no issue in it either way regardless.

Even after he realized he was . . . becoming involved, Jack never paused to consider what it meant for his identity. He was far too busy worrying about getting caught and Arcee breathing down his neck to really think about it. And now, with the question presented to him, he did not know how to process his feelings.

"I . . . I don't think so," he scratched the back of his head, truly unsure of how to answer the question. "I've never really given it much thought, or had any reason to . . . label it. But I guess that's why - or one of the reasons why - I can't name our thing. It's complicated. It was complicated."

"You're not sure if it is in the past or not," the psychiatrist pointed out.

Teeth bit into his lip. "I'm not sure if it's over," he sighed, "because we've never officially broken things off. But . . . he doesn't take stuff like this lightly. I . . . betrayed him."

Saying it out loud made him feel sick. It was true, however it was far more complicated than Jack could ever hope to share. He had to save Optimus for the sake of his planet, to protect it from the very mech he had begun falling in love with.

"He's not a good person," Jack said aloud again, "and he's . . . he's hurt my friends before. Both intentionally and by accident. And yet-"

He stopped, holding his head in his hands.

I got feelings.

"Has he hurt you?"

"No," not in the way you're thinking, Jack thought, thinking of the ring of fading scars on his shoulder, "and I don't think he will. It's hard to explain."

"I can imagine," the psychiatrist readjusted in his seat. "Jack, we are closing in on our time here, with about fifteen minutes left. Is there anything else you wish to share with me for the time being?"

A beat, two, as Jack thought. "I . . . I don't think so." I don't want to.

Nodding, the man glanced at his clipboard, then returned his gaze to his client. "It seems your reaction has been a direct result of two very important, drastic changes in your life: the loss of a significant other, and the gaining of a friend you once thought was lost. You mentioned you have had difficulty sleeping and still feel very anxious, which is concerning and may set a precedent for more severe symptoms. I think, with these things, it would be best if you and I saw each other again for another session."

Jack's heart sank, because that was not what he wanted to hear. He wanted to hear that there was nothing to worry about - what he felt was normal.

Though, to be honest, he knew he was lying when he told himself he felt fine. The feelings he had, before and now, were definitely not "normal."

"-I would also like to get to know you better before prescribing any kind of medication," the psychiatrist continued, "since this is such a recent onset, only a few days of symptoms, I am reluctant to jump the gun. Medicine in general is not my first go-to, however insomnia is always a concerning symptom; within a few weeks I think we will both be able to decide if you need anything for it, or if therapy alone will be enough."

Jack just listened, not like the direction this was going at all.

"Do you have any questions?"

"Hm? Oh, no," he said hurriedly, sighing. "Thanks. For, uh, listening."

"Of course," that earned him a smile. "Thank you for being forthcoming with information, Jack. It means you want yourself to get better just as much as I do. Do you mind if I share our plan with your mother?"

He paused, phrasing his words carefully. "Just the plan, yeah."

"Only the plan," the psychiatrist confirmed, offering him a hand. "It was a pleasure working with you today, Jack."

"Y-yeah. Thanks again." He shook the hand, cringing as it felt like he had just agreed to some kind of deal.

Ironic.

June seemed pleased with the outcome of the therapy, though their drive home was done in silence. Jack half expected a grilling on what was said in the room, but instead she just left him to his thoughts, the young man gazing out of the window at the desert landscape.

Talking with the therapist did not seem to really help in terms of finding a solution, but it did allow him to organize his thoughts. It helped him step back and realize what this all was.

Somewhere down the line he began making excuses for Megatron when he shouldn't have, ignoring the fact he was a mass murderer in favor of enjoying his presence.

Jack still couldn't shake the feeling of Megatron's lips on him, his possessive touches. He acknowledged that was likely part of the problem - he assumed his body and mind were two different entities, things he could keep separate. But the reality was they influenced one another; though Jack had no mental desire to be with the tyrant, his body reacted to the gentle strokes as it was designed to. In doing so, it subtly influenced his mind.

The vice versa, he believed, would have also happened had his body rejected the idea of being with a Cybertronian yet his mind desperately wanted to.

He bit his tongue, feeling sharp pain yet not tasting blood. It sounded like he was trying to make excuses, which was far from the truth. Jack did not seek out to justify what had happened, but rather make sense of it . . . Still, he struggled.

Part of his cognitive dissonance likely came from the fact that Megatron had never hurt him, yet Jack feared he would. If the Decepticon laid a hand on him, it would cross a line; and he was unsure if he was ready to face the reality of such an action, because, he realized, it would shatter this image of Megatron he had in his mind. One which truly loved him - in a way the real one never could.

"We're almost home," June pulled him from his thoughts gently. "I know you've been quiet, but is there anything you want to tell me, Jack? Anything you want me to know before we move forward with this?"

This. Therapy. Actual, psychological therapy for something that could not be fixed.

He paused, eyes never meeting his mother but instead moving from looking out the side window to the windshield.

"I . . . No," he said, despite the guilt weighing in his heart. "I'm okay Mom, I promise."

He felt her eyes on him briefly before returning to the road.

"Alright. I love you, Jack."

"I love you too, Mom," he replied, unable to help but smile just a little, grateful for her.

I'm going to be okay.

I have to believe that.

XXX

Hey guys, Fanfic here.

It's been an exact month since I've updated, and I want to apologize. COVID-19 numbers have been ramping up, and on top of that I have realized I need to go back to school to take classes which will fulfill prerequisite for a program I want to apply to. This year has been rather rough on me in terms of current events and things going on in my personal life, and that just happens to be climaxing at a time when I really wish I could be updating more frequently (with the holidays and all rapidly approaching). So, I apologize in advance for that, and I really can't give an optimistic "hope I'll be able to update more in the future!" because I'm not sure what the future holds.

Also, this is a heads-up for the next . . . few chapters at least: these will be more-or-less "filler" chapters that stay strictly in the Jack limited 3rd person POV setting. While many of you may be itching to see more Megatron (and his interactions with our poor Jack), that won't happen for a little bit longer. I'm sorry if this kills you, but I did warn this was going to be a slow-burn, LOL. We've gone through the first act of this love story, which is exploration and the first potential crossing of a major line. I never intended for this to be a sappy love story in which two "enemies" (loosely-based, because while they aren't true enemies like Optimus and Megatron are, they're not friends either) just have mutual love at first site. This is an obsession that has to turn into realistic expectations, and reluctance which has to turn into comfortable acceptance. I am mostly focused on the latter through Jack's limited POV, and the toll it takes on his mental health to fear something/someone he thought he was in love with. I wanted to mention this because as I read through the comments, I got the general energy vibe that you guys were buzzing for more Megatron, and I felt like it was a slight failure on my part to indicate that things are going to slow down for a little bit - it's only a few more chapters, I promise, however I believe this route is necessary for the story I want to tell. As always, I am super grateful for all of your feedback, and am more than happy to read your thoughts on all of this.

Lastly, I just wanted to make mention that this chapter was based off of a Clinical Psychology class I took, and the methods we learned on how to conduct an initial/intake interview for new patients. I actually had to conduct my own mock therapy session with a fellow student, and though it was extremely nerve-wracking, I had a bit of fun. I thought it would be great to reflect this in my own work, except this time writing from the patient's perspective - a reluctant patient, no less. Most people do come to therapists for help and are not as cynical, but Jack was all but pushed into the room by his mother, so he's a bit bitter about the situation. I could go on and on about this stuff, so I'll cut it short here before I write a whole essay on the matter LOL.

Thank you guys once again for your understanding, and your feedback. I'll update when I can, in the meantime I just ask you be patient with me. Stay safe, and stay healthy, especially my fellow US friends/followers as we go through this second COVID-19 wave.

-Fanfic_Fanfic13