...

Another cold storm poured down that night. Thunder rumbled low and long, in menacing growls that were felt more than heard. There was little lightning to break up the hissing black downpour. Frost crept up the dark window panes on the outside of Mott Manor. The stately mansion stood sentry against the cold November rain. Its proud eaves were spiked with the jagged beginnings of icicles.

Inside, it was warm and snug. Gloria's bedroom was spacious, with a large fireplace where coals burned low and cast a red glow over the cream-colored furnishings. The lady of the house slept in the center of the king sized bed, a position she'd grown used to while sharing her bed with a husband and a needy little boy. She slept alone now in her lacy peignoir. She wore a white satin sleep mask. Her blonde hair was caught up in a frilly night cap.

It had taken time to adjust to being in the big house entirely alone, after Dandy was locked up. She still wasn't entirely at ease and slept fitfully despite the light-blocking mask. A shift in the air woke her that night: A noticeable drop in temperature accompanied by a cold, rain-scented breeze.

Something was wrong.

She sat up and plucked off the mask. She didn't have to search for the source of the disturbance. He stood between her bed and the fireplace, a dark and imposing silhouette.

Soaked and shivering from the freezing rain, Dandy was still wearing his fancy director's outfit though two days of wearing it over rough terrain in bad weather had ruined it. His clown makeup was mostly gone, and his dark hair was plastered to his head. The scars on his cheeks were impossible to ignore. The way he stared at her made Gloria's heart leap to her throat.

"Dandy!" she gasped around the lump.

The word brought him to life. "Mother."

He stalked to the end of the bed and dropped his hands on the polished wooden end. He had a big butcher knife in one hand. It clattered against the footboard. Even in the dark she could still see the intense way he stared. She could feel it, too. It was a predator's gaze.

She fought the urge to cower. She didn't want him to feel rejected, for fear that it might incite him to use the knife. Thunder rumbled outside and a gust of wind lifted the sheer curtains, showing the wide open French door that led to the veranda, through which Dandy had entered. Gloria never locked it; she'd never had reason to before, naively thinking herself safe in her grand estate.

"Dandy," she repeated, flailing for something to say. "You're home!"

He smiled but the sinister look didn't leave his dark eyes. "Yes, Mother. I'm home." His fingers flexed on the knife handle. "You did a bad thing, Mother. A very bad thing."

Gloria's hand crept up to her throat. "Dandy...!"

He straightened suddenly and paced around to the side of the bed. "But!" He pointed the large knife at her, not like a weapon, but like a showman's baton. "I forgive you."

She blinked furiously to stave off tears of confusion and fear. "You do?"

He smiled and even with the grime and scars he looked beautiful to her. Like an angel, in the Biblical sense: Amazing and terrifying.

"I do, Mother," he said imperiously. "That is, I will. But you have to do something for me first. You don't just get forgiveness. You have to earn it."

Gloria feigned a smile. "Of course, sweetheart. Whatever you want."

Dandy smiled back at her. It was a wickedly cunning smile. "I want you to buy Briarcliff for me."

...

Tate could barely contain his excitement as he carried his package over to Dr. Thredson's couch. The box was already open, of course, as it had been searched by the mail room staff. But the inspected contents were all his.

"It's from your mother," the doctor said. It was a needless clarification since Tate had no other living relatives to send him anything.

The teen pulled an old tan sweater from the box first and shook it out to its full length. Unfolded, it was even uglier. Wrinkled, outdated. Thredson had no appreciation for the garment. His patient's attachment to it was interesting to him, though. The boy looked like he was getting a much-wanted Christmas present. He even gave the old thing a hug before setting it aside so he could inspect the rest of the contents.

"My mom's a real bitch, but she sometimes really knocks one out of the park," he said blithely as he sifted through some more clothes. All familiar items that smelled like home. He hadn't realized how much he missed that smell until just then. "When do you think I can see her?"

Oliver thought about Constance and how she was presently bound to the bed in his basement. "Do you think you're ready to see her?"

Tate looked up from inspecting a brand new spiral notebook in the box. He hadn't really thought about what he would say if he did see his mother. Or what she might say. Thinking about it now killed his joy. She wouldn't hit him. Not where so many people could see. But he didn't think she would be nice. He tried to remember the last time he saw her but the tangle of memories that flooded in confused him. Memories of the clock tower. He frowned and looked back down into the box.

"No," he admitted in a grumpy way. His good mood was spoiled by stupid reality. "I guess not." He looked over at the doctor again, lower lip pooching out in a slight pout. "Is she mad at me?"

The therapist smiled reassuringly. "I don't think she would have sent a care package if she was." The care package was actually something Thredson had assembled from things he'd taken from Tate's bedroom during the break-in. The white lie hardly mattered compared to the bigger picture. "I've spent some time with your mother. She's a troubled person, Tate, but she loves you."

The teen chewed on the cuticle of his left thumb, disturbed. The medication was making him think too slow for his liking but the fact that the doctor had acknowledged Constance was crazy gave him pause. Tate had never heard anyone but himself say that.

The doctor also said Constance loved her son. Tate didn't want to believe that. Deep-down, though, he knew that in her own warped way she did love him. He'd never understood her love or why it was so demanding. Why he had to be this way or do that thing in order to keep her love. Or why her love came with so much pain and fear attached to it.

"What are you thinking, Tate?" Dr. Thredson prompted gently.

The words poked a hole in Tate's defenses. His eyes got all watery and his nose burned with the sudden rush of emotion. "I was just wondering why love has to hurt."

He tried to laugh but that just made a fat tear fall out of his eye. That broke the dam, freeing the rest. It was a silent, emotionless cry. He didn't bother to wipe away the tears either. He just let them drip off his jaw and dry in cool tracks over his cheeks.

"Love shouldn't hurt. It's a complicated thing, though, and some people never latch onto how to show it in a healthy way." The doctor gave him a moment to collect himself. Then: "What do you know about your grandparents?"

Tate sniffled wetly. "I d'know." Then he thought about it. "Mama said she was from Virginia... but her parents died before she got married." He thought more and frowned. "I don't know about my dad's side. She never told me."

"People tend to be products of their environment," said Thredson. He lit a cigarette and offered it to his patient. "It would make sense that she would have learned her parental skills from her own parents. Most parents try to do better than what they had, in fact; even people from homes the rest of us would consider 'perfect'."

Tate took the cigarette and sucked on it. "What're your parents like, Doctor Thredson?"

Oliver hesitated. "Let's stay on topic."

"That is on topic," the teen debated. "We're talking about parents and how people are products of parenting. You had parents, right?"

Thredson's expression went flat. "No."

Tate's eyes rounded and he had the grace to look sheepish. "Oh. Shit. Wow. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"It's all right," the doctor said, quickly reassembling his professional demeanor. "It's not a subject I'm opposed to discussing, but this isn't the time or place for it. If you're done looking through your care package there is something else I would like to talk to you about."

Glad to have a way out of that unfortunate subject, Tate perked up and set the box aside. "Yeah. Sure. What is it?" He was hoping for permission to go to the library. He didn't dare say it aloud because that would make it not come true.

"Have you heard of patient assistants?"

Tate suffered a mild moment of letdown when the library wasn't mentioned then his curiosity piqued again. "Yeah. Why?"

Thredson smiled and lit a cigarette for himself. He pushed the ashtray closer to the center of the small end table so they could both reach it. "I'd like you to start working as my assistant. I have an enormous amount of clerical work to do, and I don't have time for it. You'd be paid three cents an hour, the same as the bakery."

The money didn't matter to Tate since it wasn't like he was going to spend it in Briarcliff. He was interested in the freedom. "Clerical work? I'd have to do religious stuff?"

"Paperwork," Thredson corrected. "Filing, mostly. Copy work. Dictation."

"Dictation," repeated Tate, emphasizing the 'dick' part with a snicker.

The doctor fixed him with a look. "Do you want the job? Or do you want to make dirty jokes?"

Tate wanted to petition for both, but he could tell Dr. Thredson was not in the mood to play around. He usually wasn't. The guy seemed even more serious than normal that day, though. Not wanting the chance to slip by, he decided to behave. "Yeah, I want the job. Of course, I do."

"Wonderful," said the doctor with a smile. "You'll start Wednesday. Instead of going to the bakery, you'll be brought here."

Again, stupid reality reared up. If he weren't working in the bakery, Tate would see Violet less. "Can't I do both jobs?"

"No," said Dr. Thredson peevishly.

Tate recognized the tone and made a face. He didn't want to make the doctor mad, but he also didn't want to give up time with his girlfriend. He was too high to figure out how to get what he wanted, though. That being the case, he settled for smoothing the doc's ruffled feathers.

"That's cool," he said dismissively. "No big deal."

The backpedaling worked: Dr. Thredson nodded and made some notes. "Wednesday, then," he reiterated. Then he checked his watch. "Session's almost over but there's still time for self therapy, if you wish."

Tate chewed his lip and had to think about that question too. Thinking was taking way too much effort. He wanted to leave assured that he was on the doctor's good side, and it didn't feel like he was. He knew the right response would help. "Yeah. Sounds good."

...

Author's Note:

Dr. Thredson's got one heckuva poker face, except where it comes to that sweater. I think a little Chad slipped out there.

I originally had planned to have Chad in this Season, not Thredson. I even wrote a preliminary scene introducing him as a patient of Ben's. I'm not quite sure when I switched gears but Thredson had a bigger story to tell, so he won out. Constance/Sister Jude is the only character who has a doppleganger in the story.

Next chapter: Briarcliff catches some of the escapees and she's not kind to her wayward children on their return. Find out who's been caught next time.