A/N: In this chapter, Jon is finally meeting his new therapist. And yes, it is someone that has a pre-existing relationship with his family (something that will be addressed next chapter (I was going to address it this chapter, but I had to move it to chapter 3 for pacing reasons).
Jon is definitively in a sour mood this chapter, and is a bit of an unreliable narrator so please don't think I am villainizing Lois or Clark. Remember, he does not want to be in therapy.
Jon had gone to Jordan's therapy appointment with him once. It was after they had a fight about something stupid—a real vicious one that had turned violent, fists and all. Jon couldn't even remember what the fight was about anymore. What he did remember was the office.
The waiting room had dim lights and a noise machine that played sounds of the rainforest. The chairs had been soft, but not so much that you sunk into them. And the room had smelled like flowers. Lavender, the therapist had called it.
Jordan's therapist was young. She had a nose ring and wore loose-fitting clothes. She'd spoken in calming tones, so unlike Mom's fast, harsh ones.
She had called Jon and Jordan into her office in the back. It was much like the waiting room. Same lights, same scent. It had a large couch, just as soft as the chairs in the lobby. Jon had sat at one end, Jordan at the other.
Jon remembered how he hated having to talk to some stranger about some stupid fight he was having with his brother. But the room? The room wasn't so bad.
After they returned home, Jon later noticed Jordan had a lavender Glade PlugIn in his bedroom. Jon teased him about it, but he also always made sure to refill it whenever it ran out. Jordan always forgot, and Jon secretly liked the scent too—not that he'd ever admit that to Jordan.
Dr. Wiles's office was nothing like that room.
It was located on the same campus as the DOD headquarters, but in a smaller building than the main structure where Grandpa worked. They still had to go through a bunch of checkpoints where Mom and Dad had to show their licenses just to be let into the building, though. It seemed like a lot just for a therapy appointment.
The waiting room was more like what you'd expect from a typical doctor's office. There was no noise machine. The lights were fluorescent. The room smelled of antiseptic.
This was not a relaxing room.
Dad took a seat by the reception window while Mom checked Jon in. The room was empty other than them, so Jon opted for a seat as far away from his parents as he could get. He took note of the pointed look Dad gave him, and he didn't care. They were forcing him to do this, but that didn't mean he had to pretend to like it.
When Mom turned around and noticed where Jon had sat, she gave him an exaggerated sigh, then joined him across the room.
"Am I being too subtle?" Jon asked.
"I'm going to chalk that attitude up to nerves," Mom said. She had two clipboards in her hands and gave one to him. "They want you to fill this out."
Jon stared blankly at her, not even bothering to look at the clipboard. "Isn't that your job? I'm fifteen. You're the parent."
Mom waved her own clipboard in front of his face. "I've got the consent forms. Insurance. All that fun stuff." She placed her clipboard down in her lap and flipped through his, showing it to him. "Yours is an intake form," she explained. "Dr. Wiles wants to know about your symptoms, from your point of view."
"I don't have any symptoms," Jon said. "I told you, this therapy thing is a waste of time."
Mom flipped to a page that said Substance Abuse and Jon's face went flush. That was a low blow, even if it was literally the reason he was here.
She continued to flip through the pages and then pulled out one that said Family History. "I can do this one," she said.
"Why bother? You're making me do everything else."
Mom added the paper to her own clipboard. "Don't worry about it, you've got enough to fill out."
"I mean, it's just Jordan's anxiety, right?"
"Jonathan, I said I got it," Mom snapped.
Jon leaned back in his chair and grumbled. First she dragged him out here, then she forced him to fill out stupid paperwork, and now she was yelling at him for trying to do the damn form. What did she want from him?
He took his clipboard and angled it away from her.
The top of the page had pretty basic questions. Name, date of birth, and other basic identifiers. It was easy enough to fill out. It was right below that where he got stuck.
What goals do you have for therapy?
Jon stared at the question. Goals? There were no goals. He shouldn't even be here.
He wrote, None, and moved to the next question.
How do you deal with stress?
Jon bit the pen as he pondered, fully aware of what Dr. Wiles was really asking. But he was not about to divulge the inner workings of his mind to a freaking form.
He wrote, Pretty well, and smiled at himself for his brilliance.
What do you consider to be your strengths?
Leg day.
What are some areas that you would like to improve?
I broke my throwing arm twice last year and it's still a little weak.
"How you doing?" Mom asked.
Jon nearly jumped out of his seat. She knew, didn't she? She knew he wasn't taking it seriously and she was going to make him start it all over again. But instead of annoyance, Mom just looked concerned.
"Fine," Jon mumbled.
"Good. I'm here if you need me."
Mom went back to her own forms so Jon went back to his. He increased the angle a little more, though.
The next page was just a bunch of checkboxes about his symptoms. It was like Dr. Wiles was trying to drive him insane. Maybe that was a part of her strategy. Make him go crazy filling out forms and then she'd have a patient she could bill insurance for life.
Check off any symptoms you have had in the past month.
Jon scanned the list without paying too much attention, but a couple of things did stick out.
Loss of interest in previously enjoyed activities.
Did football count? Or was that different because there was a logical explanation for his sudden distaste for it?
It probably didn't count.
He moved on.
Frequent feelings of worthlessness.
He felt a twist in his gut as he read the words. Yeah, that was how he felt. But anyone would feel pretty worthless after getting kicked out of school, getting the football program shut down for their entire town, and disappointing their family. It didn't really mean anything.
He kept scanning over the other symptoms.
Frequent feelings of hopelessness.
Frequent feelings of guilt.
Thoughts that people would be better off without you around.
His chest tightened as he read each of the symptoms. Symptoms that he had felt daily since he got caught with the X-K… since he started taking it in the first place, really.
It didn't mean anything. It couldn't. There wasn't anything actually wrong with him. Anyone would feel like that if they had done what he did.
He had known how stupid it had been to take those drugs. And now life as he knew it was over. The town hated him. His parents were disappointed in him. Even Jordan didn't look at him the same way. Like he didn't trust him anymore. Like Jordan thought he had to watch out for the family screw-up.
Jon knew he had made everyone's lives worse. But it didn't mean anything. It was just the way things were. Acknowledging reality didn't mean there was something wrong with him. How could these be symptoms?
His hand hovered over the checkboxes. This form was biased. No wonder there was a mental health epidemic in this country if these were the kinds of questions they asked people. After all, didn't everyone feel like that some of the time? No, he couldn't check any of those boxes. Dr. Wiles would just use it as an excuse to call him crazy. To label him and put him on pills. But there wasn't anything wrong. There was a perfectly logical explanation for all of his feelings and he wasn't going to feed her psychobabble nonsense.
Jon left the entire page blank and flipped to the next one just as Mom stood and returned to reception. He glared at her. How was she already done? She had way more pages than him. It probably helped that she was just signing away her kid's rights, not deliberating over what information would be used against him.
Dad took the opportunity to get up and hover over him. Jon rolled his eyes. Couldn't they leave him alone for two minutes?
"Need any help, bud?"
With what, getting town nutjob added to his resume in addition to town pariah? Because that was the only thing this form was good for.
He looked down at the next page, and his stomach flipped again. It was that dreaded Substance Abuse page that Mom had thrown in his face. He wondered if the page was standard, or if it was specifically selected for patients with "problems" like his. Either way, there was no way in hell that he was gonna fill it out while next to Dad—next to either parent for that matter. Just staring at the page made him disgusted enough with himself.
"I'm good," Jon mumbled.
"Oh." Dad sat down next to him anyway.
He wasn't going away. What was Jon supposed to do now? He flipped the clipboard upside down. This couldn't be happening. Dad couldn't be doing this to him right now.
"Are you done?" Dad asked. There was a little, hopeful smile on his lips.
Dad just didn't get it. Everything was always so perfect and uncomplicated in Clark-world. It would never occur to him that Jon would want some privacy to fill out some forms about his screwups. At least with Mom, Jon expected overbearing hovering; that was just her style. But Dad genuinely seemed ignorant of the distress he was causing right now.
"Dad," Jon choked out. He cringed at the sound his voice made and started again, this time slowly turning over the clipboard and showing him the form. "Please don't… don't make me fill this out while I'm sitting right next to you."
He could see the disappointment and disgust on Dad's face as soon as Dad saw the page. Jon should have been used to that look by now, but it still made everything ache.
"Look, Jon. I…" Dad's voice trailed off. What was there to say? No big speeches could make this better. Jon had messed up. There was no fixing this.
Dad put his hand on Jon's shoulder.
"I'm just glad you're getting help."
Jon looked away. He didn't need help. He didn't have a problem. He had quit the X-K cold turkey, and now that he was clean, he knew how big of a mistake taking it in the first place had been. All of this was unnecessary. He just wanted the chance to move on. Sending him to therapy to dwell on what he had done wrong would only make him feel worse.
Dad got up and returned to his seat across the room. Thankfully, he stopped Mom from returning to the seat next to Jon too, so Jon could fill out the page in peace.
This page wasn't like the others. He couldn't write in joke answers or justify leaving the entire page blank. If anything, this would be the most important page in the packet. The page that would be the most scrutinized. And surely Dr. Wiles knew the full story, at least to the extent that his parents knew the story, or what was a matter of public record. He couldn't lie—at least not about anything his parents already knew about.
The first section on the page was exclusively about alcohol. He had gotten busted a few times for drinking last year, so he couldn't exactly lie about that. But it wasn't like he had to admit to anything more than that, right? His parents and Dr. Wiles didn't have to know the extent. They didn't have to know about the other parties or any of the other times.
Do you drink alcohol?
The form didn't give him a lot of room to answer. It was clearly just looking for a yes or no. Instead, he wrote, A couple of times at parties. He had to squeeze in the words, and they ran into the next question.
How often do you drink?
Not a lot.
The form was obviously looking for a number, but the more vague he was, the better.
How much do you typically drink?
Wasn't that the same question? He left it blank, refusing to play Dr. Wiles's mind game.
Then he got down to the Illicit drugs section.
His stomach turned just looking at the words. Was that the point? Did they want him to feel like shit? Is this what he deserved? They needn't bother. He had felt like that for weeks. Ever since he got caught. Longer.
Mark off any substances you have a history of using.
His eyes glossed over the list. It wasn't very long, but X-Kryptonite was nowhere to be seen. He had to fill it in under the "Other" section. Somehow that made it worse, like he was drawing a spotlight on his crime rather than just checking off a box.
He wrote the letters slowly. X-K.
They were just two letters—two letters that would forever be associated with his name. Jonathan Kent: X-K user.
He wanted to puke. Instead, he answered the next question.
How often do you use this substance?
Unlike the alcohol section, he couldn't be vague. He needed to make it clear he was off the X-K and wouldn't be going back, and that he had never been a heavy user in the first place. He would be honest, truly honest, for the first time on this form.
I used it for a couple of weeks during football practice and games only.
How much of this substance do you typically use?
Suddenly that question became much clearer. It was asking about the amount.
One puff.
He wasn't sure what a typical dose was, but he hadn't ever needed more than that. One puff was all it took for the world around him to slow down and for his vision to sharpen. He could see miles away. He could mentally do the trigonometry for the perfect throw in milliseconds, then make that perfect throw. He even felt stronger. Faster. Had more energy.
Being on X-K had been the only time since he had moved to Smallville that he felt a moment of peace and bliss. At least until it all went wrong.
When was the last time you used this substance?
39 days.
Not that he was keeping track or anything.
Jon tapped his pen against the form. It was complete, but he didn't feel any relief. He just felt sick, keyed up, and disgusted at himself. Who had ever thought this therapy thing was a good idea?
Once Jon was finished with the stupid form, he still had a few minutes to kill before Dr. Wiles got him. He sat in the uncomfortable waiting room chair, fidgeting, trying to dodge eye contact with his mother across the room. Every couple of minutes he noticed her whispering something to Dad. He knew they were going to talk about him, but did they have to be so obvious?
Finally, a door in the back opened and an older woman with medium-length, white hair appeared. She wore a pantsuit and had a soft smile that Mom returned. It was the lightest Mom had looked all day.
"Lois," the woman said. "It's good to see you."
"You too," Mom said. "Thank you for doing this."
"For your family? Any time." The woman's eyes moved over to Jon. "You must be Jonathan. I'm Dr. Wiles."
"Yeah, I figured," he said.
Mom glowered at him.
Jon cleared his throat. "I mean, uh, nice... nice to meet you."
Dr. Wiles's expression was hard to read. She didn't have a fake smile like Dad and she wasn't obviously annoyed at him like Mom. She just looked neutral.
"Come on in," she said.
Jon's parents stood before he could even finish unfurling his legs from his seat, and Mom was in the room before he could reach the door.
Jon sighed. "Do you guys, like, have to come in?" he whispered to his father.
Dad put his hand on Jon's shoulders. It wasn't a comforting touch. It was the strong grip of an authority figure who would not be argued with.
"We just want to have a little chat with her," Dad said. "Make sure we're all on the same page about everything. Don't worry, we did the same thing when your brother started therapy."
Jon frowned. He wasn't the same as Jordan. Jordan had wanted therapy, and he had wanted their parents involved. But Jon was being sent here against his will. And the last thing he wanted was for his parents to see him as any more of a disgrace than they already did.
Dr. Wiles's office wasn't as bad as the waiting room. The lighting was a little bit softer. It didn't have that antiseptic smell. The chairs looked less stiff.
There was a desk in the back, but Dr. Wiles was already seated in a chair in the center of the room. Two matching chairs were placed in front of it, side-by-side, and a folding chair was leaned against the wall. The office clearly wasn't intended for a whole family.
Jon reached for the folding chair, but Dr. Wiles' voice stopped him. "You can sit wherever you like, but you're the one who's going to be in here the full hour."
Jon glanced over at his parents. Dad shrugged and took the folding chair. "Get comfy. I'm not picky."
Unlike Dad, Mom hadn't waited for him to select his seat. She grabbed the chair closest to the door, leaving the remaining one for him. He would have preferred hers: the proximity to the exit looked comforting, but complaining would only fuel this new therapist's curiosity. He needed to convince her that he was fine, not give her more material to prolong these sessions.
If he could convince her that nothing was wrong with him, then maybe the school would let him stop with this whole therapy thing.
"Are those for me?" Dr. Wiles asked, eying the clipboard in his hand.
He looked down at the forms in his hand and realized he had started white-knuckling the clipboard.
"Huh? Oh, yeah, I guess." Jon leaned forward and slowly loosened his grip, handing over the clipboard to Dr. Wiles while praying she wasn't going to read the forms in front of his parents.
He wasn't so lucky.
Dr. Wiles' eyes quickly glanced over the first page of the form and the neutral look on her face shifted ever so subtly. It was only a micro expression, the slightest raise of an eyebrow and the smallest frown, but if Jon had noticed it, surely his journalist parents had too.
Silently, she flipped through the pages before lowering the clipboard to her lap, upside down. She looked back up at him.
His plan to convince her he was fine was over before it had ever started. Jon gave her a sheepish smile—one she did not return. His smile morphed into a frown.
"I'd like the four of us to have a conversation about expectations," Dr. Wiles said. "What outcomes are we expecting for Jonathan's therapy?"
Jon looked down at his hands and absentmindedly picked at a callous. Speaking about him in the third person made it clear who that question was directed at. He'd wait until he was called on.
It was Mom who spoke first. "The thing about Jon is… is that he's a good kid."
Jon could see her looking at him in his peripheral, so he looked further away. All this conversation was going to do was remind him about how much of a disappointment he was.
Good kids didn't take drugs. They didn't get kicked out of school. They didn't blow up their families like this.
"We never, ever, thought we'd have to worry about something like this," Mom continued. "Not with him. We just want to make sure something like this will never happen again. And we… we want to understand how it happened."
Thankfully Jon wasn't looking at his mom, so she couldn't see his eye-roll. He had explained his choices to her countless times. He took the X-K to stay competitive with Timmy Ryan. That's it. She just wouldn't listen.
"Jon's not… he's not acting like himself," Dad added. "I don't know how to explain it, but he's just… off. Maybe he's been off for a while. Maybe we should have noticed sooner. Maybe if we had, we would have caught this before…" He didn't finish the thought.
Off. What did that even mean? They were the ones who had pulled him away from a starting position at a Division 1 school to play second string for a middle-of-nowhere town, and he did it all without a complaint. All for Jordan. He left behind his friends, his girlfriend, his entire life. How did they expect him to act?
"He doesn't smile like he used to," Dad continued.
Really? That was Dad's big complaint? That Jon smiled less than he did before?
Jon scoffed.
"Jonathan?" Dr. Wiles said. "Do you want to add something?"
He bit his lip, wondering if it would be wiser to stay quieter. Probably, but it would also be more aggravating. "Just trying to wrap my head around the fact that Dad apparently wants me to work on smiling more in therapy."
"I didn't mean—I just—I don't—"
He had seen his father flustered before. It was a part of his Clark-Kent-bumbling-fool shtick that he liked to pull out from time to time. But this time? It almost seemed genuine.
"I think what your dad means is we noticed you're having a hard time adjusting to Smallville and we're concerned," Mom said.
Jon crossed his arms. "Not concerned enough to notice until after I got busted," he mumbled.
He expected a verbal lashing and was surprised when instead all he received was sympathetic looks from both parents. That was nearly worse. Anger he could deal with. He had gotten used to anger. But pity? Pity was unbearable.
"Jonathan, is there anything you'd like to work on with me during these sessions?" Dr. Wiles asked.
Three sets of eyes were now trained on his face and he wanted to do nothing but disappear. This must be how Jordan felt all the time.
He didn't know why she bothered asking. It was one of the questions on the forms. Maybe she was just giving him the opportunity to make up for his joke answers. To get off on the right foot with her. To prove to her that he wasn't the jackass he was making himself out to be.
"I'm only here because my school is making me," Jon mumbled instead.
"Jonathan, we talked about this," Mom said. "We want you to give this a real try."
"It's okay, Lois," Dr. Wiles said, coming to his aid even though he surely didn't deserve it. She gave him a soft smile, which he also didn't deserve. "The only thing I'm going to ask from you is your honesty, Jonathan. So if that's your only reason, then that's your only reason. I just hope that once we get to know each other, you'll start to see the value in this on your own. Maybe then you can reevaluate your answer to that question."
Dr. Wiles placed the clipboard on the coffee table between them, still upside down. She didn't say anything else about it. No comments on his joke answers. No questions about the blank symptom page. And absolutely nothing about the dreaded substance abuse page.
"Yeah, maybe," Jon mumbled. He wasn't planning on taking her up on that offer—he never wanted to look at those forms again—but her kindness had thrown him in a way he couldn't quite comprehend. How long had it been since someone had given him the benefit of the doubt? Who even was the last person who had treated him as a person instead of a delinquent?
He still absolutely wasn't going to give this therapy thing a real try—it was a joke—but maybe it wouldn't be so bad just talking with Dr. Wiles. Casually. Not like therapy therapy but just like talking with someone who didn't hate him.
Maybe that could be nice.
A/N: I would like to thank JellyfishWitch for beta reading this chapter for me.
Everyone else, thank you for continuing to read this fic. More from Jon's first session with Dr. Wiles will continue in the next chapter, and we'll start to delve a little more into Jon's emotional baggage (because there is so much!)
Reviews are always appreciated! :D