5. Fix It!

The psychiatrist's practice was in the city of Bane, thirty minutes away from the Inner Village—the gated area where he and Foxx lived.

Pulling into the parking lot, Harlow eyed the area as he parked. Buildings lined the front and left side of the lot, ranging from a hair salon to a convenience store, to quite a few boutiques.

The multi-level buildings to the left were obviously office buildings. To the right of the lot was a forested area. He was pretty sure the lot backed up to Bane Forest, the forest the city was named after.

For 2pm on a Wednesday, the place was…packed. He ended up having to park in a far-off spot, right next to the trees. So, of course, the building he was looking for was one of the multi-story ones on the far left.

Sighing, he got out and headed over. The building was beige, squarish, and looked like every other multi-level doctors' office he'd seen. There was even a large sign in the grass in front with a whole list of names followed by Ph.D..

Pushing open the door and walking in, he'd quickly discovered that the inside was just as beige as the outside.

Harlow followed the signs on the wall up. And getting off the elevator on floor three, he found the office of Wes B. Ackerman, Ph.D. only a few steps away.

Taking a deep breath, in an attempt to kill his irritation, Harlow turned the knob on the frosted door and walked in.

Unlike the outside of the building and the hallway, Ackerman's office—at least his waiting room—was various shades of navy blue and light grays. The walls were a light navy, and the carpet a geometric gray pattern. The geometric shapes continued in the artwork on the walls. With plush blue cushions, the chairs and couches in the room were black framed.

The receptionist, who was sitting behind a white L-shaped reception desk, looked up when he entered. She smiled and asked, "Name?"

Harlow grimaced. "Harlow Blackmore."

"Ah, first time?"

He grunted.

Her smile didn't waver, even with his non-response. "I'll need your ID and insurance card. Let me just find you in here."

Harlow reached into one of the inner pockets of his floor length winter jacket, and pulled out his wallet. He didn't bother taking out either card, because he had a feeling he wasn't going to need them.

Smile still in place, the woman looked down and started typing on her computer. Her typing stopped as her smile finally turned into a frown.

"Odd," she mumbled to herself, before hesitantly looking back up and saying, "Apologies… I don't need either of those… Umm, please be seated…the doctor will be right with you."

Yep… Would be bad for them to scan his ID when he and Tony didn't want anyone to know he was there.

Harlow grunted again in response, putting his wallet away as he took one of the plush blue chairs in the corner.

He didn't have to wait long, as moments later, the door to the left of the reception desk opened, and a woman walked out, waving as she left. Coming up behind her was a man who looked to be around his age. This had to be Wes.

He sized him up as he approached. The man had white at his temples, wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, and smile lines looking to just be forming. Cleanly shaven, Wes was actor handsome, with his square jaw, high cheekbones, short blond styled hair, and light blue eyes.

"Harlow Blackmore?" the man asked, with a smile that was more neutral than anything.

Harlow stood without a word, brow raising in a silent ‘duh'.

The man's smile widened, and he chuckled. "Wes Ackerman." Wes oddly didn't stretch his hand out for him to shake, which…Harlow was perfectly fine with, as he didn't like touching people—unless he was hurting them…or fucking, in Foxx's case. "I'm so glad you came. Come, follow me." The man turned without another word, and Harlow followed him down the hall into an office.

There were more grays in there. Pretty much the same walls and carpet as the other room, but along with the geometric artwork, there was also Wes' degrees and licensing and shit on the walls.

Furniture wise, there was a fancy gray tufted wingback chair with a small round wooden table next to it. On the table sat a yellow legal pad and a pen. The only other thing in the room was a tufted, slightly curved loveseat that was upholstered in what looked to be blue velvet.

As Wes immediately took the chair, Harlow had no choice but to sit down on the couch.

He stared blankly as Wes picked up the paper and pen. "Mr. Blackmore?—"

He cut him off, correcting him. "Harlow."

Harlow had no attachment to his last name, and in fact, often would not even answer to it. He wasn't exactly sure why… He didn't hate it, he just had never associated with it. To him, the name Blackmore was just something the state of Oregon had given him after he'd been abandoned at some random fire station.

Though, now that he thought about it, so was his first name, but Harlow wasn't completely sure about that. As he had never bothered looking into it, he didn't know if the whole thing was the state's doing, or if perhaps the people who abandoned him had maybe left a note. Regardless, he'd rather people just call him by his first name.

"Ah, Harlow, then. You may call me Wes. To make sure we start this conversation of ours off with honesty, I feel the need to disclose that Tony did share minor details of what he believes to be your problem. He also sent me some files from a few of your past cases, and a very brief overview of your background history."

Harlow snorted. "I assumed he would."

"Well, despite the words and labels Tony threw around, I won't be taking his thoughts on you as fact. As I wouldn't be worth a damn as a doctor if I was willing to assign a diagnosis to a patient who I had yet to even talk to or meet.

"As for these sessions, I think it's best we take these first few ones slow. My suggestion is that we complete the necessary steps, and work towards you getting a diagnosis, so we have a better understanding of what we are dealing with overall before jumping into resolving the current troubles you are facing."

"Ha," Harlow chuckled. "Fuck, no."

He didn't need or want someone digging into his head, just so they could tell him what he was. Harlow knew what he was. No official diagnosis would change what went on in his head, so why bother knowing what nonsense labels they thought applied to him?

Wes' smile didn't falter, despite his words. "I do understand your reluctance?—"

"What do you understand?" Harlow smirked, his tone mocking. "If you know everything then tell me, why don't I want to know?"

"I can't say I know all. No one knows everything. And as I don't know you well yet, that is not a question I can answer."

"Then let me tell you," he ground out. "There is no reluctance involved. The truth is, I have no interest in being diagnosed. I don't care enough to be. And I wouldn't be here if Tony hadn't threatened to bench me if I didn't come. But since I am forced to be here, all I want is for you to fix the current issue I'm having."

"It doesn't work that way. I can't just fix what is going on with you without knowing anything about you. Without knowing how you normally think, react, and view the world, Harlow, how can I help you understand this new thing you are experiencing? How can I know what is outside your norm, without knowing what your normal is?"

"Bullshit."

Wes chuckled. "Unfortunately, I can't ‘fix' people with willpower alone. But…if me assigning an official diagnosis makes you uncomfortable, we can attempt to figure out your current problem with…less context."

"Don't attempt, just fucking do it."

"Right then, Tony mentioned nightmares, and…something about your partner?"

Harlow crossed his arms and sighed. "I'm having dreams, most would call them nightmares. In each of them, I've found my partner, Foxx, dead, which as of late, is followed by me waking up with my heart racing, and my hands shaking. Sometimes my chest aches. I want them to stop."

"I see. Well…if I went off the most basic understanding of your reactions to the dreams, the thought of your partner dying scares you."

Harlow's brow rose at that. "It doesn't scare me."

Wes' head tilted in confusion. "It doesn't? One defines nightmares usually as unpleasant dreams that cause one to feel strong emotions, such as fear or anxiety."

"Which I experience neither of," he said stiffly. "Did Tony not explain that I'm a psycho?"

Wes grimaced. "He did say that... If you don't think fear is what you are feeling…then what do you think is going on?"

"Isn't it your fucking job to figure that out?!" Harlow snapped.

If I fucking knew, I wouldn't fucking be here, he thought, now fully frustrated with all this bullshit.

"Humor me," Wes said. His smile was back.

"A heart attack."

"I see."

Harlow glared when the man wrote something on his notepad.

"Tell me…what happened in your life before these nightmares started?"

He took a deep breath in and counted to ten before letting it out. Tony…deserved to be shot for subjecting him to this—the fucking bastard…

* * *

Foxx laid therein bed on his side staring at his phone. Sighing, he sat up and dialed the number he'd been hesitant to call. The phone rang for a few moments before connecting.

"How can I help you, Foxx? Or is something wrong…" Tony trailed off before practically begging, "Please, tell me nothing's wrong."

"Nothing's…wrong…here," Foxx said slowly. "I called because I wanted to talk to you about the witnesses on the cases involving the Order of Bloodless Saints."

Foxx really had not been prepared to hear the dumbass name the group of nutjob priests had come up with. What was it even supposed to mean? Were the priests bloodless, or was it because they literally starved his kind of the blood they needed to function, on top of torturing them to death?

All he knew was that torturing people to death was pretty far away from being a fucking saint, unless… Were the people they were torturing supposed to be the saints? Yeah, it made no fucking sense whatsoever.

"What about them?"

"I want the identities of the vampires who are testifying to be protected…just like mine will be when I testify."

Tony let out a woosh of air. "Foxx… While I get why you are asking, and it's not that I am opposed to protecting the victims…however, it won't be easy to accomplish. The guidelines and protection statutes are just not there. As for you testifying…I don't know that?—"

"I'm testifying, that isn't up for debate," Foxx stated sharply as he cut the man off. "As for the others… I don't care how hard it will be, it's our responsibility to do something to protect them, because they will likely be murdered if we do nothing."

Tony was silent for a moment before he conceded. "You aren't wrong. I'll attempt it, Foxx. I can't promise anything. But with how slow the court system is…maybe we will get something into place before the first trial begins." The human sighed. "Just…don't get your hopes up, Foxx. Politics can be even slower than the courts."

"I don't care what it takes. Money? Threats? Whatever, I just want them safe."

"Well, money and threats certainly work with both politicians and humans alike… Why don't you come down to the office and we can discuss what the first step will be?"

Foxx grimaced. "Can you…come here? Harlow is out, and I'm not up to driving at the moment. He should be back soon… He had some sort of doctor's appointment."

Foxx was tired. Annoyingly tired, in fact. He barely had done anything beyond eat, watch a little TV, and drool over Harlow, and yet he felt absolutely exhausted. He really didn't feel like going out.

Well…that and Harlow had barked at him to stay put and not go wandering. Really, it was ridiculous being told to stay put by someone so much younger than him. Though, Foxx would be staying home… But not because Harlow told him to—like he'd ever—but just because he wasn't up to leaving.

"How are you healing?"

"I'm fine…just tired."

"Right. Instead of an in-person meeting, I'll look into what needs to be done and get back to you. Expect to receive things over the next few days in your email."

"I'll keep an eye out."

Tony grunted, "I'll be in touch," before hanging up.

Foxx flopped back. This had to work… It had to. He refused to let anything happened to any of the vampires, just because they had the ‘audacity' to testify to the torture they were put through.