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 Iamforced 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.”
