"You mentioned in our first session that you have colleagues you work with," Dr.Mitchell said, her tone gentler now."Agent Stone and Agent Kim.Do you talk to them about what you're going through?"
"Sometimes,” he said.He smirked when he thought of Sarah Kim being referred to as an agent.She’d find that hilarious.“A little."
"What does 'a little' mean?"
"I've had drinks with Kim a few times.We talk about cases mostly.She's good at what she does.Analytical, thorough.She keeps me grounded when I start to spiral.And she is very good about making sure all of the conversation isn’t just about Kane."
"And Agent Stone?"
Miles thought about Vic, about their partnership and the tension that had developed during the Seattle case when he'd dismissed a suspect without proper explanation."Vic and I have worked together for almost a year now.She's solid.Reliable.But we don't really talk about personal things."
"Why not?"
"Because that's not what we do.We focus on the work."
"But the work is what's traumatizing you," Dr.Mitchell pointed out."So maybe focusing only on the work with the people who understand it best isn't the healthiest approach.These are people who've been through similar experiences, who understand the psychological toll of this job.They could be valuable support."
"Or I could drag them down with me."He cringed internally, realizing how dramatic that sounded as soon as it was out of his mouth.
"That's not how support systems work, Miles.You're not a burden for struggling with trauma.You nearly died in that chamber.You watched a man suffocate in front of you.Those experiences don't just go away because you will them to."
Miles knew she was right, but admitting it felt like weakness.Like failure.He'd survived the chamber.He'd caught Stevens.The case was closed.He should be able to move on.
Except he couldn't.The panic attacks kept coming.The nightmares kept intensifying.He'd started drinking more, using alcohol to dull the edges enough that he could sleep for a few hours without waking up convinced he was suffocating.It wasn't sustainable and he knew it, but he didn't know what else to do.
"Look, if you’re insisting that you don’t want to consider medication, then I want you to seriously consider stepping back from Elementalist cases," Dr.Mitchell said."At least for a few months.Give yourself time to actually process what happened in Seattle.”
“That’s all well and good in theory, but what happens if another disciple kills someone while I'm taking a break?What if people die because I wasn't there to stop it?Because I wastoo weakto stop it?”
"That's not on you, Miles,” she said with a stern voice.“You're one agent among thousands.The FBI will continue investigating with or without you."
Miles stood up, feeling restless and trapped despite the open door."I should go.I have another appointment at the office."
Dr.Mitchell glanced at her watch."We still have fifteen minutes."
"I know.But I need to leave.This is…I don’t know.This is too much right now."
She studied him for a moment before nodding."All right.But Miles, please think about what I said.You can't keep doing this to yourself.Something has to change."
“I know.And thank you, Dr.Mitchell.Truly.”
“See you on Monday?”she asked.
“Yeah.Monday.”
Miles left the office without responding, taking the stairs down to the parking garage because elevators felt too much like sealed chambers now.The cold air hit him when he emerged outside, and he stood there for a moment letting it fill his lungs.He relished it, as it was proof that he could breathe.That the world wasn'tactuallysuffocating him.
The drive home took twenty minutes through the traffic of it all.His apartment greeted him with the same emptiness it always did.Miles dropped his keys on the table by the door and went straight to the cabinet where he kept the liquor.The bottle of bourbon was already half-empty from the past week.He'd been drinking more than he should, more than was safe or healthy.But it helped.It dulled everything enough that he could function.He kept it smart, though—he never got sloppy or fall-down drunk.He only drank just enough to get swimmy-headed, where his thoughts were like taffy rather than unyielding concrete.
He poured three fingers into a glass and stood there looking at it.Dr.Mitchell's words echoed in his head.Something has to change.But what?Step back from the cases and let Kane's disciples continue their work unchallenged?Keep pushing forward until the trauma broke him completely?
Neither option seemed acceptable.And he didn’t like the idea of meds, either.He knew it was foolish and old-fashioned but he felt the need to get a handle on this on his own.If he got to a point where he absolutely knew he couldn’t, then he’d be open to meds.But he wasn’t completely broken just yet.At least, he didn’t think so.
Miles raised the glass and drank deeply, the bourbon burning down his throat.He poured another measure and drank that, too.Then another.The warmth spread through his chest, loosening the knots that had been there since the panic attack in Dr.Mitchell's office.
He knew this wasn't the answer…that he was just trading one problem for another.But right now, standing in his empty apartment with the weight of Seattle and Kane and the uncertainty of other disciples somewhere out there, he didn't care.
Miles filled the glass again and kept drinking.
