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“The first night,” Carter whispers. He looks anywhere but at the doctor. “The… auction.”
The doctor nods. “When you fell while your arms were bound behind your back.”
“When they pulled me back to my feet by my bound arms,” Carter clarifies, trying not to think about the fact that the doctor knows the details of that night.
“Well, it’s not dislocated, and Travis said in his notes that he checked for dislocation at the time. I’m thinking it might be something with the cuff. Let’s hope for tendinosis. That can be treated easier than other issues.” He presses at the shoulder a bit, moving it around. He stops when Carter winces. “Would it be okay if we did a few scans? We have a portable one here.”
“Yeah, okay.” Carter eyes the needles. “Are you sure we need those blood tests?”
The doctor chuckles. “I promise, it’ll be over before you know it.”
Travis’s afternoon is just as shitty as Carter’s morning. Though he hasn’t seen Carter at all, the boy hiding away in his room the moment his doctor’s appointment is done. Travis was given his updated medical records. After some x-rays were taken, it was determined that he has tendinosis in his right shoulder. It also shows that he was forced to give blood and get a few shots, which must have been a nightmare for the boy who hates needles.
Travis tries to work off the overwhelming guilt in the safehouse gym, not allowing himself to stop until his muscles feel shivery and weak. He’s still drowning in the emotion when he climbs into his hot shower. It doesn’t help that when he starts flitting through his memories, his cock hardens at all the naked Carter happening in his mind. He ignores it, knowing damn well he doesn’t fucking deserve the relief.
Now he has to talk to the fucking therapist about his feelings?
Kill him now.
The office Dr. Singh is using to conduct his one-on-one therapy sessions is surprisingly warm and inviting. It has the same bones as the rest of the house, dark wood and reinforced windows that still allow for a view - his view one of the best in the house, probably by design - but his furnishings are bright and overstuffed and his walls are painted a soothing dusty blue. There aren't any obnoxious inspirational quotes on the walls at least, just a large oil painting of a meadow that pops with spring colors over his desk.
Travis likes the painting. He wonders if any of the flowers are daffodils. Or if there are any daffodils on the property he could track down. Would Carter finally smile again - a real smile - if he brought him a bouquet of them? Would that be cringey-cheesy, or good-cheesy?
Travis likes the painting.
He doesn't like anything else - especially Dr. Singh.
The man hasn't even spoken yet, just sitting back in his leather chair and staring at Travis for 6 minutes and a handful of seconds. He's waiting for Travis to speak first.
Travis won't break.
He keeps studying the oil painting, trying to remember what Carter had said about daffodils. They can be multiple color-combinations, the boy had said. Oranges. Yellows. Whites. Were there reds? He can't remember if red was mentioned.
Carter looks great in red. Red rope, at least. Probably red anything though. Probably any color rope too, for that matter.
Travis wonders if he'll ever see Carter in rope again.
"Can I ask what you just thought of?"
Travis lets his eyes fall from the painting to the man across from him. "Pardon?"
"Just now, a thought occurred to you. Or perhaps a memory flitted by. What was it?"
Keeping his face neutral, and vowing to guard his expression more carefully from here on out, Travis says, "It's not important."
"It seemed to upset you."
"I'm fine."
Dr. Singh frowns, but Travis doesn't budge. The man sighs before sitting forward and opening his notebook. He clicks a pen. Travis considers the training he was given, remembering exactly where on the neck he'd need to stab that pen to make Dr. Singh die a quick death.
"Travis, I understand you probably don't want to be here. You're not the first and won't be the last operative to sit across from me, tough and scowling, hating me and my bullshit talking. But the difference between the men who move on from their operations and the men who kill themselves or throw themselves recklessly into situations that do the killing for them, is that the surviving operatives talk." He leans forward, his eyebrows pulling in. "You have to talk, Travis."
"To you?" Travis scoffs. "What could you possibly know about what I've been through? You'll just sit there and judge and make little notes and you're not qualified for fucking any of it."
"I've helped many-"
"Have you ever raped someone, doc?"
