Otherwise, Part 1
Title: Otherwise
Author: latetothpartyhp
Rating: NC-17
Genre: drama
Pairings: Chloe/Clark; background pairings include Lana/Lionel, mentions of past Chloe/George. Probably others to be added.
Spoilers: through Zod, although this fic is extremely AU (see summary below)
Warnings: Contains what is probably an very unrealistic depiction of sex work and psychotherapy, and sex that may be considered of dubious consent. There will probably also be some violence and strong language used. I don't at this point plan on killing anyone.
Summary / Author's Note: AU. Chloe Sullivan never lived in Smallville, but she is about to have a close encounter with one of its residents. Takes place in what would be Season 9 if this fic wasn't so hopelessly non-canonical. Inspired by an article I read years ago in Salon.com (I think) and by the fanon_fridays prompt: If I never knew you / I'd be safe but half as real.
Part 1 / Part 2
Man would be "otherwise." That's the essence of the specifically human. ~Antonio Machado
Diagnosis: Genophobia associated with a fear of harming partner. Client's anxiety has not lead to erectile dysfunction, but has produced symptoms associated with panic disorder, including feelings of terror, shaking, sweating, increased heart rate and hot flashes. Anxiety is anticipatory, as client fears but claims to avoid any situation that would lead to arousal when another person is present. Anxiety seems to stem mainly from a distorted view of his physical capabilities; his main stated fear is that arousal will lead to a loss of self-control such that he will reflexively maim or kill the person he is with.
History: Client does not report fear of non-sexual touching, initiated either by himself or others, but is acutely anxious that he may hurt a partner during most varieties of sexual contact. Client's denies having been sexually abused, or having witnessed sexual violence or molestation. Client also denies perpetrating any sexual abuse or violence himself.
Client states that he has had sexual contact on two occasions in the past, both during his teens. He claims both experiences were positive, but the later death of one of his partners may have contributed to his current condition (note that said partner's death was unrelated to physical contact with client). Client is aware that no significant physical changes have occurred to his body that would render him more capable of doing harm since that time, but nevertheless says those situations were "unique". Responses to further questioning suggest a level of emotional involvement in his partners he has not experienced since. It is my hypothesis that his expressed inability to trust the limits of his physical strength is a defense mechanism constructed to protect himself from revealing emotional weakness to a potential lover. I believe this hypothesis is supported by the fact that his living former partner is currently married to a man with whom the client had and has a long-standing adversarial relationship: client is acutely afraid both of loss and perceived betrayal.
Treatment plan: Client has refused physical examination and medication. Treatment therefore will consist of cognitive therapy provided by Dr. Foster and emotive-behavioral conditioning with Dr. Foster's associate. Treatment plan will consist of weekly visits with Dr. Foster to discover and examine thought patterns that contribute to his anticipatory anxiety and to provide guidance for stress management. Behavioral conditioning will occur if and when Dr. Foster and client agree that he is able to construct a positive mental framework for inter-personal relationships, including sexual relationships, and that he is able to manage the symptoms of his anxiety.
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He was late, and when he finally did arrive, she had to blink a few times before she realized he was, in fact, her client. For one thing, he was huge -- he had to be a good foot taller than she. For another, he was not unattractive. Not that her clients weren't attractive, but usually they were not quite this young. Or stunning. Ever.
She probably spent a good five or six seconds gaping like a confused salmon before he finally spoke. "Are you, uh, are you Kaylee?"
"I am! Yes. I am! I'm Kaylee!" she said from her daze. You're supposed to be a professional, Sullivan. Calm down. "How do you do?"
"Ok." He looked nervous, his eyes darting around the hall, too nervous, it seemed, to remember the instructions Claire had given him.
"I hate to ask," she began, "but -- "
"Oh, yeah." He dug into his breast pocket and took out an envelope. She broke open the seal with her thumb-nail and ripped it raggedly open. The documents matched those that had been previously emailed to her. For some reason -- the 6'2" and gorgeous reason -- this made her happy, but she forced herself to smile like a grown-up and not a demented teenager. "Won't you come in?"
"I suppose you can't be too cautious," he said. Suit, tie, oxfords. All very conservative, and again, all very unusual. Clients were advised to wear what they would find comfortable. Khakis were typical. From his lateness she guessed he'd been held up at the office, hadn't had time to run home and change. Was job stress a contributing factor? Nothing to say so on his profile. She'd have to ask.
"I've haven't had a problem yet, but I have to check. Your name is Charles?"
"Yes, I -- that's not my real name. " He pushed up his glasses. "Dr. Foster suggested it."
"For the record, I wasn't christened 'Kaylee' either, so you made out better than I did. 'Charles' sounds distinguished, like you have a summer place on Martha's Vineyard. 'Kaylee' makes me sounds as if I dot my i's with hearts."
"I thought 'Charles' made me sound like a chauffeur."
She laughed. Tall, handsome, genuinely self-deprecating. Women should be swarming all over him. No, women probably were swarming all over him, and with his issues he wouldn't know how to deal. And she was the lucky dame who got to teach him how and then never see him again. Lucky, lucky she.
"You don't look like a chauffeur," she said. More like a pool boy. A very well paid pool boy. "I'm guessing ... lawyer?" She walked across the room to the kitchenette that clung against the wall; she was going to need to relieve her own awkwardness before she helped him with his. Nothing did that like a cup of security coffee. "You want something to drink? I've got orange juice, soda water, Coke, Mountain Dew, coffee, green tea. No alcohol, though. Doctor's orders."
"No, thanks."
"You mind if I make myself a cup?" She waved a bag of beans.
"No, please -- " He said something else but it was lost under the whirl of the grinder.
"What was that?"
"I asked if you lived here."
She scooped the grounds into the basket and tamped them down.
"No, Dr. Foster leases this place. But I did help decorate it."
"It's nice. It's colorful." He watched her watch the espresso pour for a moment, then said, "I'm an accountant."
"That would have been my next guess!" she shouted over the steamer.
His lips twitched. "Do I look that boring?"
Her ears pricked. It was her job, within some limits, to be honest. On the other hand, while only one of her clients had been specifically diagnosed with a dysmorphic disorder, body image issues were usually a big component of why they were here. She needed to be tactful, too. She made a show of painting the bottom of her mug with chocolate syrup.
"No." Because the man really couldn't, even trying as hard as he was. "Suits are pretty unusual these days, now that most people think 'casual' Friday means flip-flops and cut-offs. So I thought: a suit equals somebody who tells other people what to do with their money. Lawyer, accountant, consultant. Or politician," she smiled, "but you seem too upright for that."
He gave a breathy little chuckle. "No, I -- I'm not a politician."
But you wanted to be? Or did someone out-schmooze you to a promotion? Or to a girl? She put a mental foot down on her curiosity. He was just another client. His looks did not make him special. Weird, maybe. Not special. And now the conversation is lagging, because you Sullivan are too caught up in this guy to do your job. Well, one of your jobs.
"It's good to know you're an honest man," she said quickly to cover her pause. "I always do too much milk. You don't want any, do you? Or cocoa? " She held up the steamer pitcher in one hand and the syrup bottle in the other. "I make a killer mug of cocoa."
His lips twitched a little higher, and in the two-tenths of a second they did her body forgot how to breathe.
"As long as I don't keel over dead before the session is over," he said.
"Hm?"
"The cocoa? I don't want die..." he trailed off. He'd been trying to make a joke, and she'd missed it staring. Jesus. She had to get a hold of herself, or she would never be able to look Claire in the eye at their debriefing session.
"Trust me," she chippered. "You will only think you've gone to heaven."
But the momentum had gone out of him, she could tell. It could have been the mention of death, except per the information she did have, it wasn't his own death he feared. Maybe it was time they got down to business. Most clients, despite their initial nerves, were relieved to confront the purpose of their visits to her. "So, what did Dr. Foster tell you about what we would be doing?" she asked, dripping syrup into another mug. It was good to have something to do with her hands.
"Uh, well, she said these would be practice sessions, and I should, um, make a list of things that would, uh, bother me and we would go through them." The entire time he spoke he fidgeted with his glasses, pushing them up, lifting the bows from his ears, re-balancing them. Someone else who wanted something to do with his hands, although she suspected it had less to do with the magnificence of her physique and more with that whole confronting-his-purpose thing. She handed him the cocoa. "You might want to let it -- "she said as he took a big, nervous gulp, "cool down."
"No, it's perfect. I'm fine." Something odd about the way he said that, so eagerly, made her pause. "I brought a list," he continued, pulling a another, quarter-folded sheet from his breast pocket. "Dr. Foster told me to think about it in terms of 'escalating intimacy'. Like in a relationship." He pushed up his glasses again and gave her a dubious little stare.
"But we're not in a relationship," she supplied.
"No." He looked relieved to hear her say it. "It's not that you don't seem very nice..."
"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do." She leaned in conspiratorially. "You don't even have to follow me to the couch and sit down if you don't want to. Dr. Foster never has to know." She nodded, walked the ten steps to the couch, and sat. He followed her, gingerly testing his weight on it before sinking down. She wondered if he did that with the furniture in the office and if Claire had noticed it. More fear of harm. She took another sip of her coffee. "Does it feel fake or wrong to you to do the things on your list with someone you're not partnered with?"
"It feels a little theatrical, I guess. Like it's not for real. I know it's just supposed to be like a dry run, but what kind of practice is it if I don't feel all the things I'd be feeling with a girlfriend?"
"Do you think you're able to do any of the things you want to do with a 'real' girlfriend right now?"
"No, you're right," he said, acknowledging her implied statement. "It's just this doesn't feel like the way it should be." Her breath hitched a little at the forlorn tone in his voice. You're not his 'real' girlfriend and you are not here to make it the way it 'should' be. Remember that. Kthnx.
"Someday," she told both of them, "it will be the way it should be, with someone you really do care about. What Dr. Foster and I want to do is help you be ready for that." He adjusted his glasses and nodded. "May I see your list?"
"Sure." He handed it to her and began wiping his palms on his thighs. The profile had mentioned panic attacks. Did he have one coming on? Better let him have some time to manage it before she said anything. He' have plenty of it while she read through his scrawl. The list synced with what she'd read about him, but the items were in an odd order if he had indeed listed them according to increasing intimacy. Number one was "Fall asleep in the same bed with a woman." She would have placed that at least after item four, "Sit with a woman on my lap." And numbers nine and ten were downright scary. The file said he'd denied being a victim of abuse, but she couldn't imagine why anyone would include that if they hadn't been. She sipped her coffee.
"Did you discuss these with Dr. Foster before coming here?"
"Yes. I did."
"Did she say anything specific to you about these last two?"
"Just that she thought it was a good idea to include them." His hands were gripping knees now, white-knuckled and tense.
"Do you feel comfortable talking about them now?"
"No. I'm sorry. I don't." His jaw thrust out just a little, like a defiant toddler's. 'Nuff said.
"You don't need to apologize."
"I'm so-- " He stopped at her smile, and mercifully managed stretch his lips in return.
"Ok," she said. "Where do you want to start?"
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A/N: Unlike Chloe, I am fond of the name "Kaylee". It's the name of one of my favorite Whedon characters, Kaylee Frye, who I believe would have told Chloe: "Have good sex!" as she embarked on this adventure.