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Chapter Text

Loser

Tame Impala

Jamie Tartt takes a small step backwards on slippery cobblestones, because it's instinct - isn't it? - to move from pain? Brushes the tips of never-had-to-work-a-real-job fingers against rough brick behind him and wishes for the end to just hurry the fuck up and begin.

The man - just a lad really, barely out of his teens and still spotty - advances on him. He's brandishing a bottle which isn't even from a beer Jamie likes to drink. The high-end shit has never been to his council estate tastes. 

It pretends to be something it's not, which is something Jamie hates. 

Doesn't matter in the end though, smashes against his head the same way. The impact makes the streetlamps dance in pretty patterns, kaleidoscopic for a glorious instant, before the night takes him.

***

“I need a wee.”

The man who's paid handsomely for the privilege of guarding Jamie's well-insured body blinks, leans forwards on the seat, and speaks quietly through a gap in the glass to the driver. There's a moment of quiet agreement and after another couple of minutes of careful driving, the car curves to the left and comes to a gentle stop. 

Uncertainty prickles madly at his skin, the itch making him fidget. 

He corrects himself quickly. Tucks his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie and forces a cocky grin to replace his tendency to chew anxiously on his bottom lip. 

It's easy to do because he's got nothing to worry about. So he's freaking out over nothing. 

What a loser. 

Because it is loser behaviour - right? - feeling this type of way just ‘cause he can't tell whether they're parked outside of a lone petrol station, heavy cobwebs in the corners of piss-soaked loos, or a monstrous hub off the motorway heaving with families and cameras and-? 

And that's the problem with tinted windows. 

They work both ways.

“Uh, where even are we?” he asks the man sitting opposite.

“M74 services south of Glasgow.” 

He's efficient, Jamie will give him that. Has an answer for everything but he won't engage in small talk. He's a brick shithouse machine. 

Right now, he's Google Maps. Location services are free; humanity costs extra. 

Jamie swivels on his seat, dropping the soles of his trainers onto the floor of the vehicle. The scuff marks he leaves behind will come off, surely. 

Whatever.

It's not really his problem. They probably steam clean them after every celebrity fucks them up. It’s like, part of the deal?

“Right. Back in a sec.” 

He opens the door to the view of at least a hundred other cars. Flips his sunnies from his forehead and over his damaged face. 

His security guy, Phil or Paul - he forgets, which is admittedly pretty shit of him but Jamie's able to justify it to himself because they all answer to mate anyway - ignores him. He trails Jamie from a few paces behind as they begin the short trek towards the squat grey building. He's taller and broader than Jamie is - than most people are, actually. Jamie should be grateful for this, he knows this. Even though he didn't pick this expensive protection of the burly variety, he definitely needs it these days. 

His dad arranged the security detail for him months ago. Has access to his son's bank accounts and helps himself to whatever he thinks Jamie needs, doesn't have the foresight to buy for himself, as well as whatever the old man fancies - golf clubs, a new watch, phone upgrade. 

Adult babysitting tax he calls it as he pinches at Jamie's cheek, the patronising dickhead. 

Jamie steels himself for what's to come as he crosses the car park. He's incognito in his favourite oversized grey hoodie and jeans. Doesn't mean he won't be recognised, though. His hair’s distinctive - frosted tips, proper retro, mint - and he plays for the national team of the country’s national sport. 

So they're inevitable, the surprised looks and open-mouthed stares and phones subtly positioned to record his every movement, every misstep. He despises it. Full-on loathes how he's constantly watched, tracked, and commented about online by people who've never met him. Used to be well into the background noise of attention, but he's learned that even the best bits of being rich and famous grow old, eventually.

The bathroom is on the right past the automatic doors - Jamie is following the sign like a beacon, hoping to make it in and out without having to give anyone his signature or a selfie. 

Ha. 

Fat chance of that.

“Go on, ask him then,” a mum stage-whispers to her kid as he rounds the corner. 

A chunky boy, seven or eight and dressed in the white shirt of the England kit blocks his way. Jamie would be the worst person alive if he ignores him, or worse, pushes past him to get where he’s going. 

“Are you Jamie Tartt?’

“That I am,” he says as confidently as he can. “And what's your name, little lad?” 

“Can we get a picture?” The mum has her phone whipped out before Jamie can make an actual connection with the kid, which probably would have felt a million times better than just posing with him. “He's a massive fan.”

Especially like this, cut and bruised, Jamie doesn't want to agree. He does it anyway. Crouches beside the boy and grins for a little longer than seems strictly necessary, his strained smile feeling increasingly fake the longer it stays on his face. His sunglasses stay on too, which probably makes him a monumental prick but it's the best he can give this random woman and her kid.

“What happened to your face?” The boy is pointing at the bandage covering his eyebrow. 

“Weren't looking at the ball when it were coming right at me,” he jokes. “Caught one in the eye. Pretty silly, huh?”

The kid is squinting at him. “Yeah, that's silly.” 

His mum is already pulling him away, mumbling thanks to Jamie with her eyes still glued to the screen, likely checking out the quality of her photos of him. 

He never finds out the kid’s name, because what he knows about other people isn't important. They got their selfie, after all - proof they saw a bona fide footie prodigy in the wild so they can brag about it to their friends and family.

The message is as loud and ugly as a motorway pit stop: this is all he's good for. 

He can't exactly disagree. 

***

The bathroom is busy. Jamie still manages to slip into a stall, all those early morning speed and agility drills coming in handy for more than just footie.

Anyway, it's a necessity. He can't go with all the attention in the room trained on him, can he? But then again, he didn't really need a wee, just to be by himself for a bit. 

He sits on the closed seat for a minute or two, watching his fingers tremble. Shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. 

Lets it out slowly. 

Wishes he was anywhere in the whole world but here. 

Because he fucking should be anywhere but here. Preferably somewhere boozy, ridiculous and sunny.

Somewhere like… Ibiza? 

Jamie smiles grimly to himself, running a hand through his hair. His scalp is sweaty even though he washed it this morning. 

What was he thinking about again?

Oh yeah, Ibiza. 

Right. 

It is an option though. He can't deny it. He has the cash. He has all the cash.

He can do what he likes, theoretically.   

He could book a flight on his phone this very minute. Redirect the driver to the closest airport. Escape to the land of good tunes and beautiful morons where he surely belongs. 

It's a longer journey for them to drive to where they're going, otherwise known as the arse-end of nowhere, than it is for him to fly to Ibiza. Instead of going on a boy’s holiday though, he's on his way to a crumbling country house turned sleekly modernised wellness spa nestled in the hills of central Scotland. The drive is boring and lengthy car rides make him nauseous but it was either this or a real hospital, and the associated press attention. 

It was an easy choice, if it counts as a choice. 

He’d looked it up before they left, because of course he did. It's best to be prepared.

The website is glossy and professional and advertises onsite medical staff catering to an exclusive clientele. Exceptional service and it's discrete, confidential. Makes sense for Jamie to be sent there for treatment despite the distance.  

He can hear people come in and out, do their muffled business and leave again. 

His head is throbbing and, actually, he only wants to be at home - fuck dodgy Ibiza, the dirty money and party drugs that make Jamie's stomach ache - curled in bed with his phone for company and the bulk of his duvet surrounding him. 

Touching the bandage over his eye hurts. He does it because of this, likes the jolt of grounding pain. Presses the heel of his palm into the wound until the pain is sharper and angrier and he wonders if it's bleeding again under there. 

If it is, fucking good. 

When he's done wallowing - for now - he waltzes out, miraculously making it back out to the waiting car without further incident.

His bodyguard, his fourth in three months, was waiting outside the stall for him so he must've heard Jamie in there, not pissing. He shadows Jamie without being instructed, won't say a single word unless it's vital. 

They all do their jobs perfectly competently whenever Jamie hasn't worked out how to escape their watchful gaze. He knows that he should be grateful for this, for everything. 

It's just-

He isn't.

***

The journey continues northwards. 

Jamie tries to sleep but there's nothing quite like knowing he's being watched, even here, now, when he's hurting and miserable, to make relaxing impossible. 

At least the long seats of the hummer allow him to stretch out and turn on his side, burying his nose in the comforting scent of leather.

The wellness spa, which is really a rehab for spoiled rich kids - his dad picked it, so it is - might insist on keeping him for a few extra days, making a valiant effort to rack up his already exorbitant bill. 

Yeah. That'll be the payoff. 

A proper rest for once, zonked out on the decent pills. 

Maybe that's all Jamie needs to feel like himself again. 

***

It's late evening, near midsummer. They set off late after Jamie slept as long as his dad let him, and they've been driving for most of the day and evening. The sky is a bruise of purples and blues to rival Jamie's eye socket and the spa is as visually appealing as they have to be. It's tucked in a deep valley, silhouettes of imposing trees on both sides and there's a sign in cursive out front. Half a dozen cars lurk in the carpark, still and dark and silent. 

Jamie lets Phil/Paul deal with the bags. Walks into reception with no other plans than to let them do what they want with him. It's better that way. No point resisting forces stronger than himself, he'll go with the flow.

“Welcome, you must be Mr Tartt,” says a woman with blonde hair scraped back into a high ponytail, nurse-like in a smock behind a desk.

“You think?” And, like- Jamie always wants to be easygoing, he just can't right now. He's too crabby and unhappy. Didn't manage to nod off for a moment so his head is heavy with almost-rest, cloudy and foggy. He only wants to get the check-in process over and done with as soon as possible so he can go find the hot tub. The heat and bubbles will ease the tension in his neck and shoulders, he just knows it. “Can we make this quick?”

“Course. It must’ve been a long journey for you, all that way from… god, will you listen to me? Rabbiting on. You asked for quick, I can do quick. Um, but first, Mr Tarrt, would you mind signing-?”

Jamie's been at the end of his tether for days, weeks, months maybe. His energy is sapped and he's ready to snap at the smallest thing. This might be why he behaves the way he does. Why he immediately jumps to conclusions and gets the wrong end of the stick, assuming everything is done on computers these days. 

That, and he's a right prick. 

Haven't you heard?

“No. I'm not signing anything. Not for you or your grandad or your boyfriend or your long lost cousin twice removed, ‘kay? Yes, I'm Jamie Tartt. I'm a national fucking treasure. You people- you always want a piece of me, but you never-”

She meekly slides a paper form across smooth surface. 

“Sir?” she says quietly, no eye contact. “You have to sign your name at the bottom of the form to confirm you agree to our terms and conditions.”

Jamie looks at the piece of paper, vision suddenly blurry. 

“Well… why didn't you say that?” 

He scribbles his name, doesn't bother reading the form or dating it. She takes the page back, tucks it away somewhere safe. Tears are building behind Jamie's eyes. It's painfully embarrassing how quickly he rushed to judgment. That, and he can't just apologise to her.

“Doctor Kent is the onsite doctor this evening. He was told about your injury, he- He's been expecting you. He asked to see you before I show you to your room. Uh. If that's… okay with you?”

Jamie grunts his begrudging agreement. 

“Thank you, um, sir. If you'd like to take a seat…?”

“Whatever.”

Jamie slumps in a chair upholstered with fabric booth the colour and vague consistency of candyfloss, and waits. Crosses his arms and finally falls asleep, chin dropping down and resting on his chest as exhaustion finally takes over.

“Mr Tartt,” a gruff voice says from somewhere above him after an indeterminate period of time. “This way please.”

Jamie cracks open sleepy eyes and sees a man in a dark jumper and smart jeans walking away from him, entering a room through the door opposite the reception area. His security guard is busy guarding twin suitcases stuffed with enough branded clothes to last Jamie a week, a wardrobe which likely cost more than the receptionist’s salary. 

The chair behind her desk is empty. She's nowhere to be seen. 

He gets up carefully, unsteady and lightheaded, the sharp pain across his brow bone splintering into a dull ache, and follows the other man in. 

***

“I'll check you over, take your vital signs, then I'll check out your head wound. Am I right in thinking you haven't received medical attention for your injury - only basic first aid?”

“Uh, yeah. In for the kill, huh?” Jamie jokes uncomfortably. “No fucking around?”

Doctor Kent had gestured for him to take a seat facing his imposing wooden desk as soon as he entered the room, and now he's coming around it too to stand in front of him. 

The doctor wears a grim expression, and tough. The opposite to Jamie’s mam when he'd get into scraps with the older lads on the estate. He's looking at Jamie like he's angry at him rather than disappointed yet again, trying to hide it from him whilst dripping with love and concern. 

“No fucking around,” he repeats, deadpan, “would be my preference for this, yes.”

“Sure you're a real doctor?” Jamie glances around at the furnished office, its many leather-bound books on wooden bookcases, carved into alcoves. “Where's the iconic coat?” 

“I'm medically trained, I can assure you,” he says after a beat. He takes a stethoscope from the desk behind him, turning to face Jamie again. “I'd like to measure your heartbeat first. I'll place this end near the centre of your chest, over your clothes is fine, and listen through the other end. Is that okay with you? Do you have any questions before I begin?”

Jamie can't place his accent. It's weird. British, maybe London or thereabouts but oddly clipped, like he's trying to communicate something long-winded by using the fewest words possible, all whilst frowning at Jamie like he just kicked his puppy. 

Jamie frowns too. He's always been like that, monkey see, monkey do. Picking up the mannerisms and speech patterns of people he gets close to - who he wants to be like, or liked by.

This is also a hell of a lot less fun than scrolling on his phone to numb the pain or getting wasted again. At a stretch, sex as well, although that's been more hassle than it's been worth lately if he's honest with himself.

Anyway, this treatment, it'd better be worth the trip.

They might give him Prozac, a proper ‘script.

This helps his mood, less so his attitude. Jamie loves legally obtained pristine bliss. On the other hand, this guy… he seems pissed at him, and Jamie hasn't even given him a reason to be, not yet. 

“I've been to a medic before. I'm here, ain't I? You don't have to ask me permission.”

The doctor shakes his head once, functional. “No, I do. Can you answer my question now please?”

“Already did. I said you can do what you like to me.” 

Jamie crosses then uncrosses his arms, drops them awkwardly to his sides. Touches the edges of the chair and braces instinctively. 

Doctor Kent steps forwards, slowly but surely, until he's standing between Jamie's parted knees. Before he places the circular end of the instrument on Jamie's chest though, he leans in, ever-so slightly. Jamie tracks the movement with mild interest at how far he'll go.

“That's debatable. And I note that wasn't a yes, Mr Tartt. I'm going to need your explicit consent before I embark on each medical procedure. That’s how we work here. So, I'll ask you again. Do you agree with me going ahead with this?”

Jamie thinks then that the stethoscope is going to record him having a heart attack, getting him admitted to a cardiac ward faster than he can shoot a ball into a net when his head’s actually on straight. 

Because the good / possibly evil doctor is suddenly giving hot, and it's doing something to Jamie. He doesn't want to like how he's speaking to him - calm and firm; teasing yet annoyingly safe - but he does.

He really fucking does.

“Just-” he squeaks, his voice betraying him, grips hardwood and clears his throat. “Just do it.” 

“Still not a yes, Mr Tartt.”

Jamie looks down at the patterned carpet between his feet, plush and thick, then up again at him again, smirking through his lashes. “Fuck’s sake, you're hard to please.” He rolls his eyes theatrically. “Yes, then. Treat me, doc. I'm a wreck without you.”

He thinks he sees a flicker of a smile ghost Doctor Kent’s lips, but it's gone again before he can be certain of it. 

“Thank you. You'll feel a slight pressure over your heart for approximately thirty seconds.” 

Jamie nods, makes eye contact. His irises are dark like his hair, almost the same coiled black. 

“‘Kay.”

“Good. Then I'll begin.”

***

The rest of the examination goes much the same way, the doctor asking for Jamie's permission before each procedure and recording a number on a piece of paper attached to a clipboard afterwards. 

He explains what he's going to do to him as he goes. Tells Jamie he's going to take his temperature by placing a digital thermometer into his ear canal and holding it there, use a stopwatch to time the rising and falling of his chest, and take his blood pressure with an elasticated cuff after he asks Jamie to roll up one sleeve. 

To finish, he informs Jamie about what a pulse oximeter is, a device which must have been used on him a hundred times, but he's never known precisely why, before clipping it to the end of an index finger.

He explains everything thoroughly - what it's going to feel like for him, and how long it's going to take. He covers all the bases. 

It's nice. Polite. Unexpectedly calming to Jamie's jangled nerves.

Jamie agrees to the procedures, says a clear yes to each, all while wondering why the doctor’s bothering to expend extra effort to tell Jamie what he's doing to him. The other doctors in sports medicine he's seen over the years were similarly methodical and professional, but ultimately seemed uninterested in whether their patient understood what was being done to his body. 

It's the result that matters, right? If he can still play or he needs to be benched for a bit?

It's strangely relaxing to be told what's going to happen to him before it happens instead, and he finds himself slouching further into his hard-backed seat as the examination continues. Until his knees are further apart and he's loosened his grip on the chair, shoulders sagging. 

“Sit up straight please. You're doing well. I'd like to clean out your wound now. Is that-?”

“Yes, yes.” Jamie shuffles up, eager to have more of the doc’s careful administrations applied to his sore head. 

Doctor Kent moves around to the back of the chair. “I'll remove the old bandage first. It may sting a bit.”

“Oh, yeah. That's- me dad. He put it on after they found me- I dunno if he got all the glass out, or…? You heard what happened to me, right? It's, uh- in me notes-?”

Jamie has no idea if the other man has access to anything as detailed as notes about the circumstances of his current condition. Doesn't know why he's panicking either, except the unsettling sense that Doctor Kent may be able to tell he's been messing with it under there, have something to say about it. 

“Shhh,” the doctor advises softly. “It's okay. It'll only hurt slightly more than it has been for a short while. I'll examine the wound, retrieve any shards of glass which are in there, rinse it, stitch it up if that's what it needs, then apply a fresh dressing. I'll talk you through all of it as we go, don't you worry.”

Jamie tips his head slightly back like he's in the hair salon, keen to give the other man easier access to his injury.

“Okay,” Jamie says quietly. “Thanks doc.”

***

There isn't any glass in the wound. The doctor checks for it. Uses gloved hands to poke around the area for a couple of seconds, Jamie wincing throughout. “You’re lucky. A centimeter lower and you might have lost the eye.”

“Mm, so lucky. Love gettin’ bottled on a random night out, don't I?”

“Surprisingly perhaps, it doesn't need stitches. I'm going to pour some water from a bottle onto your forehead to rinse out the wound. You'll feel a trickle of liquid run over your closed eyelid and down your cheek in just a moment. I'll place a towel around the base of your neck to catch the runoff. I'll use the towel to wipe your face again when I'm done. Keep your eyes firmly closed now, don't open them until I say so. Are you comfortable with that? Do you need me to repeat any of it?”

Jamie shrugs lightly. He understands. Or he thinks he does.

“Nah, think I'm good.”

The luxury towel is a gentle weight on him, nothing to it, really. It's the softness on his skin, he thinks. That's what really hurts. 

Not the pain. He copes well with pain. Everyone says so, it's a compliment he earned. 

Jamie can only hope that the water blends with his tears. It’s ridiculous that it's a towel which finally sets him off. 

Simple fucking… care. He's such a baby, such a fucking-

“Too warm, too cold?” 

The water is perfect. It's Jamie who's too… everything. 

“No, no. Don't st-,” he says, the word choked by a silent sob caught in his throat, self-pity and shame suspended in the air between them. 

“Almost done.”

“... sorry.”

“No need to be,” says Doctor Kent, his voice comfortingly low so he doesn't startle Jamie while his eyes remain clamped shut. “It'll all be over soon.”

There is, though. 

A need. 

He doesn't know. 

***

“I'm going to pat your face dry with the towel now. Keep your eyes closed, there's a good boy.” Jamie doesn't know how to respond to the other man's gentle praise, so he says nothing. “All done. You can open your eyes now.”

Jamie slowly does so. He hasn't been called that in years, not since he were a wee lad. He kind of can't believe it happened now, and how swiftly Doctor Kent has moved on from it too. 

A white plaster is being taped onto his eyebrow, smaller than the last one.

“No stitches necessary, however, there's a risk it will scar. The placement, where the bottle made contact with your skin, it was right across your eyebrow. Split the brow clean in half. Unfortunate.”

“Er, that's alright. I shaved that bit off anyway. He did me a favour really.”

The doctor looks faintly amused, it's in the sparkling of his dark eyes. 

“You shaved a piece of your eyebrow off? Why?”

“Dunno,” Jamie admits. “Seemed like a good idea at the time?”

The doctor comes back around until he's standing in front of Jamie again. He's speaking formally again, disappointingly. “One more examination, then we're done. I want to check you don't have a concussion. When did it happen, the assault?”

Jamie swallows dryly, could do with some water. “Last night. This morning? Never know what to call it, do I? It were dead late and it were dead early.” Doctor Kent is staring at him like he knows he isn't done. “About three, four AM?” Jamie guesses.

The timeline is messy. The club had closed already, he knows that much. Must've happened after…

“And you fell unconscious? How long were you out?”

“I think- uh, my security guy, him out there, he saw it. Some of it. He found me in the alley, chased the wanker off. Said I were muttering and mumbling for a second or two after I hit the ground, somethin’ like that.” He picks at his sleeve. “I dunno if it's important, but I kind of lost control?” He can feel the flush travel down his cheeks, to his neck and chest. He's going to make him say it. “You know…? Down there?”

Doctor Kent blinks slowly. “That's normal. Any convulsions? Seizures?”

“Nah. Don't think so. I mean, he'd have said. Right?”

“Can you look to the left for me please? I'm going to shine a light into each of your eyes. The left, then the right. Keep looking to your left for now, if you can. You still doing okay?”

He produced a miniature torch from his desk. 

“Yes,” Jamie says automatically. It doesn't matter if he's doing okay. 

He blinks and squints at the sudden brightness in the corner of his vision. Resists the urge to look into the light as Doctor Kent repeats the process for his right side.

“Any memory issues?”

“No more than normal.”

The doctor looks at him blankly. “Is that a joke?”

“Yeah. Me dad says I'd forget me head if it weren't screwed on.”

“I see. Nausea, headache?”

“A bit. On the drive up, like.” He pauses. “I get car sick though. I'm feeling a lot better now.”

That faint almost-smile returns again, then it's gone again. 

“Okay. Any psychiatric history?”

Jamie has an amazing therapist. She lets him jabber on about himself for the full hour usually, hardly ever interrupting his monologue with her irritating interventions. She's either the best his money can buy or the most willing to validate Jamie's bullshit, which he guesses is roughly the same thing. 

“Never been locked in a loony bin if that's what you're asking.”

“Anxiety, depression? Sleep disorder?”

“None of the above,” he lies, accompanied by a massive smile so the other man won't be able to tell. He forgets his plan to lie in the opposite direction, to score, in the pharmaceutical sense at least.

Doctor Kent stands up. “Then I think you're all set. You’re in excellent physical health, despite the minor head injury. You have some emotional issues, however we cannot assist with them. We have a treatment programme which I suspect may have helped, but no. You will leave here tonight. Now, in fact. You’re being discharged.”

Jamie looks at the clock on the wall, it's past midnight. He can't be serious. 

“Discharged? Wait, what?”

Doctor Kent is back sitting behind his desk, typing on the keys of a sleek laptop.

“Yes. You can't be our guest. I’ve produced a fit note which will enable you to play your sport. That's what you want, isn't it? Why you came here?”

“I can't stay- what, even tonight? You're having a laugh.”

Doctor Kent stops typing, looks squarely at Jamie.

“I rarely laugh.”

Jamie grimaces. “You've got a room for me, I know you have, I bet it's paid for… I'm tired. This is- it's fuckin’... medical negligence, that's what it is!”

Doctor Kent is unmoved. He barely raises an eyebrow, turns back to the screen and continues typing.

“I look forward to hearing from your solicitor then.”

“But-”

Doctor Kent’s fingers pause on the keyboard again, gaze locked ahead. “We operate a zero tolerance policy on abuse or harassment of our staff of any kind. You'll be refunded the deposit for your stay.”

“What, when?” He's being whiny now and he knows it, can't help being childish when he's riled up. “I don't want a refund. I wanna stay.”

“Well, you can't. You were disrespectful to a member of staff when you arrived here. You were rude and aggressive, and your behaviour made Miss Jones cry. I was satisfied that the nature of your injury meant that you required immediate medical attention, however, you violated a policy, so my hands are tied.”

He closes the laptop.

Clasps his hands, which had been so kind.

“I didn't mean to. It were a mistake. Can't I stay for one night, just? I'll behave.”

“No.”

“That's… that's it then? After-?”

“Your discharge papers have been emailed to the individual who made the booking with us.”

Jamie stands up, he feels wobbly but he won't give this medically trained arshehole another opportunity to pretend to care about him by admitting this out loud.

“Fine. See you around, Doctor Kunt,” he says instead, immaturity on full display. The kind you have when you sign with Man City's youth team and make your glittering debut at seventeen, so seven years later, you're emotionally still a teenager. 

He leaves the room fast, almost knocking over the chair in his hurry to get out of there. 

***

They're back in the car, bags stowed away again in the boot. His bodyguard looks almost as tired as Jamie feels as he books them into the nearest hotel which is taking guests at this hour.

The receptionist had glanced up at Jamie as he'd stormed out, hissing at the other man to get them somewhere to stay right now as he followed in his wake.

Jamie feels like shit, like the medical treatment he received tonight was somehow a worse injury than last night's bottle to the face. 

He can't believe he’s being treated this way. 

How he deserves to be treated, but still. 

Acting on impulse, he slams the door to the car open again, almost taking it off at the hinges, and jumps out.

“I've just gotta…”

Jamie strides into reception, notices the look of alarm on the poor woman's face, and plants himself in front of her, palms flat on cold marble.

“I'll go again in a minute, I'm not gonna do anything. I just- I'm not really-” he shakes his head, determined in his best efforts to sound sane. “I'm sorry, like. That's all I wanted to say. Didn't mean to make you cry. You were just doing your job. Are you… dunno, alright now?”

Miss Jones nods, eyes wide. Jamie can feel the gaze of his security detail on him.

“Yeah. It's- it's my first day, night. Sorry, I'm a bit nervous. I may have overreacted.”

“Nah, don't do that. It were my fault. I were being a prick. What's your name? Er, your first name. Should've asked you that earlier instead of going off at you…” She points to her name tag, smiles sheepishly. “Course, right. Keeley. Nice to meet you, Keeley.”

“Uhhh… you too?”

They look at each other. Jamie pats the top of her desk lightly. 

“Okay. Bye then.”

“Goodbye, sir. Safe travels."

Jamie isn't a sir. He's nothing like his angry dad, his frustrated teachers, or any one of a number of mean-spirited coaches throughout his youth career and into the premiership. He doesn't want to be.

“Can you call me Jamie, please? I'd like that.”

She smiles, this time it lights up her face. “Then it would be my pleasure. Bye Jamie.”

He leaves the wellness spa for a second time that night without seeing the doctor watching him curiously from the open door to his office. 

***

It's several weeks later. 

Before the first match of the tournament the bandage had already peeled from his skin, the last vestige of his visit with the doctor who was able to give him one small but precious thing. The bruise has faded too.

The players are lined up nearby, hopping and jostling and gooning at him, they're trying to psyche him out. They might just manage it. 

Because, this is it. The most important kick of his career. 

The World Cup final. England scored an early goal, equalised in the ninetieth minute of the second half, and now, here they are. 

Fucking penalties. 

If Jamie gets this in, he's a hero, set for life. 

If he doesn't, and the other team scores next… 

The sound of the crowd is rippling like a massive flag, rising and falling in waves and fluttering with anticipation as he takes his position. 

This is Wembley, so plenty big enough. The world is also watching through the beady eyes of cameras broadcasting live worldwide.

He looks at the spot he wants to hit, top right-hand corner of the net. 

He thinks it might be possible, is possible. 

Kicks. 

The goalkeeper catches the ball in excruciatingly slow motion. Jamie's world shrinks. 

The German player lines it up next, goes for it. 

Scores. 

If Jamie Tartt thought it was all over for him before… 

… it sure as shit is now.

***

Chapter Text

New York

Fast city living ain't all
It's cracked up to be
Lord have mercy
Mercy on me
New York is killing
New York is killing
New York is killing me
Don't you, don't you, don't you, don’t you, don't you know

Gil Scott-Heron, Jamie xx

There are two roads before him, but the second wasn't born from a fork in the first - an intentional split, giving him another option - no, Jamie's just incredibly drunk. Seeing double. 

Maybe the fourteenth vodka was a mistake. 

Maybe?

He leans clumsily across, twiddles a knob. A thudding bassline with lyrics approximately as optimistic as his mood blasts through the speakers and then he's going faster and faster, foot sticking to the accelerator and it - like him - only knows how to go further down. 

Down, down, until he slams into the flat-rock bottom which looks a lot like the winding roads he used to drive down when he first passed his test, putting miles and miles between him and Moss Side.

He has a thought, a dangerous fucking thought. It's circling and curving in his mind like the roads in front of him, twisting and intertwining and eventually taking him back to the same place as always, which is always so far from home. 

Jamie punches buttons on the console, connects to his hands-free. He has to do this. Has to know before… whatever this is. 

Because- 

What the hell did the doc mean, emotional issues? 

Understatement of the bloody century, Jamie has an emotional shitstorm swirling inside of him, currently manifesting in the increasing velocity of his vehicle as he cuts through the countryside like... like he has a date with fate, his destination’s destiny and-

“Hello, you're through to-”

“Is he there? Put him on please?” Steve asks with a drawl, the effects of the alcohol he consumed earlier in the evening causing him to slur. "Keeley? Are you there?"

“Oh, it's- and you’re calling for-? Doctor Kent is with a patient but I can tell him you called…? Or pass on a message for you. Mr- Jamie?”

“Fine. Tell him- Keeley, will you tell him when he reads about it in the paper tomorrow, he should know- this is all his fault.”

Jamie hangs up the line. His breathing is ragged. Is this just his flair for the dramatic speaking, or does he actually mean this to happen? What he thinks he's going to do next - will it be an accident, or on purpose? 

He laughs, a manic, high-pitched thing. 

Because it doesn't matter, does it? 

He's wrecked and he's reckless, speeding at eighty miles an hour on narrow back roads, which appear like apparitions from the vast and empty nothingness, and he knows just where he's heading. The music cuts out to allow for the initial ring, until Jamie jabs at the button to make it stop. 

It won't be such a bad thing. 

Will it?

Well. Maybe. Who really knows? Not Jamie. 

Fuck it anyway.

He drives for another few minutes, mulling over the biggest decision of his life. 

Another car flies around the bend, tyres crossing over the line in the middle of the road. Jamie's Porsche swings left to avoid it as the hands-free trills in the dark. 

He answers the call this time, satisfied that he managed to bully his way through to the good doctor like the spoiled brat he definitely is sometimes, but also because he managed to keep all four wheels in contact with the ground.

Miracle. 

“Who is it?” Jamie asks obnoxiously cheerfully, making an effort to mask his affected speech.

“What's my fault?”

He smiles, can see tears glittering on his lashes, which aren't helping the vision issue. “Who's this?”

“Don't be facetious, Mr Tartt. I'm calling you back right away because I'm curious to know what I'm being blamed for, specifically, before the tabloids-” he says this word like it's foreign, unfamiliar, “-inform me of it in the morning. It's late. You're clearly intoxicated. I was with another patient. I don't appreciate you calling my receptionist and upsetting her, again. What's the point in an apology if the behaviour remains, hm?”

The words wash over Jamie, white knuckles gripping the steering wheel tighter his only bodily response. 

“I'm done,” he says carefully, numb, and aware that he's whining as well, complaining about something only loosely connected to this man, but his pain’s flying in every direction and maybe he just needs it to stick to something which isn't him. “You saw the game.”

“I didn't.” His tone has softened. “Of course, I know what happened. Where are you? What's that sound behind you-? Are you driving?”

Jamie can't feel his fingers, his feet. It's perhaps only his instincts keeping him alive, muscle memory working overtime as he turns his hands in degrees and the bends seem to recognise themselves. 

He's disconnecting, nearly there. It's almost over. 

“You told me…” he chokes out, sounding angrier than he feels, “said you could’ve helped me, but you decided… no. That was a ch-choice you made, and I- my fuckin’ nerves, they got the better of me. And now, now-”

“Slow down. I can hear that you're driving.”

“-I'm fucked. Don’t you get that? FUCKED!” he shouts although it might as well be a whisper for all he expects to be heard. 

“Pull over.”

“I can't. You don't get it, have to-”

“Now, Jamie. That wasn't a request.” He sounds serious. Jamie listens to him, is well-trained to take such blunt instructions from authority figures without question. Partly because maybe this other man understands what Jamie's trying to do, even from another country, must be able to hear the car slowing as Jamie silently obeys. And- and because he can't help it. Can't fight this urge to save himself despite everything. “Take your foot off the accelerator gradually, no sudden movements please, and switch on your high beams if it's safe to do so.” 

“I'm doing it,” he says, voice smaller, further away, “are you happy now?"

The disembodied voice coming through his car speakers is encouraging and warm when it continues. “Good boy, very good. Can you see somewhere you can easily pull in- a gate to a field or a layby?”

Um. How does he know he's in the countryside? Jamie lives in the city, has done so for each of his twenty five years even though he isn't particularly into the grey buildings and litter and endless parade of annoying people. 

He clears his throat. The drunk feeling is morphing into a dull headache. It's a good idea to stop for a bit. Chill out. 

“I can see a place.”

“Pull over there then, nice and slow. Imagine you have your favourite person in the car. You want to protect them, yes?”

She isn't really, but Jamie’s mum is smiling at him through the rearview mirror. It’s a small, nice thing for him to remind Jamie of her. Kind.

He slows more. Rolls to a stop in the closed entranceway to a farm shop next to a faded sign advertising pick-your-own strawberries, and switches off the engine. Shame at what he's been doing lands on him like he hit something, it's that quick. 

He's drunk. And he's been driving. Wouldn't want to hurt anyone except himself. Not that it stops him, but he doesn't ever want to. The distinction seems important. Maybe it isn't though, maybe he got it wrong. The phone call from this afternoon sits in Jamie's guts, heavy like the meal he definitely should've eaten before he got this drunk. 

They found him- that's what his dad had said. The lad who bottled him. They recorded him on CCTV scampering from the alley and clambering into his nan’s Nissan Micra. Traced him from the number plate and arrested him this morning for assaulting Jamie Tartt, star striker of the England team weeks before the World Cup final with Germany. It's hitting all the papers tomorrow.

Unless, of course, bigger news steals the spotlight, Jamie thought in response. 

But… then what? 

He's pleading not guilty, so there's going to be a trial.

And- and Jamie felt like he could pass out from this news, although he was sitting on his couch when he took the call. Gave the police his statement that night, they came out to his dad's house. Jamie sat there, hurting, and told them the version of events least likely to get him in trouble.

He's a coward.

Oh well, he'd thought. No going back now.

His dad was going on and on about how this could help Jamie's image. He'll give evidence on the stand when it goes to trial, it'll be great, televised. The Great British public will see for themselves that Jamie was psychologically suffering as the victim of this awful crime when he missed the penalty which was seen by the world. As soon as the man responsible goes to prison, Jamie will be vindicated. The brand sponsorships, they'll come crawling back. 

His dad was ecstatic, jubilant. Jamie just wanted to die. Didn't think the kid would ever be found, he thought he'd gotten away with it. 

Jamie doesn't want to hurt people. He never fucking thinks-

“You're hyperventilating,” says a voice. “Listen to me carefully, I'm going to talk you through this. It's an anxiety attack. It won't last long, it will not harm you, but it is very uncomfortable and frightening when it happens. Can you breathe in through your nose for the count of four, hold it for a second, and breathe out your mouth like you're blowing through a straw for the count of six?”

Jamie wipes freshly wet eyes on the cuffs of his hoodie. 

Can't breathe, can't speak.

“That's okay,” says the voice, “I'll do it with you. In for four, hold for one, out for six. Are you ready?”

“I'm-” his breath is hurting, hitching in his lungs, but he manages to force out the one thing he needs to say. “I'm sorry.”

“That's-” there's a curious pause where the doctor, this almost stranger who Jamie called in the middle of the night to insult him and blame him for his own shortcomings, says nothing. “I'm beginning.”

***

After he's calmed enough that he's able to take a sip of water from a bottle he finds on the passenger seat, Jamie apologises again, only slightly more coherently this time.

“Sorry, defo shouldn't have called you like that. It were a bit much, yeah?”

Doctor Kent brushes his question off with an odd question of his own, which comes out of left-field. Jamie thinks he might just be trying to confuse him to distract him from his melancholy thoughts. It's not a terrible plan. Jamie's easily distracted at the best of times. “Are you Catholic?” he asks, stopping Jamie in his tracks. 

There wasn't much actual sectarianism in his council estate in Manchester as a growing lad, but there were roaming gangs of angry, disillusioned kids who had nothing better to do than latch onto whatever faded ideologies they could repurpose to justify their new kind of violence, so yeah, he's been asked before.

“Nah. I'm an only child and I played for City.”

“Hm, I see. No offence meant. I have faith. It's- I rarely meet someone who has the weight of the world resting on their shoulders who hasn't experienced an unhealthy dose of Catholic guilt before they were old enough to know how to query it. I figured that might explain it.”

“Eh? I think I'm a prat, not the Pope.”

“Noted.” There's a long pause. “May I ask why you really called me tonight, Mr Tartt? You're clearly in some kind of crisis, but I'm not your primary physician. Despite what you say, you don't sound like you particularly blame me for your predicament. What else might you want from me, hm? Has our last encounter been playing on your mind?”

Jamie's head is spinning, the sudden stillness of his body in the stationary vehicle making him queasy. Also- He doesn't know where he is. The trees caught in his headlight beams are looming strangers, disturbed by his unlikely appearance before them. 

The doctor’s voice is soothing. Maybe he wanted to feel soothed one more time, before…

He can't admit this to him though, can he? 

No. A doctor will have a professional duty to report it to the mental health services in his local area or some shit. 

Nightmare.

“Yeah.” He shifts in his seat, his attempt to find courage making him fidget. “Um. What did you-? It's been doing me head in a bit. You don't have to- I don't need the actual treatment. I just wanna know what you meant by a programme that might help? Because I don't really think anything can help me…” he trails off.

There's another long pause, as thick as the night.  

“If you wanted to find out more about the work that we do, you could have called within office hours. I suspect the fact that you chose to do it this way, involving me in your late night drink-driving anxiety attack, may be a sign that you're slightly more interested in benefitting from the treatment programme that we offer to only our most special guests than perhaps you'd like to admit.”

Jamie sniffs, latent petulance rising. “You said I wasn't allowed.”

“That was then.” The voice has softened again. “I watched you apologising to Miss Jones, you know?” Oh. Jamie didn't know that. “Yes, and you seemed quite sincere,” the doctor continues, so lulling and soft. “I've spoken to her since and she’s kindly given her permission for you to join our programme, should you wish to. Your behaviour tonight scared her a little. She rushed into my appointment with another patient because she thought you might be about to find a permanent solution to a temporary problem. She cares about your welfare, don't you think?”

Yeah, right. Either that, or he’s a manipulative twat. Jamie scratches his head. 

“So, are you going to tell me what it involves- this- I dunno, treatment thingy?”

“We can discuss the kind of work we do more tomorrow. For now, I want you to hang up, check your coordinates on Google Maps, then call yourself a taxi - make sure to take your keys with you - and have yourself a good night's sleep. Someone else can pick up the car. I'll call you at-” Jamie can hear the click-clack sound of typing, “-11:15am. Does that suit?”

“Yeah. Should be almost human again by then,” he jokes, suddenly shy.

“If you could try to be, that would be appreciated. Good night. Stay safe.”

Then he’s gone again, but at least Jamie has a set of clear instructions to follow if he wants to find out more. He does what he's told.

***

“What kind of work?”

He's showered. Cobbled together cereal for breakfast and now he's padding around his house eating it from the bowl with a fork, the only clean cutlery immediately to hand, in pyjama bottoms, no socks, messy hair, and a messier mind. Jamie feels like shit still, but it's the normal kind. The kind he can usually cope with, just a few glaring exceptions. 

The doctor’s voice is turned up loud on his speaker phone, and he's still being nice to Jamie despite last night's embarrassing escapade. 

He also isn't letting him off the hook.

“You heard what I said. It's a kind of sex work.”

That's what Jamie thought he'd heard. It doesn't entirely fit with the vibes of the country house, however, one thing that he's discovered since making his mark on the world of football is that wellness-themed honeytraps catering to the rich and famous often have a fabulous double standard. Trapdoor from a facade of moralistic healthy living to something riskier, illicit, barely legal at most, and far from good for you in the long-term.

Fun in the moment, though.

“You had hookers back there the whole time? Woah. You got blackjack too?”

“I'm not much of a gambler.” Jamie can hear the small smile in his voice, wishes he was there to see it. “The work we undertake is administered mainly by myself and several of my highly trained staff, although I suppose for someone of your notoriety the staff involved in your care should be limited to myself and possibly Miss Jones. She's being trained in an assistant role and you two seem to have bonded somewhat, so further contact within a therapeutic context would be beneficial to both of you, I suspect.”

“You havin’ a laugh?” Jamie scrunches his face up as he asks his default question whenever he's confused. 

“I refer you to my previous answer.”

What answer? Jamie shakes his head, then stops. It's only making the hangover rattle around his skull anyway. 

“Oh. Right. Yeah. But is it… legal?”

“Everything is if you can afford it. You should know that by now, Mr Tartt. It's just a little… unusual, I suppose, in certain circles.”

Jamie shakes his head. He can't tell if he's joking. He sort of sounds like he is, but he's also a grumpy sod who is annoyingly correct about this specific part of being rich. Ask for forgiveness instead of permission and your crime involves fucking and cocaine, and you're in a high enough tax bracket of course, and you're golden. 

“Yeah, okay, but- What kind of sex work? You gonna tie me up and spank me ‘til I cry all my feelings out or what?”

The phone screen is black as he waits for the answer, only Doctor Kunt spelled out spitefully on the screen. 

He should probably change that…

“If that's what you think you need.”

Well. That answers that, then.  

“Oh.”

“We’d have you fill in a checklist at the outset to ensure we get a detailed picture of your boundaries and interests. The purpose of the programme isn't to titillate, mind you. Its aim is to methodically dismantle your defences, then build them up again, from scratch. I could tell from even our brief encounters so far that you have several deep emotional needs which are not currently being met. That's not a criticism, most people do. Our objective this week will be to meet as many of them as possible, let you have that. We'll do whatever it takes within reason. The programme is experiential in nature.”

Jamie doesn't like the sound of that. “Yeah, thanks but no thanks, don't really fancy being a guinea pig for some science experiment, mate."

“Experiential, not experimental," he corrects him simply, no implied judgment or criticism as far as Jamie can tell. "We use physical activities as tools to encourage our patients to explore their emotions around certain themes which are important to the human psyche - safety, attachment, dependence, care, that sort of thing - while providing a safe space to have overwhelming feelings, and ultimately, seek acceptance.”

Jamie takes a shaky breath. 

“You’re serious.”

“Yes. But Mr Tartt, Jamie,” he says his first name like he knows what it does to him, the smug bastard, “if you'd prefer not to engage our services, that's okay. We don't even have to discuss it any further if it makes you uncomfortable. What we do, I know it's not for everyone.”

“No-” Jamie thinks about the mess which is his life, and what he has to lose - only his shattered reputation, and a tonne more money. Nothing important then. “I think I can get a driver, be there by tonight.”

The decision is quick, but it's too seductive, the idea that he can feel better than this. 

There's a pause where he thinks he's going to change his mind now that Jamie is tentatively agreeing.

“Are you sure?” Doctor Kent asks him instead. “That's a clear, yes?” he wants to know. “You don't want to think it over first, sleep on it, let me know in the morning? I can email more details if you want to do your research.”

It's either going along with this mad plan or calling his dad.

“No. I'm sure.”

“Very good then. I'll book you in. Seven nights is the recommended length of a visit, initially. This can be varied for subsequent visits. Do you have a week free?”

Jamie's diary is wide open, empty of anything he would prefer doing over this last ditch effort at self-preservation. “I have a week. See you tonight.”

“I look forward to it.”

The line cuts off. The big house is spacious with its lack of memories. It's brand new and it smells new, no matter how many cabin hideaway scented candles Jamie burns to hide the scent of magnolia paint. It’s silent all around him. His head aches and he feels sickly, weak and queasy.

He sighs, supposes he's enduring the long drive to Scotland again… with another monster hangover this time as well, so it's going to be pretty terrible for him, the journey up.

Still, he's relieved. Feels like a small boy, lost in the supermarket and looking for his mum. He'll have to pull himself together somehow. Jamie doesn't hold out much hope that sexytimes are going to be capable of curing him of this funk he's fallen into. If they were, he would’ve been in peak emotional health between about the ages of sixteen and twenty five and a half, otherwise known as earlier this week. On the other hand, it's looking increasingly likely that he's going to get to shag the fit doctor. That's something to look forward to at least, something to lift his ongoing misery for a few short days.

There's worse ideas.

***

“You have to read it. That's the point of a checklist. That you read it, and clearly state whether you agree or disagree with everything on the list.”

“I did. I'm into it all. What's next?”

Doctor Kent spies him with a raised brow. 

“You can read, can't you? It's not a problem if you can't, it would just be good to know.”

Jamie failed his GCSE English twice, but there's no way the doctor can know this. And anyway, what kind of a question is that?

Rude. 

“Uh, yes.”

“What's your favourite book?”

“I'm more of a magazines kinda guy.”

“Okay.” The doctor pauses, clearly for dramatic effect. He's as bad as Jamie. “Then read the list.”

“I have,” Jamie insists. “Look, you have my signature, I can't sue you. What else do you-?”

“Aloud.”

A flush of heat travels down Jamie's spine and he loses control of his mouth as his blood rushes elsewhere. “I'm allowed to do what? Kiss you finally? Babe, you only had to ask.”

That enigmatic half-smile flashes for a millisecond, like lightning.

Jamie licks his lips. Bites the bottom one obviously, and grins.

The other man seems to be making a monumental effort not to roll his eyes at him.

Jamie’s going to count that as a win. 

“Try to really listen to me. The checklist- I want you to read it out loud. Read it to me. If you're into everything and you're able to read, you shouldn't find the task too difficult.” Doctor Kent hands the piece of paper attached to a clipboard back to him. 

The patronising tone has made Jamie all squirmy, bratty and up for a challenge. “Why though?”

Jamie is assessed intensely, but the other man's posture remains relaxed. It's an interesting combination. 

“You know why. I told you already, in plain words in a language you speak. Do you often play dumb to avoid being vulnerable?”

Yes, yes he very often does. 

“Fine, fuck you. Fine.” Jamie notes the first word on the list. It's an easy one. He's even dabbled with it in the past. “Spanking, check!” 

He does a tick in the air with an imaginary pen. The doc crosses his legs at the ankles, leans back in his swivel chair and crosses his arms over his chest lightly, like he's settling in to be there for a while. He has a similar outfit on to last time, except this time his jumper is thick and cream. He looks like a retired professor. 

“I can believe that, go on."

“Impact play. Check.”

“You understand what it means? Tell me.”

“Hitting and stuff.”

“With?”

Jamie rolls his eyes heavily. He's going to make him spell it out. That's the point, apparently. Communication. 

Gross.

“Hands, things, whatever.”

Doctor Kent nods. “Correct. Next item.”

“Face slapping. Um, I'm into it... I think. Never done it before, have I? But I'm okay with trying it I reckon.”

“Excellent. I think we'll boh enjoy that, and it's nicer if we're both into it. Don't you think?”

Jamie grimaces outwardly, although he's secretly pleased. “You're so fucking weird.”

“Next, please.” 

And like- He's clearly enjoying himself, despite his poker face. Jamie sits up a little straighter in his seat. He's impatient though, so he skims the page until he spots a line he doesn't understand. It's shortened to three letters and it doesn't fit with the rest of the items. He didn't think he'd be made to have normal therapy as well this week. It feels unfair to spring it on him like this. 

"Um. Why's cognitive behavioural therapy on here? I mean, I've had it before. When me head was up me arse after I left City...”

“Give.” Doctor Kent is gesturing with his fingers for him to hand it back. “Cognitive…?”

“It didn't do much for me. Don't think I really got it. If I could choose how I feel, I wouldn't feel like this. Would I?" James hands it back. The doctor frowns heavily at the page for a second, making Jamie nervously ramble. "I didn't mind it though, it were okay, we can give it a go if you like...”

Then, he totally smiles as he's correcting it with the pen Jamie used to sign. 

He hands it back to Jamie. “I'll get it changed for next time. Thank you for drawing my attention to the error, although I see why it was confusing to someone with no psychiatric history whatsoever.” Jamie smiles innocently and the doc rolls his eyes the tiniest amount. “Read it again.”

He can see what happened instantly. There’s a tiny squiggle of an & symbol between the first two initials and the meaning of the initials written below.

“Cock and ball…’ he trails off.

“What’s wrong? Is it embarrassing you?”

Jamie can feel the beginning of a flush, the tiniest bit of growing heat in his chest and throat. “Er, not really? Just don't get why I have to read it out. Bit of a creepy bedtime story, no?”

Doctor Kent leans forward, elbows planted on his knees. “I don't know you well, Mr Tartt, or really at all yet... and yet... I have a growing sense that you tend to agree to things to get them over and done with. Preferably without having to give your opinion on them or even think about them at all. And agreeing to everything simply because you don't care what happens to you, that's not the same thing as consenting.”

He's not wrong. Jamie is still confused anyway. He feels like he's back in maths class, trying and failing to understand literally anything going on around him.

“Isn't kinky stuff meant to be fun - like, how is it... therapy? Do you treat sex addicts or what? Bet they love it here. Come regularly. Huh?”

Doctor Kent leans back again but doesn't laugh, the joyless bastard. “It can be fun. Even here, I'm not strictly against our patients enjoying themselves. Our programme is tailored to the individual though, by necessity. It can be functional, entry-level, or it can be the most intense experience of your life. The purpose of the checklist is to set clear, agreed boundaries between us from the outset. I find out early on those parts of you which might benefit from my closer attention, although I'm starting to get a feel already from your reaction.”

“What parts?” Jamie would like to know, his curiosity well and truly peaked. Because he can't mean...? 

No, surely not. He can't have access to Jamie's late night searches, can he?

He doesn't answer him. Instead, the doctor asks, “It's different to choose something for yourself, rather than having it chosen for you, don't you think?”

Jamie looks at the list again, the way it builds. 

The final few items are kind of scary. He's always been a thrill-seeker, impulsive, drawn to dead drops and fast cars and even faster women, and yeah, even men. Learned early in life that the best way to fight was to hit the biggest bully before his underlings could fling the first fist. And, that fighting sometimes turns to fucking, or fighting which feels a lot like fucking, or vice versa, if he's lucky. All limbs and passion and the physical sensations drowning out how he feels. 

“I wouldn't know.”

“That's something we can work on together then. Knowing your limits. A decent starting point for our work together.” He glances at the clipboard which is still in Jamie's hands. “Do you want a fresh copy so you can fill it in properly this time?”

“Okay.”

He ticks every yes box again, but takes his time this time. Before Jamie hands it back, he's nervous. Has to make sure he isn't doing something immensely bad and stupid. He's hiding his sheet with his hand, embarrassed by his answers.

Because he's into the idea of heavy kink and he's not ashamed of it. Likes watching it online sometimes and everything. It's just- he's never had the guts to seek it out for himself, and all the sexy clubs and parties he's been to seemed more about showing off the outfits, fit rubber dresses and latex catsuits moulded to sculpted bodies, so he's never really needed to know how it's actually… done. 

In practice, he feels like a silly wee virgin again, fumbling for the right words which might unlock what he wants.

“Do I have to- can I stop? If we give something a go, then I change me mind? Is that, er, allowed?”

Doctor Kent nods sagely. “I was going to get onto that. We'll use a safeword of your choosing. Say it and I'll stop what I'm doing, check in. We can continue if you feel up to it or pause, change things up, or stop entirely and finish the session.”

Jamie breathes a soft sigh of relief. “Safeword, right, sound. That's what- What's a good one?”

“If you don't have one to mind, I suggest a fruit. Something you’re unlikely to say by accident. What fruits do you like?”

He thinks for a second. Decides to be honest instead of saying something cool like dragonfruit. “Banana? Pretty basic, I know. Like ‘em in pancakes, don't I? Comfort food, innit.”

Doctor Kent seems pleased by this. “Perfect. Say banana, for any reason or no reason, and I'll stop what I'm doing immediately.”

Jamie nods, he understands. 

Signs his name. 

Doctor Kent takes the clipboard from him, considers it for a moment. Jamie thinks he's going to be angry with him, accuse him of being flippant or lying. He's ready to be outraged in response, to have to fight to be taken seriously.

Because- it wouldn't be fair. He isn't lying. 

He thought about it hard on the drive up and he really is up for trying anything. Whatever helps, right?

He's been depressed before, never like this. Jamie feels like his whole world is turning black. He's standing in the middle of an empty stadium at night and the floodlights are switching off one by one.

It's terrifying, being alone in the dark. 

Doctor Kent walks over to an upholstered bench on one side of the room, cushions propped on it against the wall. He sits, places the clipboard on the floor between his feet, and stretches his arms until they rest on top of the line of cushions either side of him. 

“I'm proud of you. I can see how difficult that was. You were very brave.”

Jamie takes the unspoken cue, his cheeks heating helplessly, and stands.

“Right. Thanks. So, do we kick off after a quick kip? I get up early anyway for training, just name a time. I'll be up. Could do with a hot tub before bed though. Can you point me in the right direction?”

Doctor Kent shakes his head a little. He declines to point out the way to the spa, open palms tapping the tops of his thighs instead. 

“No. We begin tonight. Come up over my knees now, Jamie. We've got a lot of work to do, apparently, and we only have a week.”

***