“Would you like anything to drink?” Ash asks.
“Water would be nice, thanks,” he decides, his throat already drying up.
Ash pulls out a bottle of water from the mini fridge behind his desk and pours two glasses. He offers one to Dawson, who takes it with a quiet ‘thanks’. He sits in the armchair opposite Dawson, the only thing between them a low-lying table made of dark timber.
Gripping the glass in a shaky hand, Dawson brings it up to take a small sip, then puts it down on the table. He sinks back into the sofa, the plushie in his lap while he plays with its ears.
Ash nurses his water, watching Dawson over the rim of the glass before setting it down as well. He folds his hands comfortably on his thigh, one ankle crossed over the other leg. It’s an open posture, Dawson notes, and to his surprise, Ash isn’t holding a notepad or a pen.
He smiles again, soft and knowing, and a gust of breath rushes out of Dawson’s lungs. “How can I help you, Dawson?”
Dawson doesn’t have one solid answer for that. He doesn’t even know where to start.
“You could help me figure out what’s wrong with me. And why I’m such a mess.” He instantly regrets it. If he learned anything from the self-help books he’s read over the years, it’s that words like ‘wrong’ or ‘normal’ are all but banned at a therapist’s office, because there’s no such thing as normal and thus you can’t be wrong yadayadaya.
If that were true, he wouldn’t be feeling like this.
He braces himself for being chastised in a way that pretends to be gentle but is patronizing in nature. But Ash stays quiet, and when Dawson looks up, he finds Ash watching him with that ever-present smile.
“I can do that,” he simply says, making Dawson’s jaw drop. He cocks his head. “Is everything alright?” By the glint in his eye, he fucking well knows. He just wants Dawson to engage with him.
“I… I guess I’ve been reading way too many self-help books, because I’ve been kind of expecting you to jump in and argue that there’s nothing wrong with me and that I’m normal.”
Ash nods, like Dawson’s rambling makes sense. “Would you believe me?” When Dawson frowns, he says, “I’m happy to tell you all that, if it helps. But I’m going to wager a guess and say that it would do fuck-all. Just like those self-help books you’ve been reading.”
Processing everything that just came out of Ash’s mouth—his therapist’s mouth—Dawson fumbles for his glass, chugging down what remains in it. “Gabe wasn’t kidding.” He says it mostly to himself, but Ash catches it.
“What’s that?”
“Gabe. Your cousin? He gave me your number. Said that if I don’t want to be treated with kid gloves, I’m supposed to call you.”
“I see,” Ash says, a kind of realization settling in his gaze. “Are you two friends?”
Dawson’s first impulse is to say yes. He does consider Gabe a friend, but is that who they are? Just because Dawson tends to pour his heart out to the freaking baristas doesn’t make it friendship.
“I guess? I mean, I’m a customer atLost and Ground. But we chat quite a bit.”
“Right. Well, in case Gabe hasn’t told you, my methods are rather…unconventional.” The prideful tone in Ash’s voice is unmistakable. He holds up his hands. “Nothing illegal. I think,” he adds absentmindedly, probably for a dramatic effect. “To be honest, people usually reach out to me when they’ve tried almost everything and everyone, but nothing worked. You will likely find yourself overwhelmed at some point.”
You don’t say.
“Mission accomplished,” Dawson says without heat, making Ash laugh. “But don’t most people get overwhelmed in therapy?”
“Yes. But it’s also the therapist’s job to ground them again.”
Dawson arches an eyebrow and gives Ash a scrutinizing once-over. “Doyoudo that?” He doubts this man has any intention to calm people down. More like rile them up so they spill all their secrets.
Ash grins like a feral cat. “I prefer to kick the heat up a notch.” He’s been leaning forward a little, but now he falls back into the armchair, propping his elbows up on the armrests. So freaking relaxed. “Well, Dawson. I can go on and talk your ear off about myself and my methods, or we can try them out. Figure out what’s wrong with you.” He winks and Dawson is helpless to stop the laugh bubbling in his chest. At the same time, something inside him unclenches, making his breathing easier.
“Yeah, okay.”
Ash nods. “Whenever you’re ready.” He means it too. It takes Dawson a few solid minutes to gather himself together, the poor cat’s ears now properly abused. The whole time, Ash doesn’t say a word, not a flicker of annoyance or impatience in his expression as he watches Dawson with soft eyes.
“Okay, so…I’m married.”
Ash glances at Dawson’s left hand, then back at him. “Yes.”
Dawson rolls his eyes, a grin pulling at his lips. It falls when he starts talking. “We’ve been together for about six years and…most of them have been…challenging,” he chooses the words carefully.
