Eddie’s therapist’s name is Dr. Kingston.
Dr. Melanie Kingston, trauma specialist. He knows that second bit because it’s written in small, neat letters on the card the Chief gave him along with the paperwork Eddie needs her to sign to clear him for his return to work.
He hates that second bit. It’s too big, says too much. He got shot, sure. Maybe he’s struggled with that a little in his head, sure. But he’s dealing with it. He’s not a victim, he’s not traumatized, he just—
He got shot. He doesn’t want to fixate on that or have a breakdown or whatever, he just wants to move forward. Move on. Go back to normal, go back to work.
He’s fine. Or, he’ll be fine. He doesn’t need to talk to a random stranger to get there.
He’s fine. He just needs to go to work.
The problem? Dr. Kingston doesn’t agree.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” Eddie snaps finally in the middle of their fourth session.
“All I want is for you to be honest with me,” she replies calmly, pushing her glasses up her nose. “That’s all.”
“Do you think I started doing this five minutes ago?” She interrupts, and sets her notepad aside. “You’ve been honest about the things you want to talk about. You’ll spend an hour talking about Christopher hoping I won’t notice you haven’t said anything about yourself. You’ll talk about Buck, about your friends in the 118—you’ll talk about anything except the reason why we’re here.”
Eddie crosses his arms over his chest and looks away.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” he insists.
“You got shot.” Something about her pointed tone makes him want to flinch. He bites back the urge. Swallows.
“Yeah. It’s not the first time.”
“I know,” she says. “It happened in Afghanistan, right? You were shot three times and the army sent you home with a medal and a medical discharge?”
Eddie’s jaw tenses. There’s an itch between his shoulder blades. He thinks he can taste blood on his tongue.
Distantly, he can hear the ringing of an explosion.
“Yeah,” he grinds out. “And I was fine then too.”
“Uh huh. So you’re saying you don’t feel like that’s any different?” She asks. “You weren’t in a warzone this time, Eddie. You were shot by a sniper. As a civilian. On a city street, in broad daylight.”
Eddie’s breath catches, but she keeps going.
“You’re telling me you feel safe? Walking in the open? Going to the grocery store? Taking Christopher to the park?”
He does flinch then, remembering—
Freezing in a parking lot, unable to breathe, unable to move, Christopher calling Buck because something’s wrong with dad—
Dr. Kingston stops. Her voice gentles.
“Like I said,” she says quietly. “I didn’t start doing this five minutes ago, Eddie. So. Let me help you. Let me help you help yourself.”
Eddie’s next breath shudders. He squeezes his eyes shut. Scrubs his hands over his face. When he opens his eyes again, she’s just looking at him, waiting patiently without judgment.
“Where do you want to start?” He asks, the words scraping his throat.
She tips her head. “Where do you?”
Buck’s face swims into his head, the moment—clean and staring at him and then shocked and splattered with blood—
Eddie wets his lips. Takes another breath.
“I didn’t really feel the actual shot,” he admits. “Not right away.”
Dr. Kingston picks up her notepad.
“Okay. Let’s start there.”
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