WHO: Therese Bonaccord & Axebanger Brookstanton
WHAT: Axe's therapist has changed and he is NOT pleased
WHERE: Her office
WHEN: Today!

She had fifteen minutes before her next appointment, and if Therese’s musing on the player were right, then he would not heed to such silly things as a time schedule. She wouldn’t be late, of course, but she wasn’t going to put herself into a panic to make it back on time when she was sure Rupert Brookstanton wasn’t going to. The small cafe in the lobby of her office building served a rather good lunch, but all Therese ever came there for was a raspberry danish. As healthy as she tried to be, there was no resisting the dessert when she came through the doors.

There had been a short line, but finally Therese made her purchase. Quite content with the pastry, she turned to start making her way up the stairs (to get some exercise to balance out the treat) and had only looked down for a second when she slammed into someone who had stopped in front of her. Her sunglasses bounced off the top of her head and to the floor, her briefcase opened and unrolled all her scrolls of parchment, and worst of all, her danish had been squashed against her hand and her chest.

“Merde!” she let out, taking a few steps back to look down at the disaster.

For nearly three years, Axebanger had been a fixture at the offices of Phyllis Derwent and colleagues. As part of his reinstatement-cum-slave-sentence, he had a bi-monthly appointment with which to discuss, in depth, the troubling nature of his thoughts and feelings.

He was French. He didn't have feelings.

Belligerently contesting such an obligation, his brilliant plan had been to sit in total, neutral silence for the duration of their hour together. Unfortunately, Phyllis Derwent told him drolly, as far as brilliant plans went, it left a little something to be desired, as that month already she'd had three people (including one child) who conceived the same brilliant plan. As Axe fancied himself an original, this did not sit well with him, and he quickly moved on to being an annoying, contradictory, and sullen patient. Wisely catching on, Derwent had then told him that this was the most typical type of patient she saw, but the only alternative Axe thought of at that point was being genuinely cooperative, and if the choices were between that and conformity, it would have to be conformity. It was sixty minutes of war: whining, snapping, growling, silent treatment, upending ink blotters—he loved every minute of it.

And then the heartless witch had to go and tell him she was retiring. No notice, no apology, certainly no consolatory fruit basket. Bodily refusing to leave the chaise in her office had done little-to-no good as she simply threatened to write "patient forms unhealthy attachments to mother-like figures… etc. etc." in his file to let him sort out with her successor in order to get him to leave her office, which he was reasonably certain was unethical.

Merlin, he would miss her.

Now, he was absolutely underwhelmed and unenthused at the idea of meeting someone else, which was evidenced by the fact that he had shown up five minutes early for his appointment and knocked loudly on various doors which yielded no response but a bespectacled man frowning pointedly at him before deciding this new one, Therese Bonaccord was simply unprepared to meet with him. That was his story, and when management was breathing down his neck, he would be sticking to it. Jogging down the stairs, he flicked his wrist over to check the time, wondering in what delicious ways he would fill the free time of his afternoon (throwing things at his teammates?) when he bumped hard into something before him.

Lowering his eyes slowly, he looked at the brunette on the step below him, further down to what he presumed had once been a pastry (located, he might add, in a very attention-catching spot), and further still to the mess on the ground. If he wasn't mistaken (which he wasn't), this comely mademoiselle had just sworn in French. His eyes narrowed behind his own dark specs. Therese Bonaccord.

Oh, he hoped not.

Or… he glanced back at the sad remains of the pastry. Perhaps he did.

"Soyez prudent, mademoiselle," he tutted, verifying his person was as pristine as it had been coming down the stairs before decided to play the genial card. It wouldn't be a hardship to try and delay her long enough that she'd miss the start of the appointment and he could saunter on with the rest of his day.

Her danish.

The rest of this day was going to be miserable, it was sure. Therese glared up at Brookstanton, forcing herself not to start shouting obscenities like she desperately wanted to. She was supposed to be professional with this man, no matter how frustrating his reports painted him out to be. Therese didn’t exactly like the idea of inheriting patients as you could only learn so much about a person from reading notes, but Derwent was a very respectable witch in the field and had trusted Therese with a few of her ‘most entertaining’ cases. That phrase could mean a few different things, and as much of a headache she was sure that this man and the other patients could cause Therese was more than honored to be the one trusted with their files. She wanted to be the one these players went to, and to do that she had to develop a good reputation with those already under their office’s care.

She kept her shoulders back and stood proudly though she looked a mess. Therese had to keep the upper hand in this situation and her bracelet barely jingled as she pulled her wand out and had everything flying back into place, not looking deterred. Keeping his gaze on Brookstanton, she pulled a tissue out from her purse and began to wipe the jelly off of her blouse. She would have to excuse herself to the bathroom to clean this properly, but as she’d quite literally noticed, Brookstanton had been going down the stairs instead of up and to her office.

“Monsieur Brookstanton,” she said as she continued to wipe, “My office is upstairs, have you been turned around?”

He was about to be turned around again, that was sure. The Kestrels’ management liked to keep tabs on how long their captain managed to stay in for his appointments.

Merde.

Axe scowled immediately. He'd hoped, with his eyes obscured and the outer apparel (also heading in the wrong direction), he might be more unrecognizable. It was the French, he bet, narrowing his eyes further.

"My sense of direction is impeccable," he growled sweetly.

Trying his best to mask the air of defeat that was the natural progression of feelings when so sweet yet small a hope had been so cruelly and abruptly stubbed out, he turned and stalked up the stairs, down the hall, and resisted kicking the grumpy bespectacled man's door for fear of what this Therese Bonaccord would make him psychoanalyze about it. Once there, he gave her a mutinous look, as though daring her to comment on how he already knew the location of her office within the building, before throwing open the door and flopping onto the sofa in a low slouch, arms firmly crossed.

"I didn't accost anyone this week. Derwent lets me leave on account of my being a good boy on these special occasions."

Therese stood in the door way of her office and stared at his dramatic display for a moment before shutting the door behind her and going to her desk. She put her briefcase away, threw out the jelly-soiled napkin, and then slung her professional robes over her shoulders to cover up the stain that would most definitely become a topic of conversation if she didn’t. He could have stormed off in the opposite direction, but he hadn’t and that was a good start. Maybe he knew that it would be easier to sit through an hour of this required time together than deal with his management, but Rupert Brookstanton did not know Therese Bonaccord.

She pulled her favorite quill from her drawer and with his scrolls in tow, came around her desk and sat in her chair in front of him. With a quick spell her fresh parchment was floating over her arm and the quill jotting down the date and time; she really did love these self-writing quills and hers was charmed to make commentary. Sometimes she would have to take it and add some details, but for the most part, she and the quill had been working together for so long that Therese rarely had to correct it.

“Why didn’t you?” she challenged, ignoring his comment on Derwent. Derwent was retired and no longer had a say in how Brook---she should start calling him Rupert---on how Rupert’s sessions went. He would have to learn to deal with that as well, “Were there times that you wanted to, but didn’t?”

Her quill was scratching furiously already, her thoughts going back to the brawl he’d been involved in a few weeks ago.

Axe gave a long suffering sigh, certain that she would be like the handful of other therapists he'd seen (and subsequently driven mad themselves) when Derwent was unavailable or was simply too fed up to see him again so soon, always questioning "And how did that make you feel?"

One madman kept asking him about his mother. Axe simply did not understand this profession and how it was worthwhile.

He did frown thoughtfully now, trying to remember if he'd gone for his session before or after he had to patch up Spinnet's hand and whether or not a few whacks to the end and some colorful language constituted as accosting—not that he planned on sharing that, of course, but for his own personal records.

"Oh, I want to punch people lots of the time," Axe said helpfully. "But I can't because then I won't get paid money." He waited a beat. "I like money."

"Do you know who you should be speaking with? People who hit me. Like Thomas McCormack."

“Do you understand why Thomas McCormack nearly knocked you off your broom?” It probably wasn’t the best to elaborate, but Rupert needed to see that she was not going to be moved by the little quips he thought were so funny, “Or are you unable to recognize that your actions have consequences?”

She had done her research and to make a silent point, McCormack was one of her patients, and he’d described in great detail how he’d caught Rupert and his ex-fiancée in bed together. Therese had no patience for men who did not respect relationship boundaries, and though she was force to keep a neutral stance in the office, she could allow her thoughts to maintain her disgust. She wouldn’t commend McCormack for his actions, she’d actually scolded him in her own way, but she could understand the rage he had felt.

Though she supposed with how her last relationship had ended, Therese would have rather been cheated on than what had really gone down.

Her quill stopped as she put a finger to her lips, another question poised in her mind, “What would you have done, if you were him?”

Axe rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Yes, of course McCormack was the slighted party in this sordid little affair, one hundred percent the victim. And yes, Axe found it hard to care one way or the other, but he didn't force crazy Regina to sleep with him. If anything, she'd been the instigator!

"Oh, I am so bored of hearing people carry on of how McCormack was so viciously maligned." He scrubbed his hands in his tufty hair to better convey his boredom of the topic. "I didn't know who she was, and I didn't care. We met at some useless famous persons event, she expressed interest, nous avons baiseé, le fin. If it hadn't been me, it would have been someone else. It likely was someone else. It likely was several someone elses." He waved his hand dismissively. "She's a fame-mongering fortune hunter. I did him a favor, if you think about it, but you don't see me demanding to be thanked, no."

Reclining back, he folded his hands behind his head. "So, there you have it. If I'd been him, I would have said "thank you," and possibly shaken my hand. Or his hand, for the purpose of this distasteful exercise."

That was interesting. He’d just slept with the girl because she’d thrown herself at him, with no ill-feelings toward McCormack. Well, there probably were ill-feelings, because Rupert seemed to have them for everyone, but it was still interesting. ‘I did him a favor,’ he said, which showed that there was some sort of emotional attachment, even if it was as thin as a needle thread. Rupert could have easily dismissed everything with his ridiculously nonchalant attitude, but he’d gone on to explain the situation to Therese...he made it seem like he didn’t care, but he’d been quite elaborate with showing his innocence.

A favor, though. Maybe she was giving him too much credit, but it was Therese’s job to see where credit was deserved. Her elbow pressed into the arm of her chair and her chin went into her hand. Now, she was just curious, and decided that formalities could wait until she actually made some sort of breakthrough with him. It seemed impossible, but Therese did not like that word.

“Have you ever had your heart broken?” she asked, honestly interested. Therese doubted she’d get a real response, but she was learning that she would have to dissect every word of Rupert’s if she wanted to make progress.

The smile he offered her was blandly sarcastic. "Have you not heard, chère, it is I who do the breaking?"

It was a topic Axe did not care to discuss. Broken hearts were for weak people who depended on others to give them happiness. Though it felt like a different lifetime altogether, he knew that once there had been someone he loved with all his heart. But Rupert Brookstanton had learned from a young age that to risk attachment to anything was to guarantee losing it. It was a maxim he'd adopted and adhered to with a strictness unparalleled to his conduct in other aspects of his life.

"We have all at one point or another had our hearts broken." One of the hands making his comfortable headrest moved, pointing at Therese. "You have, haven't you?"

She allowed a smile, “What was her name?”

Her broken heart was still healing, and Rupert Brookstanton was not to be the one she divulged her inner most feelings to. But, he was doing it again. Giving her more of an answer than was required. Therese had thought that by now he would have started singing and dancing show tunes to avoid having to actually go through this session, but she’d learned a lot with just a few questions and answers.

This was ending up a lot smoother than she’d thought it would be, and without breaking his gaze she took hold of her parchment and quill to add some new scribblings of thoughts. It was far too early to diagnose...well, anything, but after reading his case files from his very first session with Derwent to how he was behaving now, Therese wouldn’t find it hard to believe that this was a completely different man. His leering proved otherwise, but.

Her name was Marie-Alix and Axe thought she was a princess. She had the most beautiful laugh in the world and even when there were cold nights and empty stomachs, everything had been all right because he knew she'd be there when he went to sleep and wouldn't move til he woke up in the morning.

Yes, he loved her in that whole-hearted way only a six year old boy is capable of with his mother. But she died, and that along with her, so what did it matter now?

Because he knew the volley of analyses such a story would give her, anyone of her profession, really, and because it was the part of his past no one, not even his management or the Quafflepunchers or old schoolmates knew of, thus no one's business but his own, he kept it to himself. Instead, that smile became wolfishly lecherous as he cocked an eyebrow at her. "Monique de Bandeur," he said with a note of dreaminess. "With her—," his hands gestured suggestively to his front, "and the way she—well, it would be impossible not to have your heart broken after parting from that."

He perhaps waggled his eyebrows just a little, unable to help himself.

Ah, there it was. Therese couldn’t help but laugh lightly at the name and gestures, and let out a breath from her nose. Her rapid fire questions were over, and seeing as this was their first session, she should probably go about her usual protocol. She reached through the scrolls she had brought over to her chair.

“This is a three foot long scroll of questions I want answered by next week,” she said matter-of-factly. Therese leaned forward and held the scroll out for Rupert. “If you have it filled out,” she gave him a pointed look, “honestly, with full sentences, I may consider cutting your sessions in half.”

Therese paused, thoughtful. “If you behave.”

She felt that he would appreciate some pushing around.

His lips pulled up in an unwilling grin as he found himself perversely appreciative of the fact that she laughed, rather than gasped with outrage, at his not-so-subtle deflection of the question, only to saddle him with a veritable mountain of homework. And though Axe refused to acknowledge it in anyway, appreciated that she did not pursue the matter.

Not that he would ever cooperate with this head-shrinking business, he thought with a delicate shudder at the actual head collection Derwent grimly relished displaying for what he believed was the sole purpose of making him uncomfortable. Now, he simply might not be as encouraged to attempt to drive her out of her mind.

And he did always work better with the promise of rewards.

"Oh, you won't be able to put it down," Axe assured her, plucking the scroll from her fingers in as sensual a manner as possible before sliding it into his pocket the same way, "I guarantee it."