Agent Grace Van Pelt sits with her arms folded and her mouth set in an uncomfortable line.
Dr. Lance Sweets sits in a chair across from her, equally silently but seemingly vastly more at ease. He calmly and steadily looks right at Van Pelt while her eyes study everything in the office that is not her new psychiatrist. He has his hands clasped, a notebook nearby, and he seems perfectly content to sit there forever without ever saying a word.
Finally, unable to stand it any longer, Van Pelt says, “I feel like I’m in third grade again,” half-laughing and half-scoffing, desperately self-conscious.
Dr. Sweets smiles, the sort of smile that’s a professional front; meant to put you at ease. “Why’s that?”
Van Pelt almost laughs again. She feels a little hysterical, but hysteria is definitely not befitting of a California Bureau of Investigation agent and she stuffs the feeling down. “I don’t know,” she says. “The office, the authority figure staring at me til I break down and confess.”
“Well, I can set you at ease on a couple of those,” he says, smiling again. “I’m not an authority figure, you’re not here because you’ve done anything wrong, and I’m not trying to cause any breakdowns.”
“I guess,” Van Pelt mutters, and then she sighs and presses a hand to her face. “I’m sorry; you didn’t deserve that. It’s just I – I’ve just had some less-than-great experiences with psychiatrists. In the past.” God, she thinks, you need to grow a spine, Grace Van Pelt; you didn’t even want to apologize, but you felt so uncomfortable that you did it anyway.
He slowly nods, his fingers steepled in silence, and Van Pelt abruptly finds herself saying, “Look, I’m sorry, but could you please talk? The silent treatment is totally freaking me out.”
For a half a second, he looks startled, like he didn’t expect such frankness out of her and now has to revise his judgment, and then it’s gone behind that mask of professionalism again. “Sure,” he says. “We can talk. Why do you think you’re here?”
Van Pelt glances down at her knees. “You know,” she says, her voice low. “Red John. Jane. You’ve read the files.” Her tone takes on more of an edge than she means for it to, with the last sentence, and she rests one hand over the back of the other in her lap, her knuckles white with her grip. “The feds stole the case from the CBI and now I'm here to testify, except somebody decided I had to talk to a 'mental health professional' first, so here I am.”
Dr. Sweets looks at her for a long moment, and then he says, "Okay." She frowns at him, confused. "I think that's enough for today."
"Enough?" she asks, not quite daring to believe it. "That's it?"
"Well, I don't see the point in continuing if you don't want to be here and you don't want to talk to me," he says practically. He leans back and plucks a business card out of a stack off his desk, and then he clicks his pen and jots something on the back. "This is my card. Call me anytime. No more awkward silences. Scout's honor."
She nods quietly, hesitating for just a second before taking the card when he offers it to her. She flips it over to read the seven digit number on the back. "Cell phone?" she asks.
"Yeah," he says, and at her extremely unimpressed look, he hastily adds, "Oh no, I'm not hitting on you. Totally professional capacity, and anyway, my girlfriend would kill me." It's the most genuine thing that's come out of his mouth in ten minutes, and Van Pelt gives a tiny tic of a smile.
"Okay," she says softly.
In my extremely vague backstory, either Red John killed Jane or vice versa.
no subject
Dr. Lance Sweets sits in a chair across from her, equally silently but seemingly vastly more at ease. He calmly and steadily looks right at Van Pelt while her eyes study everything in the office that is not her new psychiatrist. He has his hands clasped, a notebook nearby, and he seems perfectly content to sit there forever without ever saying a word.
Finally, unable to stand it any longer, Van Pelt says, “I feel like I’m in third grade again,” half-laughing and half-scoffing, desperately self-conscious.
Dr. Sweets smiles, the sort of smile that’s a professional front; meant to put you at ease. “Why’s that?”
Van Pelt almost laughs again. She feels a little hysterical, but hysteria is definitely not befitting of a California Bureau of Investigation agent and she stuffs the feeling down. “I don’t know,” she says. “The office, the authority figure staring at me til I break down and confess.”
“Well, I can set you at ease on a couple of those,” he says, smiling again. “I’m not an authority figure, you’re not here because you’ve done anything wrong, and I’m not trying to cause any breakdowns.”
“I guess,” Van Pelt mutters, and then she sighs and presses a hand to her face. “I’m sorry; you didn’t deserve that. It’s just I – I’ve just had some less-than-great experiences with psychiatrists. In the past.” God, she thinks, you need to grow a spine, Grace Van Pelt; you didn’t even want to apologize, but you felt so uncomfortable that you did it anyway.
He slowly nods, his fingers steepled in silence, and Van Pelt abruptly finds herself saying, “Look, I’m sorry, but could you please talk? The silent treatment is totally freaking me out.”
For a half a second, he looks startled, like he didn’t expect such frankness out of her and now has to revise his judgment, and then it’s gone behind that mask of professionalism again. “Sure,” he says. “We can talk. Why do you think you’re here?”
Van Pelt glances down at her knees. “You know,” she says, her voice low. “Red John. Jane. You’ve read the files.” Her tone takes on more of an edge than she means for it to, with the last sentence, and she rests one hand over the back of the other in her lap, her knuckles white with her grip. “The feds stole the case from the CBI and now I'm here to testify, except somebody decided I had to talk to a 'mental health professional' first, so here I am.”
Dr. Sweets looks at her for a long moment, and then he says, "Okay." She frowns at him, confused. "I think that's enough for today."
"Enough?" she asks, not quite daring to believe it. "That's it?"
"Well, I don't see the point in continuing if you don't want to be here and you don't want to talk to me," he says practically. He leans back and plucks a business card out of a stack off his desk, and then he clicks his pen and jots something on the back. "This is my card. Call me anytime. No more awkward silences. Scout's honor."
She nods quietly, hesitating for just a second before taking the card when he offers it to her. She flips it over to read the seven digit number on the back. "Cell phone?" she asks.
"Yeah," he says, and at her extremely unimpressed look, he hastily adds, "Oh no, I'm not hitting on you. Totally professional capacity, and anyway, my girlfriend would kill me." It's the most genuine thing that's come out of his mouth in ten minutes, and Van Pelt gives a tiny tic of a smile.
"Okay," she says softly.
In my extremely vague backstory, either Red John killed Jane or vice versa.