Chapter Text
— Please, down the hallway, second door on the right, — the young woman jabbered with a wide smile.
Emma didn’t remember her name, but she was sure it was something ordinary: Mary, Jessica, or maybe Olivia. Not that her own name was particularly original. The secretary gestured toward the door and started dialing a number as soon as Emma disappeared from her sight. The corridor was bright and narrow, but stretched long, filled with several doors of uncertain purpose. It was pretty unlikely for other employees to be there. After all, there was only one doctor — a psychotherapist to be more precise.
Emma was scared of even thinking about that word in her head, so instead she just stuck with the good old "doc". It had taken her months to make this appointment. And even now, every step across the expensive parquet floor was followed with a bunch of hesitant questions. "Should I really do this?". The girl woke up with a sticky unease feeling in the morning, which already became its own person. Her palms were sweaty, and she quickly wiped them on her jeans.
Still — should she? Emma was neither sad, nor depressed, nor had crippling anxiety or bursts of rage. Her problem was something else.
On the door, a white plaque read in carved gray letters: "Dr. Regina Mills". Emma spelled the name soundless, only with her tongue. Just to reassure herself she knew who she was here to see. Deciding that hesitation wouldn’t help, she cautiously knocked and entered right away.
The first thing that caught her eye was a large stone fireplace in the center of the room. There was no fire inside, only old ashes. A strange interior choice for a doctor’s office, but fine. After a quick glance around, Emma finally spotted the doctor herself. The following one turned in her chair to face the patient.
— Oh, Miss Swan. Good evening, please come in, — the woman said with a calm, attentive tone. Of course, she already knew Emma’s name from the appointment record. — Please, take a seat on the couch or the chair, whichever you prefer.
Emma, being too anxious to even greet the doc properly, quickly chose where to sit. The girl went for the leather couch parallel to two armchairs, which were located just at the sides of the fireplace. Miss Mills was already heading towards one of them, with a thick notebook in hand.
The room carried a faint, spicy scent, probably from candles. It didn’t exactly calm Emma down, but at least it was pleasant. She nervously picked at the skin around her nails while glancing around the office. Large black-framed windows on her left let the light in, sliced by the muntins into long rectangular shadows. A lush monstera stood in the corner, clearly well cared for. Above the fireplace there were several diplomas, each bearing the now familiar name. To the right stood a desk and a filing cabinet, both cluttered with papers. Between Emma and the therapist was a glass oval table, holding an odd assortment of items: a box of tissues, a stack of paper with pencils, and a small rubber ball. Though, considering where she was, perhaps not so odd. In general the contrasting space felt cozy, which should have calmed her. Though it didn’t.
When Miss Mills sat down, adopting an open posture (Swan had, of course, googled "what to expect at your first therapy session"), Emma remembered that she hadn’t greeted her and blurted a quick hello, mentally scolding herself for the oversight.
— Let’s begin, Miss Swan. Will you be comfortable if I address you that way? — her voice really was soothing.
— You can just call me Emma.
— All right. I’m Dr. Regina Mills. Please, address me only in a formal way, — the doctor replied, a bit stricter but still kind. Emma didn’t feel discomfort, only the clear sense of boundaries.
She glanced her over discreetly, with gaze lingering on Emma’s fingers. The doctor looked far more composed, it wasn’t something surprising though. She wore dark trousers and a burgundy blouse, complemented by a silver chain. Emma suddenly felt such a fool, sitting there in her worn T‑shirt and thankfully not‑yet‑torn jeans.
— Emma, have you ever seen a psychologist, psychotherapist, or psychiatrist before? — the woman asked, opening her notebook.
— No. Well, there was a school psychologist. Dr. Hopper. He gave us some tests every few months, but that’s it.
— All right. Have you ever taken antidepressants, tranquilizers, or antipsychotics?
— No.
— Okay, — the blue pen scratched something down.
Dr. Mills brushed short dark hair from her shoulders while lifting her eyes.
— Well, you can start with what brought you here. But if you’re not ready yet, we can just get to know each other first, — the therapist tried to make eye contact, but the phrase "what brought you here" made Emma drop her gaze and press her lips together. Something the doctor certainly noticed.
— I’d like to start with introductions, — Emma said, with a slightly trembling voice.
Miss Mills nodded in agreement.
— Well, my name is Emma… though I already said that, — she let out a nervous laugh and received an encouraging smile, prompting her to continue. — I’m thirty‑three. Working as a sheriff. It kinda happened by accident, but I like it, even though there’s a ton of work. I enjoy reading, but probably prefer movies. My favorite one is "Kill Bill". I’m really into Tarantino, probably seen almost everything he’s shot.
Emma quickly realized she was rambling and fell silent, though Dr. Mills’ expression didn’t show judgment. She felt stupid, like a child trying to make friends at elementary school.
— Go on, — the doc said gently after a long pause.
— I have a husband, — Emma began, more tensely, while the therapist wrote something down. — Killian. We’ve been together for about four years. No kids.
Emma felt a warm red liquid on her finger and quickly hid it with her other hand. She stared at her knees, unsure what else to add. There was so much she wanted to say, but it was all so... Speaking thoughts that filled her entire body for God-knows how many months, and to a stranger she’d known for barely five minutes wasn’t easy. Sure, it was her job, and Emma’s here precisely to get help, but opening deep-buried secured locks just to show what’s inside of her wasn’t an easy task. Of course the woman in front of her didn’t leave the puzzlement to be.
— Emma, — the doctor’s voice drew her eyes up. — This is a safe space. You can share anything you want, even the smallest things. We’re here together to help you.
Her voice with expression were soft and warm, but she still kept her distance. Emma took a deep breathe perhaps for the first time that day. She unclenched her fists, placing her palms on her thighs, ignoring the faint trace of dried blood. Her unfocused gaze drifted. She was here to help herself, after all. No point fighting it anymore.
— About six months ago, I started having… — she began, searching for the right word, — fantasies.
— Okay. What kind of fantasies?
The silence after that question pressed down on her — and the more she stayed quiet, the bigger the pressure was.
— Sexual, — Miss Mills nodded in reply. — I’m married, and I guess I love my husband, probably even wanna kids with him. But I just can’t stop thinking about… it.
— I understand, — Dr. Mills said calmly. — What are these fantasies focused on?
— Women, — Emma admitted faster than she expected to.
— You fantasize about sex with women? — the patient was silent again. — If you don’t want to answer any question, you don’t have to.
— It’s not that I don’t want to. I’m just trying to… put it into words, — even though these kinds of thoughts were quite a long time with Emma, she didn’t discuss them even with herself. So to brush up those in somewhat normal shape and explanation wasn’t an easy one. Perhaps it was better to think about a speech for the therapist beforehand instead of now.
— You have as much time as you need.
— Okay, give me a minute.
When Emma finally lifted her gaze, the doc was still watching the blonde, analyzing every twitch of her body language. Locking eyes, Emma took a deep breath and began:
— I often think about sex with women. Women my age or older. I imagine someone forcing me to do things I don’t want. Something gruesome. When someone is… Humiliating me. Hitting me, kicking me, spanking me, tying me up, choking me. Causing me pain: physical and emotional. Treating me like a sex slave, like something disposable. Burning me with cigs, making me do shameful things. And these thoughts… turn me on. I can’t stop thinking about them, even though I know that’s very wrong.
She said it all quickly and confidently, as if she’d rehearsed it. Then, realizing what she’d just confessed, she sank into the couch, her body trembling with fear that the doctor would see her as some kind of pervert. Her cheeks burned; her breathing quickened, as if she just ran a marathon.
Dr. Mills looked aside, nodding thoughtfully, crossing one leg over the other. Then she recollected having a notebook and started to scribble something fast.
— Emma, — hearing her name after that confession made it sound almost dirty. — Why do you think these thoughts are wrong?
— Because, — she stammered, caught off guard by the question, as if the sense of it made the girl doubt herself. — Because I have a husband, — even this mention of Killian made girl’s muscles tighten.
— So, the main issue isn’t necessarily the content of your fantasies, but the fact that you’re having them while in a marriage?
Emma felt foolish again. Of course, the content embarrassed her too, but somehow she’d focused on the part about infidelity.
— I… no, what I think about bothers me too. It does. But I also feel like I’m betraying Killian. Сheating on him, — as she said his name, Miss Mills jotted it down quickly. — I feel like it’s not normal to think about things like that at all, especially when I’m with him. When I… love him, — Though since those fantasies began, she wasn’t so sure what "love" meant anymore. Because for the last six months everything that turned her on was caused solely by those.
— Emma, there are no right or wrong answers here. Right now, between us, the goal is to create a space where you can express yourself without guilt or judgment. No one here would judge you.
Those last words lifted some of the weight off her shoulders. No one would judge her. Maybe no one even thought she was a sick, dirty pervert. But could that really be true, when she judged herself?
— Dr. Mills, — Emma said, using her name for the first time. — I don’t love women.
A weird pause hung in the air. Emma was looking at the woman in front of her, waiting to be asked more, since then it would be much easier to answer. But Miss Mills knew what she wanted from the session, so she just patiently waited. She knew that Emma wanted to say something else.
— At least I didn’t before fantasies… I mean, I’ve never been attracted to women. They’re beautiful and wonderful, sure, I can appreciate that. But that’s not love. What I feel now… isn’t just admiration.
— In your life, have men always been your romantic or sexual partners? — the word "sexual" seemed so awkward coming from the doctor’s mouth, it made Emma blush like a teenager.
— Yes, I think so, — she said almost confidently.
— Can you imagine why your fantasies involve only women? As far as I understand… — she flipped through her pages. The girl was quite shocked thinking when did doc have time to make so many notes about her, — …you haven’t mentioned men at all?
— That’s right. I don’t know why. I’ve thought about it, but couldn’t figure it out.
— I see. Have you ever tried to act on these fantasies?
Shame pierced through Emma like a knife.
— No, — the therapist quickly wrote that down.
— All right. Are there situations in your life that trigger these thoughts?
Emma’s eyes darted almost involuntarily to the doctor’s crossed legs. She quickly looked away, scolding herself.
— Yes, — she said after a pause. — Different ones. Usually when women ask me to do something for them, or when they praise me, — she immediately regretted how nasty that sounded. — Sorry.
— It’s okay, Emma. You don’t need to apologize. — Emma nodded, but didn’t really believe it. — Let’s step away from the topic for a bit and talk about how you've been feeling in general. Do you mind?
— Not at all, — a grateful smile slightly touched the patient’s face.
— Tell me about your sleep. Any issues: insomnia, nightmares, sleep paralysis?
— None of that, — she answered, choosing not to mention the dreams that left her waking up with a wet bed.
— Appetite?
— It’s fine, but I don’t always have time to eat properly because of work.
— Are you currently taking any medication or supplements?
— No, — every answer was followed by dull sounds of pen.
— Okay. And your overall mood, say, over the past month?
— M-m… not as bad as it could be, I guess.
— And why could it be bad? — Miss Mills looked up for a bit.
— Erm… the fantasies. They make me anxious sometimes.
— Got it. Have you had any suicidal thoughts in the past half of the year? It’s a standard question for all my clients.
— No, — the topic made her uneasy.
— Any other concerns or requests you’d like to talk about?
Emma hesitated. There was a lot to say, but it all came back to the same problem. This is what she told the therapist.
— All right, — the doc leaned forward, elbows on her knees, hands under her chin. — I have one last, very important question.
Emma wanted to fuse with the back of the couch even more, but instead instinctively leaned closer to Miss Mills.
— Don’t be alarmed, — the doctor smiled so widely for the first time that day, reading Emma’s nervously funny expression. Then, her smile disappeared and with calm seriousness, she asked:
— Would you like to get rid of these fantasies, or to fulfill them?
Everything inside Emma just shrunk so hard that it showed through her body and face. It was the one question she feared most. She was terrified to know the answer. Even though it felt like she already knew that. And it scared her more than anything.
— I… — she whispered, digging the nails into her palms causing blunt pain just to feel a bit of imaginary control over the situation. — I don’t know, — the words were almost true.
— Well, let’s leave that as one of the questions we’ll work through together, — Regina shrilly, yet calmly locked eyes with the green-eyed girl, and then quickly added. — If, of course, you decide to continue therapy with me. You’re not obligated, it’s entirely your choice.
— I think… I’d like that, — Emma said with a tiny awkward smile.
— That’s wonderful, — the doctor mirrored her expression. — Today’s session was just introductory, but let me explain how our work will proceed.
The doctor outlined the basics of therapy: goals, methods, expectations. They also discussed formalities: payment, cancellations, confidentiality. Emma listened carefully and asked questions, since she was genuinely determined to work on herself. It wasn’t as terrifying as she’d imagined. And even though opening up to now less of a stranger was still scary, it didn’t seem like something out of this world anymore.
As their session ended, Miss Mills walked to a file cabinet, giving Emma a moment to inspect her from head to toe. The doc returned with two papers and placed them on the table, along with a pen.
— If you decide to continue therapy with me, please read and sign these forms, — she said, sitting down again.
Emma picked up the documents and began to read. "The patient is aware that…". The formal text basically repeated everything they had discussed earlier, ending with a request for the patient’s signature as consent. Emma signed two copies: one for herself and one for Miss Mills and returned the documents, catching an interested look. There was a feeling that the doctor’s attentive gaze never really left her while reading through the papers.
The session came to an end.
— Remember, — the doctor concluded softly, — Your thoughts aren’t dangerous by themselves — unless they begin to harm your life.
— Maybe, I guess, — Emma replied tense, not entirely convinced.
— The important thing is that you shared and spoke about your… problem. That’s the first step toward resolving and I’m determined to help you with that. You are a good girl, Emma.
— Thank you, Dr. Mills, — she said, trying to sound as composed as she could.
But in her mind, only one phrase echoed:
"You are a good girl, Emma".