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    Summary

    As soon as Aubrey Thyme, psychotherapist, had opened her office door and seen her new client, Anthony J. Crowley, sitting in her waiting area, she was observing and assessing him. At first glance, she paid attention to the following:

    --His clothing was expensive and stylish;
    --He wore very strange but noticeable cologne;
    --His relationship to the seat he occupied could only, very loosely, be described as “sitting;”
    --He looked angry;
    --He was wearing sunglasses.

    What Aubrey Thyme, a professional, thought, upon first seeing her new client was: you’re going to be a fun one, aren’t you?

    Language:
    English
    Words:
    99,423
    Chapters:
    16/16
    Collections:
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    Comments:
    4031
    Kudos:
    13200
    Bookmarks:
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    Hits:
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  2. 07 Oct 2019

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  3. 07 Oct 2019

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  4. 07 Oct 2019

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  5. 07 Oct 2019

    Rec

    Bookmark Notes:

    absolutely amazing fic which goes over the process of Crowley going to therapy and working through his trauma. the therapist is an oc who i absolutely adore

  6. 07 Oct 2019

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  7. 07 Oct 2019

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  8. 07 Oct 2019

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  9. 07 Oct 2019

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  10. 06 Oct 2019

    Rec

    Bookmark Notes:

    Too good. I may never write again.

  11. 06 Oct 2019

    Rec

  12. 06 Oct 2019

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  13. 06 Oct 2019

    Rec

    Bookmark Tags:
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    A professional.

  14. 06 Oct 2019

    Rec

    Bookmark Notes:

    Holy Shit this is Fantastic

  15. 06 Oct 2019

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  16. 06 Oct 2019

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  17. 06 Oct 2019

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    Bookmark Notes:

    fucking outstanding

  18. 06 Oct 2019

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  19. 06 Oct 2019

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  20. 06 Oct 2019

    Rec

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    Bookmark Notes:

    “Yeah, okay,” he said, and he leaned back in his seat. She noted the shift in posture: leaning away, turning his head to the side. He had given the most meager crumb of emotional truth, and he compensated by increasing physical distance. “I have been told I have been irritable.” He made a complicated gesture with his hand. “More irritable than usual, that is.”

    “Your winning personality,” she said.

    He grinned. That’s promising, she thought.

    “Who told you you’ve been more irritable lately?”

    “My friend,” he said, and he was shifting his posture in the seat again. Her back started to feel antsy, vicariously. “We’re not going to talk about him.”

    “Is this the same friend you thought had died?”

    His mouth opened, then hung there for a moment. He clearly knew he’d been caught, was stuck. “Yeah. Yeah, him.”

    “Then I think we’re probably going to have to talk about him.” She made a gesture with her hands, like laying out options, like offering a consolation: here’s all I have to offer.

    In which a therapist sees Crowley.

    (This is so much more than that, though.)

  21. 06 Oct 2019

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