tampered | (no subject)

(no subject)

When; Tuesday morning
Rating; PG
Characters; Blair

dr_tightass
Summary; TBA
Log;

Blair stood in front of the doctor's door, deliberating on whether or not she should turn on her heels and go back home right now. She glanced at her watch, pouting at what she saw. Five more minutes to decide. She would either have the appointment on time or not come at all. Late is just not in her vocabulary.

She frowned. Two years ago she would never have gone to a doctor on her own will, even if she knew that she had a problem that needed fixing. But she was eighteen now, an adult. She promised herself she would be a proper and responsible lady. This was a responsible thing to do, or at least the course of action that she found to be the wisest. It was obvious that she could not tell anyone else. She would never.

Besides, things have been starting to scare her lately.

Another glance to her watch showed that it was now three minutes to nine. Blair smoothed down her skirt and fiddled with her shirt, rearranging her hair. Brights always made her feel happier. She took a deep breath before rapping on the door.

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Cuddy's apartment was still a little bare -- she had only been here a few days, after all -- but she had tried to make it as cozy as possible. She had spent half the night at the Library, reading up on her psychiatry. Blair obviously needed help; Cuddy wouldn't fail her by being ill-prepared.

A knock on the door. Cuddy checked her watch -- that had to be Blair. Cuddy unconsciously mirrored Blair's own motions, smoothing her clothing, making sure she was absolutely impeccable, before opening the door.

"Right on time," she said with a warm smile, and stood aside. "Come on in."

Blair returned the smile with a wan one, walking inside and quickly throwing a glance over the whole apartment. The place obviously still needed some decorating, but she could already tell that the doctor put some thought into it. Turning around to face the other woman, she tried the smile again, warmer this time though still hesitant. "Hi."

She could see a lot of herself in Cuddy, even if they had only spoken briefly. There were the things she said, the way she presented herself, then the general demeanor. It made her wonder if she was going to grow up to be like the doctor, and she wondered if she would like that.

Blair leaned on one leg, crossing her arms with a sigh. "So."

Cuddy closed the door behind her and locked it for an extra measure of privacy.

...this was awkward. The doctor had always prided herself on her people skills, but somehow they seemed to fail her when she needed them the most.

"I'm glad you're here," she said, the cheer in her voice a little forced.

Comfortable. She had to make Blair comfortable. The girl was skittish, as anyone with a wounded heart would be. If Cuddy wasn't careful, Blair might run before she got a chance to help. She needed to make sure that Blair felt safe, secure.

"Ah, please, have a seat." She gestured to one of the chairs. "Would you like something to drink? Tea? Coffee?"

Blair didn't know whether she liked the door being locked or not. There could be someone eavesdropping by it anyway. She wanted this as private as possible because she did not want her friends to know, and because she didn't want the scandal. But unless she had a stalker then there shouldn't be anyone behind that door. There was no Gossip Girl here, there was nothing to worry about.

As directed, she moved to one of the chairs and sat down, crossing her legs out of habit. "Coffee. Black --no sugar." She took a small container of Equal from her bag and placed it by the table, before realizing that she was in a room with a doctor. She contemplated putting it back into her bag, but she had to have her coffee sweet and there was no way she was going to dump 20-calorie-spoonfuls of sugar into herself. She let it stay there.

Leaning back on the chair and absentmindedly twirling her hair, Blair took to watching Cuddy. "How much do you charge per hour?" She asked casually.

Edited 2009-08-05 01:14 (UTC)

Cuddy went to the kitchen and pulled out two mugs, filling them both with coffee. Into her own she spooned a little Sweet 'N Low and fat-free creamer before carrying them both out. "I don't have a private practice back home," she says, handing Blair the black cup and then taking a seat across from her. She noticed the container of Equal, but decided not to comment on it unless something Blair said later rang some warning bells. "But if I did, it'd probably run to about eighty five per hour. I'm not sure how that would translate into City currency. But we can work that out if you decide you want to keep seeing me. This first consult is on the house."

She took a sip of her coffee, stalling for time as she pondered whether to start asking Blair questions, or to let Blair respond to that. She decided to wait just a little bit longer and see what Blair had to say.

Blair took the cup with a practiced "thank you" and a smile. She placed it on the table then reached for the Equal to put one, two, three, four tablets into her coffee. She liked her coffee very sweet. "3 Greens," she replied.

Resting her chin on her hand, she kept stirring her coffee slowly. There was a time when she refused to say a word to her therapist, and then the hour would be over and she got to go home. But this time she was here out of her own will, because she wanted to get better. She took a sip of her coffee --still not sweet enough-- and said, "I was diagnosed with bulimia, two-three years ago."

She put the cup back on the table, continuing to stir her coffee. "They sent me to Renfrew. I did really well so they released me in two months --I told everyone I was in Paris for my mom's fashion show, which probably isn't far from the truth." She smiled mischievously. "I continued on out-patient treatment and Lexapro. I've been alright for awhile, until recently."

Blair leaned back, crossing her arms in front of her now that the cards are on the table. "There."

Cuddy's expression didn't change. She had known too many women with bulimia, both as a doctor and simply as a woman herself, to let her surprise and sadness show. The first thought is always: 'But she's so young and beautiful. How could she do that to herself?' But it was always more complex than that.

"What changed?" she asked, her voice sympathetic but matter-of-fact.

Blair looked at Cuddy for a few moments, as if gauging whether or not the woman was trustworthy, but her eyes seemed more accusing than suspicious. She looked away. "It was a mess." Not that she made a mess or that she was the mess.

She took a long sip of her coffee, trying to stall even if she knew there was no point. "I was going to Yale but-- I hazed a teacher, and I didn't even need to, but the Dean heard and revoked my admission. No more Yale for me, ever, no Ivies for sure." She swallowed her saliva and shut her eyes to keep from crying.

Blair turned back to the doctor, looking into her eyes with something of a challenge. "I've always known where I was going. Get into Yale, marry the Archibald, live on Park. And now, suddenly I don't know."

For a moment, Cuddy was confused. Was there a Yale in the City? But that couldn't be -- But she quickly put the pieces together, remembering what she had read in the guide, and realized that Blair must have been coming and going in the City, and this had all happened while she was at home.

"I can see how that would be very upsetting," she said, stirring her coffee thoughtfully but never taking her eyes off of Blair. She saw the challenge in the girl's eyes, but met it with patience.

"Why did you haze the teacher?" Her voice wasn't accusatory, simply curious. There was no judgement.

"That's unimportant," she snapped. The fact was she had hazed so many teachers before this just because she could, and they had always run away with their tails between their legs because she was Harold Waldorf, Esquire's daughter. Not getting into Yale was just the accumulation of all the horrible things she had done in the past. She deserved it.

Blair leaned back down, thinking through her words. "I want my medication because it would help me feel better. When I feel better I don't binge, or purge." She sighed, "I don't need the talking."

"Yes, you do," Cuddy said, still gentle, still patient. "The Lexapro is a tool, not a cure. You can't depend on it to make this go away. You need to work through the underlying causes. Once you've done that, you won't need the Lexapro anymore."

Antidepressants weren't addictive, she reminded herself. Technically. Blair wasn't another House in the making. But subconsciously, Cuddy couldn't help making the association. She knew that some kind of psychological issue was at the heart of the girl's bulimia. If she could get to the heart of that problem, Blair wouldn't need to rely on the meds as a crutch.

She pulled out a pad of paper and a pen, already knowing that Blair was stubborn and would require some persuasion.

"I'll write you a prescription, Blair," she said. "But only if you see me every week for 'the talking.'"

"I already told you," She spat. "I'm tired of explaining myself." Blair stared her down like a scolded spoiled girl, as if the look would make Cuddy change her decision, and she already knew it wouldn't. It was recently that she really learned that tantrums of any form no longer got her everything she wanted. But at least, she was going to get the prescription today.

Leaning forward, she crossed her arms on the table, looking down in consideration. The doctor made an offer, so Blair still had the right to accept or refuse.

"I know the underlying causes and I can't fix it. It's that I'll never be good enough for my mom, or for my dad, or basically enough for-- for anyone. The more I try, the more I-- So sometimes-- It's their fault, not mine." Blair took a deep breath to calm herself, her eyes already glazing over with tears. She assumed a monotone, "I don't want to talk about it anymore."

Cuddy felt a surge of sadness for the girl. She knew what that feeling was like -- who didn't after a bad date or a poor grade or the family reunion where you're the only one without a family? But to live with that feeling day in and day out...how hard that had to be. How could anyone think this intelligent, beautiful, vibrant girl wasn't good enough?

She scribbled a prescription for Lexapro on her notepad and ripped the page out, holding it out to Blair.

"I'll give you this," she repeated, "if you come to see me every week." If Blair tried to take it before agreeing to the weekly sessions, she would quickly yank out of reach, but Cuddy hoped that the young woman would agree.

Blair was above scuffling or physical fights of any kind --or not really. But the point was that she would never try and grab at that piece of paper even if the doctor was practically baiting her with it. She made a pout.

The first reason why she did not want to do therapy sessions was because she hated admitting that the Blair Waldorf was not invincible, that she was prone to getting hurt too. The second reason was because she did not want to risk anyone else figuring that out. The third reason was because she did not want to think about her condition, let alone speak about it. She thought she was done with all this a year ago, but here she was again, back at square one. It frustrated her.

"I'm sending you 4 Greens every week." But she was not coming in for sessions. "And you'll send me the prescriptions." If there was one thing she knew better than anyone else, it was that money talks pretty loud. At least most of the time.

Edited 2009-08-07 04:51 (UTC)

Money spoke to Cuddy. It whispered such sexy phrases as "new hospital beds" and "expansion of the radiology department." When it came to taking care of her hospital, money spoke quite loudly to Cuddy.

When it came to her personal wealth...not nearly so much. She was practical, but in her heart of hearts, she was an idealist.

"You don't have to give me a cent...or whatever the equivalent is here." It helped, of course, that she still didn't quite grasp the currency here. "This isn't about money. This is about your health. If you want the pills, you come here and you see me for an hour every week."

That was already the last of her rebuts.

Blair took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. She knew that there was nothing for her to lose by accepting the offer, other than the risk of being found out. But she knew how to protect her own privacy, and damage control was a skill she had perfected since she could speak. "Tuesday mornings, same time," she stated.

With that, she stood up decisively, taking her bag along and swiping the prescription off the doctor's hand. She sent her a brief smile. "And-- Blair Waldorf isn't indebted to anyone."

Cuddy almost let out a breath of relief. Almost. She hadn't known what she was going to do if Blair had continued refusing. She couldn't have let the girl go untreated. But it hadn't come to that.

She stood as well, giving Blair a small smile. "Tuesday mornings it is, then." She walked Blair to the door to let her out. "If you have any problems getting the prescription, let me know and I'll talk to the pharmacist."

Blair pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, resuming her smile. No reason to be uncivil now that the matter was sorted. If nothing else, Cuddy seemed like someone she could trust with keeping this confidential. Besides, there was no reason for anyone to try and dig up any skeletons in her closet here, unlike back in Manhattan.

She offered her a handshake to seal the deal.

"You'll discharge me when I'm better?" The worst thing about being ill was being constantly reminded that there was something wrong with her, with her life. And Blair could not tolerate imperfection.

Cuddy took Blair's hand and gave it a firm shake. "I don't treat people who don't need it," she said.

Blair gave her the most sincere smile she had mustered since they met. It was a meek one, and brief, but at least she meant it this time. "Good," she resumed a smug smirk. "I hate wasting money."

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