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You’ve never liked going to the doctor. The medical smell of the office, the paper on the weird squishy bench, the impersonal poking and prodding of the annual check-up. When you were a child, you would cry all the way there.
Now you’re an adult, and you have to drive yourself. Your hands are tense on the wheel and you can feel the anxiety pounding at your ribs. You wish you’d outgrown your fear of doctor’s appointments, but there are still some things that get the panicked toddler in your head screaming.
You take one hand off the steering wheel, reaching blindly towards the passenger seat while keeping your eyes on the road ahead. The rough texture of your backpack meets your fingers, and you relax. You’ve brought a little comfort bag: your favourite stuffie, a snack for afterwards, and your headphones in the front pocket. You have music, you have a fidget toy in your pocket, and you are going to survive this.
You pull into the little parking lot, feeling very brave. This is Forks, and the doctor’s office is small like everything else. It’s your first time here, which doesn’t help your nerves: you’re new in town, and while you could drive to Seattle and go to one of the larger offices, the longer drive would just make it easier for you to chicken out on the way.
Your coworkers had recommended Dr. Cullen, and you’d taken their advice. It took a little longer to get an appointment because Dr. Cullen works three days a week in Seattle, but you were happy for the appointment to be as far away as possible.
Unfortunately, the future always became the present, and now you’re just sitting in the car and delaying the inevitable.
With a sigh, you grab your comfort bag and make for the front door. The smell hits you as soon as you get inside: clean and sharp with disinfectant.
You clutch the straps of your backpack and approach the front desk, trying for a smile when the secretary looks up. She’s a kind looking woman who matches the voice you’d heard on the phone. Looks like she probably has photos of her kids in her wallet. “Hello dear, do you have an appointment?”
“I do. With Dr. Cullen, at 2 o’clock?” You give your name and health card when required, receiving a stack of paperwork in return.
The woman gives you a pen and a smile, then gestures to the empty sitting area. “Go take a seat, fill out your forms, and I’ll let Carlisle know you’ve arrived.” She bustles off down the hall, leaving you in a silent room.
You immediately put on your headphones, blocking out the quiet with your favourite playlist to calm down. There are clipboards on the tables, and you snag one to fill out the paperwork. Most of this is familiar by now, but there are plenty of account numbers you have to look up on your phone. Eventually, the stack is finished, and you glance up to see the secretary returned while you were busy with papers and music. She’s tapping away at the computer, and you approach her timidly with your paperwork.
She jumps a little when she sees you standing in front of her, but quickly smiles and accepts the stack of paperwork. “Thank you very much!” She points at the hallway to her right. “You can go on to the room at the end of the hall, with the door open. Carlisle will be with you in just a few minutes.”
“Thanks.” You collect your bag from the seating area, half-tempted to hug it to your chest and get some comfort from the stuffie hidden inside, but instead you swing it onto your back and trudge down the hallway, one hand finding the fidget cube in your pocket and playing with the switches to distract you from your rising anxiety.
The room is empty: you put your bag carefully on the ground and hop up onto the examination table. The crinkle of the wax paper fills you with dread: you bring the cube out of your pocket and keep yourself busy with it, turning it over and over in your hands.
The silence stretches, but you don’t want to put your headphones on and miss the doctor coming in. The clicking of the buttons on your fidget cube are too loud in the room. Every time you shift, the paper crinkles underneath you. You try not to look at the diagrams on the wall, the medical instruments and cotton balls beside the computer on the desk.
“Ah, my two o’clock!” an unfamiliar voice says from the door. You glance up, startled by the lack of footsteps to announce the new person.
The person standing in the doorway is presumably Dr. Cullen, and you understand why your coworkers had been giggling about him now. The man looks like a fashion model, not a doctor for a little town like Forks. He smiles, and it’s like you can hear the little ‘ding’ sound effect as his teeth shine at you.
“That’s me,” you manage.
He retrieves a clipboard from under his arm and reads out your name, glancing up to check that it’s correct. You nod, and he walks forward to offer his hand.
“Dr. Carlisle Cullen,” he says. His handshake is perfect, cool and firm around your hand, which you’re suddenly aware is a little bit sweaty. “It’s good to meet you.”
“You too.” He’s even more striking up close, you can’t even pick the features that stand out because they’re all perfect. His eyes are a hypnotizing colour, almost golden. You avert your gaze, self-conscious in the presence of his perfectly pressed white coat and flawless hair.
“So, I see you haven’t had a general check-up in a few years,” Doctor Cullen says, finally retreating and flipping a page over on his clipboard. You immediately clasp your hands on your lap, resisting the urge to kick your legs back and forth. “New to Forks?”
“Yes, just moved.” You scored a nice apartment: living prices are good out here, with the significant commute to most cities. You have a few more boxes to unpack, but you’re not fussed about finishing. “It’s a nice town.”
“One of my favourite places I’ve lived.” Dr. Cullen sounds genuinely fond of the town, not just making small-talk as he boots up the computer and puts your file on the desk. “Have you been to the diner on Maple Street yet?”
“I haven’t.” You don’t like going out alone, and you haven’t really made any friends yet. There are a few coworkers that you want to talk to more, but you’re not at the level where you can ask them out for coffee yet. “It’s good?”
“The best,” Dr. Cullen assures you.
“Have you… lived many places?” You watch his fingers move across the keyboard, somehow entranced. Even his nails are perfect, each one buffed to a shine. He must get manicures.
“I’m a big fan of travel,” the doctor admits. “I’ve visited almost every country in the world.”
“Wow.” Doctors make a lot of money, you remember. No way someone could travel that much without being rich. He doesn’t look that old, either, maybe thirty? Young for a doctor, anyways. “And Forks is your favourite? Really?” It’s a nice town, with the forests stretching around it, but it’s not exactly the height of culture.
“I was fond of Italy.” Dr. Cullen seems to have contented himself with the computer, and turns back to you. “St. Petersburg is lovely as well, but Forks feels like home to me.” He takes a pair of gloves from the box on the desk, and you watch him slip them on. You’d been busy with the conversation, enough that you’d almost forgotten that you were here for a check-up, but the sight of those latex gloves reminds you.
The small talk falls away, and Dr. Cullen asks you all the usual questions: any problems, how are you feeling, are you taking any medication. You answer them carefully, and he nods and takes the occasional note. When you mention trouble sleeping, he asks if that’s something you want to look into. You shake your head: it’s probably linked to your anxiety, and it’s never bad enough to affect you in the long-term. He doesn’t ask, just accepts the head shake and moves on smoothly.
The physical exam is as nerve-wracking as ever, gloved fingers pressing on your shoulder, keeping you still as he listens to your heart, to your breathing. He must be able to hear your heart racing with anxiety, but he doesn’t comment, moving through the procedures with professional swiftness.
“All seems well,” he declares at last. “You are behind on your vaccinations, however. I’d recommend a flu shot and the updated HBV vaccine, at least. There are a few more that can wait for next year, but flu season in Forks usually takes out the whole town.”
“Uh…” Oh, please no. Shots are not something you’re good at. “Okay, yeah.”
“They’re both covered by your current insurance,” Dr. Cullen adds, clearly sensing your apprehension.
“Cool.” You manage to nod, a jerky movement. “Sorry. I’m just bad at shots.”
“No worries.” Dr. Cullen smiles, and you find yourself feeling oddly reassured by the sincerity of his response. “I promise they’ll be quick. Count to ten, and they’ll both be done.”
“Promise?”
It slips out of your mouth before you can stop it, the nervous question of a child who has been lied to too many times.
“Pinky promise,” Carlisle assures you without batting an eye. “Just give me a moment to get ready.” He steps to the desk and starts moving things around. You look away, not wanting to see the needles as he prepares them.
“So, where did you move from?” the doctor asks conversationally. You answer automatically, your mind still running to catch up with the idea that you’re going to willingly get a flu shot. You’ve never gotten one before, why did you let him talk you into this?
He asks about your move to Forks, and you tell him that it was fine. You tell him about the hiking trails that wind through the forest just behind your apartment building, and he asks how often you go walking.
Soon enough, the two of you are chatting about your favourite parks in the US, and it almost takes you by surprise when he rolls a table over to you. There’s a tray on it, with two needles that you quickly look away from.
It’s too late, though, you’ve already seen them. You don’t want to think about it. You almost wish your parents still came to your doctor’s appointments, at least you would have a hand to hold.
“Deep breaths,” Carlisle tells you, his voice soothing. “Remember, just count to ten and they’ll both be done.”
“Okay.” You close your eyes, and try to ignore the wet cotton-ball rubbing against your arm. “One… two…” The sharp sting makes you draw in your breath sharply, the fingers of your free arm clutching at the lip of the table you’re sitting on. “Three. Four. Five…” Pain again, this time drawing tears to your eyes. “Six… seven…”
“All done.” There’s light pressure on your shoulder, careful wiping. “Only seven seconds, there we are.” You open your eyes and see Carlisle pressing a cotton ball to your shoulder, his expression calm and focused. “No more pain,” he assures you.
But the tears are spilling down your cheeks, and the toddler inside your chest is furious that you allowed that to happen, and you can’t stand up to that anger. You need your stuffies. You need to be home with a blanket. You need a snack and a good cry and a bottle of warm milk.
“M’sorry,” you manage. He’ll notice the tears at some point. “M’bad at pain. Sorry.”
“No need to be sorry.” Carlisle lifts the cotton ball from your arm, and you can see the blood soaked into it. You hear yourself give an involuntary squeak, shutting your eyes again. “You’re alright,” Carlisle soothes. “I’ll get you a band-aid and something to drink.”
“Okay.” You sniffle and wipe the tears from your face, wincing at the ache in your left arm. “Sorry.”
“All fine. More common than you’d expect. Do you want a boring band-aid or a Disney princess? I’m afraid we’re all out of Spider-Man.”
You giggle a little at the question: it’s a silly thing to ask an adult. “Princess,” you say. Why not.
“There we are.” You feel his gloves on your arm again, applying the bandage with gentle professionalism. “All covered up.”
“T’nk you,” you say, and resist the urge to put your thumb in your mouth. Can’t do that at a doctor’s office. Too many germs.
“My penance for causing you pain,” says Carlisle in a very serious voice, which makes you laugh again. You didn’t know this doctor was so funny. “Now, would you like apple juice or orange juice?”
“A’ple!” You’d prefer a bottle of milk, but a sippy cup of juice is good too. You rub your eyes free of tears and open them again, just in time to see Carlisle stepping back in from the hallway carrying a box of juice. Did he go and get it in the second you were rubbing your eyes?
You blink away the mystery and make grabby hands at the juicebox, remembering a second too late that he’s your doctor and not your caregiver, and you can’t just make grabby hands at the things you want.
“Sorry!” You drop your hands to your sides, a wave of embarrassment pushing back your regression for a moment. You’re too tired to be fully an adult, the pain keeping you uncomfortably between two headspaces for a moment. “Sorry.”
“Still no need to be sorry. Hydration is important.” Carlisle puts the straw in for you and passes you the juice-box, which you sip eagerly. The sweet juice makes your head feel less stuffy from crying, and it helps with the pain too. Obviously, this is magic doctor juice. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
You shake your head, but your eyes fall on your backpack across the room. It would be so nice to hug your stuffie right now. It would be soft and big in your arms and you would feel so comfy, even if you’re still sitting on the horrible crinkly paper.
“Do you want something from your backpack?” Carlisle asks, following your eyes. “I can bring it to you.”
You hesitate. Some of your online friends said they brought stuffies to their doctor appointments. Would it be weird? Would he refuse to see you again? He’s so nice and he got you juice and you don’t want him to be mean to you.
You’re so busy worrying that you don’t notice that you’ve already raised a hand towards the backpack until Carlisle is obligingly putting it beside you. By then, the decision is already reached: you pull out your stuffie and cradle it in your arms, hiding your face in the fuzz.
“What a wonderful idea,” Carlisle’s voice comes from above you, still all kind and soothing. “Bringing a companion to the doctor’s office to tell you how brave you’ve been.”
“Mm-hmm.” Now that your friend is in your arms, you worry so much less. And Carlisle is still being nice, so it must not bother him.
“Alright.” Carlisle’s voice sounds serious: you glance up to see him standing in front of you, one hand outstretched. He’s not wearing gloves anymore.
You hesitantly put your hand in his, expecting him to pull you to your feet and maybe even usher you out the door, but instead he just holds your hand gently, leaning down to be at eye-level with you. “I have another appointment in five minutes, but I don’t want you driving right now. Doctor’s orders,” he adds with a smile. “You stay in here for as long as you need, and I’ll check in after my next appointment. You can go onto the big chair, if you like, but don’t touch anything on the desk or the walls.” You nod mutely. He’s leaving you here alone?
Although, you suppose you’re not here alone now that your stuffie is here.
“If you feel good enough to leave before I get back, that’s okay, but make sure to tell Steph at the front desk on your way out so I don’t worry. Otherwise, I’ll be back in half an hour.”
“Okay, Doctor,” you mumble into your stuffie.
“Call me Carlisle,” he smiles, and he looks back at you twice as he leaves the room.
Alone in the office, you shift uncomfortably, some of your anxiety coming back. But he said that you could go in the big rolling chair, so you skip off the doctor’s table and into the office chair in front of the computer. It’s huge and squishy and it rolls a bit when you sit down.
That’s where you stay, rolling yourself around and chatting to your stuffie, eventually pulling out your phone to play some music with your headphones. You know that you have to go sometime, but every time you think about going outside, you feel yourself start to panic. You’ll be seen! You’ll have to pretend to be big! You can’t do that. So you spin in the chair and hum along to favourite songs, and eventually inspect your arm to see what band-aid Carlisle gave you. It’s Princess Jasmine, which makes you happy.
All too soon, there’s a knock on the door, and Carlisle steps back in.
“Hello,” he greets you warmly.
“Hi.” His presence jolts you out of your regression, and the panic rises fast. You just regressed in a public space, and no matter how nice this doctor was about it, you were definitely acting weird. He forbade you from driving, for god’s sake. He probably thought you were high or something, maybe he even called the police…
“Oh, deep breaths. It’s alright.” Carlisle takes two steps forward and drops to his knees in front of your chair. The gesture catches you off-guard, almost startling you out of your gathering panic attack. “No one is angry. You aren’t in trouble.”
“Promise?” you manage, an echo of your earlier plea.
“Pinky promise.” This time, Carlisle holds up one hand, his pinky extended. You hook your finger into his, and he squeezes gently. “There we go.”
“I’m so sorry.” The panic and regression have both receded, leaving you exhausted and slightly embarrassed. “I didn’t expect that to happen. I get anxious at medical appointments, but that was worse than usual.”
“You’re in a new town, and I imagine you’re still exhausted from moving. It was very brave of you to come,” Carlisle tells you, and you can’t detect an ounce of sarcasm or judgement in his voice. “And you’re always welcome to bring a friend.” He hovers a hand over the stuffed animal beside you, just shy of touching it. You tug it a little closer, defensive, and he obediently withdraws.
“Thank you.” You want to hide your face in the stuffie again, but you’re not regressed anymore, and you do need to get home. If only to climb into bed and try to forget any of this happened. “I should, um.”
“Of course, I imagine you have things to do.” Carlisle gets to his feet, dusts off his knees where he had been kneeling on the floor. “I am truly sorry this appointment was so hard on you, but I’m happy that you came.”
You don’t have a response to that, so you focus on repacking your bag and swinging it over the shoulder that isn’t aching. Just as you’re turning for the door, Carlisle speaks again.
“I have five adopted children.” You stop and look over your shoulder at him, confused by the statement. “Most of them come from traumatic backgrounds,” Carlisle adds, resting his hand on the back of the chair you just vacated. “Age regression isn’t unfamiliar to me, as a response to emotional distress or physical pain. Many people experience it.” Oh god, he knows. You can feel your ears heating up from embarrassment. “It’s also an experience that can make people feel isolated, or ashamed. If you wanted to meet one of my daughters, I’ve found community can be beneficial. Of course, I don’t want to put pressure on you, but I thought it could be a positive experience. For both of you.”
He’s a good doctor and a good dad? That’s too much for one person, surely.
“I’ll. Um. I’ll think about it,” you manage. Carlisle smiles and nods, looking satisfied with that answer.
“Drive safe,” he tells you. “And put some ice on your arm tomorrow if it bothers you.”
“Thanks.” And you flee the building, barely managing a friendly nod to the secretary as you push the door open and emerge into the cloudy day. If there’s one thing Forks isn’t known for, it’s the good weather.
You dump your backpack into the passenger seat and take a second to just breathe. Okay. That was a lot. You really do feel like hiding in your room for the next century, but… Carlisle was really nice about it all. And apparently, he’s a caregiver to a regressor in his house? Or even more than one? You’ve never met a regressor in person before, despite being relatively active in the online community. It could be… interesting?
You drive back to your apartment, your eyes on the road and your mind on the offer that Carlisle made.