DISCLAIMER: I DON'T OWN ARTEMIS FOWL AND I'M NOT TRYING TO MAKE ANY MONEY OFF THIS !!!! (Author: Eoin Colfer)

(this story takes place after the 5th book and before the 6th - which I am still trying to forget exists)

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The King of Ice, Queen of Hearts

He hated places like this. No, hated was too weak a word. Rather, he loathed with the entirety of his core places like this. Places where he'd have to sit in a crowded waiting room listening to some hacked version of Mozart fuzzing away behind ancient speakers, where the chairs were tightly squeezed one next to the other, like an execution line, where everyone rubbed elbows with the other. Had his family suddenly grown poor? Had they lost their ability to discern what was in good taste? Not that going to a psychiatrist was in good taste, but one with a less public office would have been preferable.

It wasn't like he didn't live in a manor, that his family wasn't one of the wealthiest in the world; they could afford to send him to a higher end, and from where he sat anything and everything was higher end, psychiatric office. It wasn't like he was an adult or anything.

"Why am I here again?" He grumbled, more to himself than to anyone else.

He sat stiffly in the chair, back rigid, hands firmly at he knees. He glanced, more of glared, around the tackily soft pink colored walls, to the inspirational posters and the stacks of magazines. To anyone around him it seemed as if he were actually talking, singularly, to himself. However, he wasn't. The massive form beside him that seemed more solid rock than man had been listening half-heartedly and had heard every word.

"It seems your parents believe it will be a good experience for you," the man responded, a soft grumble like the distant rumble of thunder.

Artemis rolled his eyes, something he never thought he'd be doing consciously, and flicked a piece of misplaced dust from his pant leg. The fact that the office had dust did nothing to improve his mood, and a nagging thought along the lines of there's probably much more than dust in this place wormed itself across his mind. He nearly shuddered at the thought.

"What my parents think and how things actually are rarely ever coincide it seems," he muttered, and glanced to his left. Someone had bumped into him.

It was a scraggly adolescent with far too many piercings protruding from most of his flesh, his unwashed and seemingly unkempt hair hanging limply over the entirety the right side of his face, and a hoody that was up over his head even though he was inside. He gave Artemis a meaningful look before stalking off towards the front desk. Artemis glowered at the kid's back, making a mental note that his parents thought him to be in the same league as some anorexic brat.

"Ok doc, I will doc, thank you."

Artemis, as well as the entirety of the room, looked over to the opening door – the portal from the stuffy waiting room to the prescribed area of interest. Out stumbled a young woman of indiscernible age (though that had something to do with her back facing the audience) who was bumbling on merrily to the doctor, the same doctor who was standing obscured like a phantom behind the entrance. She was dressed in ordinary common clothing with what seemed to be an obsession with black. She wore a black skirt with black and purple leggings beneath, a black tank-top with a black necklace and black tipped hair.

She was as ordinary and comely as the ikea shelves that held the stacks of magazines, and yet Artemis found himself curiously drawn to her. He just couldn't look away. She was like a bad car accident, where you wanted to tear your eyes from it, but you were grotesquely fascinated by what unfurled before you.

If he paid attention he could see the slight embarrassed flush that appeared under the nape of her neck and tickled at the tips of her ears. The way she danced in front of the doctor indicated that she was afraid, probably shy, and wanted to be anywhere else but there. And yet her voice carried a warbling note of excitement, as if the thrill of facing her social anxieties brought her pleasure. Artemis' musings were cut short as the conversation ended and her voice petered away. She plucked the doctor's note from his fingers, the phantom's hand the only thing visible, and turned quickly on her heel.

"Fowl, Artemis," the stuffy receptionist called, her nasally voice grating against Artemis' flesh.

He lingered as much as he could to see the young woman leave, if only to capture a glance of her face. It was but a mere moment, a flash as she tucked a long strand of hair behind her ear, but it was enough for him to continue contentedly towards the psychiatrist's door. He almost didn't notice that she had stopped to, as if she had caught his eye in the act. Before he could turn around again Butler's massive form obscured his vision and he shrugged his shoulders. It was no loss, it wasn't like he actually was interested in people.

With a mental grunt he turned to face his prescribed appointment with dark thoughts. How was it, this time, that he was going to make this psychiatrist miserable?