Song of the Turtledove

"But sometimes illumination comes to our rescue at the very moment when all seems lost; we have knocked at every door and they open on nothing until, at last, we stumble unconsciously against the only one through which we can enter the kingdom we have sought in vain a hundred years - and it opens." – Marcel Proust

With Madness and Obsession

-i-

"Perhaps you can find other sources to assuage that consuming guilt you are feeling. Are you particularly religious, Desmond?"

A smirk plays on a damaged mouth. A thin cut slices through what would otherwise be full, inviting lips; a mouth made for happiness, creased with laugh lines. "Are you asking if I believe in God, Dr. Mercer?" Now it is a mouth of cruel words and bitter resentment. Of condescending smiles and twisted half-truths.

"If God is the spiritual guidance you choose to believe in, then yes, I am."

"God is dead."

Alex blinks, taken aback by the emptiness with which the statement is verbalized. And it is a statement. A verifiable truth, a personal reality. Almost a punch in the face with such an abrupt deliverance. Desmond Miles stares at him with the confidence and acceptance of someone who has spoken undeniable truth. The sky is blue. The grass is green. God is dead.

"God is dead," he says again. "God remains dead. And we have killed him. Yet his shadow still looms." Alex tilts his head curiously, enraptured, as his patient continues quoting a now-familiar passage with barely any inflection of emotion at all. "How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us?" Desmond's eyes are blank and distant, as if he is seeing something play out in his head that he doesn't wish to share. Alex wants to drag those hidden secrets into the light. "What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?"

"Do you think you're a god, Desmond?" Alex shoots back, grabbing onto the last stanza of Nietzsche's passage with a conviction borne from months of sessions such as this. Round and round they go, stuck within this never ending loop of accusations and denial despite the convicting evidence damning any chance of going free. Many nights Alex has lain awake wondering if it's even worth it anymore, if working Desmond's case has done nothing but bleed him dry and put false hope within its supporters –if there are any, that is. "Is that why you killed Lucy?"

His patient goes unnaturally still, watching with flinty, wretched eyes. Eventually he grits out a rough "No", as if the word is some filthy offense lying on his tongue. Alex sighs and picks up his pen, rolling it methodically between his thumb and pointer finger.

"No what? No you don't think you are a god? Or no that isn't why you killed Lucy?"

Desmond gets even more agitated, bouncing his foot under the table and wringing the hem of his shirt in jerky fingers. He doesn't answer and Alex sets his pen back down. He leans forward, trying to connect with Desmond on a more friendly level (somewhat difficult for him, but with Desmond he's always at least made an effort). "Talk to me, Desmond," he says, quietly. "What are you thinking right now?"

"I don't remember."

Of course. Alex hadn't expected anything different.

"I don't remember," Desmond says again. His shoulders are hunched and trembling, his voice cracking as he begins to yell. "I don't remember! I don't remember!"

Alex signals for the orderlies and sits back in his chair as they storm into the room and subdue his patient. Weary, he begins packing his things and can only watch as the burly nurses give Desmond a mild sedative, supporting his sudden sagging weight between them.

Distant, confused eyes roll until they catch his own. Their gazes lock and Desmond's depthless eyes demand absolution, plead for some unnamable phenomenon. Alex has never been able to decipher just what, exactly, the man is begging him for. Once, he had thought it was a cry for help and he had done everything within his power to answer that request. But as the days turned to weeks, and the weeks into months, Alex began to suspect that what he saw wasn't Desmond imploring for some kind of relief. Sometimes Alex suspects the man doesn't care for help at all.

But there is a fear inside Desmond that Alex can almost see in the air between them during these moments. It's there during each of their sessions. It is present in the short, quick breaths that fall from trembling lips; in the sweat that dampens his forehead and races the pulse in his neck; it's there every time Desmond looks at Alex, in Alex, and verbally pushes him away with words of steel and thorn.

Alex knows it is there, he just wishes he could also comprehend what it is that has Desmond so utterly afraid.

-i-

Alex leaves the hospital and starts the drive back into the city where his office is. The weatherman forecasts severe thunderstorms and a tornado warning for the next county over. The rain has already begun by the time he gets onto the freeway, loud and oppressive from outside the quiet protection of the car. It's the kind of shower that soaks you within seconds of being caught out in it – unnaturally heavy and coming down in thick sheets of ice-cold water, drenching everything with the threat of a flash flood. Miserable.

He props an elbow on the door and chews thoughtfully on the pad of his thumb as traffic slows accordingly, everyone seemingly conscious of how simple it would be to hydroplane and roll into the deep ditches banking the road. At a standstill, he switches off the radio while fiddling with the defrost and reaches for his cellphone. His secretary will most likely be at lunch but he calls and leaves her a message anyway.

"Let my one o'clock know I'll be a little late. I'm caught in the rain."

Curt. Maybe a little cold. He knows she won't mind though. After all this time working beside Alex, Rebecca has learned that his social skills, or lack thereof, is just how he operates. Perhaps becoming a therapist hadn't been the best of choices, all things considered, but it had been what he wanted and he is undeniably good at what he does. No one can argue that.

Well, to be fair, a lot of people are doing just that lately and he can't really blame them. Not when he's been questioning himself, his skills and his overall performance more often than not this past year, too. And as much as he prefers not to point fingers, he'd be lying if he didn't admit that all of it is because of one Desmond Miles.

As the traffic inches forward, Alex finds himself going back over the incident that had occurred over eleven months ago and landed Desmond in his care. The victim, Lucy Stillman, had been stabbed once in the stomach by a kitchen knife one evening after work. The reports said Desmond had been waiting inside for her, that they had been living together for the better part of three weeks by that point.

Allegedly, he had no motive. Friends and family claim they were a happy couple that rarely fought. It came as quite a shock that Desmond would do something so terrible to the one person he told others he couldn't imagine a life without. But he had stabbed her and left her unconscious and bleeding out in the dining room as he took, of all things, a nap on the couch.

Desmond had been the one to call the police, hysterical and inconsolable as he told them his girlfriend had been attacked, wasn't moving, and, help me, oh God, I think she's dead. His prints were all over the body and the knife. He had walked through a puddle of her blood on his way to the couch and left a trail of bright red footprints across the hardwood floor and cream-colored carpet. There was no mistaking that he had done it. The only question was why had he done it.

A series of angry car horns tears Alex from his thoughts and he quickly presses down on the accelerator. The standstill has long since been broken while he remained idling in the middle of the road, a line of pissed off drivers at his back. He scowls at his furiously working windshield wipers as he catches up with traffic and takes the exit into the city.

It takes the better part of an hour to get back to the office and the rain seems to only get worse by then. Thunder is rumbling like a hungry dog above Alex's head as he ducks out of the parking lot and crosses the busy streets of Manhattan to reach his building. He has always been somewhat proud of its location; not so far in the heart of the city that it gets unbearably loud and distracting, and yet not so far away that it is inconvenient to either him or his patients.

There is also a quaint little café on the next block that he frequents because of their habit to serve pumpkin spice coffee year-round instead of only during the appropriate season like most places do. And because the staff aren't too intrusive. They know to leave him alone, something that was learned very quickly after the first few times he took lunch there and caused one of the baristas to cry when she had come to his table to ask if he was enjoying himself more than just the once. He hasn't seen her since that day and he's almost positive she's quit. He doesn't feel guilty.

"Hey, you're back." Rebecca is waiting in the lobby when he fast-walks in, soaked to the bone despite the short distance from the parking lot. She rests her hip against the security desk and raises an eyebrow at his sodden appearance. He gives her a warning look, knowing she is seconds away from making some comment that will only sour his mood even more.

She smirks and annoyingly pops her gum. "You're one o'clock is waiting for you already. I sent him in since you were taking your sweet time."

"Clearly," he mutters, trying not to take too-large steps and cause his pants to chafe uncomfortably. "How long as he been waiting?"

"About an hour. It's two-thirty, Alex."

"Shit."

"How's Desmond doing?"

Alex doesn't answer at first, oddly protective of his estranged patient. Rebecca isn't asking about the man's medical standing and they both know it. Since Alex has taken on Desmond's case, more often than not his secretary has been the one to schedule their sessions, talk to Desmond's lawyer and, sometimes, Desmond himself, to confirm the meetings via phone or face-to-face. After a while, they managed to strike up a friendship of some kind.

"He's fine," he says evenly, which means no change. She nods, disappointed, and leaves it at that. It's no secret that Miles is a touchy field for Alex and has been for some time.

They quickly make their way to the elevator together and Alex spends a considerable amount of time during the brief trip up sixteen flights picking his wet clothes away from his skin and letting them air dry. It's useless of course since he's dripping all over the place, and only seems to amuse Rebecca who doesn't even try to hide the fact that she is laughing at him. His dark glowers just make it worse.

"You look like a pissed off kitten," she teases, stepping out in front of him when the doors ding open. He ignores her and walks through the empty waiting room to his door. Saturdays are always the least busy since nobody wants to spend their weekend talking to a therapist about their feelings when there are clubs to attend, new faces to fuck and a plethora of drinks to funnel down eager throats. Better to wait and schedule a day during the week to skip a few hours of work. Lazy, but oh-so predictable.

Alex runs a hand rapidly back and forth through his hair in an attempt to dry it instead of having it plastered against his skull. "Don't you have a job to do?" He shoots Rebecca an expectant look over his shoulder and gestures at her desk, flicking water from his fingers in the process. "It's what you're paid for, isn't it?"

He gets a lazy shrug in response as she saunters around the corner and plops into her seat, most likely to play some mindless computer game instead of actual work. "Whatever, boss. Go talk about your feelings while I blow up some zombitches."

Mindless computer game it is, then. Alex snorts and pushes open the door to his private office, shedding his wet coat and unbuttoning his shirt as he does. Waiting on the couch is his one o'clock appointment, a familiar yet faceless man who always spends their sessions talking about his precious pet cats. Alex offers a quick and insincere apology for being late and takes a moment to change out of his wet clothes in the adjoining bathroom.

When he comes out again, more comfortable in the pair of jeans and clean shirt he'd kept in his desk for the nights he is forced to spend in the office working overtime than going home, the man has already pulled out his wallet with the newest pictures of his 'babies' and eagerly waits to recount Mr. Periwinkle and Mitten's latest adventure with the vacuum cleaner hose.

Alex just barely stops himself from sighing and moves to sit across from the man in a plush chair. "Shall we get started, Mr. Taggert?"

-i-

"I'm heading out. You need anything?"

Alex takes his glasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose, fighting off a yawn. Rebecca huffs a quiet chuckle from her place leaning into the room, her coat already on and an umbrella dangling from her hand. The rain hadn't let up at all. "No. I'll see you Monday."

"Alex?" He looks up, squinting. Rebecca is giving him an uncertain look, as if she can't decide whether to laugh at him or feel sorry for him. She cuts him off before he can formulate an inquiry as to why she feels the need to look at him like he just said something inherently stupid. "Monday is Veteran's day. We're going to be closed. Remember?"

"Oh," He blinks and shrugs. "Right. Then I'll see you Tuesday." Without another glance, he turns back to the scattered papers on his desk and sets about trying to get some organization going. Rebecca clomps into his space with her loud boots and pokes him in the shoulder with her umbrella. "What?"

"Listen McGrumpy Gills, I know you're a total workaholic and all, and normally I'd appreciate that in a man since most of you idiots can't commit to anything for longer than the few scant minutes it takes for someone to make you a sandwich, but, really." She shakes her head and even looks a bit concerned. Which is a little strange coming from her and makes Alex uncomfortable. "Can you just take these next couple of days to relax? You know, that weird thing where people don't work and actually sleep more than three hours?"

"I sleep more than three hours," he protests, dodging the swing of her umbrella.

"Three-and-a-half! Alex, I'm serious. You've been driving yourself into the ground lately and it's making me go nuts. Before long you're going to have to sit there and listen to me rave about issues while I pay you by the hour. Do not make me schedule myself a session with you. You know I'll do it just for spite."

Alex tries to mask the stricken look he knows he's wearing at the very thought of having to spend even more time with Rebecca. By the sardonic smile she flashes him, he knows he's doing a terrible job of hiding it.

"Exactly," she sing-songs, turning on her heel for the door. "So take my advice and sleep. You're starting to look like a raccoon with those bruises around your eyes."

"Goodnight, Rebecca."

Again, he turns back to his work and loses himself in the notes scrawled in his own cramped handwriting. He puts his glasses back on and reaches for some forms that are long overdue for perusal and, in some cases, signatures. A few important details on the papers need to be highlighted and as he's clicking a pen to underline the necessary lines, Rebecca clears her throat and startles a jagged red line across the page. He thought she'd already left and gone home.

"What is it now?" he asks, exasperated and little annoyed. He most certainly does not pout at the ruined document. Damn.

Rebecca purses her lips into a thin line and mutters, "I'm serious, okay? You're starting to worry me." She crosses her arms and levels him with a stubborn glare, something she'd picked up from himself within the first month of working at the office. "Desmond will still be there Tuesday, so can you just not? Forget about him for two days, Alex. Just two." She sighs and adds quietly, "You're letting this thing consume you."

He almost brushes her worries off, tells her to stop nagging and go home already, but he doesn't. He's cold, but he's not that cold. She's just concerned, and as much as he wishes she wouldn't be, he can understand why. Things just haven't been the same since last year.

Instead, he breathes out heavily through his nose and gives her a tight nod. "Tuesday, Rebecca. Be ready to work."

The corner of her mouth twists up into that familiar teasing smile. He can still see the doubt shining in her eyes like a too-bright beacon since he didn't exactly agree to her terms, but she's convincing herself that maybe he did in his own way and that's good enough for her. When she finally does leave, he spends a few minutes staring at the empty space she left behind, wondering when she had become so invested with his personal affairs.

It used to be that Alex kept everyone at a distance, refusing anyone save for his sister Dana to venture within his personal bubble. It's how he managed to not take his work home with him, how he kept his psych separate from his patients' numerous issues. One simply doesn't get too attached, it's dangerous. An unstable therapist is nothing but a liability for someone already suffering and makes things ten times worse on both ends. Professionalism is a must in this field.

Lately, however, those lines have become blurred. Alex has never made personal calls to patients before, never visited them, never tried befriending anyone since it would only complicate the professional relationship between doctor and patient. He had firmly believed he was there to do his job and nothing more. Help people and move on. The end. Only things aren't so simple anymore, are they?

He's beginning to see why Rebecca is uneasy with his behavior as of late and trying, for the first time since she started working for him, to step in and intervene despite knowing his preference for the world to simply let him alone. He's nearly destroyed all of the personal boundaries and rules he's ever made for himself during his career.

Rubbing his bottom lip thoughtfully, Alex glances down and around his desk at the mess of paperwork, and winces. Rebecca worries he's becoming too close with his work, letting it 'consume him' as she so eloquently put it. Even Dana has brought the subject up a number of times when they happen to be together. She knows nothing about who Desmond even is or what happened, only that Alex has been given a patient that did something very, very bad and has been found guilty of the crime.

But she still recognizes the exhaustion in him. She still sees how much he has withdrawn from everything and everyone around him, his behavior becoming somewhat sociopathic in his drive to fix what is broken. "It's like you're a teenager again," she had told him, effectively reminding him of the most isolated and worst moments of his life. "And you don't even care."

As he scans the documents (reports, statements and medical records all pertaining to one person), however, he begins to wonder if perhaps saying he has let himself be consumed by the case isn't really the most accurate way of putting it. Obsessed, maybe.

Completely and totally obsessed with, not the case itself, exactly, but Desmond Miles himself.

A/N: I did a thing. Cross-posting this to AO3 where pictures will be included for those interested. Name on there is SonOfALich. There is also a better summary and list of pairings/characters and just generally a better read.

Pertaining to the story, I don't know how regular the updates will be, but this is the only thing I'm currently working on so with the right motivation I think it shall be done quickly. Hopefully. Maybe. Also, pay attention to the rating please. This is an Alex/Desmond fic and the rating will change when things get hot and heavy. I don't want people's eyes bleeding and, like, brain 'splosions going on. That'd be bad.