Gonna try and update more often. Sorry guys I got sucked into tumblr for a while and couldn't come out. Oh well, here's the next chapter. Hope you like

"I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity." ― Edgar Allan Poe

"So how is he doing?" I look up from my paperwork to see Lucy standing in my doorway, hands on hips. Ah, right; it was Monday. Weekend long gone as was my normal schedule, back in the office sifting through paperwork for other patients, but one particularly on my mind.

Desmond. It had been three weeks since I met him, and to say he wasn't what I expected would be an understatement. The man was indeed unstable, but he had such a hold on his reactions it was difficult to tell. He was a damn hard shell, only giving me short and simple answers to all my questions. He made it obvious he didn't want me around with the tone of his voice and his constant getting up and not coming back for quite some time. I tried not to push, tried to accept his curt answers, but sometimes it was challenging to swallow his nonchalant, 'I don't care' attitude to the things I asked. He didn't show many expressions when I came over, the same uncracked poker face upon him each day I visit. He was exhausting, but far too fascinating. The man was only in his twenties and had such control over himself it was baffling.

"You do realize I have about five male patients. You have to be more specific, love." I set my attention back on the paperwork, looking over a patient named Maria's files. A ignore the tap of her heels until she slaps the papers out of my hands. "What the bloody hell, Lucy!" I glare. It's the only thing I can do when I see that look in her eyes. The look that means a good long ranting.

"I'm talking about the one patient that you didn't want and now has your full attention." I catch the clip in her voice. This is where the 'enemy' part of our relationship surfaces. It's friendly competition until I or she dig into one another's lives too much. Mostly work.

"Sod off, I take interest in all my patients!" I snap back, twirling my chair so my back is to her. I could still feel her there, either fuming or waiting for me to give in and turn. I'm tempted to-just to get the whole thing done with and be able to work in peace. But my peace was never truly a concern to Lucy; neither was my well-being at moments like this. Lucy sighs, the thump of her heels on the carpet shrinking away as she does as well. I sigh. Now my attention is torn from the papers I desperately need to do. I slap them down on my desk right next to my mug, turning back to overlook the view.

Perhaps Lucy was right; Desmond had been consuming my mind. Admittedly I acted this way in the beginning with every patient I had. Because they were new, needed reassurance that I was indeed there for a reason. But with Desmond, he wasn't interested in my reassurance. He wasn't even happy with my presence. He didn't seek my help or any assistance. He thought too highly of himself to search for help with something he appeared to have control over. Yet the endless list of episodes and failed medications made me think otherwise.

So yes, maybe I had immersed myself a little too much in someone who would rather be left alone than have me in his home-or set foot in my office. I still remember that conversation.

I shoo Lori away, the young one following me through the hall. She was ruthless when it came to Desmond. The moment you mention him she's all bright eyed and eager. Definitely a crush. I hear harsh music from the other side of the door. I knock. No answer. I hesitantly rap my fist against the door much like Lori. Still no sharp 'what do you want' or 'piss off I'm busy.' I may not know that much about Desmond on a personal level, but I can put together he doesn't do warm welcomes. Out of better judgment I turn the knob. Unlocked. Again I ignore my better mind and crack the door open, the music thrumming through my skull, and the words are anything but bubbly.

"Miles." I call. He refused me of referring to him as Desmond. I wasn't going formal. Acknowledging him like a sports player was the last option I had. The music muffles my voice and I force myself to step into the apartment. Bloody hell, this is awkward when you're not allowed into someone's living space. It feels almost like breaking and entering. I see the half full glass on the table. Alright, the man's awake. I walk over to it, picking it up to sniff it. The scent of alcohol bites through the sweetness of the soda pop, making me cringe. I set it down.

"Not a fan of booze?" I feel as if I jump out of my skin, whipping around to see the Miles himself, twirling that dog tag necklace of his. He's comfortable with it, but cautious.

"No, not exactly." I answer, rubbing my hands on the side of my thighs. There he goes again with that vacant stare; he stops spinning the chain and gently places it back around his neck, the tags resting at the tip of his collarbone.

"Haven't heard of knocking?" He quips, sauntering past me to take a healthy sip of his beverage. I fluster, jerking my arms before turning around.

"I bloody well did, but there wasn't an answer!" I hardly talk to patients this way, but what little time I've known Desmond has opened a less professional side of me. I see just the corner of his mouth twitch. He's fighting a smirk again. The one I saw the first day was the last.

"So you just waltz in? Not good when you think about it. For all you know I could've been butt ass-"

"D'okay, let's change the subject. Or the very least reverse a tad." I rush over my words to stop his sentence. This man didn't have a good filter on his mouth. "Dare I ask where you were in the first place?" He cocks his hip, finishing off that mixed drink of his before answering me with a smack of his lips.

"Shower." I don't prod, because that will lead back to me walking in on my patient naked. Not a pleasant road for my line of career. A thought comes to mind.

"If you're not fond of me in your home, we can arrange office meetings." The moment the words leave, I have a feeling I've made an awful mistake. Desmond jiggles the glass, making the half thawed ice inside clink against it. He's relaxed as far as I can tell, but he can deceive.

"Not happening. I'd rather risk you walking in with just my boxers than be stuck in an office everybody thinkin I'm a psychopath." He clips my shoulder with his, not saying another word. I realize it's the fullest conversation we've had so far.

I'm out of my office, leaning on the counter in the staff lounge waiting for the coffee maker to beep. The weight of the conversation hits me. 'Thinking he's a psychopath.' Was he in in denial? Was actually desperate to convince himself he was perfectly fine instead ofmentally unstable? No. The endless amount of laziness does not come from someone fighting off uncertainty of their mental wellness. He accepted it, at a level somewhere. He lived with it, maybe used it to detach everyone around him. Records said no contact with parents after one day back home. The coffee maker beeps, but it's a distant sound in my ears.

Every document filed under his name says one thing over and over; not relevantly, through close to something like a different series of words. Desmond was almost emotionless. A smirk means nothing; broken people smile, angry hearts laugh. A smirk is pointless on a man that acts as though he doesn't feel a thing. He had seen hell. I don't need him to tell me to know. You can see it in the pale scars that skitter across his arms, wrist to shoulder, the tired creases in face that have nothing to do with lack of sleep, and most definitely the way he carries himself. He limps. Not enough to be noticeable in public, but enough for an overly observant therapist to notice.

He doesn't display any of this when he thinks my eyes aren't on him. It's as if the moment he's out of sight, he ever so slightly lets the obvious walls around him down. Only a fraction of the wall; room for a gulp of sorrow or a punch to the wall. Small flickers of weakness that keep him from crumbling in on himself.

Or am I just being too cliché and poetic?

Yes, most likely. Here I am only three weeks in with the young man and I think I have his bloody philosophy cleared up. I rub my temple. The coffee maker beeps irritably as if to say 'you wanted coffee now come get it.' I obey and pour myself a cup, cream and sugar going in afterwards to fight the bitterness. The heat bites at my tongue and clears my muddling thoughts-well just a bit. A resolution comes to mind that doesn't want to be pushed back, no matter how hard I mutter to myself "You're a twit." My mind sets itself on a mission.

I need to get Desmond Miles to open up. If not for his health, then for my own selfish curiosity.

September 30th, seven years prior

Desmond curses as he merely nicks the target once again, robotically cocking the assault rifle in his hands before raising it again. CRACK, CRACK. Miss. Curse. Cock again. Repeat. That's how Jonas and Major Kaczmarek find him, turning away from the mocking target as the mindless cycle makes him lose his patience. But even so he cocks, the empty case flinging near the pile of the others as he ready's for a another shot. His warming teammates watch, Jonas baring teeth in sympathy when he shoots too low down. Clay stands there for a moment, watching the recruit voice his frustration quite freely. His vocabulary is anything but gentle country.

He pushes his tongue against his cheek in thought, moving up to stand next to the younger recruit. Even after his training his shot isn't wonderful. And Clay knows why. He sets his hand on the still hot nozzle, making the annoyed recruit lower the weapon and snap his near black eyes to the contrasting color of his superior. There's challenge in Desmond's expression, and that makes the blonde smirk.

"Recoil." The single word has Desmond blinking at a loss. Clay tips his head and has the tanned younger raise the gun again, slapping his lower back lightly. That means 'straighten up!' Desmond complies, trying to watch his leader through the corner of his eye.

"You're pulling down the gun and to the side. You're expecting the recoil when you shoot. But you gotta remember that the bullet's long gone. You've got to relax and let the gun just do its job." Jonas moves closer, watching the older readjust Desmond's posture, rearranging his arms, and then stepping back. Desmond glances at the man, a frown touching his brow. The other smirks, waving his hand towards the target. "Don't believe me? Go ahead."

Desmond does just that, hitting the targets much better than he had before. Granted he wasn't a bulls-eye, but that came with practice and time. Clay still has that smirk, hip jutted to fit his lazy position.

"Better?" Desmond looks ahead, aiming at one of the dummies farther down. CRACK, right in the heart.

"Yes, sir." He replies, toying with his guns clip as Jonas steps up to do his own practice. Clay had explained everything the best he could. Ground control was many things in one; rescue team if needed, eyes for grounded groups, and safety patrols for refugees. He also said they were supposed to get a few more additions. Three men supposedly couldn't handle themselves.

The oldest watches his only recruits at the moment take turns shooting, the smirk slowly fading off his face. These were just boys; why on earth did they recruit such young men? They should be out getting an education or at least settling down and finding a girl. The war does awful things to you, and it'll ruin the two in front of him. The thought only darkens when Desmond jokingly elbows Jonas, the two laughing a snide comment Jonas had made about Desmond's aim.

"Just boys." He mutters to himself before pulling the smirk back up, coming in between the lightly scuffling army members. He places a hand on each of their shoulders. "Here's the deal boys, you know I want you to call me Clay, right?" The duo nods. "But when we're on patrol keep it at major. The less personal it is on the field the safer." He slaps their backs before unsheathing his military knife out of his boot. "So get used to calling each other by code names. But for now, close combat needs to be touched up."

Xx

"He's kind of a cool guy. For- Y'know- a major." Desmond chuckles as he and Jonas walk back from the mess hall, bodies loose and sore from time with Clay. Desmond lazily buried his hands in his pockets, the weight of the new knife in his boot making him slightly uneasy. He had to make a habit of having it there.

"You're not always going to have gun." Clay had said, showing the simplest but quickest ways to manipulate with the weapon. Jonas had his as well, the two having sat alone once again at dinner.

"So next week we're getting more team members; y'think we need them?" Desmond shrugs, not quite up for such a discussion. It was past curfew. He was surprised no supervisors have caught them still out and about. Extra hands were always a good thing in such a place as war. Clay was teaching them well, but there was only so much three average size men could do.

"Probably. More for connection than anything. We'll be split up into groups so it doesn't really matter." As he says this, he realizes it's the truth. It won't matter whether it's the just the three of them, or ten. They'll be no time to grow disliking or new companions. Clay said they'd be out in the field way too soon for that. Jonas looks ahead at the comment, pursing his lips and scuffing his boot against the dirt ground underneath.

"Well, s'it okay I say I hope I get into patrol with you?" Desmond stops walking, flicking his eyes towards his acquaintance. They're near black in the night.

"I hope so too." Desmond smiles, a slight stretch of his mouth that means much more than an all teeth grin. "The hicks have to stick together, right?" He nudges Jonas as they near his tent, parting ways and leaving Desmond to his thoughts. The smile leaks off his face, mind filling with possibilities of actually going out into the war, taking a life. Could he do that? Was it too late to back out? It was too late the moment he left his mother's arms back at the airport.

He sneaks into the tent, the sound of the other bunkers snoring lightly. He wasn't tired. He doubted he'd get any sleep tonight or any other. Peaceful sleep wasn't going to happen for a while. He shucks off his boots, the knife going deep without the pressure of his foot to keep it place. He didn't feel like stripping to his boxers; instead Desmond shrugs off his jacket and lies back against the hard springy bed. He stares at the bottom of the top bunk, hands coming to rest underneath his head. His eyes feel heavy, but refuse to close.

So he breathes a deep sigh, getting his body to sink as far as it could into the bed. If he couldn't sleep, he could at least relax.

It'd be a long time before he could again.

Ah, well, that came out pretty decent I think. Getting close to the good parts of the story. I wanted to focus on Shaun a bit more to show his interest in Desmond's mental capacity, and I hope I got that. Review, if you please!