Disclaimer: I don't own Digimon or the characters therein. I do own Dr. Reynolds and the plot of this story. Whoop-Dee-Doo. Anyways. Read. When you're done with that, Review. Then, at your next therapy session, think long and hard about this fic.

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"So, what was your childhood like?"

The boy shrugged and stared up at the ceiling. "I didn't have a childhood," he stated calmly. "I grew up when I was four."

I stared at him, confused. I had never heard that one before. "What do you mean?" It's true, many people do mature before their time, but few actually say that. And most can't pinpoint a date or age without my help. I was fascinated that this kid could and would actually come out and say something like that.

Once again, the boy shrugged. But this time, he looked at me. His violet eyes bored straight into me, scaring me a bit. His eyes looked haunted. "I'm not talking to you about that," he informed me. He seemed quite set on that and, seeing that he probably didn't like me as it was, I wasn't going to argue with him.

"Alright. What will you talk to me about?" He struck me as someone who liked to be in charge. If I let him choose what we'd talk about, I'd be giving him a measure of control. So long as I could help him, I'd be fine with letting him decide the topic of our conversation.

But this boy was a little more complex than I'd thought. He seemed to think about my question for a minute or two before grinning a bit.

"I'll tell you what," he offered, sounding almost like he was scheming something. "You just keep asking questions, and I'll answer the ones I'm comfortable with. Sound good to you?"

I nodded. "Very."

* * * * * *

That was nearly six months ago and it turned out, the boy was comfortable with most every subject I could come up with. He didn't particularly like talking about his deceased brother, but he would even do that for me. The only thing he wouldn't talk about was what had happened to him when he was four. And I'm okay with that. In time, it just might come out.

"Dr. Reynolds?"

Speak of the devil.

Looking up from my papers, I glance at the youth in the doorway. His appearance hasn't changed much from the first time I saw him. He still wears his hair fairly long and still comes dressed in his gray school uniform. And he still looks like a god! Man, that boy is gorgeous! I know I shouldn't think that, but… he is. And only a few years younger than I am and single…

No! I can't be thinking like that. He's my patient, not fair game. But I do so wish he were. I mean, I know everything about him. It's like I'm his girlfriend already;  he tells me everything. And he has such a bad boy attitude! He is simply ultimate boyfriend material. And I've seen him on his way home talking to the little children playing by the street. I can totally see him as a father.

"Dr. Reynolds, are you okay?"

Gorgeous devil. Would it be so bad if I just told him that there was nothing wrong with him and sent him home? No more coming in to have his mind picked? Then I could date him. I wouldn't be his shrink anymore. Would that be so wrong?

"Dr. Reynolds? Seriously, what's with you?"

I could do it right now. I could just tell him that I don't think he needs a shrink and send him on his way. He wouldn't mind, it's his parents that want him to be here. He didn't want to come. He still doesn't want to come; I can see it in his eyes. I can hear it when he talks. He wouldn't mind. I really could do it. I will. I…

"Dr. Reynolds, come on. You're beginning to scare me."

I'm going to do it. Right now. I'm waving him in, smiling a little. Comforting. Apologetic. I'm going to tell him. Hey, what's that on his arm? It doesn't matter. I'll let him leave with it today and ask about it when… Later.

"What happened to your wrist?" Where did that come from? I was going to send him home; why did that come out of my mouth? I suppose it's a psychiatrist's instinct: we automatically ask what's wrong. Oh well. I'll just analyze this one and send him home next time. I can't just send him home now; not when it's so obvious that he's been cutting himself again over the weekend. He wouldn't do that to himself if I could just get a little closer to him.

He looks down at his arm, his dark locks falling into his face. "Nothing," he assures me. He sounds so sure of himself, I almost believe him. Of course, I could just be hypnotized by how good he looks with his hair in face. And now he's looking back at me and using his other hand to flip his bangs out of his eyes. It irritates him to see dark lines in his vision. I know that. He's done the same exact action every time he's come here, always before he sits down and sometimes during the session.

He's sitting down now. Good lord, he is good looking. Trying not to stare at him again, I begin the session. Next week. Next week I'll send him home. I'll get in touch with him again sometime after that. He's comfortable around me, he won't mind. His parents will believe me. They'll think he's let go of his past and is finally normal. But he won't be. Not then, not yet. After I get back in touch with him, I'll help him. Once I'm not his shrink, he'll open up to me. He'll want to be around me. He'll want me, just like I want him.

Next week will be the start of our eternity together.

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AN: Well? Who is going to insist that their shrink gets a background check? evil grin Not like it would help anything.

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