Song of the Turtle Dove

Important Ghosts

-i-

Tuesday morning Alex spends a considerable amount of time on hold after requesting a conference with Dr. Warren Vidic. The secretary, a droning, boorish young woman who strikes Alex as the type who spends more time filing her nails and fixing her makeup than actually working, eventually comes back on the line to inform him that the doctor is presently not taking any calls and that Alex will have to try again later in the evening. When the office closes.

"This is important," he says tightly, fighting the urge to snap. Lashing out will only get him the opposite of what he wants. "I understand he is busy, but I have been trying to get in touch with him for some time now. This issue really can't wait any longer."

"If this is an emergency you should call the hospital? Otherwise, you'll have to call back later?"

It takes Alex a moment to realize that she is making actual statements and just has the unfortunate luck of being part of this new generation that has a habit of making everything they say into a question. He feels a headache begin to form right in the center of his forehead.

"It's about Desmond Miles. I – "

"Desmond Miles? The killer?"

"It's imperative that I speak with Dr. Vidic," he says again, swallowing the creative retorts that jump to mind. "I only need a few minutes of his time."

She sighs. When she speaks again it is evident she has lost interest in the conversation and Alex gets the distinct impression that she really is filing her nails. This is due in large part to her distracted tone and the faint sound of scritching sandpaper filtering over the line . "Like I told you? He isn't taking calls right now? You'll have to call back later?"

Alex ends the call with a bit more force than necessary before he can manage to say something he'll regret, or worse, jeopardize the chance of talking with the doctor. He cradles his head in his hands and gently rubs at his temples, wondering what his next steps should be. If it wasn't for the fact that Vidic is, in fact, an actual man, Alex would suspect him to be a ghost for all the hassle it is trying to get in touch with him. Or perhaps Vidic just chooses to evade Alex's attempts in particular on purpose.

He suspects the latter.

Rebecca finds him still hunched over his desk by the time lunch rolls around and offers to buy him a sandwich. "I know how you like that little corner café's menu. I can pick you something up on the way back."

He nods into his hands and looks up. "Thank you, I appreciate it. Are you wearing makeup?"

She touches her face self-consciously and scowls. "Maybe. So?"

"You look weird."

"Oh, shut up. I'll be back in an hour. Your three and four o'clock cancelled. They're supposed to call back and reschedule when they figure out some date and times."

"Do you have a lunch date?"

Annoyed and flustered, she crosses her arms and dangerously cocks her hip. He knows the look well enough from Dana to tread carefully or risk getting his face ripped off. "Yes. Does that come as such a shock to you? I can't date people?"

"I just thought you were more into dashing your admirer's hopes and bathing in their dejected tears than indulging their hopeless fantasies," he says eventually, relaxing as she flashes him a predatory smirk, pleased.

"He's a historian and longtime friend. We're trying to reconnect," she explains, smoothing her flashy skirt and blouse. Alex suspects her 'friend' will have a terrible case of cotton mouth and wandering eyes syndrome during their little luncheon, which is of course exactly what Rebecca is going for.

He shakes his head at her, lips quirking in a barely-there smile. "Have fun."

After she's gone, Alex spends a good chunk of time simply pacing the length his office with his hands in his pockets. Both cancelled appointments call to reschedule, which is easy seeing as most of his days are free. It's been that way for a while now, though. Sometimes it seems as if Alex has done nothing but fail since leaving Columbia.

With his afternoon free thanks to the cancelled sessions, there is no reason to remain at the office and stare at the ash blue walls when he could be doing the same in the comfort of his own home. He calls and leaves Rebecca a message saying she has the rest of the afternoon off and he'll see her tomorrow before packing his things and locking the door behind him as he leaves.

-i-

He really had meant to go home, but by the time Alex gets downstairs and to the car he makes the unconscious decision to take a left out of the lot instead of a right. He heads toward the I-87 North out of Manhattan toward Kingston, his thumb already punching out the hospital's number on his cell before he fully clears traffic.

One thing that he has always appreciated about St. Benedictine's hospital is that the staff never fails to be more than accommodating when Alex decides last minute to make a visit. It's a good place with good people, despite how much Altair likes to preach the opposite.

The man who answers the call is friendly and open, a polar opposite of the frigid Abstergo secretary, and recognizes Alex as soon as he gives his name. "Dr. Mercer! We weren't expecting you until later in the week. Do you want a session room for the afternoon?"

"No. Have the patients had lunch yet?"

"Yes, it's being served right now," the nurse answers slowly, curious. "What can I help you with?"

"I'd like to have lunch with Desmond if he hasn't eaten yet. No session today. Just a visit."

Alex can hear the smile in the man's voice when he speaks again, obviously pleased with this development. "Absolutely. I'll let Desmond know, he'll be so excited."

He almost snorts at the ridiculous assumption. After having Desmond dragged away during their last session, he doubts very much that his patient will be anything but thoroughly pissed the moment Alex steps through those doors. In fact, he will be shocked if Desmond doesn't spend the entire time giving him the silent treatment.

It won't be the first time.

"Thanks." He rattles off the approximate time he should arrive and hangs up, settling into the familiar buzz of traffic with the windows cracked to let in the chilly fall breeze. It's a nice change from the torrents over the weekend. There are still darkened clouds in the distance hovering with the threat of a vicious storm, but it seems as if it will pass the city by. At least, Alex hopes it will pass by.

He keeps the radio off and relaxes more during the drive than he ever managed to at home. It should be surprising, but it really isn't. When it comes to Desmond Alex is beginning to find that his reactions and impulses aren't surprising in the least. After what happened with Heller though, he really should know better.

The sudden memories dash away the relaxed, comfortable feeling like a bucket of ice water being overturned above his head. He feels suddenly nauseous. James Heller had been a decent man, despite how the media made him out to be some kind of monster. Troubled, yes, but still a polite and virtuous person that had simply been going through a rough time.

Alex could have helped him more, given some time. He just hadn't known. Couldn't have. The extents of James' problems were much deeper and more complex than Alex had ever realized. Perhaps had he not been so caught up in James' body and mouth moving against his own in their quiet, stolen moments, then maybe Alex would have seen the danger the man had truly been capable of. Before people got hurt.

When he arrives at the hospital they tell him that Desmond is already waiting for him in the day room. The room is pretty spacious and filled with sterile, plastic furniture that has little, if any, upholstery. There are a few board games scattered about on the tables as well as stacks of cards and numerous books. The walls are painted a soft lavender shade and left bare of decoration. The effort into making the place seem homey is unmistakable, but Alex easily sees how the tables and chairs are bolted to the floor and everything has rounded edges to prevent injury, or the potential use as a weapon.

Desmond is sitting alone and hunched over one of the circular Jupiter tables toward the far end of the room. A window is at his back and as Alex approaches him the glow of sunlight from outside hits just right to outline him in an ethereal ring of light, reminding Alex of their last conversation together regarding religious preferences. He gets the uncomfortable thought that Desmond looks like some kind of abused martyr sitting there.

His body language screams defeat. As if the weight of the world rests on his shoulders and has been for some time, and it's like he's become so used to the burden that now it's not a matter of wondering if it will ever lift, but simply succumbing to the pressure and allowing it to drown him. Not for the first time, Alex finds himself wishing he could beat back those inescapable demons just to give Desmond a moment's peace.

He doesn't realize he's stopped walking until his patient suddenly looks up, expectant and a little annoyed. It's enough to break Alex from his own thoughts and pull him to the seat across from Desmond with a mutter of apology.

"You're here early."

Alex is beyond pleased to see that he won't be receiving the silent treatment after all. "I told them what time I'd be here, didn't they let you know?"

Desmond shakes his head and leans back in his seat, putting distance between them. "No, I mean you usually come on Fridays or something. You're early."

"This isn't a session," he replies, narrowing his eyes out of habit to study the man across him. "I came to see how you were doing. The last time we talked you were very upset."

"So? I'm always upset, why was that time any different?"

"I guess it wasn't."

Desmond rolls his eyes. A nurse comes up then holding two styrofoam trays of food. She sets them carefully on the table between them with a bright smile. "I thought you two would like to enjoy eating here where it's private instead of in the cafeteria."

Alex nods his thanks, mildly surprised when Desmond verbalizes it instead of ignoring her as he usually does the staff, and even compliments her haircut. "A new friend?" he asks as she walks away, trying to downplay his curiosity.

Desmond snorts and, even more surprising, grins a little bit. Alex raises an eyebrow in question. "Kind of," he says, shrugging. "Last time Ezio was here the two of them hit it off. From what she's told me, he's tripping all over himself trying to get her out on a date."

"I see." Alex isn't surprised in the least to hear that the notorious playboy of Desmond's family is trying to hook up with some of the staff. What is surprising, however, is how it took Ezio this long to try it. "Your brother seems to have gotten over his last break up pretty well."

Desmond makes a noncommittal grunt as he shovels in a mouthful of green beans. "That's just how Ezio is," he mutters around his food.

Indeed, Alex thinks. Over the past few months Alex has had the chance to get to know each and every one of the members in Desmond's extended family. William Miles and his wife had been active members and spokespeople for licensed international adoption agencies such as Children's Hope International and FTIA when alive.

The foster home they ran, more a modern-day castle than anything else, had attracted the public's attention more than once because of the many charity events that took place there. On top of that, Desmond's mother had also been really big in counseling, offering services to families who were considering adoption of children both stateside and overseas. Desmond and his older brothers had grown up within a wealthy household, wanting for nothing along with dozens of other children they considered family who passed through the estate's walls.

It was somewhat of a mixed blessing that when William died – his gentle wife already having fallen victim to breast cancer and passing away when Desmond was eight – most of the children were of age and didn't have to suffer the process of being bounced from home to home. Only Desmond, fifteen and still a dependent when his father had been killed in a fatal car crash, was forced to move from the family's estate and into a small, cramped loft with Altair, the eldest, who had been struggling through college and working two jobs at the time.

All of this Alex learned from Desmond's record and various statements from the Miles clan as well as Desmond himself over the course of the past year. The man's childhood was colorful, if not eventful, and he finds it curious that someone can be so humble after spending the better part of their life fighting for their parents' attention among a number of other children.

Altair deals with intense bouts of aggression and trust issues, Ezio seeks love in every person's bed he happens to trip himself into, and then there's Desmond who's locked up in a mental hospital for the murder of the woman he planned to marry, scared and confused with an unreliable memory and such sad, sad eyes.

-i-

They don't talk much anymore aside from the occasional odd comment until after they have tossed their trays and wandered back to Desmond's room. The room is split in half, both sides holding a single twin bed, night stand, chest of drawers and a desk respectively. One bed is draped with a powder blue throw blanket and the other a dark, crimson red that is tangled up in a frenzied, disastrous bundle atop the mattress. Again, all of the furniture is bolted down and Titan – a familiar brand that specializes in behavioral healthcare furniture.

Having never ventured into Desmond's room, Alex hangs back in the doorway and questions his morals. He is supposed to keep this relationship professional. He's supposed to always keep himself on the other side of that invisible line, the one that separates his work from his personal life. He shouldn't have come.

Alex is about to say his goodbyes and back out, leave before the strange temptation that brought him here in the first place convinces him to go even further, when Desmond looks at him with those impossible eyes; dark and fearful and burning with the unanswered questions that his very mind keeps locked away, hopelessly desperate for some kind of relief. He stares out from the cages of his eyelashes like a cornered animal. They are James Heller's eyes.

Alex breathes in sharply, quiet, and moves into the bedroom to sit in Desmond's desk chair, facing the bed. He can't stop staring and he knows he is making Desmond uncomfortable, but he doesn't look away. Alex has to stay. He has to help. He refuses to let Desmond end up in a bathtub kissing the cold metal mouth of a shotgun. Not again. Not ever again.

"Where's your roommate?" he asks at length, settling into the plastic seat.

Desmond finally breaks the intense gaze and looks across to the mess of red blankets. "Treatment still, probably. He had a rough night."

"What's his name?"'

"Clay."

Alex nods, grasping at straws. He wants to keep this mindless chatter. It feels so normal, and that frightening look in Desmond's eyes is beginning to fade. "Do you like Clay?"

"He's okay," Desmond says, frowning. "A little weird, but he's alright."

"Are you friends?"

Finally, the questions seem to bother Desmond and he gives Alex a sharp, calculating look. "Why are you here, Alex?"

When had he began allowing a patient to call him by his first name? When had they become so familiar that Alex let that slide? It bugs him that he can't remember, that he never even noticed the change. He shrugs a shoulder and leans further back in the chair. "I told you, I just wanted to see how you were doing."

"Bullshit, you've been watching me like a hawk since you got here. If this is a friendly visit, stop looking at me like you expect me to freak out any second."

"I'm not expecting you to freak out."

"Whatever." Desmond stands from his bed and walks over to his chest of drawers, digging around in the top one for an old dog-eared book. The cover is so frayed and weathered Alex can't make out the title. "You talked to Altair, didn't you?"

"Why do you think I talked to Altair, Desmond?"

Alex gets a flat, very unimpressed look in return. "Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Answering my question with a question. It's annoying. If you're going to act like my friend then at least try faking a little harder." He flips the book open to a page seemingly at random and tries to appear as if he's not interested in the conversation anymore. Alex sees right through the façade. Desmond is tense, aware of everything that his happening within the room – and possibly out of it as well.

"I'm not faking. I'll try to tamp down the medically inclined side," Alex says. Desmond snorts. "What?"

"Don't hurt yourself."

Despite everything, Alex huffs a quiet chuckle as Desmond grins crookedly behind his book. The man is unnaturally still, Alex notices. Everything about him practically screams his discomfort and he looks so out of place among the sterilized furniture that it's almost an eyesore. He finds himself wondering what kind of man Desmond used to be before this entire mess. Did he laugh often? Did he joke around and have many friends? Was he a sports fan or, like now, was he more inclined to read novels than participate in anything remotely social?

Alex knows the things that make Desmond tick, knows all of his issues and personal fears and yet he finds that he knows nothing about Desmond. Not really. What are his favorite foods? Is he a cat person? What's his favorite color? Even more unsettling than not knowing any of these frivolous details is the mere fact that he wants to.

"Are you sleeping better?" Alex asks, suddenly. Wondering those things will only make those unnamed desires hidden inside rear their ugly heads even more.

"Hard to sleep when Clay screams half the night." Desmond wanders back to his bed, sitting down on the corner closest to Alex. There is only a few feet's distance between them now and he becomes increasingly aware of the warmth emanating from his patient.

"I could talk to your doctor and get you moved to another room."

"Alex, the entire floor screams at night. That's why they're in here in the first place."

He tries not to fidget under Desmond's scrutiny as the man watches him, obviously suspicious of his strange behavior. Finally, Desmond sighs and looks back down at the book in his hands, closed now and face up. It's some nonfiction text on memory loss and amnesia, and by the state of its cover, Desmond has spent countless hours scouring through its pages, struggling to find answers.

"Just tell me why you're here."

"I – "

"And don't say it's just to check in on me, alright? You've never bothered to before, so why now?" He rubs the spine of his book, agitated. "I know you talked to Altair."

Alex doesn't say anything at first, considering his options. He does want to discuss what Altair brought to his attention with Desmond and perhaps get some things straightened out. But at the same time he really doesn't want to make this visit business like he'd meant it to be. He wants to tell Desmond he's here to talk, that's it, and he wants it to be true.

"I did talk to him," he concedes, watching the flash of hurt from his brother's betrayal play on Desmond's face.

"He told you about the meds."

"Yes."

Desmond tosses the book onto his bed and rubs his face tiredly. "That's why you're here."

"Partly," he says, and without really thinking about it, he reaches out to give the back of Desmond's neck a reassuring squeeze. The action shocks Alex straight through, freezing him in place as if he's been hit with a bolt of electricity. He thinks of Malik and recalls him doing this exact motion to Altair; the intimacy in the gesture, the familiarity there.

He starts to take his hand back, fearing he's overstepped his bounds, when Desmond…melts, for lack of a better word. He sags into Alex's touch with a heavy sigh and lets his hands dangle between his knees, exposing the serene look on his face – the almost grateful thanks there. Probably no one has touched him in over a year like this for fear of the killer within, Alex thinks. Other than his brothers, everyone else has more than likely avoided him like the plague.

Alex keeps his hand there and begins rubbing the vulnerable skin with his palm, trying to convince himself he won't ever do it again. A lie, of course, but if he lets himself enjoy this too much it can lead to more trouble than either of them are currently prepared for.

"I did want to see how you were doing. You were more upset than I've seen you in a while last week and I wanted to make sure you were okay for myself," he continues. "But I also wanted to know about the medication you told Altair about."

Desmond nods, causing the small hairs at the nape of his neck to tickle Alex's hand. "Okay."

A/N: Sorry for the delay. I'm trying :'c