Disclaimer: Call of Duty: Black Ops, all characters and settings, and anything else you would recognize as pertaining to this video game does not belong to me. The plot itself belongs to me. I do not intend to make any money off the writing of this fan fiction; it is merely for entertainment purposes.

Title: Patient Confidentiality.

Chapter Title: A New Patient.

Complete Story Summary: Richtofen offers "therapy" to his teammates, and they are oblivious to his master scheme.

Story Pairing(s): Tank Dempsey/Edward Richtofen. Slight Nikolai Belinski/Edward Richtofen.

Story Rating: T.

Chapter Content: Blood lust.

Notes: Sorry for the long time with nothing for you guys to read. I just haven't been inspired recently! That, and I've been fully engaged in an MMO… Oh, and this isn't a one-shot. Surprise, surprise. Stay tuned.

Fingers of one hand drummed in an erratic beat on the top of the worn wooden table, creating faded prints in the thick coating of the dust and debris resting upon it. The other hand curled in a fist, propping up the shaven chin of a primly dressed man. His eyes stared down the other person in the room, who uneasily shifted in his chair. He let a small smirk show his amusement when the American winced at the long creak his action created.

"Nervous? Ja, me, too."

"Let's just get this over with, Doc… I'd rather the others didn't know I was here."

"Mmm," Richtofen hummed in false sympathy. "Do not vorry, Dempsey. Patient confidentiality."

Tank snorted, covering it up with a forced fit of coughing into one fist so he could turn his head and stare out a nearby window. He doubted Richtofen even knew what the phrase meant.

"Take your time."

"Where should I even start, Doc? I mean… how does all of this even w—"

"Again vith zhe vorry! Just start anyvhere. I can vork vith anyzhing."

"Well, I guess it started when I was a kid. Dad wasn't around—being a military man and all—and Mom was busy with other men…"

Richtofen made noises of agreement and disagreement, and sometimes he nodded or responded just to show the man that he was still listening. Within that room, he allowed Tank a moment to relax and pour out his heart. He played the part well, pretending to care about what troubled them. In truth, he had offered these services to the other men to lull them into a false sense of security. One day, after they've all bared their souls to him, he would have them strapped down and vulnerable to his knowledge of what really scared them—what they were most insecure about. He couldn't wait. He was almost unable to suppress a shudder of delight.

Tank turned his wandering gaze upon Richtofen once more and blurted out, "Ya know?"

Richtofen realized that he hadn't been listening to a heated part of Tank's confessions, and he cursed himself inwardly for taking himself away to his fantasy land of scalpels; syringes; operating tables; and pretty, bright white lab coats. He blankly stared for a moment, struggling to conjure up a reply. "Do you care to elaborate furzher on zhis subject?"

Tank nodded, easing himself into a more comfortable position. He rubbed a finger across his jaw in thought. "I don't know… It just seemed like nobody understood me. I was always a loner. Sure, the chicks dug me, but it wasn't the same as somebody actually caring." He bit the inside of his cheek, doubting Richtofen knew anything about human emotions other than sadistic glee and passion about blood and destruction. But once he had started speaking, he found himself unable to stop.

Richtofen listened intently. All this talk about women, sex, and his high school was immensely boring, but he was interested about Tank's obvious want for affection. It was clear in his face that he had never experienced that sort of thing—and Richtofen sure as hell didn't, either—and he was laid out like a gourmet buffet of human weakness. Richtofen gleefully laid his eyes upon a yearning heart and imagined stabbing a fork right through it like he would a fresh, delicious bratwurst. It gushed and squelched with his eager stabbing, creating a symphony of beautiful melodies to his ears.

Once the splashes of blood cleared from his vision, and Richtofen forced his excitement and pleasure down. He couldn't afford to expose himself before he was ready. He smoothed down his Nazi uniform in self-consciousness once he noticed that Tank was finished rambling and was expectantly awaiting his response. He took a moment to think.

"Vell… you are certainly an interesting patient," he began slowly, "und I can tell you zhat… ve vill definitely need to meet more in order to, how you say… get to zhe bottom of all of your problems." A quick glance at a nearby clock, that had stopped ticking years ago, confirmed that his hour was up.

Tank nodded in agreement, expecting nothing less. His spirits felt strangely lifted. He didn't realize how much he needed to talk about his past in order to surpass that haunted feeling of his. However, he was nowhere near done talking. He desperately wanted to undergo more "therapy." No matter how much the doctor eye-raped him with knives during their sessions. He could have sworn he could almost feel how much the doctor had wanted to draw blood and gore during parts of it. Honestly, it wouldn't surprise him.

They sat in silence for a bit, reflecting on what had been said and heard. Richtofen formulated his plan in his head, fitting pieces to the puzzle that was Tank Dempsey. Too many holes, still. He needed more time. While he did that, Tank thought about what he wanted to talk about during the next meeting, and he again wondered if Richtofen really knew what he was talking about and if he could help him.

He stood from his chair and offered his hand to the still seated Nazi. "Thanks for listening, Doc. I appreciate it. These months have really done a number on me. The loneliness gets to you, ya know?" He hesitated when admitting that, but he figured it wouldn't hurt anything to mention it.

Richtofen took his hand after a pause. A large grin swept across his face. "I know." He didn't.