Assassin's Creed fic!
Title: Shaun and the one time he accidentally cared
Rating: PG. some mention of dying again. Whoops.
Fandom:Assassin's Creed! Derp!
disclaimer/summary: Not mine, don't sue.
Words: Six hundred and something.
Notes: Oh man, I could play an entire game about the modern assassin's and their derpery. Sort of a continuation of this.
He’s tired. Not the kind of tired that gets you killed; he wouldn’t let himself get like that, not again. He’s the kind of tired that has you heaving a sigh and microsleeping, just for a moment. Just one second, but then Lucy’s yelling at him and Rebecca’s making some crack about tea and crumpets and Desmond gives him this look.
Shaun’s still trying to decipher what it means when someone looks like the world is crumbling and you’re crumbling with it. He can’t sleep - his eyes won’t fucking close so he’s just staring at the ceiling, his keyboard warm under his fingers and playing that moment over and over in his mind. He’s the stable one, he realises. Lucy’s prone to fits of profound self doubt and Rebecca? Well, she likes machines more than people. He’d figured that out early on, but that didn’t stop them from sleeping together once or twice, and he likes her. Genuinely likes her.
It’s just that Desmond looks at him like the world is ending. Like there’s something riding under his skin that’s trying to burst out. Like he’s three or four people at once, like he’s finding it hard to remember which one he is and like the curve of his jaw is Ezio’s, like the line of his nose is Altair’s and like the twist of his mouth belongs to Sixteen (even though they’re not related) just before he slit open his own throat with a goddamn knife made of paperclips.
He’d looked up Desmond’s parents in the system one night. Both accomplished assassins, one from Jordan one from fucking Illinois. Desmond had run away the first chance he got, stealing a motorcycle that was long since gone, the ink on his arm still fresh, still hurting. Shaun feels like he’s intruding, reading the kid’s psych reports Spends too much time in his own head. Doesn’t make friends easily. Not likely to ever be devoted to the cause. and what comes later Abstergo. Possible turncoat. Remove from situation by any means necessary.
Half the notes in there were Lucy’s. Things she’d fed them after being hired at Abstergo; she constantly compared him to Sixteen and Shaun knew that wasn’t fair. Knew he did it too. He’d lasted longer than Sixteen ever had, but there’s always that underlying thought that this is going to happen all over again he’s going to lose a friend again which is why they can never be friends why can’t he stop it why can’t he stop it from bleeding why can’t he-
Why can’t-
Desmond breathes in deep, holding it for a moment. Shaun looks over at the bed, the light from the monitor making him squint.
He lets out the breath and Shaun breathes with him. Shuts down the computer, switching the speakers off before they make a noise.
Desmond sleeps on his stomach, blade strapped to his arm. He’s either confident they’ll protect him or just as exhausted as he feels; when Shaun touches the back of his neck with a warm, heavy hand he doesn’t stir. He has a scar at the base of his neck. His file says he fell off a wall during practice and Shaun can believe that ten year old Desmond came close to decapitating himself, even as that leaves a sick, heavy feeling roiling through his stomach, a storm right under his ribs.
The wall is cool against his back and Lucy doesn’t say anything when she walks in on them in the morning, Desmond’s face mashed into Shaun’s hip and his hand still on the back of his neck, thumb pressed against the hollow at the base of his skull.
Rating: PG. some mention of dying again. Whoops.
Fandom:Assassin's Creed! Derp!
disclaimer/summary: Not mine, don't sue.
Words: Six hundred and something.
Notes: Oh man, I could play an entire game about the modern assassin's and their derpery. Sort of a continuation of this.
He’s tired. Not the kind of tired that gets you killed; he wouldn’t let himself get like that, not again. He’s the kind of tired that has you heaving a sigh and microsleeping, just for a moment. Just one second, but then Lucy’s yelling at him and Rebecca’s making some crack about tea and crumpets and Desmond gives him this look.
Shaun’s still trying to decipher what it means when someone looks like the world is crumbling and you’re crumbling with it. He can’t sleep - his eyes won’t fucking close so he’s just staring at the ceiling, his keyboard warm under his fingers and playing that moment over and over in his mind. He’s the stable one, he realises. Lucy’s prone to fits of profound self doubt and Rebecca? Well, she likes machines more than people. He’d figured that out early on, but that didn’t stop them from sleeping together once or twice, and he likes her. Genuinely likes her.
It’s just that Desmond looks at him like the world is ending. Like there’s something riding under his skin that’s trying to burst out. Like he’s three or four people at once, like he’s finding it hard to remember which one he is and like the curve of his jaw is Ezio’s, like the line of his nose is Altair’s and like the twist of his mouth belongs to Sixteen (even though they’re not related) just before he slit open his own throat with a goddamn knife made of paperclips.
He’d looked up Desmond’s parents in the system one night. Both accomplished assassins, one from Jordan one from fucking Illinois. Desmond had run away the first chance he got, stealing a motorcycle that was long since gone, the ink on his arm still fresh, still hurting. Shaun feels like he’s intruding, reading the kid’s psych reports Spends too much time in his own head. Doesn’t make friends easily. Not likely to ever be devoted to the cause. and what comes later Abstergo. Possible turncoat. Remove from situation by any means necessary.
Half the notes in there were Lucy’s. Things she’d fed them after being hired at Abstergo; she constantly compared him to Sixteen and Shaun knew that wasn’t fair. Knew he did it too. He’d lasted longer than Sixteen ever had, but there’s always that underlying thought that this is going to happen all over again he’s going to lose a friend again which is why they can never be friends why can’t he stop it why can’t he stop it from bleeding why can’t he-
Why can’t-
Desmond breathes in deep, holding it for a moment. Shaun looks over at the bed, the light from the monitor making him squint.
He lets out the breath and Shaun breathes with him. Shuts down the computer, switching the speakers off before they make a noise.
Desmond sleeps on his stomach, blade strapped to his arm. He’s either confident they’ll protect him or just as exhausted as he feels; when Shaun touches the back of his neck with a warm, heavy hand he doesn’t stir. He has a scar at the base of his neck. His file says he fell off a wall during practice and Shaun can believe that ten year old Desmond came close to decapitating himself, even as that leaves a sick, heavy feeling roiling through his stomach, a storm right under his ribs.
The wall is cool against his back and Lucy doesn’t say anything when she walks in on them in the morning, Desmond’s face mashed into Shaun’s hip and his hand still on the back of his neck, thumb pressed against the hollow at the base of his skull.