Game: Assassin's Creed

Character: Desmond Miles

Genre: Angst/Humor

Rating: T (language)

Liberty, Time, and Love

/A Possible Future

"Dad! Dad! Wake up!"

Desmond Miles's eyes flew open, his heart pounding so fast inside his chest he thought it might burst.

Something was off. Something wasn't right. Something was wrong.

He blinked rapidly, trying to regain his breath as he gasped and wheezed, not sure why his throat was constricting or why his body was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He felt icky and gross, skin prickling uncomfortably, legs and arms numb, insides melting and solidifying. It was hell.

Groaning, he sat up in bed—when had he gotten into bed?—and squeezed his eyes shut against the light streaming in from outside. Had the sun always been so bright?

Slowly, carefully, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, acting on the sense of touch rather than sight. He tried to use his hands to help him in this effort, but hissed in pain as soon as his right hand brushed the bed sheets. He lurched forward, biting his lip, eyes still closed.

His hand was burning, the bones in his wrist and fingers aching something fierce, as if it had been struck by a blacksmith's hammer. He forced his eyes open, bringing the smarting appendage up for inspection.

It was perfectly fine.

His brow drew together in confusion, trying to form words with his mouth and finding that he could not.

His mind felt as if it had short-circuited temporarily, a peculiar energy making his nerve endings fire off in agonizing pulses. The blood in his veins was boiling, consuming him from the inside out as he became acutely aware of each and every single part of his being.

"Jesus," he finally managed to rasp. "What the hell happened to me?"

Blurred images flashed through his tired brain at the question, and a feeling of exhaustion enveloped him even though he had just been woken from a deep slumber. He moaned and leaned forward as the room began to spin, grateful for the solid floor beneath his feet and the thick mattress he was sitting on. They were anchors of reality—if this was reality, that was.

A glowing woman—he knew her, didn't he?—was telling him a story, a story that was fantastic and utterly unbelievable yet made perfect sense all at the same time. There was blood, blonde hair, pale lips, a surge of regret. There was a golden orb, powerful and small, and there were lights cutting through the darkness as he raised it above his head triumphantly. The world trembled beneath his feet and he was filled with power.

"Mom doesn't like it when you swear."

The parade of sensations ended abruptly as the small voice interrupted his thoughts. He opened his eyes again, albeit grudgingly, and squinted.

"...Mom…?" he questioned uncertainly, trying to force his eyes to focus on the fuzzy blob—which he assumed was a person based on its general shape—in front of him.

The fuzzy blob-person nodded what he guessed was its head. "Are you ok, Dad? You look like you're about to throw up."

He grinned, despite himself. The fuzzy blob-person was right; he did want to throw up.

A salty taste touched his tongue and he grimaced as nausea swept over him. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

"Dad!" the voice chided, his brain able to finally process that based upon its pitch, the fuzzy blob-person was a child.

He snorted. He could cuss if he wanted to! Sure, maybe it was inappropriate around a kid, but it had never stopped his parents—specifically his father—or any other adults he had known in his youth from watching their language around him. Sure, it wasn't like they did it intentionally, but there were moments when they would slip, moments when they would forget that he was just a kid and expect too much of him and from him, moments when they would lose their temper as he slipped or screwed up or did something that made him hate himself just a little bit more.

Of course he'd been forbidden from using the language, but now he was a grown man and he wasn't about to let some kid tell him what to do! No, he was his own man and the kid was just going to have to learn like him that not everything was sugar and rainbows, that there were actual bad guys out there that wanted to do him harm and that the good guys didn't always get the girl or, hell, even live, and—

His eyes widened as his thoughts came to a sudden jarring stop.

Wait a second…did it just call me…Dad?

His vision suddenly snapped into sharp focus and he found himself staring into a miniature replica of himself. Well, near replica. The kid had a light dusting of freckles on his nose and cheeks and his hair was a bit redder in color than his own, but there was no mistaking that this kid was his.

Desmond's mouth flapped open uselessly as he choked on his words. "How…when…why…where…what?"

The kid laughed and made a funny face. "What's wrong with you today? You're acting really strange. Is it because Grandpa is coming over to visit? You're not trying to get out of it by being sick, are you?"

Desmond swallowed and blinked, his brain not coming up with any possible reason why he would be sitting in bed with a kid—his kid—standing in front of him, staring at him, and telling him that his own Dad was on his way over, like everything was ok between them again and that he was alive and—

Wait. That's it. I died, didn't I? I saved the world and I died.

…

Then how am I alive?

"…you're not trying to pull the amnesia routine again, are you? Mom'll be really mad if you are. She doesn't find it funny. Remember the last time you tried that as a joke? You slept on the couch for a week."

Desmond blinked, not sure what to say.

"For being the Mentor of the Assassins, you sure do get into a lot of trouble with Mom and Grandpa. Uncle Shaun thinks it's funny." The kid paused, studying Desmond's face intensely before drawing his lips up in a pout. "You're not even listening to me, are you?"

"I—uh—that is…"

The kid stared at Desmond intensely, almost accusingly.

For a moment, Desmond felt a pull and he winced as his brain gave one last pound against his skull. There was a choice to make.

The glowing woman, the blood and the blonde, the golden orb of power…

…or the kid with freckles that looked like him?

Desmond made his choice.

Smiling, he reached out and ruffled his son's hair affectionately.

"Race you to the kitchen?"