Pairings: (Hinted) Shaun/Desmond, (hinted) Lucy/Desmond

Summary: The hands stopped their caress to reach up toward him, too far down to break the surface, but close enough that if he too were to just reach out, his fingers would graze the millions of digits below in a welcoming gesture of Take me, I'm your's.

Desmond's descent.

Notes: This has been worked on since … God, before Brotherhood even came out. How long ago was that? It's a simple one shot, 6,000 words. Not very long (IMO). I'm pretty happy with this, but I'm sure there will be plenty more updates to this (fixes, for sure, I'm not too settled on the ending). There's literally no romance in this, only pure angst and psychological!whump. What can I say, I'll always have a soft side for seeing Desmond in turmoil. ;) Translations listed at the very end of the story. Most translations are actually given in-story, but some arenot. So if you're confused, go to the very bottom. All are listed in order of appearance (some showing more than once).

BTW - Please forgive me for formatting fails. I'm trying to make it as clear as possible where the "breaks" are, but I'm really not fond of this FF format . . .

There is a sort of safety hidden down in those dark waters of deceit. It releases bubbles toward the surface, smelling vaguely of warm summer dirt and musky copper. It has no face but a million and one hands below the surface, running down each other's arms with such grace and motion that one might mistake it for the water rippling. It was intimate, loving, and he wanted nothing more than to plunge his own hands down to the dark waters to feel that loving caress. It looked sensual, safe, sane, and oh so simple. He would be pulled under and join those hands that would soothe away the terrors of the dark, reassurances that all was well, no harm would come his way so long as those hands covered his bruised body, bruises formed from life's constant harassment. Life gleefully tore down any hope of freedom and love, tossed away any sense of sanity and stability, ripped out of him the cognitive mind and replaced it with a ticking time bomb that was far too close to zero.

"The safety you seek is right at your feet."

Yes, it is, he could see it, smell it, almost taste it if he were just to stick his tongue out and lap at the cold (or would it be the warmth that was as overpowering as a mother's love?) waters like an animal denied drink for too long.

"It calls for you, can't you see?"

Yes, he could. The hands stopped their caress to reach up toward him, too far down to break the surface, but close enough that if he too were to just reach out, his fingers would graze the millions of digits below in a welcoming gesture of Take me, I'm your's.

"You will be safe."

Safe was nice. Safe was welcoming. Safe was something he craved, though not from external forces. No, he craved safety from himself, from his mind that threatened to eat away at his conscious until he was no more than a walking, empty carcass. His mind which no longer belonged to him but should but didn't. He needed this escape.

And so he reached down toward the dark depths, the opened hands, and closed his eyes.

Finally released from Baby, Desmond stood, wearily, keeping his imbalanced footing as subtle as possible. Nobody noticed, so he must have been doing a good job. Either that, or they were too busy to care. Whatever, was all he had to say to that. Better he is left to suffer the pains of mortality alone rather than have Lucy worry all over him. He ventured into the kitchen, searching through the cabinets for any type of medicine, rummaging through the bottles and boxes of assorted pills. He picked up one bottle that looked promising, only to put it back when he saw it was Midol. Wrong kind of pain.

He growled, "Where's that damned tylenol?"

"Why, you need it?"

Desmond jumped, almost giving himself whiplash with the speed he faced the offender with. Shaun was standing just outside the kitchen, an empty mug in hand and a raised brow that silently mocked the other. Desmond responded with a glare and a sarcastic scoff, "No, I'm just alphabetizing the cabinets and noticed we're missing it."

Shaun rolled his eyes. "Stupid twat." He walked past Desmond to where the plug-in boiler and tea bags were. "It's on my desk to the left of computer. Don't. Touch. Anything. Else."

It was Desmond's turn to roll his eyes as he made his way to the historian's desk. Like he really cared to mess around with the man's crap. The small white bottle was hidden amongst the piles of scribbled on papers and worn out books. How anybody could work in such a mess was beyond him.

He opened the bottle, poured two tablets into his hand, popped and swallowed dry. Just as he set down the bottle, eager for the drugs to kick in, he heard a peculiar sound that brought all ideas of inner peace to rest - the distant echo of galloping hooves that steadily grew louder (no peace for the dying now).

Thirty seconds.

He turned around, mouthing the countdown, and watching as a white mare sprinted past, barely an arm's-length away from himself. Experience with these illusions kept him from reaching out.

Twenty-nine . . . Twenty-eight . . . Twenty-seven . . .

It kicked up dust in its wake, irritating Desmond's eyes and throat. He coughed, shutting his eyes tightly, forgetting that it was only a trick of his deteriorating mind.

Twenty-four . . . Twenty-three . . . Twenty-two . . .

He opened his eyes and watched passively as the horse disappeared into the wall, the dust settling moments later.

Nineteen . . . Eighteen . . .

Soon, the sounds followed with, marking the end of his temporary madness. It only lasted twelve seconds. That was good – an improvement, in fact. He smiled as relief washed over him. It was getting better.

He hadn't noticed one man's stare as he excused himself to bed and walked out of the Animus room.

"Look, you know just as well as everybody else here that we are short on time. We need to get a move on with this!"

"Yah, yah, I know. The Templars could find us soon, and we're no closer to finding the truth than we were a week ago. I get it. But—"

"But nothing, Lucy! I'm not sure about you, but I don't want to get my arse shot off any time soon."

Desmond groaned. The feeling of being pulled from the Animus was never a pleasant ride. Waking up in the middle of somebody's argument was not doing well at making him feel any better (shutupshutupshutup). He sat up, swinging his legs off the chair, resting his elbows on his knees so that he could rest his pounding head in his palms.

"Des? You ok?"

He nodded, dropping one hand from his face so that he could look up at Lucy and grin reassuringly. "Yah. I just hate waking up from that thing." She smiled, shoulders dropping slightly as her tension dissipated.

"Well lookit that," He heard Shaun quip. "How about we keep you in there, then? We won't ever bring you out, and we'll probably get somewhere." He shot his last words clearly toward Lucy, but the sting was felt nonetheless.

Both Lucy and Desmond glared at the historian, but it did nothing to stop the man. "Lucy. We can't keep giving him breaks just because there's one low dip in the sync rate. We won't get anywhere like this, and there's only so much time before Abstergo finds us!"

As much as the two would have liked to object, Shaun was right. But Lucy would have none of it. "And we won't get anywhere if we kill Desmond just because we're impatient."

Desmond sighed and looked toward Rebecca who had busied herself in the meantime with tinkering with Baby. She met his gaze and shrugged, silently saying 'There they go again' with a roll of her eyes. He, in turn, chuckled, before standing up and began to head out of the room for a small bathroom break.

"What's one more life when dozens more are dying to protect whatever secret his DNA is holding?"

He froze in his tracks, eyes widened with the impact of those words (one life, one mind, one purpose).

"One more life? Shaun, this is Des—"

"We only need him for the location of the last piece. You know that just as well as I and Rebecca and the rest of the order!"

Hands fisted tightly at his side (truth is told in spoken anger).

Lucy gasped, "Shaun, what the hell—!"

Rebecca shouted, "He can fight just as well as any—"

Shaun laughed (bitter, cruel), "You're kidding me, right? He's lounging in a chair all day. Sure, his brain may be able to remember what Ezio knows, but his body can't do it. Not without training. And Desmond hasn't trained for a decade!"

"So we'll train him, after each session."

"He won't get better over night, and that's about as much time as we have left. You just don't want to admit that Desmond is virtually useless once we get the information. But here's the cold, hard truth. He's dispensable."

Before Lucy could say anything more, before Rebecca could slap some sense into the loud mouth Shaun, Desmond turned sharply on his heels and walked back to the Animus, sitting back down. "Send me back. I'm ready."

Lucy glared at Shaun before walking over to Desmond, setting a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Desmond, don't worry about him. You need your rest."

"Lucy. I'm fine." He snapped, startling the young woman. He instantly felt guilty afterwards – after all, she was the one who actually cared about him - but shook off the feeling as quickly as it came. There was no room for sympathy on the battlefield. "You guys need to move forward. I agree with Shaun. We haven't gotten anywhere, and we won't get anywhere unless you drill into my brain some more." He leaned back into the chair, closing his eyes. "Just fucking start it. Don't worry about me." Pause, hesitation. "And . . . don't pull me out until you got what you want."

"That could take days—"

"Go ahead." Before I change my mind. Before I let common sense back in and yell at me for risking my life just because I'm angry. Before I start to realize how childish I'm acting.

There was a long pause before the shuffling of feet and a familiar prick on his finger told him that the trip back into a dead man's world would start again. Before the descent, Desmond chanced one last glance around his world, noting the way Lucy's fingers beat down on the keyboard as if it were the cause for all this, the way Rebecca met his eyes with worry but a smile of reassurance, and finally settled on the back of the historian who spared the other no thought of sympathy – back to work as usual.

But Desmond would swear that, as his world took on the familiar haze of limbo, he saw Shaun look over at his shoulder toward him, guilt-ridden eyes betraying his otherwise stoic appearance.

Two weeks had passed since the blow out and nobody could deny the fact that, with the new change in pace, they were getting somewhere much faster than before. Two hours in the animus with a break in between turned into three hours, and quickly rose to five hours without break. Desmond felt the strain and saw what it was doing to him. Hallucinations were becoming more frequent and widespread. It was no longer just horses, now – people began to appear, randomly strolling through the halls as if nothing were amiss. Sometimes he would chance upon a familiar face in the crowd, and in a morbid way, he was glad. It made the place that much more livelier. Though the types of people to show up were from either the late Arabian's time or from the late Italian's time, they easily mixed and conversed as if they were some friendly neighbors, somehow breaking not only language barriers, but time and sanity. They acted normally, as if they were still within the sanctity of their homeland, far away from the cold confines of the warehouse.

But now he was alone, situated along one of the high railings on the ceiling. Hands resting behind his neck, one leg crossed over the other, and his gaze set toward the ceiling. If he thought hard enough, he could see the memorable twinkle of stars dotting the night sky and the crescent moon giving a sufficient amount of light to his darkened world. He reached up, hand stretched towards that opened sky, reaching for the freedom he could never attain. Held back by people he wanted to call friends, doomed to spend the rest of his sane days strapped to a chair in search of memories not his own.

"Beautiful night, my friend."

Desmond's head shot back, looking toward the sudden voice from an upside-down angle. The man was dressed in familiar garbs from Altair's time. He looked to be a novice. A familiar novice.

"Uhm . . . Yah . . . " Desmond eventually replied, slowly, confused as to how the illusion could talk to him. It was unprecedented – had he really fallen so far? Desmond groaned and covered his eyes with his arms, sudden dread taking over at the realization that his mind was slipping dangerously close to becoming nothing more than a shriveled pea.

Soft laughter brought him back from his self-pity and he leaned his head back to look at the man again. "What are you laughing at?" Desmond asked defensively.

"At you." A hint of pink tinted Desmond's cheeks as he scowled. "You look so pathetic."

Desmond absolutely bristled at that. "Pathetic? For admiring the night?"

The novice chuckled his reply, "No, for admiring the ceiling. There's obviously no night here." Reality and sanity clashed as he walked straight through Desmond, paying no mind to the way the other fought back a chill, and followed the railing toward the wall where, just barely in his reach, was a bared window. "There's the night, why do you not go for it?" The boy looked back toward Desmond, a small, reassuring smile gracing his features.

You will be safe.

You will be sane.

Go.

"Des—ugh! What in bloody hell are you doing up there?"

Desmond's head snapped down, immediately pinning down the source of the voice. Shaun looked right back at him, hands on his hips, mimicking an angry mother at her children. A silly sight, for sure, but the idea of laughter escaped him as the thoughts of the former hallucination drowned him.

"I'm . . . " Desmond paused, looking over his shoulder toward where the stranger once stood, now only seeing empty space. "I'm . . . Nothing. Just relaxing." He looked back down, only to see Shaun missing too, barely catching the other's shadow disappearing down the hall away from him.

The next time he was pulled out, it took a while for him to register where he was, but it was only a vague recognition. The room felt disgustingly familiar, but he would swear upon his life that he had never seen it before. Bright circles of light dotted the ceiling, clearly not candles, nor were they small windows for the sun (what were those?). He didn't know how long he lay there silently questioning the paneled ceiling, but when a firm grip began shaking his shoulders, his gaze snapped down to the face of a beautiful blonde calling out to him in tongues, he figured his attention was better spent elsewhere.

Slowly, he sat up, never breaking eye contact with the concerned woman. She looked hauntingly familiar (hello). He had seen her somewhere before (walls painted red with insane secrets). But where . . .

He lifted a hand to touch her face, wanting to wipe away her fears with a gentle caress, but paused halfway there with a fearful thought entering his mind. If he should touch her, he will die. His hand would reach for nothing but a vivid memory that would consume him. She was not real, only another figment of his decaying conscious (Another? Why was his mind decaying? Why was he so doubtful of her if he could feel her clearly solid hands upon his shoulder?). He started counting. He didn't know why, but it felt important, as if he life depended on it. It needed to be done, or else he would die.

Uno . . . Due . . . Tre . . .

A man stepped behind her, looking over her shoulder and into his eyes (auburn, familiar, regret). He held onto that gaze, never lowering his sight, almost challenging the stranger to speak. And he did, but in tongues and toward the woman. She snapped back, but the man kept his calm. She started to say something, but held her tongue when the other reached over to him. Fingers snapped beside his left ear. Once. Twice. By the third time the spell should have broken, is that not how these things work? But nothing happened. The man furrowed his brows, questioning. He mouthed something. No, he said something. He could hear his voice, laced with a heavy accent he never heard of before, but somehow recognized it and found himself bitterly drawn to it (spiteful, panicked, insecure).

Otto . . . Nove . . . Dieci . . .

The woman turned to face the other man as she snapped.

"Damnit, this . . . under . . . periods of time!"

Quindici . . . Sedici . . . Diciassette . . .

"We needed . . . the risk . . . paid off, didn't it?"

Ventitré . . .Ventiquattro . . . Twenty-five . . .

"At what cost, Shaun?"

Something snapped (You). The world regained its color (cyan, crimson, gold, incandescent). Memories flooded back (war, limbo, blade, truth). Desmond winced as the pain of reality came crashing back down, catching the duo's attention.

"Desmond?" Lucy asked, taking one of his hands into her's. They were warm, oh so warm, and trembling despite how hard she held on to him.

Lucy Stillman. Member of the Assassins' order. Protected him at Abstergo. Rescued him. Helped him and pushed him.

Shaun sighed, that sign of relief betraying his unattached voice. "You all there, mate?"

Shaun Hastings. History and conspiracy freak. Condescending. Database entries. Heavy British accent. A major prick.

Desmond blinked, trying to focus on the two figures. Piece by piece, he was putting together his memories of the two, and found the more he thought, the easier it became.

Desmond groaned, rubbing his eyes and blinking away the sudden exhaustion that took over. "Mm . . . What's going on?" He asked, looking up at the two.

"You spaced, my man." Rebecca chimed in. Desmond turned to look at her. "Did you see anything strange?"

Strange. Such a relative word. Strange could mean anything and nothing, something important and something insignificant. In answer to her question, no, he saw nothing strange (for he knew all but remembered naught). No, instead, everything was strange. Everything that shouldn't have been, was. He remembered nothing; who they were, where he was, even, for a brief second, himself. He could only remember twenty-five seconds. Thirty seconds was his limit. Anything in between was safe. Therefore, he was safe. Nothing was wrong. He was fine. (Sane)

"I – I think I'm just tired." Desmond finally responded, exhaustion evident in his voice, mixed with the slight trepidation of all that just happened. He could only hope nobody noticed.

Lucy hummed, a low sound deep in her throat that spoke volumes of her disappointment in Desmond's trust in her. She said nothing about it, however. She knew, regardless. They all knew. "You were under for nearly six hours," She said instead. With a gentle pat on Desmond's head, she smiled and suggested he get some food then shut-eye. He gladly took her up on the offer and began to stand when his knees shook and forced him back down. He growled and worked to push himself back to his feet. Almost immediately, an arm was wrapped around his waist, and his arm was pulled over somebody's shoulders, somebody who huffed something under their breath that sounded a lot like him being an insufferable bint.

"I don't need help." Desmond stated, resisting the urge to add "especially your's" to the end of that sentence. Shaun only held onto Desmond's waist tighter, even as he tried to pull himself away from the strong grip.

"Like hell you don't." Again, another nudge forward. "You can barely walk, let alone keep your eyes opened. Just stop whining like a two-year-old and accept some help."

Desmond snorted, but other than that, said nothing more and did as he was told. Who's fault was that?

They walked in silence down the hall, taking their time to get to the shared room. Desmond was too dazed to walk any faster and Shaun was internally fighting for lying words that everything would be okay. The silence was painful (choking), though not unwanted (fearful). It gave time for thinking and rethinking and rehashing thoughts that flooded both their minds, though both not necessarily thinking the same. One who worried over what his fears was putting the other through, and the other who tried to grasp onto anything remotely sane in a mind that whispered thoughts of three men instead of one.

"I heard you talking to somebody a few nights ago," Shaun whispered, speaking so softly as if afraid to touch the silence, let alone break it.

Desmond said nothing in response. Thought nothing. Only listened, because at that moment, he felt that was the only thing he was capable of doing, and even that was being forced.

"Lucy said no phones, remember?"

That brought a wry grin to his face, knowing just as well as the other that he had not been anywhere near a phone in the last few months since his capture.

"You could get us into trouble."

He felt the grip on his waist squeeze for a brief, passing moment, as if checking to see if he was still there. The warmth of that hand reassured him that yes, he was still alive, still tangible, still there, but not all of him was.

"You hear me?"

Shaun's voice rose, the minute crack of his voice betraying the other's attempt to hide his subconscious guilt. They had stopped walking. When had that happened? Desmond looked up to the other man, waiting for him to speak again. Nothing, so he pushed himself away from the other, taking a few steps back and hiding his hands in his coat pocket. They had begun to shake (fuck, so cold, so cold), but never once had his gaze faltered.

"Desmond?"

Why did he suddenly feel nauseated? Scared? Depressed? Angry? A few more unsteady steps backwards, and he found himself leaning back against a wall (cold, why the cold?), finally breaking his gaze from the other and redirected it toward the ground. His mind was reeling. Everything started to feel so different . . . Confusing . . . Not real.

He closed his eyes, massaging the bridge of his nose with forefinger and thumb, trying to make sense of everything his brain couldn't.

Assassins.

He was kidnapped.

Thirty.

It was 2012.

Nothing is true.

Born in . . . No.

He ran away. From . . . No.

The baby hurt.

Templars were after him. For . . . No.

Everything is permitted.

Count down.

Apple. Eden. Destruction. Pain.

His friends were . . . No.

His name was . . .

His eyes snapped open. Wide.

Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?

"Chi sono io . . . ?" He spoke, breathless, strained, but had to question whether it was really his voice he heard. It felt awkward to hear, let alone speak, but quite normal in an unheard of way. What was going on? He dared himself to look straight into the auburn eyes of the other and noticed right away the expression of grief and trepidation that felt out of character for a man he did not fully remember. The other, in turn, returned the stare, but as much as he tried to find purchase on the wide eyes offered, he felt himself shrink away and instead focus on his chest.

"Siete Desmond." The other responded. You are Desmond.

"Ah, davvero?" He chuckled. "E tu chi sei?"

Who are you?

A sting of pain shot through the other's face. "Io sono uhm . . . il tuo ami—" He paused, doubting his own words. He saw that. The man pointed to himself. "Err . . . Sono Shaun."

"Shaun . . ." He repeated, slowly, tasting the name. Familiar, yet strange - just like everything now. The other once again met his eyes – and stayed. "Ti conosco?"

Do I know you?

Shaun nodded. "Si." Of course.

Laughter bubbled within his throat, a deep, bitter chuckle that burned his lunges and wounded his mind (wrong). One hand reached up to pull his hood down over his face as another wrapped around his stomach, an attempt at holding in his pain (this isn't happening). Tears pricked at his eyes (can't be happening). He shut them tightly, trying to keep them at bay, but they slid down his cheeks regardless (this is cruel). He laughed harder.

"Liar. Io non ti conosco."

I don't know you . . . Why don't I know you?

"Chi sono io? Chi sono io!"

Who am I? Who am I! God damnit . . . Why don't I remember?

Tired of the run around and the questions, the stranger (Shaun, you remember that) stepped forward and took the other by the shoulders, roughly shaking him as if it would save his sanity. And the stranger (Shaun, your acquaintance, your ally, your weapon) spoke in tongues that he recognized and remembered once understanding.

"Look at me!" He demanded, eyes narrowing dangerously (searching for something long gone, I promise you this). "Siete Desmond!" He grip tightened, nails digging into the jacket, dulling the bite but not stopping the pain. "You are Desmond fucking Miles. Wake up!" His voice was straining under the weight of his fears. "You are not some Italian-speaking pansy. You are a god damned English-speaking, bartending American prat! Do you understand me?"

A sad smile slowly stretched across his lips, because he honestly didn't.

It took some time, but after a bit of loud words and useless insults, Desmond was able to snap out of his delirious state. The last thing he claimed to remember was going into the animus and entering a dead Italian's memory. That would mean a good ten or fifteen minutes of bleeding effect. But Desmond had woken up from the first episode, hadn't he? So it should have been only three minutes and twenty-four seconds that he did not remember, not that Shaun was counting of course.

With heavy reluctance that dragged at his feet, Shaun informed Lucy of what had happened. It was for the best, he reminded himself, because nothing he was doing would ever help the poor sod. No, what he was doing was hurting him, breaking him down to pieces, breaking open his fragile mind and tearing it apart, ignoring the screams of protests and cries for help as he took and took and never gave because he needed to live and he couldn't without —

Lucy ordered a two-day resting break for Desmond – depending on how well he reacted to the break would determine if it should be extended or if he would be allowed back in the Animus. Shaun had no idea how forty-eight hours would help the guy, but he agreed with it anyhow. If anybody noticed that he had not fought against the break, nobody said anything, to which he was thankful for.

Despite what he liked to think and believe, the episode had incited a dreadul fear within Shaun that he never thought he would ever live to feel for another. For a moment in time, Desmond Miles had vanished; a dead man had replaced the cocky, immature, lazy prat. No, not entirely replaced. Partially. Shaun could tell that Desmond knew something was not right, but his brain could not. And this is why Shaun feared for Desmond, because eventually (soon) Desmond will close his eyes for the last time, and wake up as another man who should be long dead and forgotten. The harsh reality of the situation settled in his stomach; Shaun was destroying Desmond.

The most vulnerable time in a person's life is when they are curled within themselves, holding onto a thin sheet of warmth to cover and protect their body as they slept. But such a thin material could not save all, not even the warmth it holds, once ripped from the dreamer's form and thus ripping the dreamer from his haven.

And when it happened, Shaun wished he could say he was prepared.

The cold air striking his body startled the historian awake, and in his half-dazed awakening, he tried for the sheets to pull back over himself. Instead, he felt the hard contours of another's body straddle his own, the surprise forcing his eyes open in time to see a pair of hands wrap around his neck in a tight embrace.

Everything was blurry, dizzying, running at light speed as Shaun attempted to gain control of the situation. He pulled at the hands of his offender, lungs desperate for air but knowing if he lifted his head any more, his neck would be far too exposed to ever save again. Even without his glasses to clear the haze or any light to dissipate the shadows, Shaun recognized the dark skin and taut forearms of his deranged roommate.

"De–Des—mond!" Shaun gasped, struggling to tear the vice-like grip off himself, writhing beneath the other. "What are you—"

The grip faltered – slight hesitance, slight reluctance, slight realization – before reassuming his grip, tighter, no mercy, determined.

Vision fading, breath catching (breathe). Strength not enough, use force (breathe). He dug his nails into the other's arms, scratching and clawing, desperate attempts to draw blood, to bring back a moment of feeling to the assailant who was numb to the world (breathe). Trembling hands pushed away at the face that was twisted with a vile madness that did not belong (no more).

"Diciannove . . . Venti . . .Ventuno"

Shaun paused, looking up into maddened eyes, feeling the threads of sanity snap behind dazed eyes. Those were numbers. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one . . .

Thirty seconds. Shaun remembered Lucy's warning – Better yet, Desmond remembered. The grip loosened, just barely, enough to breathe, albeit hoarsely. Yes, that's it, regain your footing, remember.

Shaun counted along with, him in English, Desmond in his fantasized native tongue.

"Venticinque . . . Ventisei . . . Ventisette . . ."

Twenty-eight (wakeup).

Twenty-nine (for god's sake).

Thirty (don't leave me).

Silence.

Shaun's eyes fell toward Desmond's mouth, his lips held open in a small O as warm breathe leaked out. Thirty seconds, any longer and . . .

"Trentuno . . . Trentadue . . . Trentatré . . ."

(No)

In a last-ditch effort, mustering up what little strength he had left, Shaun kneed Desmond in the back. He fell forward, placing a hand out to stop himself before he fell completely onto his target. Before he could recover, Shaun elbowed the other in the side of his face, using enough force to push Desmond over and off himself, and quickly jumping out of the bed to distance himself only to trip over something and land fall to the floor.

Eyes wide with panic, Shaun watched as the other slowly regained himself on the bed, momentarily kneeling on all fours to stare as equally wide-eyed at the sheets held tightly within his palms before sitting back on his heels. Shaun could hear Desmond's heavy breathing, could almost feel the gears in the other's head running as he tried to piece together everything that had just happened, what was right, what was wrong, what was real. His breathing was shaky, his balance unsteady. Only his hands still gripping onto the sheets managed to keep Desmond from falling over.

It was late. Could possibly be written off as a nightmare, possibly enhanced by potential, unknown PTSD (ignore the real problem). Desmond would be fine, perhaps sleep medications for him were in order (ignore that this would have never happened if it weren't for him).

"Mi dispiace."

Shaun paused – his mind, his breathing, his heart, his fear, all brought to a shattering halt in his chest. No, don't be sorry, please don't be sorry, this isn't your fault . . . He could only stare as he watched Desmond slowly piece himself back together. Though he was blind without his glasses, Shaun could still make out the subtle movements of Desmond's coming too as his grip on the sheet weakened and his breathing evened out.

this man just tried to kill me this man just tried to kill me this crazy man just tried to kill me.

(You are killing him)

Thinking back, Desmond had almost succeeded. Shaun brought a hand up to his throat, lightly rubbing the sore area, remembering just how close to death he just was (scarves would be required for a while, heavy bruising highly likely). Those hazel eyes that were now too scared to even look at Shaun were once filled with vicious contempt and unadulterated bloodlust, and he could not bring himself to believe that those feelings were not directed at him (of course it was, why would it not be? Look at what you are putting him through).

Burying his fear and hesitation deep within, Shaun got to his feet and slowly made his way back to the huddled form on his bed. He paused at the edge, unsure whether to reach out or to run away. Finding comfort with their distance, he simply stared, taking a strange interest in the way Desmond's hands had found their way to wrap around himself, nails scratched absentmindedly into his arms. Shaun watched the bitten nails drag bright red lines over such dark skin, soon turning both forearms completely red from the abuse. It took all of Shaun's courage to carefully pry the other's hands away from himself, and all his strength to continue holding those hands, wet with sweat and shaky with shock, and so very cold.

Shaun sat in front of the other, focusing on their hands wrapped together instead of the other who looked at him in surprise and fear (no, please, don't fear me, I'm sorry too, I never wanted this for you). Still too shaken for words, Shaun found refuge in simply rubbing their hands together, hoping to bring some warmth to Desmond's shaken body. He shouldn't be doing this, this pushed so many boundaries already with this simple, innocent contact of skin, but Shaun knew no other way to calm a fearful heart. It was the least he could do to start making up for his sins.

"Mi dispiace," Desmond spoke again, broken, shattered, and it took so much of his will for Shaun to not run away. "Mi dispiace. . . I-non lo faccio. . . I can't—"

"Do you really want to talk to me about this, or would you rather talk to Lucy." It was no question, it was a statement of fact, and in his mother tongue because Shaun knew Desmond understood, knew this was not the time, knew that the other would rather cut off his own tongue and cook it for dinner than spill his heart to some bastard of a man who had put all this unnecessary trauma on his shoulders. Shaun knew Desmond hated him, and Shaun could hardly blame him (well deserved).

Silence again, all except for their mutual breathing and unspoken thoughts.

(I'm sorry)

It would be a matter of days before his final undoing, Desmond knew (everybody knew). He knew he was on his last leg, his last breath, his last coherence before everything would go black (so this is it). He knew the end was near, but still he continued on. He had too, millions depended on his breaking for their saving (selfish, ignorant bastards). So with no words of complaint and only bitter adherence, he brings himself back to the Animus, every day, every night, allowing his brain to be opened and ruined for the sake of others.

Lucy never learned of his attempt at murder (for the greater good).

Rebecca's hand sometimes found themselves hovering over the plug to end it all (for the sake of humanity).

Shaun was quiet (for your sake).

And so those hands pulled him down, down, further down, until all he could feel was utter darkness. And he smiled.

(good bye)

Translation

Most of the Italian was translated for you in-script, but in case it isn't all that clear (and I know in some parts I purposely made it unclear), here's the translations to everything written in Italian (in order as they appear, some may be repeated). Thank you Google Translate for translating for me. What's interesting about doing it this way is that you can pretty much get the story like this. ;P

"Uno . . . Due . . . Tre . . ."

One . . . Two . . . Three . . .

"Otto . . . Nove . . . Dieci . . ."

Eight . . . Nine . . . Ten . . .

"Quindici . . . Sedici . . . Diciassette . . ."

Fifteen . . . Sixteen . . . Seventeen . . .

"Ventitré . . .Ventiquattro . . . Twenty-five . . ."

Twenty-three . . . Twenty-four . . . Twenty-five . . .

"Chi sono io . . . ?"

Who am I?

"Siete Desmond."

You are Desmond.

"Ah, davvero?"

Ah, really?

"E tu chi sei?"

And who are you?

"Io sono uhm . . . il tuo ami—"

I am uhm . . . your fri(end)

"Ti conosco?"

Do I know you?

"Si."

Yes.

"Liar. Io non ti conosco."

Liar, I don't know you.

"Chi sono io? Chi sono io!"

Who am I? Who am I?

"Siete Desmond!"

You are Desmond!

"Diciannove . . . Venti . . .Ventuno"

Nineteen . . . Twenty . . . Twenty-one . . .

"Venticinque . . . Ventisei . . . Ventisette . . ."

Twenty-five . . . Twenty-six . . . Twenty-seven . . .

"Trentuno . . . Trentadue . . . Trentatré . . ."

Thirty-one . . . Thirty-two . . . Thirty-three . . .

"Mi dispiace,"

I'm sorry.

"Mi dispiace. . . I-non lo faccio. . . I can't—"

I'm sorry . . . I-I don't . . . I can't—