Title: Haunted

Author: SmudgedPrints

Fandom: Assassin's Creed

Pairing: Shaun/Desmond, ish

Summary: It's not easy, being on the losing side of a war.

Notes: Written prior to Brotherhood coming out, so certainly jossed at this point. This was a part of a large fic that never got finished. This particular section went in and out and in and out as I debated using it. It never seemed to fit. Eventually, I decided it was because it better stood alone. So here it stands, alone.

~oOo~

Desmond Miles awoke to the sound of a keyboard clicking. He forced his eyes open against deep grogginess, and squinted towards the doorway, which had been left ajar. The sounds were coming from that direction, along with the stark blue-white glow of what could only be a computer screen. Most telling, he was on his own in bed.

Three days now since they'd fled the city, and the Abstergo attack on the Assassin's safe-house, three since they'd arrived at what was charitably called a 'cabin', and Lucy called a 'stopgap', and Desmond was still trying to figure out what exactly had happened to his life in the last fortnight. The day before, he'd found a scrunched up bit of paper in the bottom of his jeans pocket, complete with a number scrawled on it in biro, given to him by a rather buxom female customer of his on a late shift at the bar. His boss probably wasn't even worried that he'd not called in.

It was a tiny affair, a couple of bedrooms and a slightly larger room that functioned as a kitchen, sitting area and workroom all at once. It was tiny for four people, and the bedrooms had been pretty quickly divided between the men and women. Of course, there had only been one bed in each, and Shaun Hastings, Desmond's reluctant roommate, had pulled a face before Desmond had started to tease him mercilessly about being unable to act like a grownup and powerless to resist Desmond's animal magnetism. It had annoyed Shaun no end, and caused Lucy and Rebecca to both smirk, so Desmond counted it a win.

As much fun as it was to wind up the sarcastic twit that was their historian-slash-logistician, Desmond was perfectly aware that he was still Human and, as such, required sleep. It wasn't the first time he'd noticed that Shaun barely slept through the night, more often getting up to sit at the computer to do… something.

He rolled out of bed, wincing at the chill of the air, and pulled on his jeans, stepping across cool floorboards and out into the main room. The air in there was somewhat warmer, with a stove in the corner that hadn't long gone out. It was wood-burning, not electrical. The new safe-house was firmly 'off the grid' as much as possible. There was only one small generator, and it was used to power the single computer. The Animus drew too much power to be usable. While they could have run it off the power cells in the van, Lucy had temporarily put a hold on using the device until they were sure that the Templars weren't using satellite tracking to look for unusually high heat signatures.

Shaun Hastings was in the corner at the computer, hunched over and squinting at the screen. He was dressed in the baggy t-shirt and trousers that he used for sleepwear. He'd clearly been prepared for flight; he and Rebecca had each had a small bag with a couple of changes of clothes and toiletries inside tucked away in the van. In fact, their evacuation from the safe-house had been so quick that Desmond was inclined to believe that it wasn't the first time they'd had to flee.

Of course, they had mentioned that the Assassins were losing the war.

"I'm betting that's some really good porn," Desmond said, leaning against the arm of the Animus. Shaun started, looking up. He clearly hadn't heard Desmond enter. "That or I snore way more than my ex-girlfriend ever said."

Shaun stiffened, and scowled. "Desmond, can't you see I'm working?" He pushed the bridge of his glasses further up his nose, and resumed staring at the screen, fingers working a mile a minute. He had no apparent trouble conversing and typing at the same time.

"Not really," Desmond said, getting up, and walking over to the stove. The kettle was still sitting on top, and there was water in it, fortunately still hot enough to be drinkable. He went and found a mug in the kitchen, added a couple of spoons of instant coffee.

Shaun huffed in annoyance. "Well, since you couldn't be bothered to ask, I'm overseeing the deployment of three strike teams over the North American continent, trying to clear an evacuation route for an investigating unit in Egypt, and attempting to dig up schematics for an infiltration of a Templar lab in Paris."

Desmond added the water, sipped at the coffee and grimaced at the lukewarm temperature. "Aren't there other people who can help with that? People who aren't meant to be asleep?"

Shaun didn't look away from his screen. "One or two. But none of them are as good as me."

Desmond grunted, not feeling up to winding Shaun up by teasing him about his ego at two in the morning. Instead, he set the mug down on the table next to Shaun. "You probably need that more than me, then."

He headed back towards the open bedroom door. "I'm going back to sleep. Try not to make too much noise when you finally decide that sleep is not just for the weak." Shaun didn't answer directly, but Desmond saw him gulping at the coffee as he pushed the door shut quietly.

Desmond fell asleep again pretty quickly, but woke up when the bed dipped and Shaun finally tried to sleep. It was just before dawn, and Shaun was up again soon after.

~oOo~

They had fallen quickly into a pattern. Lucy and Rebecca would hunch over portable tablets scrolling with Animus code, trying to fix the corrupt memory sequences so that Desmond would at one point be able to use them. Shaun would be at the computer, doing his work for the Order, gathering information in a manner that seemed to require mounds of loose paper, a pen, and a permanently harassed expression.

Desmond was left with nothing much to do, and he found himself wishing for the chance to run through his ancestral memories in the Animus. Desmond knew that it was just a computer generated simulation, but it felt so freeing to go running about the rooftops of Venezia as Ezio, leaping and bounding across space in a time that seemed somehow more innocent, if one ignored the conspiracies choking his ancestor's life.

The air was clean and guns were only just starting to come into existence. Mass migration and international terrorism weren't even a remote possibility. Desmond was aware that it was pure escapism, and an awfully tempting one to remain inside, but he couldn't help but enjoy himself. He mentioned this, idly, to Rebecca, who just smiled.

"I don't blame you," she said, as her fingers kept working on the tablet's surface, without even glancing at him, "I wouldn't mind a bit of running free myself."

So with nothing better to do, and no urgent secrets needing to be extracted from his memories, Desmond spent the afternoons outside, practicing.

While his mind and his muscles had absorbed the lessons the Animus had stamped into him, lessons his ancestor had learnt through years of training and hard work, his body itself was not physically used to the exercise. At least once he had tried to make a jump, only to discover that he didn't quite have the strength, or that he didn't have the stamina to run for as long periods. He found himself running through lessons from his childhood that he'd tried to forget, exercises and training drills designed to promote exactly the sort of physical strength he needed.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he found that he regretted having abandoned his parents and the others in the compound. Maybe if he'd stayed...

Desmond pushed it out of his mind, telling himself that it was useless to regret things that cannot change. He was certain that Altair would have found any sort of remorse to be a waste of energy, though perhaps Ezio would have understood.

He managed to set up a sort of makeshift obstacle course out of discarded logs and some of the trees. The cabin was set in the middle of a forested mountainside, the shadow of the peaks and trees hiding it from satellite imagery, the cold of snow serving to mask their power generator's emissions. It wasn't quite the sun-baked rooftops of the Holy Land, or the slate roofing of Italy, but it served its purpose well enough.

He'd spent the last few days setting things up, taking practice runs, and now he was going to attempt to do a complete run through. He thought he'd added in enough difficulty to make it challenging and to try and judge how much work he needed to do to make proper use of Ezio's inherited skills, and he was eager to get started. It wasn't only because it was freezing cold outside and he didn't have anything warmer than his sweatshirt, so the sooner he got moving the better.

"Right," he muttered to himself, "You can do this."

He braced himself, breathed in and out deeply, and then started running. He dove over a low branch, rolling on the ground under one he'd propped up at a lower angle. He came out of the roll and used his momentum to move him along at speed, used a half rotten log to springboard himself into a jump, reaching out to grab a low-hanging branch. He swung onto the next branch, a tree a few meters away, nearly missing. He would remember that he had trouble swinging and work on that later, but for now he kept going.

He grabbed a rope he'd thrown over a higher branch, and used it to swing around. His feet found solid wood of another tree, and he let go of the rope and grabbed the trunk, scrabbling upwards, trying to get as high as possible. His muscles were burning, his palms were scraped, and his lungs were screaming at him as he inhaled frigid air. But then he found himself at the top of one of the tallest trees in the local forest, looking around at the almost unbroken wilderness. The cabin was to his left, and trees were all around. Snow had fallen since they'd arrived there, obscuring the tracks of the van.

Desmond vaguely recalled that this part of the country didn't used to be so heavily snowed this time of year. Apparently climate change had affected the local weather patterns pretty severely. It helped keep them hidden, gave them a reprieve, though.

The cold was staring to get to him. His fingers going numb, but the feeling of freedom made him giddy, lightheaded. It lent him a sense of foolish recklessness, which was probably just as well, considering how he intended to get down. He'd set up a pile of leaves and thin twigs at the base of the tree. He knew he had to try, or he would make the attempt without thinking from a higher spot than the one he currently inhabited, and might just kill himself in the attempt.

In his head, to could hear what Altair had told himself the first time that he'd jumped. Believe, and it will be so.

Desmond jumped.

~oOo~

When the feeling of euphoria at not having died, and having done perhaps the most thrilling thing in his whole life, faded, Desmond realised he was lying on his back in a pile of scratchy twigs, staring at the sky. He thought he saw a hawk or other bird of prey wheeling in the sky, and he watched it for a long moment.

"Just as well Lucy didn't see you do that," an acerbic voice commented from nearby, "She'd kill you before the Templars had the chance."

Desmond turned his head. Shaun was sitting on one of the logs that Desmond had used for jump trials, wearing a coat, scarf, and smoking something fragrant. Desmond got to his feet, picking bits of evergreen out of his clothes, and sat down next to him.

"Wouldn't know if I could do it until I tried," he said, and smirked.

Shaun rolled his eyes, and held out the rolled up paper to him, and said, "The Assassins of old used the Leap of Faith as final proof that an Assassin no longer thought of himself, only of his cause. One who feared death would die, one who knew he had a purpose, a reason, would survive and carry out his task."

"Ezio didn't think of things that way, but I'm not sure how he learned how to do it," Desmond said, the smoke curled into his lungs, taking the edge off the searing cold of the air, "Am I allowed to use this and operate the Animus?"

"Probably not," Shaun said, dryly, taking the joint back, "But I won't tell Rebecca if you don't. If they ask, bring it up under 'tradition'."

Desmond smirked, thinking back to some old jokes from his childhood, jokes he realised now were part of the Order of Assassins. "I thought you'd be working."

"Lucy needs the computer to run sims of the Animus data," Shaun said, "We don't both get to play at the same time."

"You could use the break to sleep," Desmond suggested.

"Or you could go fuck yourself, you interfering git," Shaun said, smiling pleasantly, "And stop jumping off tall trees."

Desmond snorted in amusement, and they spent a quiet few minutes passing the roll back and forth between them. Eventually, though, its scant warmth couldn't counteract the frigid air.

"My fingers are going numb," he said, "I'm going back inside. Don't freeze to death. I'm not dragging your corpse back inside."

Shaun rolled his eyes and gave him a rude gesture as Desmond got up, shoving his hands in his pockets as he made his way back to the cabin. Shaun made no move to return, and Desmond firmly reminded himself that Shaun was an adult and fully capable of making his own decisions.

Inside, Lucy was hunched over the computer, looking harassed and tired. She barely glanced up to murmur a greeting, though Rebecca offered a louder "Shut the door!". She was curled up on one of the threadbare chairs, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, working from a handheld battery-run computer. The screen scrolled rapidly with code that Desmond guessed was related to the Animus.

"Anything interesting?" He leaned over her shoulder, peering at the incomprehensive gibberish that flew by.

Rebecca blinked up at him. "Trying to see if I can isolate any more memory strands that can help us. Abstergo's database had a good start, but obviously it does have as much data on your genetic memories as it did for other subjects, there for longer."

"Anything I can do to help?"

Rebecca smiled. "It would help if I could get you in the Animus for a while, but Little Miss Spoilsport still says no."

"When we meet up with the others," Lucy said, tartly and without looking up from the screen, "I'd rather that our newest recruit wasn't lying on the ground, drooling from your messing around with neurological interfaces."

It was the first he'd heard about meeting up with other Assassins. "Others? When?"

Lucy shrugged lightly. "When we're sure Abstergo are off our tail, and when we have a plan about what to do. But I don't want to stay here too long anyway. As soon as we know we're not being followed, we'll move on to another safehouse. We don't have the resources here to get any proper work done."

"Right," Desmond said, awkwardly, and looked around. Lucy and Rebecca both working, Shaun outside working on his icicle impression. "I'm going to go... rest, or... something," he said, awkwardly, and when the women barely responded, he shrugged to himself and went to go lie down in the bedroom. He figured that he might as well try to get as much rest as possible. For all he knew, there wouldn't be much in the days to come.

~oOo~

Desmond dozed, drifting in and out of consciousness. His mind wandered, and he found himself taking the role of Ezio Auditore, saw himself walking through the streets of Venezia, ignoring the stench of the canals in summer with the ease of practice. By his side walked Leonardo da Vinci, quiet conversation passing between them.

"You have never seemed to shy away from the tools of my trade, or supplying me with aid," Ezio said, in low tones. Venezia was busy, but it wouldn't do to be overheard discussing such things in public. "My friend, you do confuse me at times."

"I understand your motivations, Ezio," Leonardo said, "Though I could never participate directly in your deeds, I sympathise, and you have raised your blade in defence of me. I could never shun you for what you have done. All men are hypocrites to some degree, at least I admit that I am so."

Ezio laughed. "And yet you call yourself a pacifist."

"I will not lift a blade against another, but I am not a fool. Others will do so."

"I am appreciative of your help," Ezio said, serious suddenly, "Grateful beyond words. I hope you understand that, Leonardo. I would not have you think I ever take your skills, or your companionship for granted."

"Of course, but we are friends, no? Such things need not be spoken of between us." Leonardo looked sunward, seeing how it was progressing, and smiled, "Ah, the day gets away from us, I see."

The bed bounced, rousing Desmond out of his dozing. He vaguely wondered if that had been a memory or a dream of his own creation. Belatedly, he realised that the pair had been speaking Italian. He turned his head, squinting. Shaun was sitting on the bed, pulling off his boots. When he realised Desmond was looking at him, he said,

"Rebecca's made something to eat. Unless you want to miss the only barely-edible food you'll get today, I'd suggest you stop lying around."

It was hardly gourmet cuisine that Rebecca served, but it was tasty enough. Mostly it was made of freeze-dried packaged foodstuffs that had been packed away in the van, rehydrated and cooked over the stove, and Desmond was sure that it was appetising only because he was hungry, but he wasn't going to argue.

They went back to their separate and self-assigned tasks when they were done. Desmond wound up sitting on the threadbare chair, reading one of the old paperbacks that occupied the single bookcase in the cabin. Mostly they were trashy old romances and pulp scifi novels. Unfortunately, Desmond was feeling these days like he was living in a pulp scifi novel, so he wound up reading one of the romance novels, ignoring Rebecca's teasing comments, wondering exactly what women saw in this trash.

He hadn't realised he'd fallen asleep until he opened his eyes, and the room was dark, lit only by the bits of moonlight that made it through the thin curtains and the few bits of electronic equipment they kept running. Desmond thought that he must have tired himself out with his physical exercises more than he'd thought, to fall asleep sitting upright. Someone had draped taken the book out of his hands, set it aside on the floor, and he thought he was on his own until he heard Shaun's voice speaking, low urgent tones.

"It's ok, Marcie, an extraction team's on its way."

He was wearing a headset, his eyes fixed firmly on the screen in front of him. He had the sound turned up high enough, though, that Desmond could make out the words of the woman on the other end.

"Unless they get here in the next minute or so, it's not gonna matter much, Shaun. I'm pretty sure that this much blood isn't meant to be outside the body. Fucking automatic defences." Marcie sounded out of breath, pained.

"Marcie, just hold on a little while longer. I've got someone en route. Just a bit longer."

"Oh, let's face it. The fact that I've made it this long is a miracle. Remember Panama?"

Desmond turned his head slowly so that he could see Shaun properly. Shaun was so fixated on the screen that he didn't notice Desmond's regard. Shaun was blinking rapidly, though his eyes still seemed to be dry. He had his hands pressed together, fingers laced, almost as if he were praying. He might be, for all Desmond knew.

"You were an idiot in Panama," Shaun said, voice choking as he tried to make it sound like he was teasing.

"And you got me out. You're a good Control, Shaun. Don't... don't blame yourself for this one, ok? No one could have seen it coming."

Shaun silently mouthed 'I should have' but didn't voice it.

"Hey Shaun?"

"Yes, Marcie."

"Do... do you think..."

Marcie trailed off, Shaun waited for a few seconds through the pause before saying, "Marcie? Marcie, respond?" There was nothing. "Marcie?"

Desmond's stomach twisted painfully as he realised he'd just heard the last words of a woman he'd never met. Shaun stared vacantly at the screen for what seemed to be a long time, then he reached out and typed something into the computer. His tone shifted, becoming more business-like, though there was an underlying roughness that Desmond wasn't familiar with.

"Abort," he said, "The Berlin team's dead. No one left to retrieve."

There was silence for a moment, then a confirmation came through on Shaun's headset. Shaun sat there at the table, stiff, staring at the screen. Desmond wondered if he should speak up, say something, but before he could open his mouth, Shaun, in an abrupt and violent motion jumped to his feet and shoved the computer, screen, and keyboard all to the floor, chair knocked over behind him.

It made a tremendous crash, startling Desmond, bringing him to his feet. Barely a second passed, and then the door to the girls' bedroom was flung open, and Lucy was standing there, looking mussed but sharp-eyed, a wicked looking knife held in her hand. Rebecca was behind her, looking a little less awake but nonetheless curious about what was going on. Shaun was leaning on the table, head bowed, with his eyes closed and fists clenched.

Desmond wasn't sure what possessed him to do so, but he raised one hand slightly, waving Lucy off. She frowned at him, as if to say, You sure? He nodded. She hesitated, then drew back, tugging Rebecca's arm to make her go as well, and closed the door behind them. Desmond went over to Shaun and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Come to bed," he said, quietly.

"Don't tell me what to do, you arrogant prick," Shaun said, though the words had a ring of reflex about them more than malice. Desmond wasn't impressed. He'd heard worse after cutting off people who didn't believe him when he told them that nine tequilas were more than enough.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said.

Shaun sighed, and opened his eyes. They were suspiciously red. He looked at the computer on the floor, waved a hand vaguely towards it. "I should-"

"It'll be as broken in the morning as it is now." And those things were built tough. Desmond was pretty sure it was still intact, and it would give Lucy and Rebecca something to do in the morning. "Come on."

Shaun went remarkably pliant, and let Desmond lead him to the bedroom. It was dark in there, cool. Desmond let go of his sleeve once they were inside, pulling off his sweatshirt and jeans. He glanced back to see Shaun standing stock still in the middle of the floor.

"If you don't take your clothes off, I'm going to do it for you, and that's an experience I don't think either of us want."

That seemed to galvanise Shaun into action. He clumsily unbuttoned his shirt and trousers, stripping down to his boxers, and sat down on the edge of the bed. Desmond got in, folding himself under the blankets and thin duvet. Shaun made no move to lie down, though.

Desmond lay there, and waited.

Eventually, Shaun spoke, "I knew Marcie since I joined the Order. The first time I killed someone, and I thought I was going to go mad and scream, she gave me a drink and told me it got easier. She helped train me. She knew how I could sometimes... over-think things."

Desmond reached out, laid a hand on Shaun's arm. Anything he said would have just seemed trite, so he said nothing.

"We're losing," Shaun said, and for a moment, there was an ache in Desmond's chest at the sheer despondency in Shaun's voice, "So Marcie's really not going to be the last. That's the worst bit."

He let out a deep sigh, shoulders so tense that Desmond knew he was shoving all that grief and anger somewhere deep down where he could ignore them. He shuffled awkwardly backwards, and then lay down on his side, facing away towards the wall. Desmond started to pull his hand away, but Shaun surprised him, grabbing his wrist before he could pull too far away. Desmond hesitated, and Shaun turned back so that he could see his face, his expression pleading.

Desmond nodded, once and Shaun sagged a little, tugging on Desmond's hand as he turned back towards the wall. Desmond went with him, pulled closer towards Shaun's body, pressed gently up against his back. Shaun smelt distinctly of sweat and unwashed skin, though Desmond knew that he was no better. There was no shower here, no ability to clean beyond what a warmed up bucket of water could provide. It wasn't that unpleasant, though even if Desmond had been inclined towards trying anything, it would have been put off by the fact that once Desmond had settled into holding Shaun in a loose embrace, Shaun started trembling, emotions barely suppressed.

He didn't make a sound, so Desmond just gripped a little tighter, and waited until it passed and Shaun finally fell asleep.