But He Had His Reasons

One might wonder just why Shaun Hastings did what he did, but he had reasons.

In the beginning, when he had started talking with Desmond, he had let the other man tell him about everything.
About his past, his wishes, what he hoped the future would bring and his deepest, most private thoughts. He shared his nightmares with Shaun, the things and people he was when he was caught in the bleeding effect.

In turn, Shaun told Desmond about himself. Or rather, he told him about the person he pretended to be. There were some truths it the stories – like how it started when he was about fourteen or fifteen and how he found Abstergo – but in every truth there was a lie.
He told him he was an assassin's through and through and that he had killed before, but that he preferred not to do it. The only truth in that lie was that he had killed before; the rest was a lie.
But Desmond trusted him blindly, and that was his mistake.

Shaun thought it was pathetic how blindly Desmond trusted him; had he learned nothing growing up on the Farm; nothing after being kidnapped by Abstergo?
Desmond was a weak fool as far as Shaun was concerned; he held nothing of the strength of his ancestors, and he carried the bloodlines of the most powerful assassins to have ever existed.
Something must have gone wrong somewhere down one (or more) of the lines – not that Shaun actually cared – it only made it easier for him to manipulate Desmond.

At night, when Shaun lay awake in their bed after Desmond had fallen asleep, he thought about seeing the walls of an unknown room splattered with blood; carpets and furniture soaked through with the red liquid; a pool of blood around the neck as well as the wrists where the arteries had been severed.
Sometimes he dreamt of a smashed skull, with bone fragments and brain matter and blood surrounding the head like a halo; one of the eyes laying besides the head and the other staring out of the remains with a shocked look in it; the mouth twisted in surprise and a bit of pain.
Other times of crushed and broken bones; a body lying on the street or bottom of a staircase in a pool of blood, something that made it look like the person had simply tripped and fallen, not having been pushed.

But always, always was the recurring thoughts of a pool of blood, always the same victim; Desmond Miles. And always the same hands that caused the death; his own.
It never mattered if he was seeing it all unfold through his own eyes or from the outside; he always felt or saw that victory smirk on his own face, his eyes gleaming with malice and lust for the blood of the younger man.
Just to dip a feather in the blood as Altaïr would have done, and then have a taste of it in order to celebrate his victory.

Shaun didn't care about the war between the Templars and assassins; he didn't care about the outcome or any other part of it. All he cared about was getting paid for what he had already done and what he was to do.
He cared about history, he cared about getting paid for what he was worth, and he cared for those who had made history already and what legacy they left behind.
This war had gone on for hundreds of years, and since he was fairly certain it would continue on for a long time yet, he had no interest in it, for when the time came that this was nothing more than history; nothing more than memories and stories passed down, he would be long gone.

If his parents had ever bothered to take him to a doctor do get diagnosed – or Shaun had gone himself – he would have gotten one and most likely a form of treatment.
Shaun was glad his parents had never cared enough about his to do that, or even that something was off with their only child.
So instead Shaun had grown up emotionless – the distance of his parents hadn't actually helped the case. He had been bullied in school for being such a history nerd, but young Shaun had never cared. He was who he was, and as soon as the bullies discovered it wasn't affecting him - no matter what they did – they gave up.

So yes, Shaun grew up alone, surrounded by history books. But he never felt alone; he always felt surrounded by the people of those histories as he read them; always imagined himself being them or being there with them.
The historian had a very colourful imagination, so vivid he sometimes swore he could feel the crunch of leaves under his feet or the mud in the streets; he could smell the sewers or rainforests; he could feel the sun or the rain or the wind on his face; the boat rocking under him as they sailed into a storm.

He never shared it with anyone though, that was something no one else ever found out.
Once though, he told Desmond. He didn't know why, he was supposed to feed him lies and half-truths, nothing this personal. So in order to save himself, he claimed that was how it was for him when he was young, but he stopped feeling like that long before he went to college.

In truth though, he still had that vivid imagination.
When he dreamt of killing Desmond, he could feel the skin under his hands; hear and feel the breath of his "lover"; he could taste the salty, rusty taste of his blood, which somehow tasted a bit different from any other person's.

Shaun couldn't remember if he'd ever had a nightmare, but after he shagged Desmond the first time, he had one.
In that dream he was a different person; a person who was with Desmond because he wanted to, because it was his choice, not something he was paid to do; in that dream he loved Desmond.
He'd woken with a jolt, and Desmond was there in an instant, trying to comfort him as best he could.
When asked what was wrong, Shaun had lied as easily as any other time and claimed he dreamt Desmond died and that they'd lost the war against the Templars.
All lies and Desmond couldn't tell the difference. He truly was a dim-witted American and Shaun loathed him all the more for it.

Each day and each night – which he unfortunately had to spend with Desmond curled around him – brought him closer to the end of his task, which was the only reason for him managing to hold out.
Of course, he knew he couldn't just finish the task before the time the contract stated, but it wasn't easy.
Having a sweaty, clingy American stuck to him all night wasn't exactly on top of Shaun's list of things he enjoyed.

And then Lucy had gotten herself killed, all because Those Who Came Before had fallen for his trap, and assumed it was Lucy who was the traitor, when in truth there never was a traitor.
How could he be a traitor when he'd never been on their side in the first place?
No, he wasn't a traitor; he was a man who only followed his own laws and those of the ones who paid him to do a job until that job was done.

Desmond had gone into a coma because of the combined forces of shock and Ezio's Apple of Eden.
As much as Shaun had wanted to run away, he couldn't. The contract clearly stated that Desmond had to die; going into a coma wasn't enough.
And then Desmond's father had to show and make it all the more complicated. If he hadn't, Shaun would've made off with Desmond and Rebecca in a car accident, which he would be "lucky not to be a part of" because he would have been back at the safe house doing research as usual.

Instead he had to stick around for a few more days, and then Desmond woke from the coma.
What Shaun hadn't expected however, was to be lead straight to the place the Templars were looking for; another vault, like the one in Rome where Ezio had hidden his Apple.
Shaun didn't give a shit about the Temple, or if there might be a Piece of Eden in there or not.
Desmond was there, now he could kill him at last, and he'd led the Templars straight to the place they sought, which hopefully would bring him a damn big bonus.
Maybe they'd let him get access to another treasure chamber or let him be a part of a digging-site next time they stumbled upon one.

The best thing was that Desmond gave him the perfect opportunity to deal with his "problem". He let himself be pulled to the side, letting William and Rebecca think it was because they needed a small moment of privacy, they were lovers after all.
William might not approve, but as long as his son stuck to the path that had been chosen for him, Bill didn't care what or who he was doing.
Oh, and the look on Desmond's face when he told him Lucy had been a traitor, and how he said it was over now; they were safe from the Templars for at least a little while longer…
Shaun had to struggle not to facepalm and laugh mockingly at him.

No, instead he grasped Desmond's left arm and flicked it so the hidden blade slid out of its sheath.
He took a moment to enjoy the confused look in Desmond's eyes and didn't bother to hide the look he now knew had appeared in his eyes; just like in his dreams.
Then he drove the blade into Desmond's throat.