I've changed the genres and rating of this story because I have decided to continue it. Sorry this chapter has taken so long, guys :)


Desmond whoops with laughter, scaling the wall with an easy bound and leaving behind the cursing, furious Shawn. The former bartender wastes no time in getting out of there, though. He knows well not to linger when the Brit is pissed off. That never works out well in the end, and he doesn't want a fight today. Not after the strange gentle encounter with Altair earlier. The Syrian trusted him for that one quiet moment, and Desmond wants more of that trusting later. But for now he needs to get out of here and takes the best route he can find - up the side of a bakery and across the rooftops.

"I'll get you for that, you bloody wanker!" Shawn screams.

Desmond smirks as he hears the irate historian, ignoring the shocked mutters of some passersby as he races across the roofs. The air is a perfect, warm temperature that brings a contented grin to the American's face. He doesn't have anything to worry about today. That's a great feeling when most of your life involves killing people and avoiding being killed by other people.

A quick glance down tells Desmond that he's gone far enough. Folding his legs into a pretzel shape, he plops down on top of Lou's Bakery and pulls a battered Big Buford out of his hoodie pocket. What a shame for Shawn. He lost his yummy, juicy burger, Desmond gloats to himself. Unwrapping his prize the former bartender digs in as the sun slowly sinks toward the horizon.

Chewing contentedly, Desmond lets his mind wander to the strange and amusing memory of how exactly his ancestors were transported to the 21st century. It had all began on one particularly unfortunate day during the oppressive heat of the Italian summer.

The needle slid out of Desmond's arm for what was surely the millionth time that month and the ex-bartender sat up, stretching his sore limbs. He saw immediately that something had gone wrong. Shawn and Rebecca weren't at their usual stations. Lucy wasn't anywhere to be seen either, and she was no slacker when it came to assassin business. So Desmond heaved himself out of Baby with no small amount of effort.

Being in the Animus all day was not a walk in the park, no matter how much Shawn teased him.

A hand clamped down suddenly over Desmond's mouth. The startled novice Assassin struggled to throw off his assailant, but was slammed hard to the ground. He had the fleeting thought that he was probably gonna have some very bad bruises tomorrow, then realized that his chances of seeing tomorrow were steadily dropping like a big fat stone. So Desmond attempted to drive his elbow into his attacker's stomach.

Above him, a snarl in Arabic told him that he'd been successful in harming the person holding him down. Why had they not let him go yet? Any normal person...

Wait. ARABIC?

Desmond panicked. He recognized that voice. And if he was right, no matter how fucking impossible his theory was, it was imperative to get out of this situation and to the middle of the nearest body of water as fast as his legs could carry him.

A cold, sharp blade pressed forcefully against his throat, making it impossible for Desmond to put that plan into action. Damn! He tried to keep himself from swallowing or moving so as to not get killed.

"Who are you? Where am I? What is this place?" Yup. It's Altair all right. The deep baritone rumbles are so familiar to the ex-bartender by now. But how to get Altair to calm down? The Levantine assassin is highly strung and volatile. So Desmond tried the only tactic he knew; sweet talking.

"Listen to me, Altair," he began, wincing slightly at the hiss of anger from above. "I will try to explain this to you, but please calm down. We're all assassins here, man."

The pressure on Desmond's throat lifted slightly. Altair was willing to talk, then. Taking this as a good sign, Desmond turned his head a little to look up at his ancestor. Cold golden eyes glared back at him and Altair's face was twisted into a terrifying snarl. Better make this as quick as possible, then. "Well, my name's Desmond. I'm your descendant, and this is the 21st century. 2012. I don't know how you got here, but the assassins here are in trouble. Abstergo - the Templars - are kicking our asses big time."

It was immediately clear that Altair was still stuck on '21st century' and 'I'm your descendant'. The Syrian swore violently and punched the ground in his fury. Not that it did any good to right this odd situation, but whatever. Desmond preferred the ground getting hit instead of him.

Growling with what had to be monstrous rage, Altair turned his gaze back to Desmond. "Well, boy? How am I supposed to get back home?"

"I don't know! I'm sorry, Altair, but I really don't know." though Altair was clearly not pleased by his answer, Desmond could tell that the assassin wouldn't kill him. Not as long as he needed more knowledge about this new and frightening time.

A loud crash startled both of them. Turning to Shawn's desk Desmond gaped at the sight of an ornately dressed and clearly shocked assassin laying there. Ezio stared in amazement at the hideout around him, seeming much more relaxed than Altair. Thank goodness for small mercies, then.

Desmond grins at the memory. Oh, it had been quite hilarious to see Altair completely flip out when Ezio recognized him as well.

"DOES EVERYONE HERE KNOW MY NAME?!" the Syrian had roared.

"Yes..." Desmond and Ezio had replied in sync.

Desmond wonders if Altair will trust him even more after this. The very possibility makes his heart beat faster with excitement. The Syrian has such an odd effect on him that Desmond can't help but admit that he's...attracted to the other man. Damn, that would be a spectacularly bad idea. Altair is thoroughly straight, though sometimes Desmond has gotten the feeling that Malik was a little more than a good friend to his ancestor. But no matter: they were related, and that was most definitely weird.

Doesn't mean I can't dream, though, Desmond thinks, smirking as his finishes his burger.