Hurrah! ^-^ I managed to actually write this out within 3 days! *happy dance*

But yes, thank you for all your reviews, guys. Glad you liked it.

I did notice (after someone commented on it) that I had a basic lack of description in the last chappy. For that... I was shocked as hell XD. I re-read, compared, and actually realized that I had put in little-to-no description. Oh god, you have no idea how weird that felt; I remember when I started my motto in writing was; tone it down! Tone it down!

Had a little laugh about that. How I've changed... maybe it was my mood the other day.

But anyway, I put extra care into adding a little more description into my work this time round, so I hope it's better.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Nah, not even that – he had dropped into hell itself.

…Which had then proceeded to freeze over.

Because things like this should not have been happening.

Apparently, Ezio was thinking the exact same thing.

"What did you just say?"

The Italian stood, eyes almost bugging out of his head as his mouth gaped open like a fish.

Desmond, too, was tempted to pinch himself. Again. Just to make sure. But doing that too many times could be painful, so he decided against it. No need to make the other two believe he was completely insane – if they didn't already think so now. "I said, that in the future, technology is different, and– ."

"No, no, I heard."

The American frowned, eyebrows scrunching together. "Then why did you –?"

Ezio shook his head. "It was a figure of speech, Tesoro," he sighed, as if the other was particularly slow.

Sweet… heart…?

Desmond wasn't quite sure how to react to that. I mean, there wasn't exactly a book named 'How to Deal With Your Lecherous Italian Ancestors if You Are Transported Back In Time'. So, y'know, he responded like any normal person would.

Via the universal sign of 'fuck off'.

And judging by the shocked expression on Ezio's face, he could happily say that 'the birdie' was quite a historical phrase.

Ignoring the spluttering, protesting Florentine ("Why? Why would you do that to me, Desmond? D-do I not mean anything to you?"), Desmond glanced over at the more silent member of their peculiar little group.

Altair stood at the open window of the inn room they had rented (through the use of a begrudging Ezio's money), arms crossed as he continued to survey the streets of Firenze, never moving, never speaking.

Even from his seemingly neutral profile, the Syrian was still on full alert. And could you really blame him? The male was in a time hundreds of years ahead of his, in a place that seemed like a completely different universe.

As much as Desmond didn't like the thought, him also ditching this whole 'I'm from the future thing' on top of the man's head probably wasn't helping his nerves any.

The brunette got up from his sitting position on the bed, crossing the small room to stand beside the statue-like man.

A slight twitch of the head. "Yes, Dez-muhnd?" His tone was completely impartial – almost frighteningly so. But his descendant could sense the difference; after experiencing so many things through Altair's eyes, he had learned the more subtle undertones of the assassin's moods.

Underneath the carefully laid layers, was a tightly wound coil of unease.

Leaning against the window-sill almost casually, the brunette locked eyes with the gold of his ancestor. "…You know…," he began, choosing his words carefully, lest he make the other even more apprehensive. "It's safe here. Well, maybe not safe safe, but it's not that bad, and other than the guards, you don't have to be…," he paused, mentally kicking himself – why the hell was he blathering? "Um, what I mean is, uh, you don't have to be so…um…"

The other turned his head, the full, piercing gaze now on Desmond. "…It is fine, Dez-muhnd," he replied, voice neutral, but somehow… tired. The American felt a frown tug at his lips at that thought. "I am merely… adjusting. That is all."

And he turned back to the window, as if the conversation had never occurred.

Sighing almost soundlessly, the brunette rolled the sleeves of his hoodie up, pushing off the window sill once more.

His gaze rose to meet Ezio, who had been silent throughout their whole exchange, and was now gazing at Desmond with a rather peculiar expression.

Well, better weird than how he was earlier.

He shuddered internally.

~( ^_^ )~

Woah, woah, baaaad. Very bad. No, fuck that, it was an emergency.

His ancestor was dangerously close to being shanked by his other ancestor, and if even one of them died, then there was the scary, scary thought of "What the fuck will happen to me?"

Especially concerning Ezio. Because unless one of his conquests forgot to take their contraceptive pills (yes, he knows they weren't invented yet, but he was having a meltdown – there was no time for technicalities!), then he wouldn't have an heir.

And no continuing heir, means no Desmond.

But at the same time, if he didn't tread extremely carefully on the thin ice that was currently Altair, there would be No Desmond either way.

And he wanted there to be Desmond. Really, he did.

"Al-Altair? Can we please talk about this?" he said, hands up in the air in a gesture of peace.

Incensed, dark-honey eyes glared over at him, causing the brunette to flinch. "If I remember correctly, the last time we talked, the conversation lasted for all of twenty counts, with the end result you dragging me into this… this place!" the assassin growled, free arm gesturing angrily at the surrounding Florentine architecture.

"Well… here, we call 'this place' Firenze," the Italian male, still struggling under the other's onslaught, added… only to gain a dark snarl from the extremely pissed-off Syrian.

Of course. Ezio just couldn't resist putting his two cents in.

Desmond would have face-palmed in frustration if he wasn't currently afraid for their lives.

Shooting the younger of the two a look that said "Shut. The Fuck. Up.", he slowly got to his feet, taking a tentative step forward.

"But even if that's the case, he's obviously not an enemy, right?"

Altair narrowed his eyes further in response. "No, but he is beyond annoying."

Desmond couldn't help but agree at that, even as Ezio began to protest in rapid Italian. Moving carefully towards the two, the brunette attempted to appease the Syrian again. "But still, even if he is annoying… ("Hey!") the fact of the matter is, he is also most definitely an assassin," he reasoned, motioning with his hands. "I know that, and you know that too."

Altair peered at the American, head cocked slightly to the side.

Then he nodded somewhat begrudgingly. "Fine."

The other two let out simultaneous breaths of relief.

A moment passed.

"So… uh… would you mind letting me up now?"

A raised eyebrow.

"Aaaactually, why don't you just take your time? It's alright."

~( ^_^ )~

"I'm finding this hard to believe, Dez-muhnd."

"Uh… it's pronounced Des–," the brunette quaked under the replying glare. "…Never mind."

The floor was suddenly extremely interesting.

Scuffing the floor with the toe of his sneaker, he shifted uncomfortably in the silence that followed. Altair had spoken little from the very beginning of his explanation (a full storyline, with his 'magical' i-pod accompaniment), and Ezio even less – which had been creepy as hell.

Two fingers gripped his chin, and the assassin-in-training suddenly found himself face-to face with a very, very close-up Ezio.

"What the hell?" he protested, jerking away. Well, he tried.

Dark-brown eyes surveyed his face, the other turning his jaw from side to side. "The likeness is uncanny!" he murmured, thumb stroking over Desmond's jaw-bone (much to his annoyance).

The ex-bartender pursed his lips. "Yeah, we get it, Ezio. Now could you please let go of my chin?"

"Almost identical…," the other mused, completely ignoring the younger's protests. "…Even down to the same scar… fascinating!"

God, he's starting to sound like Leonardo, now.

…But he was fairly sure Leonardo wouldn't have been stroking his lips…

"What the–?" he tried to mumble, only to be shushed by the Florentine.

…Who was really way too close right now.

The other was leaning in, the smirk that Desmond knew all too well on his face.

Woahwoahwoah, wait a sec.

"Ezio…," he narrowed his eyes. "…What are you doing…?"

"Why, admiring your pretty face, of course."

The brunette could feel his eye begin to twitch.

…You can't be serious…

"Ezio…"

"Yes, mia bella?"

"Did you hear what I said earlier?"

"Yes…"

"…So you do realise we're related, right?"

"Well, I would not say–."

"And that we look nearly the same?"

"Even if that is the case–."

"And the fact that you're flirting with me right now is vaguely disturbing?"

"…Ah…"

"I am not related to him." Desmond blinked owlishly, looking over Ezio's shoulder to Altair, who was frowning darkly. "Better I have a peacock as a relation than him, strutting around in such gaudy robes."

The Italian raised an eyebrow in response, still not losing his smirk as he turned slightly. "Come now, Maestro. Do they really offend you so?"

"No, your clothing is pointless, but bearable," the Syrian replied. "You, on the other hand…"

Never one to concede, the Florentine assassin cocked his head to the side, releasing the other's chin (Finally). "Oh? And what, precisely, is so repulsive about me?"

"You are arrogant, react slowly in a fight, are too quick to trust others, have no sense of lethality, and, worst of all, put your libido at the fore-front of your actions," Altair listed off, voice flat.

Desmond almost choked.

Ezio had turned a rather amusing pink, shocked into silence.

Oh God, that's hilarious.

Unable to suppress a smile, he pursed his lips together, looking to the side.

Don't laugh, don't laugh.

The Italian had now resorted to pouting, making the brunette's attempt at neutrality all the more difficult.

His ribs were hurting from all the breath he was holding in.

"…In other words, the very definition of 'idiot'."

The dams broke.

And soon there stood two assassins staring at a young man laughing his ass off in the middle of an alleyway.

"Dezmond?" Ezio inquired uncertainly, not quite sure what to do about the outbreak of gasping and giggling that had overtaken the other.

The assassin-in-training clutched his stomach. "Don't *hic* mind me *hic*," he managed to giggle, before the bewildered look on both his ancestors' faces pushed him over the edge again.

Bending over, he placed his hands on his knees, trying very, very hard not to fall over as the tremors of glee wracked him. "It's *hic* just that *snort* Altair is sorta right, and *pff* your face – priceless!" he sniggered, tears threatening to spill.

He wasn't even sure why he was laughing this hard – maybe because the situation was just so goddamn surreal.

…Or maybe he really had crossed the line between 'sorta weird' and 'completely bat-shit crazy'.

Another minute or so, and Desmond finally managed to calm himself down.

And Ezio still looked a bit offended.

"Sorry," he smiled up at the wide-eyed assassins. "I was just having a moment."

Altair just nodded, giving him a strange look. His other ancestor, though…

With a yelp of surprise, the ex-bartender suddenly found himself in the arms of said predecessor, receiving… a bear hug…

What the fuck?

"…Ezio… can't… breathe… breast-plate… in… chest…"

And then he was sprawled on the floor, gasping in breaths as he looked up to an annoyed Altair, the Syrian holding the pouting Florentine by the back of his hood. Rubbing his brow with his fore-fingers, he sighed resignedly. "Do you have no tact what-so-ever, novice?"

"B-but did you see that smile? It was so… so…"

"Yes, I saw that smile, but I still had the sense not to attack him!"

Ezio pouted.

Then grinned, eyebrows waggling.

"…So, you were thinking of attacking him…?"

The resulting silence was one of the most awkward moments of Desmond's young, young life (Well, after meeting a certain Italian assassin, he was sure that the stress was going to cause him to age pre-tty fast).

Altair dropped Ezio, spinning around and striding down the alleyway. "…Let us leave. We have stayed too long."

The Florentine's smirked contentedly, dusting himself off and looking over to a stunned Desmond, who was still staring in shock after the retreating Syrian male.

Huh?

~( ^_^ )~

Yeah, 'weird' looks never sounded so good. As long as it kept the other off him, he was cool with it.

"Dezmond."

"Hm?"

"Is there any way to fix this predicament?" Ezio asked, completely serious for once.

The American frowned. "I already told you…," he muttered, sighing. "I don't know…" Scratching the back of his head, Desmond continued. "Maybe… we need to find someone to help?"

The other nodded. "That would be best. Sadly though, Paola is out of town, searching for some vague document related to the Piece of Eden, and La Volpe… well, he can be… difficult to contact." The Florentine gave him a look that said, 'You know who I'm talking about, right?'

"Is Leonardo in town? He's decoded most of the codex pages, right? He shouldn't be too hard to convince."

Altair froze. Then turned to the pair, eyebrows drawn together. "Codex pages? You mean the ones that I…"

Desmond nodded. "Ezio steals– ahem, finds them, then Leonardo decodes."

"But I only recently started…"

His descendant shrugged. "This shouldn't even be happening right now, so…"

"We will have to deal with it best we can," the Italian assassin finished. "And no, he is still in Venezia as of now, so we would have to travel fairly far to reach him." Frowning thoughtfully, he continued. "Maybe Uncle Mario will be better? And as for La Volpe… he has his ways."

The side of Altair's mouth was curved downwards in an annoyed grimace. "Should I be asking who these people are?"

"Pardona, Maestro, but you will have to trust us for this."

The Syrian raised his eyebrow. "And that in itself will be a difficult task already… at least in regards to you."

Desmond snickered quietly, coughing into his hand quickly when Ezio shot him a look.

Clearing his throat, the ex-bartender attempted to change the topic. "So anyway, let's just get some sleep for now." He motioned towards the sky outside, which was slowly turning an orange hue.

Altair nodded in affirmation. "Of course."

All three men looked towards the queen-sized bed.

"So, uh… who gets the bed?"

~( ^_^ )~

"You two are so mean, do you know that?" Ezio grumbled, voice low as he shifted uncomfortably against the make-shift pillow of his assassin robes.

"Quiet, novice."

The Italian pouted, choosing to speak anyway. "There is a perfectly good double bed right there, and the two of us are sleeping on the floor," he whispered, annoyance colouring his tone. "…And I'm not a novice…"

"The fact that you are complaining about something so trivial proves that you most definitely are." Altair replied, voice monotone. "Either way, I doubt that our descendant would have allowed you within a metre of that bed – your position on the floor had been determined since we entered the room."

Ezio huffed.

Suddenly, his mood did a complete three-sixty as he turned over to face the Syrian. "Then why are you not taking advantage of that empty space?" he teased, smiling mischievously. "Don't tell me you are not tempted."

The other's eyes snapped open, the gold shining almost ephemerally in the moonlight. "Unlike you, boy, I have no intention of exploiting his trust in me."

"…Yet?"

Altair did not reply, turning away.

"Admit it, Maestro," Ezio grinned, whispering over the slow, even breathing of their sleeping descendant. "You are just as enticed as I am."

"…Shh."

~( ^_^ )~

Desmond shifted in the bed, eyes shut against the bright light of day.

Sleeeeeeep…

Screw daytime – he was not leaving bed today.

But alas, he was not destined for happiness, as soon a hand was on his shoulder, shaking him awake. Squeezing his eyes closed stubbornly, the assassin-in-training attempted to shrug it off, turning onto his back and pulling the pillow onto his face.

"Five more minutes, Shaun," he groaned.

A low chuckle, and then a weight settled onto his thighs. "I do not know who this 'Shaun' is, Tesoro," a voice that most definitely did not belong to the sarcastic British man purred into his ear. "…but I am not him…"

Ezio.

"Ezio!" Desmond exclaimed, pillow thrown to the side as his eyes snapped open.

The Italian assassin sat in all his glory, straddling (Ohmygod) the startled brunette, sultry smirk curving his lips. "Mmm, that's better…," he murmured, hands on both sides of the other's head as he leaned down, nose brushing teasingly against his descendant's. "…But I wonder how it would sound in another tone of voice…"

At his words, a sprinkle of pink blossomed on the American's cheeks, Desmond suddenly holding his breath. "Uh…"

Ezio's eyelids lowered. "What a charming colour…," his palm coming up to cup the other's cheek, thumbs brushing over the heated skin. "Then again, anything would look good on your skin, no?"

The blush only spread, before the assassin-in-training was frowning, eyebrows pulled together. "Stop this, Ezio," he muttered, hands coming up to push against the other's chest. "You're being an idiot."

"Are you sure…?" In response, the Italian slowly grasped Desmond's hands, pushing them down onto the bed. "I could show you so much…"

F-f-fuck.

The other was leaning in now, sultry smirk promising many, many things.

No. No. Hell to the no.

"I'm serious Ezio," he growled out (attempted, at least). "Don't…," his breath caught as the Florentine's scarred lips were suddenly so close. "Le-let me go…," the assassin-in-training cursed internally even as he said those words – where the fuck did his coherency disappear to?

Desmond could feel the other's breath on his lips.

"…And if I say 'No'…?"

"Well, that won't be a problem, as I'll be saying 'Yes' for you."

And then the ex-bartender was suddenly left feeling much cooler than before, as Ezio was pulled off of him, Altair hauling the other up by the scruff of his white under-shirt.

"Oi!" the Italian struggled against the other assassin's hold, looking very much like a puppy caught red-handed.

The Syrian shook his head, sighing exasperatedly. "I leave for five minutes, and I come back to see you climbing all over Dez-mund (Hey, his accent was improving) like a dog in heat."

"Dezzy didn't mind!"

De-Dezzy?

The hoodied male could feel his eye twitching, his earlier flush completely gone by that point.

And then he realised something – something rather important.

Yes, it dawned on him – That Ezio. Had just molested him.

In. His. Bed.

Oh, there would be hell to pay.

I had planned for Ezio to harass Dezzy in the alleyway, but then it didn't work, so... FLUFF ALL THE WAY!

But yes, concerning that alleyway scene; it wasn't OOC, was it? I had this nagging feeling through the entire thing... it just didn't turn out as well as I think it could have.

Plus the little teaser at the end; I do so like my foreplay~. ^-^

Please, do review. And constructive criticism/comments on peculiar sections are always appreciated.