A/N: In which, Desmond compromises.
Disclaimer: The author does not own Assassin's Creed.
Binary Duality
Chapter 8
Desmond is glad that Altair is usually a silent person.
When Lucy had scurried off, Desmond had been expecting the Syrian to say something—anything about what had transpired. Instead, the man had retreated as Lucy had done with the aim to simply give him space, hand retracting from his shoulder that had Desmond unconsciously missing the comforting weight.
And for that, Desmond is grateful. He doesn't expect Altair to understand. The man probably had his own agenda to fulfill. Why else would he be here?
Rebecca had had the right idea when she said that Altair had come all this way for someone, and really, who could it be but for him. Why else would the guy have appeared in his room in Abstergo?
'Definitely not to hang out and enjoy the scenery.' Desmond thinks, but it lacks bite.
He's just…really tired.
Desmond can feel Altair's eyes on him. He doesn't know if they're judging, or if they are pitying and empathetic. Frankly, he doesn't care what the man thinks, since his mind is more preoccupied on the memories that Lucy's words had drawn out from him.
Desmond breathes in deeply, gold eyes dimming.
Turn you into one of us.
"Desmond, you're lagging behind!"
"But dad…"
"No buts! Your training should be in the forefront of your mind, and you must be prepared! It's for your own good!"
The Templars are winning. And every day, more of us die.
"What? What happened…? I see. Send Maria and James my condolences."
"The Southern East Coast team…?"
"Gone. John said that—Desmond? What are you doing here? You should be training—"
You don't have a choice!
"Live, or die, Mr. Miles?"
"Fledgling?" It is to Altair's call that breaks Desmond out of his reverie. He looks up and the man is there, face grim, but Desmond can't see any pity or disdain in Altair's eyes. Instead, the man's eyes are carefully blank, if not slightly purposeful as they wander from him to the side.
"I find that fresh air clears the mind."
Desmond follows Altair's gaze to the open window sill across the room and can't help feeling suddenly light. He nods his acquiesce easily; eagerly.
"Okay."
Altair grins just slightly.
"I noticed, earlier… You looked tired."
Altair blinks from his scrutiny of the city, surprise showing slightly at Desmond's sudden admission.
"It…didn't look like you slept all that much." Desmond continues, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Ah…and I probably took the only bed. Sorry."
"No, it is fine." Altair considers it. "Sleep does not come easily to me."
Desmond kicks his feet, scraping the rubber of the sole of his sneaker against the concrete of the warehouse's walls. They were on the roof of the 'Hideout' that Rebecca had called in her explanation of the three's temporary place of operations. The Hideout was in an isolated location, consisting of a pack of abandoned warehouses just on the outskirts of the Italian capital. The roof of the Hideout didn't offer a fantastic view, but it did serve their needs well. The fresh, slightly sweet, air was like a sip of fine wine to Desmond, and it did well to soothe his frazzled nerves.
"Oh." The clouds of his breath are visible in the cold air, but instead of feeling its raw effects, Desmond just feels invigorated; skin touched with goose bumps that have his body thrumming with energy. "A lot in mind?"
Altair just hums, a steady mist escaping him as he does so. "Many. This world is…strange. A future I am certain of, yet fear some aspects of. I am intrigued, though. It's… unnerving… but fascinating."
"It'll do that to ya." Desmond chuckles lightly. "You probably have a lot of questions. Ask away."
'I'm just surprised you haven't tried to force them out of me, yet.' Desmond thinks to himself.
Altair seems to have been waiting for the opportune time for it because he nods eagerly, a keen expression on his face. "Tell me everything."
"That's a heavy order." Desmond laughs, but he hadn't expected any less.
Eager to get his mind off things, Desmond relents, and begins his story. He doesn't leave much out, but neither does he go into too much detail into the events that had occurred since his kidnapping. He tells Altair about working at the Bad Weather to that fateful day when he'd been drugged and dragged to Abstergo to locate the map of the 'Pieces of Eden.' That bit of information makes Altair apprehensive, but he keeps quiet as Desmond explains the function of the Animus and what it had allowed him to do.
"So that was indeed you I felt." Altair murmurs understandingly with just the slightest tone of appeasement that makes Desmond blink.
"Wait—you were aware of me the entire time?"
"I was." Altair just replies simply. He doesn't elaborate, but there's no missing the softening of his eyes. "Continue."
Desmond's eyes narrow at Altair, but he concedes. By the time Desmond had reached the end of his tale where Lucy had saved him from being executed after finding the 'map,' they rest in silence, making Desmond acutely aware of how parched his throat suddenly feels.
Curiously, Desmond looks at Altair, trying to gauge his reaction from the brief history lesson, but the Syrian's face is as nonchalant as ever, despite the slight crinkling of his brow. But that look in his eyes…
Desmond isn't fooled. He knows this countenance from his ancestor's memories: Altair is planning something.
It makes his stomach drop.
"What do you want from me?"
Altair seems to jerk; blinking in surprise.
"Pardon?"
Desmond sighs, resigned. "Everyone wants something from me, it seems. The Templars kidnaps me for my genetic memories. The Assassins want me for some world-wide adventure to stop the Templars. And then, with you showing up…" Desmond runs a hand through his hair, giving a little nervous laugh. "If the pattern fits, well, then I can only guess that you want something from me as well." The younger looks down, licking his chapped lips anxiously before regarding Altair. "So, what is it?"
"You are quick to judge, fledgling." Altair observes, but does not correct Desmond's assumption. "You do not consider yourself an Assassin?"
"Me? No—I mean, I was at one point though, I think. When I was younger and living at the Farm, I was in-training to become one. The farm is like… a smaller, more crappier Masyaf, sort of." Desmond explains lamely at Altair's questioning expression. "Back then, I went along with it because my parents wanted me to, but everyone was so packed full of crazy because really, Assassins? Templars?" He shakes his head. "It was fucking ludicrous and I realized that I didn't want any part of that. I still don't." The last part is said quietly and meant only for him, but Altair manages to catch it if just the slightest of alarmed looks elicited is anything to go by.
There is an instant of uncomfortable silence between them and Desmond starts to regret saying anything in the first place when what he says finally catches up with him. 'Stupid.' Desmond berates himself, visibly flinching. 'You got a master assassin here whose life is dedicated to the Assassins Brotherhood and you just called his affiliations and life ideals stupid. Fantastic.'
He really needed to stop babbling. It gave him less chances of verbal diarrhea and inciting murderous rage of a master assassin who more than likely was about to shank him.
Oddly enough though, it doesn't come. Rather, when Desmond risks a quick glance to Altair, the older man is staring at him contemplatively, a thoughtful frown marring his face as he regards Desmond with piercing eyes.
"You truly did not want any of this?"
Desmond shakes his head and turns upwards to view the night sky above them. He could see the stars very clearly. With the lights of the city miles away from their location, the little sparks above shined like diamonds on velvet.
"'Course not." The brunet sighs. "I didn't ask to be kidnapped and made into a guinea pig for Abstergo's ends."
"What do you want, then?"
The question is said clearly in his ears and Desmond jerks when he sees Altair crouched closely next to him, head tilted inquiringly. "What do I want?" 'Well, preferably personal space and a hot shower with no Abstergo-brand Perv Cams sound great right about now.' Desmond wants to say, but he doubts he should let that out lest he annoy the other.
He opens his mouth to answer the expectant Syrian, but falters when he realizes…
The question stumps him.
…what did he want?
When he had been 16, he had wanted to get out of the Farm—to actually feel something for a change and be out of that oppressive atmosphere. That quest had led him to New York and the Bad Weather where he had been quite happy.
Did he want to go back to the way things were? He had loved his job as a bartender at the bar and had made fast friends out of his co-workers, (which was significant since he had had the shittiest social skills ever.) He had a pretty decent apartment considering the area of the city and was living relatively comfortably. But… that corner of the universe had never really been home, even when he had decided that New York was where he was going to finally settle.
And then life had hoisted him back into the whole Assassins versus Templars mess again and then he realizes suddenly that the feeling was similar. Desmond loved New York, but he had ended up being trapped there too—stagnant in his lifestyle. Trapped at the farm. Trapped in his make believe life in New York. Trapped in the Templar's grasp…
"I want to be free." Desmond says finally and without thinking.
"No one is holding you against your will."
"No, not free like that." Desmond looks away, clearly embarrassed if the crawling red color and scowl across his face is any indication. It brings a slight grin to Altair's face but it fades when Desmond's expression turns somber.
"Free like…" Desmond trails off, struggling to find the words to convey his meaning before his attention is brought upwards when he hears a cry from above.
A bird soars overhead; the sound of its feathers fluttering filled the cold air before it loudly called to its brethren and disappeared after a couple powerful beats of its wings.
Altair doesn't miss the way Desmond's eyes followed the hawk intensely, a deep longing in those golden hues.
And then Altair understands. A surprised look crosses his face, before it turns into one of intrigue and delight. An idea formulates in his mind.
'Little bird, wanting to fly…'
"Fledgling..."
"Stop calling me that." Desmond says suddenly.
"Would you prefer something else?" Altair teases with an amused curl of his lips. "Would you rather me call you, novice? Eaglet? Habi—?" Altair stops, but it's too late because the mere syllable of the word had caught Desmond's attention.
"That word: 'Habibi.'" Desmond stares at him imploringly, pulling his legs up until they are folded neatly beneath him. "I've heard you call me it before but I can't understand it. What does that mean?"
Altair snaps his mouth shut, eyes cast away in almost abashment.
"It's not bad is it?" Desmond has to ask with a wince.
"It's not bad." Altair replies hesitantly, before shaking it off, pulling off an almost indifferent demeanor. "It is merely a term of endearment to another male in my language."
"So… like brosive or broski." Desmond mutters to himself. For some reason, he can imagine Altair and Malik bumping fists and posing manically with a 'Broskis forever!' banner in the background, which elicits a snort from him.
"Broski?" Altair asks curiously.
"Oh, those are just some more creative nicknames for 'brother' that people have come up wi—. " Desmond says off-mindedly before his breath stops in his throat. He snaps his attention to Altair, who has an inquiring look on his face. "I…I said that in English. What the fuck, you can understand English?! Why the hell didn't you say anything about it?!"
"You are mistaken, fledgling. I cannot understand your native tongue. You, however, I can understand." At the younger man's befuddled look, Altair continues. "When you spoke with the others, while I could not directly understand their words, I could… feel what you felt when they were speaking."
And felt he had. The onslaught of fear/betrayal/anger had been thick and especially troubling to Altair when Desmond had spoken with the blonde woman. Every lick of negative emotions that Desmond had felt had mirrored themselves right onto Altair until he had forced his own mind to calm down from the thrall.
"…You're kidding me."
"I do not 'kid.'" Altair says tersely, as if insulted. "It is just as how I felt your pain when you were injured."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. What do you mean you 'felt' my pain? You mean this?" Desmond pats his arm, but the moment he does it does he see Altair's eyes twitch just so faintly in time with the irritated stinging the wound produces upon his own arm. "...Oh."
Maybe it was a fluke! Desmond does it again, harder this time, but between his own hisses of pain, he could also hear Altair draw a breath and see the narrowing of the other man's eyes.
"Desmond…" Altair says warningly, and immediately, the younger male's hand drops, at a loss for words.
This was really happening.
'Okay, so I have some sort of… mental link with Altair?' The brunet swallows thickly, hand running through his hair in nervous habit. All this info he was getting... it was all really hard to digest at one time.
For a moment, Altair seems to mean to say something, but then thinks better of it, and instead folds his legs from their crouched position on the asphalt.
There is a sound of shoes scrapping across concrete, before Desmond suddenly feels a shoulder brush against his own. Altair doesn't look at him when he settles next to him. Rather, the man is quiet, as if granting Desmond a semblance of silence for him to gather his scrambled thoughts (which Desmond is extremely grateful for.)
The stillness between them isn't uncomfortable, Desmond finds, as he relaxes. It's strange. He'd pictured a get-together with his ancestor would have been a whole of a lot more uncomfortable featuring attempted murder and an excessive dose of running, most likely between him and his ancestor. So, it's rather odd that it had turned out like this.
Desmond pulls his legs to his chest, burrowing his head into his arms.
He isn't complaining though. It just meant fewer problems for him—not that the problems he did have now were any walk in the parks.
First, Altair… and now the issue with Lucy…
Desmond sighs. He doesn't know what to do. There were really only two options for him at this point: Go along with Lucy and become an Assassin, or…
"Are you going to run?"
Desmond turns his head slightly, flicking an eye open to meet the other's gaze, before he groans and turns away. 'Meddling ancestor…' The idea is still enticing though.
"Stop looking into my head. It's creepy."
"It doesn't quite work like that," Altair informs him patiently, "but that is not how I know."
Curiosity gets the better of Desmond and when he gives in to regard Altair, the man's amber eyes are focused intently onto his own gold.
"It is in your eyes." Altair says simply, but he doesn't stop there. "In every gesture of your body." Each word that Altair says makes the hairs on the back of his neck raise, eliciting Desmond's defenses and making his eyes narrow at the man warningly. "You want to run."
Altair says nothing to the dark look given to him from the younger man. He does nothing at all, despite knowing that he had essentially cornered the novice.
Desmond is just about to snarl at the man, a biting remark on the tip of his tongue, when he sees something in Altair's eyes that gives him pause. It's familiar, and it makes him pause for a second to contemplate his words.
"You… considered the same, didn't you?"
Altair closes his eyes, breathing out a calm, steady stream. "A very long time ago."
"…What made you reconsider?"
"You come to find that… yes, you can run away. But eventually…" Altair looks at him then, his eyes a shade of intense ochre. "You'll run out of places to run to."
The message is foreboding. It bothers Desmond, making his Adam's apple bob anxiously and fear course through his veins. His eyes flutter, a near hitch in his throat that signals the beginning of the incoming torrent of panic and what-ifs.
But then there is a pressure on his shoulder, squeezing firmly and urgently, and when he looks up—sees Altair there with him in silent vigil… the tight knot in his chest suddenly doesn't feel as unbearable.
Because there's something in Altair's eyes that Desmond realizes that he hasn't seen or been familiar to in a very long time—and it comforts him.
There's no guarantee he will get the freedom he so craves, Desmond knows; no promise in Altair's gaze that will promise him his one wish, but something significant is there.
And then, everything isn't as crushingly unbearable as it was before.
So, despite being anxious, jittery, and so goddamn afraid, Desmond breathes in… and takes his first leap of faith.
"Well, bugger." Shaun says under his breath the moment he spots a pair of figures in the Hideout's loft as he passes the doorway. The hot tea crashes against the ceramic mug and spills slightly down the white glaze as the Brit comes to a sudden stop to stare.
Desmond is back in the makeshift hospital bed, but despite it being so early (just a little after sunrise, when Shaun checks his watch) the brunet is awake, fiddling with something white in his hands. Desmond's companion, however, seemed to be asleep. Altair was sitting on the chair by Desmond with his arms crossed and head tipped ever so slightly to the side. Had Shaun been a less observant man, he would have pegged the Syrian to be peacefully asleep considering the rise and fall of the white robed man's chest. Shaun isn't though, so he catches a glimpse of Altair's sharp eyes opening for a split second when he detects the Brit's presence before they close again to rest, as if no longer deeming him a threat.
'The ever present guard dog at his best.' Shaun thinks before making his presence known to the less observant male in the room.
"You're still here." As Shaun had expected from such a rookie assassin ('If he can even be called that.' Shaun huffs inwardly,) Desmond twitches in surprise at his voice.
"Well, it's not like I have anywhere else to go." Desmond says cheekily, but doesn't engage in any conversation with the Brit. Rather, he is more focused on the fabric on his lap and the disobedient thread of string. "Stupid thing… Get in the freaking hole."
Shaun raises an eyebrow at the low mumbling. "Can't blame us for expecting it though, especially after the row you had with Lucy last night."
Desmond hums.
"…You know, she did not mean what she said last night." Shaun says, before taking a long sip from his mug. His eyes do not leave Desmond though, nor do they miss the second-long hesitance of Desmond's fingers.
"She meant what she said." Desmond says finally and with a surety that gives Shaun pause. "No matter how much you sugar coat it, she meant it… and she's right. I don't have a choice."
There's a sound of resignation in his voice that Shaun zeroes in on. He wants to ask what changed his mind, but Shaun doesn't dare look a gift horse in the mouth. "Does that mean you'll do it?" There's a tilting hope in his voice that makes Shaun wince inwardly.
"Yeah." At that soft sigh, Shaun can already feel the tension he'd tried so very hard to hide from Rebecca leave him slowly.
Good… this was good.
Desmond isn't done yet though.
"But—"
'Of course there's a bloody 'but.' Shaun's eyebrow twitches.
"I'm not going to be a guinea pig again. If I want out of the Animus, I get it, alright?"
"What? You can't—"
"And," Desmond says forcefully, shutting Shaun up, "This is a temporary thing. Abstergo is the main HQ for Templars, right?"
"I… yes, yes it is." Shaun stutters out, slowly.
"I'll become an Assassin, but once Abstergo is dead, I'm done." Desmond's eyes harden. "Deal?"
Shaun's mouth flaps noiselessly, speechless, before he quickly composes himself in the face of such an outlandishly simple offer. He hadn't been expecting this ultimatum at all. He has a half a mind to reject it, honestly. The Brit had never been one to do things half-assed, and the fact that Desmond suggested such an idea rubbed him the wrong way.
Yet, Shaun could see the rationale of Desmond's deal. Shaun had always been realistic. Their chances of actually taking down the Templars had always been slim, especially since the Great Purge. Chances were, the Brotherhood could possibly never take down such a powerful company like Abstergo. The bloody git might as well be with them forever (which technically, wasn't a bad thing and worked out for them really.)
And yet, on the off chance that they did succeed…
The Templars would be crippled.
Yes… Shaun could see the logic in this. It was a win-win situation for them.
"Alright, I can agree to that." The Brit concedes, and gives a firm handshake when Desmond offers him his hand.
"Goo—"
"That sounds awesome!" A cheerful voice cuts in, making both Shaun and Altair twitch at the sudden intrusion and loudness. Shaun growls when he feels Rebecca's arm curl around his neck as she practically hangs off of him like some sort of monkey. "Hope ya didn't mind that I was listening in, but I gotta say- I've got no problem with that! Also, feel free to run around outside too when ya want out of our Animus! It's the best way to get those Assassin juices flowin'!"
Desmond blinks incredulously. "…Assassin juices?"
"Get the bloody hell off of me—and what the hell are you saying? He can't go outside! What part of most wanted man in Rome do you not understand?!"
"I meant on rooftops and all that, Shaun, jeez!" Rebecca yelps, much to Desmond's amusement. "No one really looks up anyways."
Shaun has to concede that she does have a point there. (He ignores the part of him that offers evidence that it would also help their novice Assassin build up his endurance and body strength. After all, it was one thing learning skills from the Animus, and another to actually do it.)
"Fine, fine—just get off me!"
Grinning in mirth, Rebecca does, sliding off Shaun effortlessly and bounding over to Desmond as Shaun straightens his vest, grumbling obscenities underneath his breath as he does so.
"Glad to see that you're on board, Desmond!" Rebecca chirps and pats Desmond's back, careful as to not jar his still healing arm. She seems to notice the fabric on his lap and lets out a questioning sound. "What's that you got there?"
"Huh? Oh, uh, it's my hoodie."
Her eyes linger on the small sewing kit that Desmond had probably pulled out from the nearby shelf. "You're trying to fix it?"
"Yeah. I'd rather not buy a new one." He gives Rebecca a weak grin. "Not like I have the means. The only thing I own is the clothes on my back."
"Money isn't an issue." Rebecca assures him. And it really wasn't. Their network wasn't as rich as their enemies' but nor were they scraping along for cash. Rather, they operated on an… alternative revenue stream. "And we have extra clothes."
"So, do throw that thing away. It's stinking up the place." Shaun huffs and turns up his nose.
"Yeah, whatever." Desmond huffs right back, but he inwardly has no intention of doing so.
"Well, anyways..." Rebecca begins, "It's a new day. You think Desmond's okay enough to get started now?"
Shaun moves towards the younger man and gives a quick inspection of the injured limb, before making a pleased sound in the back of his throat. "It's healing just fine. He should be good to be up and about so long as he goes easy on it."
"Sweet! So, ya ready to meet Baby?"
Desmond raises an eyebrow. "Er… 'Baby?'"
"The Animus 2.0." A voice answers from the doorway, making the three turn to regard their new addition.
'Lucy.'
The woman is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed with a blank expression on her face. Her blank mask seems to falter for a moment when her eyes land on Desmond, something akin to shame and fear seeping through the cracks, before she forces her eyes to avert. Desmond notices that she doesn't even glance at Altair, and she has good reason not to. A quick glance towards his silent ancestor tells him that Altair is no longer asleep, but gracing Lucy with a dark expression that makes the former bartender sympathetic for the blonde.
Looking at Lucy right now though, Desmond can't bring himself to stay mad at her either. She had her reasons for saying what she said, and though Desmond did not feel the urge to spite her, it didn't mean that he wasn't still slightly upset with her.
Lucy seems to try to clear her throat, pointedly not looking at Desmond and finding the floor more particularly interesting. "It's much better than the one in Abstergo."
Rebecca preens, puffing her chest up in pride. "Also comfier, might I add! But anyways, don't worry about the small things. I'll go shopping once you're hooked up. You and tall, dark, and scary over there seem to be about the same size. I'll find something."
"Ah… thanks, Rebecca." Desmond bows his head awkwardly. "I appreciate it."
"It's no problem!"
"Right, well, now that we have everything relatively settled…" Shaun claps his hand together. "Let's get to work, shall we? No lollygagging!"
There's a snort from Rebecca and a faux exasperated sigh from Lucy, but they comply nevertheless.
"Oh, and Desmond?"
Desmond is just swinging his legs over the side of the bed when Shaun stops halfway out the door and calls him. The former bartender inwardly groans, readying himself for another snide comment for the uptight Brit. "Yeah?"
There is none, though. Instead, for once, Shaun's face is sincere and there's just the barest of grins curling on the edges of his mouth.
"…Welcome to the team."
Altair doesn't understand all that is said in the quaint little room. In another time, he would have found his predicament vexatious—infuriating for the fact that he could not understand what was exactly going on. He had never liked being out of the loop, after all. Yet, in this circumstance, there was no need to understand what the other Assassins were saying.
Instead, his attention is mostly focused on Desmond and the brushes of feelings purring against his own mind. Altair can sense the younger man acutely; accurately detecting hints of amusement/relief/gratefulness from his fledgling.
It pleases him that the other feels this way, and his eyes soften minutely as he observes Desmond chatting with the bespectacled male and raven haired woman.
Desmond had told him, of course, of his decision on his reinstatement of his status as novice Assassin and of the 'terms' of his arrangement, to which Altair had no qualms with. Things were never set in stone and Altair was confident that the ways of the Assassins would not be too far from Desmond's perception of freedom.
It was in their blood, after all.
And yet…
The Syrian's eyes lower, the irises darkening calculatingly as he feels the silver Piece of Eden hidden in his pack burn against his hip.
Altair wonders if Desmond would like to see the sands of his homeland after all of this was over.
A/N: Thank you very much, my dear readers, for the positive well wishes and enthusiasm for this story that I have received. Every review and favorite shows how much you all like this story and it makes me extremely happy and all the more eager to write! I very much appreciate it. So, thank you, thank you!
On a side note, I know that logically, this does not make a difference in terms of results but… midterms are this week along with a whole crap load of things to do. So… wish me luck?
I'll have the next chapter up as soon as everything this coming week has calmed down and passed. So, until next time!
nikaris
