Introductory note: This probably could turn into one of those stories that just goes on and on, but actually I do have a story arc in mind so we're over halfway through (as you'll probably be able to tell by the end of this chapter). Thanks to everyone who favourited or reviewed the story, and thanks also to the Assassins Creed Wiki which I've been using for fact-checking.
Desmond?
"What the hell was that all about?" Desmond growled, his anger lit up by frustration as he realised that he regretted letting go of the Apple.
I have no idea, Clay said slowly. You picked up the Apple, it glowed for a second, and the next thing I knew you were lying down on the bed and...
"And what?"
Well let's just say that I wish you hadn't dropped the Apple so quickly.
Desmond shook his head, trying to filter out some kind of coherent thought from the slow current of arousal pounding beneath his skin. "You kissed me," he said.
I did what?
"You appeared in front of me, in a physical body, and you kissed me." Clay didn't respond to this for a long time, and Desmond felt his anger growing. He was trying as hard as he could to pin the blame on Clay, but he couldn't deny how good it had felt to be touched like that, and it wasn't just because he'd been for so long without sex. It was Clay. That lazy, casual way of speaking, his piercing, slightly cruel eyes, his undercurrent of seemingly limitless will. Desmond had experienced something like this back when they were both inside the Animus: an occasional mad temptation to forget about finding his way home and instead just grab the mysterious stranger and fuck him until all the bad memories faded away.
Somehow he had blocked all this out of his mind, or at least decided that it was inconsequential - it had all just been too ridiculous to contemplate. Desmond had never even kissed another man before. It seemed that he still hadn't.
We already knew that the Apple is good at creating illusions. It must have been some kind of hyper-realistic fantasy...
"It wasn't my fantasy!" Desmond snapped, a little too sharply.
Then maybe it was mine.
If there was a proper way to respond to that, then Desmond wasn't aware of it. He sat on the edge of the bed for a few more seconds before standing up and saying, "I'm going to go take a shower."
The shower was cold. He was starting to get good at getting dressed and undressed without looking at his own body.
"Desmond Miles, if you truly are the Chosen One to save us all from burning horrible death I fear I may have to start atoning for my sins and slapping on the sun lotion now."
Desmond glared at Shaun from across the table. The small crew had just finished eating, but Desmond had caught hold of Shaun's arm as the historian made to leave and had asked for a 'talk'. Rebecca and William still didn't know about Clay, and since Desmond would prefer the situation to remain that way he had unconsciously elected Shaun as his one-man brain trust.
"I don't see why you're so sceptical."
"I'm a historian, Desmond. I eat scepticism for breakfast. Remember, nothing is true..." he began in a sarcastic sing-song voice.
"How did the First Civilisation come into existence if they weren't created by Those Who Came Before?" Desmond persisted.
"Well if I had to guess, I'd say they evolved from First Civilisation monkeys, who in turn evolved from First Civilisation single-celled organisms." It was hard to tell if Shaun genuinely thought Desmond's theory was idiotic, or if he just enjoyed making shooting down anything that Desmond had to say. "Might I suggest that you only believe in this theory so much because you want it to be true? You probably love the idea of yourself as some kind of life-giving god figure."
Desmond had told him his idea, about using whatever technology they found in the laboratory to create a new body for Clay. Up until this point he had always been sure that he wanted it for selfless reasons, to repay the debt he owed and to give back the life that had been stripped away prematurely by Abstergo and the Animus. Now he wondered whether what he really wanted was just to feel Clay's hands on his skin once more, or maybe it would just make things easier if the man he was trying to control his sexual desire for was at least alive and not just a voice in his head.
Shaun took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, as if trying to deal with Desmond was giving him motion sickness. "Alright, alright. So you say that Subject Sixteen's consciousness still exists on some level. How much of him is there? Memories? Personality traits? Favourite ice cream flavours?"
Desmond had had enough. Trying as hard as he could to mentally communicate his intent to Clay, he pried his mind away from the controls of his body.
Shaun looked over in alarm as Desmond's body suddenly shifted in a manner that was supremely creepy. The young Assassin closed his eyes, and when he opened them the historian was struck with a very real and unsettling sense that he was no longer looking at Desmond.
"Pistachio," Desmond said, in a voice that turned Shaun's stomach with the memories it recalled.
"Wh-what?"
"My favourite ice cream, flavour. What's yours, mate?" Desmond gave a grin that Shaun had never seen before, and knew wasn't really his. Desmond couldn't pull off a bad imitation British accent that well.
"Sixteen," the historian murmured, reluctantly giving in to the evidence of his eyes and ears.
"I think Desmond wanted to give you the opportunity to test me. See what level I still exist on. What do you think, Shaun? Am I still all there?"
Shaun tried to maintain a neutral expression. "It seems that way. If anything, there's too much of you left."
Subject Sixteen laughed, and though he used Desmond's mouth to do it it wasn't Desmond's laugh that came out. This was lower, and sharper, like a dog's bark. "Oh, Shaun. I get the feeling you don't like me."
Now it was easy to hide his fear, since it was being consumed by annoyance. "What do you care what I think? I'm just a 'skinny English fuck'."
Shaun didn't like swearing and tried to avoid it wherever possible, so even repeating Sixteen's words was difficult. The other man seemed to pick up on this, because he leaned in a little closer so that they were eye-to-eye and spoke evilly in that same low, slow drawl, "Maybe I like a nice English fuck."
Shaun found it unable to break eye contact with this strange not-Desmond figure, and so he began to buckle under the pressure of that intense, cold, brown-eyed gaze. "Desmond?" he called out, offering up a swift thanks when his voice didn't break.
Sixteen pulled away and casually leaned Desmond's body back into his chair. "He's taking a break, Shaun. Maybe he thinks that you and I need to talk."
Shaun stood up from the table. "You know, I don't think we do. I think I should just go and tell William about this, and let him deal with Desmond and you and any other queer spooks our intrepid hero decides to roll out the welcome wagon for."
He turned to leave, but Sixteen quickly came around the table and stood directly in front of him, blocking his path. "Desmond doesn't want you to tell them, he's begging you not to."
"Get away from me."
Sixteen did the opposite, moving Desmond's body closer and forcing Shaun to take a step back towards the table. "What is your problem, Shaun?"
"My problem, mate, is that you're nothing but a distraction keeping Desmond from doing what he needs to do, and what he needs to do is prevent the end of life as we know it." He paused, and then added, "Also, you're a bit of a dickhead."
Sixteen smirked using Desmond's mouth. "So it has nothing to do with the fact that I'm all bound up with Desmond in ways that you'll never be. I sleep when he sleeps, move when he moves..." He took another step forward, and this time Shaun found himself with no more room left to back up, so he stood his ground stubbornly instead, even as Sixteen leaned over and whispered in his ear. "...And when he jerks off, I come when he comes. Just a minute!" he yelled suddenly, and Shaun saw that he had his eyes closed and realised that he Desmond must be trying to take back control of his body.
The historian desperately tried to work some saliva back into his mouth so that he could speak again. "I assure you, none of that interests me," he replied coolly, trying to ignore the fact that Desmond's body was close enough for him to count the hairs on his jawline. "I just can't take his unsufferable whining, not even when it's your insufferable whining. As far as I'm concerned, you can stay dead."
"I know how to get inside that laboratory."
That made Shaun stop and listen, if only for a moment before his critical faculties kicked in. "You're lying."
"I'm not. I've spent more time in the Animus than any other living person, and I've lived the lives of countless Assassins with high concentrations of First Civilisation blood. I was with Desmond when Jupiter showed him what we need to do, and when Desmond first woke up from the Animus, I was the one who spoke and said I knew what we needed to do." He was no longer pressed up against Shaun so tightly, but was instead looking him in the face with an expression of transparent honesty.
"Why should I believe any of this?"
"Let's go get the Apple. I'll take you up to that hill. And I'll show you."
