A/N: This might be my favorite chapter. While the POV is still distressingly inconsistent, I think Shaun makes up for it by being a cranky ass and using so many italics. And swears. Gracious me, Hastings, that's quite a mouth you have on you. Mm.

It's been brought to my attention that I had anon reviews disabled (whoops). Fixed. Sorry about that.

Tuesday. Be there. Here. Then. :|

It was a miserable day; tempers were short, and tension was high. Lucy was stressed over the increased pressure from the Templars moving in, getting closer and closer every day it seemed; Rebecca was agitated that her baby had malfunctioned again, the third time in as many days. Shaun was livid because he actually didn't have as much work to do as he thought he would and was almost contemplating playing solitaire if that wouldn't be so god damn humiliating because hadn't he bitched at Desmond that first day, saying his work was far too important and time consuming to allow for anything like that? So he pretended to be analyzing old data or creating a new database or something since the other teams were en route to various destinations and wouldn't need any help from him for hours yet. He felt like strangling someone. It absolutely did not help that Desmond was pacing and that should not have been so distracting but it was and in just the wrong way, and in his state of agitation Shaun couldn't help but be acutely aware of his every little move, and found himself trying to pick up the sound of his feet on the floor and predict his next move and my god would he just stop it.

Desmond had discovered that, with the Animus out of commission, he was effectively as useless as Shaun liked to tell him he was, so he paced, paced and paced and paced, cursing in his head in Arabic and Italian, or imagining how Ezio would have amused himself by watching Leonardo paint or sketch or even stare off into space while dreaming up his next experiment, the beautiful genius always in some sort of motion and therefore always entertaining; Ezio always watching from under his hood so the other man wouldn't realize he'd caught Ezio's attention so completely, wouldn't see the small smile that hovered fleetingly on the assassin's somber face when Leonardo's eyes lit up when inspiration struck – Desmond imagined this, half-wishing he had something even like that to distract him, but there was nothing, no one (and something sly within him whispered that there were three other people in that room, surely one of them was worth watching, someone brilliant like Leonardo, if meaner; Desmond told that something to shut up), so he paced, frustrated and temperamental.

The tension in the room was unsettlingly palpable. Desmond's feet moved silently on the hardwood floors; the Animus was having an incredible effect on his agility, muscles continually reshaping, transforming a body that had once been toned for aesthetic purposes into one built for running, climbing, fighting, a taut, coiled spring, lean and dangerous. Rebecca's adjustments to the Animus and Lucy's typing made more sound than Desmond's pacing, but true to form, Shaun zeroed in on the one person in the room he felt entirely justified in being a complete prick to, with little consequence.

"Desmond, I realize you may be feeling a bit useless, seeing as you are, but you could at least pretend to be doing something worthwhile, rather than storming about like a drunken elephant?" He'd turned in his seat to fire out that volley of slurs.

Something in Desmond gave up. He halted in his tracks, bitterness and anger rising as Shaun prodded that newly-found sore spot, that insecurity he'd ignored because he hadn't believed it until the past three days had proven it to be true, that maybe he was a little useless when they couldn't dissect him and parade his ancestor's every moment on the myriad displays set up throughout the room.

"Shaun!" Rebecca hissed at the historian, who merely shrugged dispassionately, eyes narrowed slightly as he silently challenged Desmond, who had nothing, no justification, no defense, and could only think of one thing to say.

"You're a dick."

It was lame, he knew it was lame, but he was angry, and he didn't get angry, not really, not often, he let things go, he brushed them off, deflected, or even laughed it all aside, but cooped up here with no purpose triggered something, even something as ineffectual as a pithy insult.

Or, it should have been ineffectual. Slight shock registered in Shaun's eyes at the unexpected retaliation from the man who took everything he threw at him without batting an eye, and for some reason that pathetic insult hurt, but Desmond didn't see that quick transition of emotion, that shock-hurt-blank stare because he stalked from the room as soon as the words left his lips, heading to somewhere, anywhere away from Shaun and all that confusing meanness that he didn't quite know what to do with.

Shaun quickly turned to his computer again, moving his mouse aimlessly across the screen as he tried to assess his peculiar reaction to the insult. He wanted to chalk it up to simple surprise, but brutal self-honesty would not allow it. Surprise certainly contributed, but it was not by any means the only reason. Desmond had sounded so . . . sincere. The words had been flat, but the fire behind his eyes betrayed something that said I am so sick of this shit and maybe a little bit of why don't you go shut up and die or something, and that was what really got to Shaun, the thought that maybe, just maybe, all of this was wearing down on Desmond and maybe he actually hated it but was so good at deflection that he hadn't let himself feel it until just now, and the thought that maybe Desmond hated him, that pained him in a very unexpected way.

When he realized he'd been staring at his screen for ten minutes without doing anything other than highlight portions of his desktop in shaded squares aimlessly while lost in thought, he leaned back and sighed, hands laced and tangled in his hair. He pushed his glasses up a bit to rub his eyes then stood. Lucy looked up at him in surprise from behind her monitor, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

"I'm taking a bit of a break." From not playing solitaire even though he could for all the work he had to do.

She nodded and looked back at her screen, saying mildly, "Check up on Desmond while you're at it. Maybe you can apologize." Shit. Never mind that he had something like that in mind already. Sort of. He avoided her gaze.

"I hardly see the need. But, I suppose we wouldn't want him leaping from a crate and breaking something, would we? Fine. I'll go babysit him." Jesus. The man wasn't even in the room and Shaun couldn't resist taking pot-shots at him. That was an uncomfortable thought.

Lucy merely sighed and waved him away. Shaun hesitated, then walked to his bedroom to grab a book, any book, just something to keep him occupied, something to read in the warehouse while pretending to not care what the other assassin was doing, to not worry that maybe he would be entirely unwelcome. Sherlock Holmes, said the spine. Fine. He opened the hard brown cover and started reading the first story as he walked from his room, shutting the door behind him and walking to ramp that would take him to the warehouse floor; it was a story he had started three times but hadn't found the time to finish. He had never made it past the third page, and he was bloody well determined to make good use of his much unanticipated free time. He paused, then, tucking his book under his left arm, hoisted himself up onto the ramp railing, and then used his free arm to leverage himself up onto one of the stacks of crates they used for training exercises. After a brief exploration, he sprawled out, tucked into a corner amidst the crates, comfortably elevated and (hopefully) isolated. With no sight or sound of Desmond, Shaun assumed the man had similarly sequestered himself elsewhere in the warehouse.

He was nearing the bottom of that third page, only a few minutes later, when he felt his hackles rise. He gritted his teeth and said, "Desmond, so help me if you bother me now I will cause you five hundred varieties of suffering."

The sound of a foot slipping, a hasty recovery and the subsequent string of what sounded like curses in Italian jerked Shaun's attention away from the page. Two things occurred to him at that moment: one, apparently Desmond hadn't realized he was there and therefore hadn't intended to distract him, and two, since when did he speak Italian?

"Desmond?"

The other man coughed as if embarrassed, out of sight. "Yeah. Shaun. Don't worry, I'll go away. No worries." There was a hint of bitterness in his voice but mostly he sounded nervous and anxious to be away, anxious for Shaun to forget-

"Hold on. First, show yourself." Shaun didn't rise when the other man lowered himself down onto the crate, just at Shaun's left. He glared sternly over his glasses. "All right. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I find it very hard to believe you ever studied a foreign language, particularly one that happened, coincidentally, to be Italian. Am I wrong?"

Desmond didn't say anything, just stood there silently, avoiding Shaun's eyes and looking faintly sick.

"Well, Desmond? What the hell was that?"

Desmond lowered himself to sit in front of Shaun, knees up against his chest.

"The bleeding effect," he mumbled, face in his knees, so quiet Shaun almost didn't hear him, almost didn't understand him.

He needed to hear it again anyway. "I'm sorry, the what?"

Now Desmond looked at him like he was a bit thick, a look that said, oh, come on, you know what the bleeding effect is. Still, he said again, more clearly, "It's the bleeding effect. You know how I'm picking up everything Ezio learns, and I guess that means more than fighting and scaling walls."

Shaun wasn't convinced. "You have subtitles in the Animus. Everything is translated, you shouldn't be picking up the language, you'd have to be experiencing it without the translation, and oh, my god." Realization hit Shaun suddenly, and he looked at Desmond long and hard. "How long."

"How long…?"

"How long have you been having visions? That's the only way you'd be picking up more than just physical skills."

Desmond gaped. "How did you work that out?"

"I told you. I have a gift." He preened a little at the other's impressed incredulity. He also had a fair bit of pride.

Desmond sighed. That little voice was back, whispering See? What did I say? Brilliant. Desmond whispered back furiously for it to shut up shut up and said, with discomfort, avoiding Shaun's eyes again, "A few weeks."

Shaun sputtered. "A few weeks, Desmond? And you didn't think to tell anyone? I assume they've been lasting more than thirty seconds, or else you wouldn't be picking up the language, correct?"

Desmond looked desperate. "Nothing's happened, it's usually when I'm about to go to sleep, or it'll be a dream."

"Usually?"

Desmond looked like he'd eaten something sour. "The first time it happened was when Lucy had me show her what I've learned from Ezio, just before Venice. I sort of . . . collapsed. After. After she'd left already."

"You collapsed? Why didn't you say something? Jesus, Desmond." Shaun couldn't quite keep the concern from mingling with the anger in his voice, and he kicked himself mentally for it.

"I didn't want anyone to worry? I mean. I thought of saying something the next day, but then you gave me that line about being 'very professional,' and I thought it probably wasn't a big deal anyway. And it hasn't been. Really."

It bothered Shaun that Desmond remembered an insult from weeks ago. He pushed his glasses up and rubbed his forehead. "Okay. So you've been having visions, or dreams, or whatever, of Ezio's life, for three weeks. Okay." When Desmond coughed, Shaun knew there was more, and he probably wouldn't like it. "What."

"Uhhh," Desmond said, looking vastly uncomfortable. "Not. Not just Ezio. Altair, too. That's what the first one was. Altair."

Shaun swore. "Bloody hell, Desmond. Let me guess, you magically know Arabic now, too."

Surprisingly, Desmond smirked a little and replied in Arabic, something unknown that made Shaun suspicious by virtue of the smug look on the other's face. He didn't want to know what he said, he didn't, he wouldn't ask because he knew that's what he wanted and Shaun would be damned if he gave in to such a transparent maneuver. Jealousy tickled at the back of his mind and he paused and examined that feeling, frowning. Well. That could be fixed. He cleared his throat.

"I'm really quite brilliant, you know, Desmond," he said, interested in how a strangely frustrated frown flickered across his face. "Which makes this situation somewhat unfair. It's not fair because, despite how brilliant I may be," and that frown again, very interesting, "you now know more languages now than I do. I am sure you can see how this is a problem for someone of my keen intellect."

Desmond looked at him uncomprehendingly, shaking his head a little. "I don't . . ."

"So, I propose a bargain. You can teach me," oh, that rankled a little, didn't it? Being taught a language by Desmond of all people. He pushed that aside. "You can teach me Italian, and maybe Arabic assuming I don't kill you first, and in return I won't tell Lucy about your little episodes."

Desmond's jaw had dropped as soon as Shaun had uttered the word "bargain," then closed, then dropped again a little at the conclusion of the offer. "Why…?"

"Well, you, I am sure, don't want to tell her, otherwise you would have already. Why, I don't really care, but I can keep an eye on you or whatever now that I know, and that should be good enough. Right?" Shaun raised his eyebrow at a decidedly flabbergasted Desmond, who blinked a few times, considering, then stuck out his hand and nodded. They shook on it, and Desmond leaned back onto his palms, giving Shaun a speculative look.

"Don't you want to know what I said?"

Yes. "No."

Desmond paused, then smirked again. "You sure this isn't just some elaborate excuse to spend more time with me?"

Yes. No. Maybe. "Don't be ridiculous." Shaun fixed his gaze on his abandoned book. He swore to god that he would get past that third page. Someday.

"And I bet you're not sorry at all for being a dick, right?"

Shit. "Of course not."

Fuck.