Desmond woke up in the middle of the night. Despite the horrible post-Bleeding-Effect feeling of having his eyeballs turned inside out with knitting needles, he felt strangely content. Taken care of. It was that smell again, the soothing smell from his dream, the smell that had never existed. Which meant he was going crazy, as usual. Plus, he could hear someone in the room with him, so he suspiciously peered through slitted eyelids.

"Dammit, I am SO sick of fucking Templars fucking watching me sleep!" Waves of irritation rushed through him, not even directed at Haytham, more at his memories of Vidic staring at him, ready to pop him back in the Animus and turn his brain into mush. "Get the fuck out!"

Haytham eyed him, as if debating whether it was safe to leave him. "Do you know what your name is?"

"It's Desmond 'Get-The-Fuck-Out-Of-My-Room' Miles! Now scram!"

Desmond curled up in his blankets as Haytham left, and mumbled, annoyed, when he realized that the comforting smell was gone now that he was awake. Typical, his brain playing tricks on him again.

Haytham woke up when the sky was beginning to lighten, but only because the ship's cat had climbed into his lap and started purring and kneading his calf muscle right through his trousers. He petted her sleepily, pulled himself up from the floor, and leaned against the wall to keep himself upright so he could watch over Desmond.

Less than half an hour later, the cat was comfortably ensconced in his lap again, dozing off after a busy night of eating rats. He cradled her close and kept snoring softly, not noticing when she worked a button off his coat.

Connor woke up at dawn with a splitting headache. He'd had only his usual sip of whiskey the previous night, and even though he had never really gotten used to it, he usually didn't get a hangover anymore. He only even drank it because it did keep away embarrassing digestive problems at sea. Desmond had informed him a few days ago that even the clearest water actually was a stew of tiny little creatures determined to make one sick, and that a little alcohol was a very good thing for killing the tiny creatures. But, he always added, the rum from this time period was foul and practically undrinkable, and he was going to figure out some way to fix that.

Gradually, the thump and clack of wood against wood became louder, and Connor's headache intensified. He peered out of his cabin to see Haytham and Desmond fencing with wooden practice swords. Here was a chance to see how skilled Desmond actually was, and a distraction until his head stopped throbbing.

After about a quarter of an hour, Connor decided that Desmond was all right, although nothing special. Haytham seemed to come to the same conclusion and stopped the practice. Desmond grinned. "I was just getting warmed up, Pops. That's the way I learned to fight when I was a kid."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, I picked up a little more here and there." Desmond's stance suddenly shifted, his blade movements were more focused on the edge of the sword. He sprang at Haytham, batting the other's practice sword out of the way, and the older man had a hard time blocking them all.

Desmond stood up straight again, his eyes strangely blank. Now he used the point of the sword, he focused more on defense, he crouched a little to make himself smaller, then stood up proudly when attacking.

Another switch: his eyes rolled to the side, and he had a different style. Another blank look, and Connor was highly amused to recognize his father's own style.

Haytham was beginning to tire, but seeing his own style, he managed to weave in one or two sharp taps on Desmond's hand. Desmond pushed his way inside Haytham's guard, his eyes flicked to the other side, and he suddenly reversed the sword and whacked his ancestor with the pommel. Haytham sank to the ground, dazed. "Uhhh...that was...unusual." He was sure to have a lump from that.

"Father, look, he is in distress again!"

"I'm not doing too well myself."

Desmond shook his head. "I'm fine, it's just...something...I don't...ugh..." He stared at Connor until the world made a little more sense. "Better. I... Sorry."

"If you keep having these fits, lad, we can't let you fight."

"It'll be okay. Honest. It doesn't matter who I am if I'm just fighting. I have all these great fighters. Just point me at the creeps."

Haytham and Connor looked at each other, dismayed.

"Look, I trust you two. You're both blue to me. If my brain is falling apart I trust you to do my thinking."

"What if I ask you to kill my father? You must think for yourself."

Haytham folded his arms and scowled.

Desmond's eyes widened. "But, no! You've been getting along with him. You don't really want to kill him, right?" He started to hyperventilate.

"Want and need are not always the same thing."

"Plus my son can get very annoying."

Desmond backed away, looking back and forth at them in consternation. "But... you don't... I don't want... don't make me..." He was creeping along the wall, heading for the deck. "I won't, I won't."

"What's your name now, lad?"

"It's still Desmond, and it's not crazy for me not to want you to kill each other, and it's really not crazy for me to want not to be in the middle of it all! I may have to be part of this dysfunctional family, but that doesn't mean I have to be part of... padr-, par-, of killing your own father!"

Connor smiled, a tight and guarded expression. "Good, so you would rather think for yourself than be a sword for hire."