A/N: And this might be my least favorite chapter. Lost a bit of steam while writing it. Wording feels a bit clunky at times. So it goes.

I always enjoy me a little bit of drabbly AltMal, though. They're just too adorable.

ONWARD. See you Friday.


Desmond left Shaun behind in the warehouse when he started rattling off resources he would need to get his hands on in order to really, effectively utilize Desmond's language acquisition, clearly compiling mental notes that he would later write out by hand. While grateful for Shaun's reticence and the bargain (really, blackmail) that assured it, Desmond remained wary of prolonged exposure to the man; much like the sun, or radiation, Desmond had a feeling it could have some very dangerous side-effects. That Shaun had sensed Desmond before he had come anywhere near entering his field of vision while Desmond had been practicing stealth with some success, and that Shaun had navigated the crates more or less one-handed, carrying that book as he was, spoke volumes for Shaun's ability as an Assassin-ability Desmond may have doubted before, assuming the swagger and sharpness were due to some kind of insecurity Shaun had, like he was compensating for some lack.

Desmond had been very painfully wrong on that point, which meant there was some other reason Shaun hated Desmond (unless he really just enjoyed being a tremendous prick), and that was unsettling. He felt like there was something very important he was missing in the equation, and if he could just figure it out, maybe that damn voice would shut up about how brilliant Shaun was, and it would stop saying things like doesn't he remind you of someone? and wouldn't you like to get to know him better? and then Desmond wouldn't feel like ripping his hair out whenever Shaun was around, wouldn't feel like he had to flirt with Lucy in defiance of that insistent nagging.

Desmond liked Shaun. He could tell that sly little voice to shut it all he liked, but in the end the fact remained that he was attracted to Shaun. It must have been part of some sort of latent self-destructive tendencies, he figured, considering at any moment Shaun seemed liable to be a mere heartbeat away from choking the life out of Desmond, and no matter how often Desmond thought that maybe, finally he had managed to crack that icy exterior, Shaun managed to snap back with a vicious recoil, leaving Desmond wondering if he had made any progress at all, made him wonder whether he was just wasting his time, setting himself up for fall after fall. Despite how unlikely it seemed that he would get anywhere in his endeavors, he still teased and joked as though Shaun did care, as though persistence alone could win him points, gain Shaun's affections, though he admittedly had absolutely no clue what those affections would be like.

There were things he hadn't told Shaun about the bleeding effect, of course, about the visions and dreams he'd been having, that halted him in his steps and haunted his nights, depriving him of restful sleep. If Shaun ever asked . . . well. Desmond shrugged internally as he stepped into the Animus room briefly to assure Rebecca and Lucy that both he and Shaun were alive, they hadn't strangled each other, and no one needed to go to the infirmary, then stepped out again to wander aimlessly. He figured he could deflect, if pressed, as he always had when anyone would get curious about his life, his past; he could turn them aside and change the subject with ease. Still, he really did not want to lie to Shaun, or tell half-truths; he had done enough of that already and something about Shaun made him want to be honest. Full disclosure, however, felt even more like a betrayal of his ancestors' private lives, and too much like a personal confession.

The first dream of Altair and Malik together had shocked Desmond awake, forcing him upright, uncomfortably warm and sweating and more than a little aroused. Altair kept such a close guard on his emotions, was so tied to duty and redemption and proving himself that Desmond in no way saw it coming until those emotions suddenly erupted forth, and he and Malik were fighting/not fighting, teeth, tongues, lips and hands all out of context because these things never had any kind of sequential narrative; Desmond had to piece it together himself and it didn't always make sense but after a while Desmond realized that, while it may have been Desmond's first time seeing them together, it was by no means their first experience.

When Desmond did dream of that initial encounter, reached through slow realizations and mutual understandings, he was struck by how remarkably, unexpectedly tender it was, how careful and exploratory, with gentle hands and soft words. No, what Desmond first saw was part of a game the two Assassins played, to see who would cave first; a game that apparently Altair did not mind losing. It was the way Malik would crane his neck slightly when examining a document, the barest traces of collar bones peeking out from under coarse robes, or how he would twirl a quill idly in his fingers, or the slow, lazy closing of lids over tired eyes as the one-armed man leaned away from the counter in his bureau, the faint trickle of water from the fountain granting them the illusion of tranquility that set off the explosion within him, propelled him toward Malik, who would laugh indulgently in his victory. It was a mystery to Altair what caused Malik to give in to his desires, what made his resolve crumble, he knew only that the man had near-infinite patience-hardly surprising, considering he didn't try to kill Altair after Solomon's Temple, and had found it in him to leave all of that behind; so when Malik was the one to capitulate, it was the rarest blessing.

Desmond felt guilty, being privy to these intimate moments-he had no place there, behind Altair's eyes, feeling affection not his own for a man he had never known, and never would know. It also made him painfully jealous; voyeurism could only be so satisfying.

Desmond realized he'd managed to pace his way back into the warehouse after wandering aimlessly from room to room, lost in thought, and wished (not for the first time) he had something productive to do. He wondered if Shaun would kill him if he went back to roaming the crates and rafters, practicing his free-running; anything to escape this infuriating idleness.

~x~x~

When the language lessons began, it very quickly became evident that Desmond was a terrible teacher, and Shaun had to seize control in order for anything to get accomplished, while Desmond was more than happy to relinquish whatever power he held in that regard, feeling largely clueless about the whole affair-what did he know about noun phrases, tenses, and genitive . . . whatevers that Shaun seemed to think were so important? So their nightly sessions ended up consisting primarily of Shaun, surrounded by notebooks, note cards, and an Italian-to-English dictionary, peppering Desmond with questions on the particulars as he filled page after page with notes on grammar and pronunciation and vocabulary, while Desmond watched, bemused, kicking back in his chair and propping his feet up on the coffee table in the few square inches not dominated by Shaun's learning materials.

While they by no means were discreet about the whole affair, they were nevertheless momentarily flummoxed when Lucy stumbled upon them one evening and demanded to know what they were up to, her voice registering shock, no doubt due to their close proximity and surprising lack of bloodshed when frankly, what was surprising was that she hadn't come upon them sooner. Desmond was glad his back was to her so she could not see the dread on his face and the pleading look he gave Shaun to dear god not expose him to her, tell her anything, just please, not the truth.

So he should not have been offended when Shaun let out a trademark long-suffering sigh, explaining to Lucy that they were, the both of them, learning Italian to make dealing with Ezio's memories a little simpler. That part was fine, that didn't bother Desmond in the least; it was the dirty look Shaun gave him compounded with an amending, "Well, really, I am learning Italian. Desmond's just a bit too thick to learn it on his own, so I assume when I've got it down I'll have to teach him," that really set off Desmond's sense of self-righteous outrage.

When Lucy clicked her tongue at the pair of them and walked away, apparently buying Shaun's story, Desmond leaned forward in his chair and hissed, "Real nice, Hastings. You are full of so much shit, you know that?"

Shaun just laughed and told him in halting Italian to just relax, because his explanation was more plausible than any alternative. Desmond snorted and replied that Shaun could kindly go fuck himself, but he couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth at the rare sound of Shaun's laughter, deciding he'd suffer far worse if it meant he could hear that more often.