Part two of two for warnings of torture.

Many, many thanks to One - Shot . Dump for giving me feedback on the chapter(s). Why did it go through on the other chapter?

He met Alex the next day in the fighting arena, watching as he helped sixteen Marines practice hand-to-hand combat. He watched curiously and stepped to the edge. After watching them attack for several minutes, he couldn't resist.

"Pussies! I've seen old grannies do better than that!"

There was a lull in the fighting, and all the eyes were on him. He leapt into the makeshift arena.

"You wanna fight? I'll show you how to fight."

Alex growled, and Desmond smirked. When the first set of tentacles shot at him, he dodged them with the finesse of an assassin, using them to get closer. Alex snarled, swiping at him with his blade, and Desmond barely managed to avoid it, digging his fingers into the ridges and riding the arc to swing his legs up and connect with the man's body. In the next explosion of tendrils, he wrapped himself around them like a gymnast and forced his body to conform. He could do this for hours.

And he did. It was well into the evening before he fell. He never got many hits in, but he certainly gave the virus-boy a run for his money, and when he was finally pinned, covered by a slip in his footing, he laughed breathlessly at the man, who was panting and sweating. His entire body hurt from when Alex did manage to get him. He would have plenty of bruises, and he was sure there was a large gash on his back that might need stitches. And a few on his legs. And handful on his stomach. Damn, he was sore, but that was the best fight he had been challenged to in months.

"Fuggin' Cross," Alex snarled in between pants. "Fuggin… Just li'e Cross."

He grinned, squirming. "Yeah, and we could whup your ass."

Alex scoffed. "Cross's an old man."

Desmond sat up as Alex crawled off him and recalled the biomass. He brushed himself off, his clothes sweaty and sticky, and damn, he was hot. That virus put off a lot of heat. He looked at the area he had been pinned, surprised to find no blood. When he reached around to feel the gash on his back, he jumped at the wormy, warm virus ooze over his wounds. Alex was watching him through his peripheral vision, breathing heavily through his mouth.

"Stops the bleeding. Until you get to the medical wing."

Desmond nodded and tried to stand, but found his legs to be too shaky, and he grunted when they gave way. He landed in a black cloud of viral matter, and he flopped his head to look at Alex, who had one arm out, holding him. He was exhausted. That fight had been incredible.

"Don't wanna lose the only other guy who's made me pant."

There was an almost fond curve to those lips of his, and Desmond smiled, feeling that ache in his body and reveling in it.

"We'll do it again sometime," Alex said, and Desmond could feel him carry him to the medical wing, where he was stitched up and bandaged properly.

Sometime the next day, as he was taking it easy and chilling with Alex outside, Seth came over, twirling a razor between his fingers and whistling a gay tune. He jogged to the edge of the makeshift arena. They had struck up a warriors' bond, and Alex was telling him about his own struggles to become "human."

"Desmond! Just the beautiful young man I wanted to see!"

"What's up?" he said, reluctant to stop talking to the man.

"Wanna learn an awesome torture trick? We gotta get Shaun some water, anyway, so I figured why not have some fun?"

He grinned. "Okay."

He missed Alex's confused look as he rose, and he heard Alex stand as well.

"What are you…"

Desmond turned to look at Alex. "It's a personal problem. He's helping me take care of it."

"By… torture?"

"Yup."

"That's…"

"It's perfectly human. You said yourself you didn't know what being 'human' was all about, so you can come if you like. As long as you don't do anything."

He followed Seth into the room where Shaun was. The victim exhaled, loudly, when the lights were turned on, his eyes screwed shut and blood dribbling down his chin, his chest, and the fork. He was trying valiantly not to move, so that the fork wouldn't dig in any further, but Desmond could see the bags under his eyes and the panicked, muggy look on his face. There were tears streaks down his cheeks worn on the skin, and he almost wanted to run his finger along them just to lick his finger and taste the salt.

"Hi, Shaun."

He raised an eyebrow when Shaun only made a soft sobbing noise. It must have been working faster than anyone expected, he surmised when Seth murmured, "Hm… Weak minded."

That was not Shaun. Shaun was anything but. He was sarcastic and condescending, stubborn and ready to fight. This was not Shaun. This was someone else. Desmond let his gaze take in the pitiful man before him, and he pursed his lips. Shaun would not break that easily. He was strong-willed. This man was not Shaun. He walked up to the man and squatted in front of him, looking at him watching him from the corner of his eyes. He whimpered when Seth started undoing the collar to pull the fork off.

Alex snarled, "This isn't—"

"This is rage," Desmond snarled back, his eyes narrowing as he spun to face him. Alex looked ready to rip him to pieces. "You want to know what it's like to be human? Then stop trying! It's more complex than that!"

"That doesn't excuse—"

"Excuses or not, I'm going laugh until he takes his dying breath," Desmond growled, standing toe-to-toe with the man, feeling the stitches pull. "He's treated me like shit, let me go off to die of insanity, and I'm going to enjoy watching him break. If this bothers you, you can leave."

Alex's eyes seemed to soften a little bit, and he looked confused as he glanced over at the man and Seth, who was radioing in for water.

"And suddenly torture isn't that bad of an idea? Fucking monster," he snapped, causing that intense gaze to come back to him.

"Me the monster?"

"Yeah, you, pot calling the kettle black, right? Get used to it. It gets a lot more complicated than that. There's nothing normal about being human."

He snarled once more and faced Shaun, who flinched. His eyes traveled over the man again as his head lolled forward, and he growled. Moments later, Michael came in with a tray of food and several glasses with a pitcher of water.

"You missed lunch, so I brought Desmond some," he said with a shrug as he set the tray down and turned to leave. "Wish I could stay, but there's a poker game I'm going to beat Kenneth in… if that damn bastard hasn't cheated."

They waved goodbye, and Alex spoke as Desmond walked over to be near Seth, eager to learn.

"May I talk to him?"

"This boy ain't gonna talk," Seth said, running the razor almost lovingly along Shaun's chin, and Desmond's lips curled upward at the quiet sob.

"May I be with him, alone?"

"Definitely not. Can't have you eating him, virus freak."

"If Desmond remains in here?"

"What's so bad about me here, hm?"

"You're the torturer."

"Desmond is just as guilty."

"I want to figure out why."

"Ever the scientist, eh, Mercer?"

Alex snarled, and Seth laughed.

"What you wanna find out?"

"Why this is human."

"Why this is human?"

"Why this is human."

There was silence, and Seth raised an eyebrow as he looked at him. Alex was scowling.

"I want to study him."

"There's nothing interesting to study."

Alex shrugged. "I want to talk this guy and Desmond. I want to understand."

"How do I know you aren't going to eat him or something, you germ?"

Alex deadpanned, "Why would I kill the only man who poses a challenge to me?"

"What about Cross?"

"He's getting old."

"True enough," Seth said, looking at Desmond. "Are you okay with that?"

"I guess," he said as he shrugged.

Seth pursed his lips, looking doubtful, but he eventually threw his hands up. "Fine. But you'd better not do anything to him, you Goddamn, mother fucking ass-bandit, or me and the rest of the Wisemen'll wipe the floor with your ass for harming our new boy."

He pressed the razor into Desmond's hands, and Desmond nodded, smiling. "We'll be okay."

He gave Alex a warning glare before exiting. Desmond walked over and plopped down, beginning to eat, as the other man pulled up a chair to sit in front of Shaun. There was silence as he studied the man thoroughly.

"You're disgusting," Alex murmured to Desmond.

"He's disgusting."

There was no more sound out of them for several minutes. He watched as Shaun's eyes flickered back and forth between him, Alex, and the food. It was basic military food, and he didn't think much of it, but Shaun kept looking at his longingly. He wondered how long a human could last without food—he'd have to ask Seth. He could hear Alex murmur something, and he poured himself a glass of water. He caught the longing look Shaun gave the cup, and he raised an eyebrow. Seth had said something about giving him something to drink.

He paid him no more mind as he finished half the food and set it aside, listening absentmindedly to the quiet murmurs between them. Desmond folded his arms on the table and rested his head on them. He heard a choked sob come from Shaun, and his mind wandered back toward him.

That was not Shaun. Shaun had had much more of a strong will. He would fight and argue to the end. There was something that wasn't right: he shouldn't have broken that easily. There must have been an underlying reason behind how quickly he had just given up. This man kept mumbling, "Sorry. I'm sorry. Sorry. Forgive me," like a broken record as Alex tried to talk to him. Shaun would not apologize unless he absolutely had to.

"He blames himself, you know."

He tilted his head to look at Alex, who was turned slightly in the seat to look at him. Shaun's head was lolling forward, and he frowned as Ezio appeared behind him, placing his hands on his shoulders and giving his victim a pathetic look.

"I can tell, but he should blame himself. It's his fault."

"That's what he said," Alex said. "He says he regrets letting you go."

"He sure didn't sound as if he would ever regret it when he told me all that shit a while ago."

"Perhaps he was too mad to notice."

"You don't even know what happened."

"I have a decent idea."

He slammed his hands against the table as he sent his dirtiest glare at all three of them. "You want to know what happened? I came down the stairs to ask him to come to bed with me, because for once—for once!—I was feeling lucid!"

"And then you got into an argument."

"Not even that. When I asked him to come to bed—you know I can't sleep without nightmares of all the shit I've gone through?—he glared at me. I apologized, and he said some smartass comment, and I told him that all I wanted to do was spend the night with him, and he just fucking blew up at me."

Alex raised an eyebrow.

"He said that I was incredibly selfish for not even considering the fact that perhaps he had other shit to do, and that I should be ashamed of myself, but no! I wasn't! Because I was the fucking 'savior of the world' and so others should wait on me! He told me that I never even considered the fact that he actually had a job and I didn't—and I wanted to let him know that no one would hire a mentally unstable man, but he kept on plowing through! He then told me that he had never wanted to sleep with me in the first place, and the only reason he even did was because they didn't want to lose me to the Goddamn crazies! He told that he would never have been happier if he never saw my ugly face again after they were all done! He told me that he was sick of having to take care of me and that I was nothing more than a nuisance! He told me to fuck off and leave him alone! So I did! For six days."

Alex was silent, but Desmond refused to let it end there.

"I slept, on my own, for six days, with night terrors and nightmares, and every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was other lives, and all I could feel where people trying to hunt me down—dead people trying to kill me. I couldn't function. He was my anchor. So I figured I needed to get out there. We had tried medications and shrinks, therapies and remedies, and nothing was helping. I was stuck in Renaissance Italy and Ancient Syria, for God's fucking sake. So I took the best next route: boot camp. I hoped the fatigue and the drill sergeants would bring me out of this—the Bleeding Effect! And you know what?"

Alex was still matching his gaze levelly.

"It did," Desmond hissed. "It fucking did. And those first few weeks were worse than Hell. I had to fight against myself and everyone and everything. I was trapped in a body that had three different men in it—three different lives from three different centuries. And now that I've beaten this shit myself, on my own, with only a few funny letters from Rebecca, I'm supposed to believe Shaun wants me back? That he's actually sorry for all the shit he said? Now that I can actually say I live in the modern century? He didn't even try to find me. He didn't even write me a letter. No, he waited to apologize until I had done something with myself. Until I had managed to make it on my own. Until I got over my own urges just to kill myself with whatever was nearest. And I almost killed myself several times. They couldn't let me near the guns until the second month into boot camp. But thankfully, the drill sergeants took me as challenge and refused to give up on me until I broke. And I did. Thanks to the fact that the assassins' order paid off the drill sergeants not to give up on me so that they wouldn't have to deal with me. And now that I've done something with myself, they want me back. Everybody fucking wants me back. Now that I'm no longer needing help, they suddenly want me back. You know what I say to that?"

Alex was frowning now.

"Fuck. You. It's my life now," Desmond snarled, plopping back down in the chair. "Hurry up your fucking examination so that Seth can come in and torture him some more. Maybe I'll starve him to death and then send his body back to the order. Fucking serves them fucking right."

He settled his head back in his arms, ignoring when Alex started talking to Shaun again.

"Such is the way that life goes."

He looked to see Altair beside him. "You just won't fucking go away, will you?"

Altair laughed quietly, kicking his chair back and resting his feet on the table. His robes fluttered around him. "You prefer Ezio to me?"

"Hell no. I don't want either of you here."

Altair hummed, and he watched as he tilted his head back, letting his hood fall off as he closed his eyes. He closed his own eyes, ignoring the sound of Alex getting Shaun something to drink. He was almost asleep when he heard the "sorry"s change into something else. It was quiet, almost not there, and he stiffened, his ears pulling it in whether he wanted it to or not. It was the lullaby that he had sung to calm him down after his night terrors. He sat up, glaring at Shaun. Ezio was behind the man, rubbing his shoulders and coaxing the words from him as he sobbed. Shaun was crying. Shaun was crying willingly. He snarled and rose, shoving his chair from behind him as he marched over to the man. It could hardly be called singing between the dry sobs and the hardly a whisper voice, and he scowled down at the man.

"He says it reminds him of the days before he ruined everything—"

He grabbed Shaun by the shirt, snarling as the man cried out in pain at the dig of the wire and the cloth against his burns. "Stop singing that song!"

Shaun cried harder, the words still tumbling out as Desmond dropped him, grabbing his head instead and snarling as he forced it back to look the man in the eyes. They were terrified, pained, and he could feel Shaun trying to shrink into himself, the words stuck in his mouth. Desmond was snarling as he held his head.

"Keep singing, Shaun; it's the last refuge you have," he heard Ezio murmur, and he looked up to see him standing there.

He growled and fisted his hands in Ezio's robes, shaking him. "You! Leave me the fuck alone! All you've done is cause me grief!"

Ezio simply smirked as Shaun started singing again, and Desmond pushed him away, grabbing Shaun's arm and digging his fingers into burn below, listening to the shriek of pain.

"Stop it," he growled.

Shaun finally stopped, and he grimaced when Ezio started singing. He couldn't hurt the assassin—hell, he wasn't really there. He squeezed his eyes shut and dug his fingers into the man's arm.

"Stop!" he screeched.

He let go and covered his ears, falling to his knees to curl in on himself. He didn't want the twisted, foggy memories of the Bleeding Effect. He didn't want the identity crisis he had narrowly escaped from. He didn't want to hear that song—that song that had so much comfort and meaning, that had lulled him to sleep after night terrors sank in. He didn't want to be reminded of the days that Shaun would still crawl in bed with him and comfort him. He didn't want to be reminded of what he was like before.

"Please," he whimpered, "stop."

But there was something in Ezio's voice—something that made him want to stop and listen, like a father's voice. It was comforting and stern, and he knew that he would be safe, but he had never had a father, and he wasn't going to have one now. He wanted Ezio to shut up. It was only the Italian (or Altair) who could actually make him freeze with just his voice. He was compelled to listen—even in the Animus. He couldn't stop the man from singing, and he didn't want the memories he had with that song. He had locked them all away: all the pain and confusion, all the moments of just black when he was overtaken by someone else. He didn't want them back.

He felt a hand gently brace the side of his head, and he followed it as it pushed him forward to rest on something warm and soft and real. He felt another hand comb through his hair as Shaun started singing that fucking lullaby again. He just wanted to be left alone. His fingers curled into cloth, and he sobbed once as he felt like he was back in Shaun's house and helping him through another nightmare, stroking his hair with one hand and cupping his head with the other. He could hear Shaun singing softly in the background. He wanted him to shut up.

When he finally opened his eyes again, he was in his own bunk, again. The lights were out, and the night was dark, and fuck, it was colder at night. He got out of his bed, careful to avoid the others and General Cross, as he stumbled down the hall to Shaun's room. He didn't entirely know what was driving him to do this, changing course and stealing into the infirmary. He pinched the supplies without realizing it and tripped to the room with Shaun, pushing open the door and—fuck, it was colder in here than in the military base.

He rubbed his eyes as he turned on one set of lights. Shaun was a shivering mess. He set the supplies down, and before he knew what he was doing, he had the wire they had drilled through Shaun's arms pulled out, the staples removed with the glasses tucked away safely, and he was cleaning each wound meticulously, cutting off the cloth on his torso and gingerly cleaning the wounds and the burns. The man was watching him, only half there, and he heard the door creak open, but he was too busy with the bandage on the Blackwatch burn on the underside of his arm. He felt someone hold the arm up for him, and he thought he nodded in thanks.

"Desmond?" It was Ezio, again. "Desmond, I…"

He looked up briefly to see his ancestor standing there, a soft smile on his face. He looked back down to concentrate on bandaging his arm. He worked silently, efficiently, and concentrated until the man was bandaged and cleaned, and he stepped back, wiping his hands on a towel probably from the infirmary, and Shaun was looking at him tiredly. He smiled softly, tilting his head and pouring a glass of water from some pitcher he didn't remember being there and probably took from the kitchens after he visited the infirmary and didn't realize it. He pulled up a chair and sat beside him, holding the glass of water to his lips and thinking how horrible Shaun looked as his hands, trembling and paler than what he remembered, lightly wrapped around the wrist holding the glass.

He helped him sip three full glasses of water slowly, eyeing the goose bumps all over his skin. Ezio was sitting on his opposite side, his hands clasped as he leaned on his knees, a proud smile on his lips. Once Shaun was done, he left him sitting there, and walked out of the base, his helmet on to avoid questions—the military couldn't question Blackwatch—and to a local restaurant. He purchased something and returned to find Shaun and Ezio still sitting there.

"You're back."

"I brought you food," he murmured.

He helped him eat the entire meal, cutting each bite into smaller bites just to make sure he wouldn't throw up. By the time he was fed, tended to, and looking slightly better, it was in the wee hours of morning. He blinked at Shaun, who was staring absently at him as they sat there.

"I don't get it."

He nearly had a heart attack as he whipped his head around to see Alex emerge from the shadows of the room. Shaun didn't even twitch, so he must have known.

"I don't get it," he muttered again, pulling a chair up to sit beside him.

Desmond didn't respond, looking back toward Shaun. The poor man had taken to staring at his hand, and he held his hand out, only to have shaky fingers wrap around it lightly. He looked at the pale hand and squeezed gently.

"I thought you hated him."

He looked over at Alex. Then, he rose and gently picked up Shaun. It was freezing in here. Alex watched him as moved to walk away, rising and following him. He walked back into his room and set Shaun down as if he would snap in half. He tucked him in and lay down beside him, more concerned with how cold Shaun seemed. Perhaps he had been sorry. Perhaps he did want him back. He liked the idea of him still wanting him.

"Perhaps it's just a projection of a madman's mind," he heard Altair murmur.

He looked over his shoulder, past Alex, to see Altair standing there, a sick grin on his face as he held the lower part of Ezio's head and upper neck in one hand, the hidden blade sticking through the throat. He could see the blood dribbling down from the exit wound, and his dead eyes were wide and surprised. Altair dropped the body, wiping his blade off on his sleeve and smirking at him. Desmond rolled over to partly cover Shaun to share body heat. He felt Alex spread over the top of them, the virus's heat warming his friend quickly.

He couldn't care less, really: Ezio's death meant one less person to plague him.