Desmond wakes abruptly to the real world, and manages to sit up just in time to empty the contents of his stomach all over his shoes.
"Lovely," Vidic drawls. Desmond doesn't apologize. He doesn't care what Vidic thinks, and anyway, the mess on his shoes is the bigger concern at the moment. He hops off the animus and leaves Vidic and Lucy to their talk. It's not like they ever tell him what's going on, anyway.
He doesn't want to think about the way his shoes squish against the floor with every step he takes, but there's already that huge, horrible, impossible thing he's trying to block out, and even shoes covered in sick are better than that. Squish squish squish. The sound alone is enough to make him want to throw up again. Instead, he takes a few deep breaths to calm his stomach, strips off his clothes, and steps into the shower.
For a few minutes, he's able to concentrate on just getting clean, but slowly that same feeling of emptiness steals over him. As much as he hates the animus, there's something about sharing a mind with his ancestor, or even watching from the outside, that feels comforting, somehow. He's always felt alone, before. He laughs, because he's still alone. Altair's been dead a thousand years, and besides, the construct in the animus isn't really his ancestor. He doesn't know or care that Desmond's in his mind, pawing through his memories, screwing them up more often than not-
So why does it sometimes feel like Altair is trying to teach him?
Desmond pushes the thoughts away and tries to focus on the shower again. He hasn't mentioned any of this. He can only imagine what Vidic would say, and Lucy would probably just be concerned. She would pity him, and he doesn't want to be pitied.
He turns off the shower, suddenly exhausted, and dresses again for bed. He has clean clothes- courtesy of Abstergo- that smell too clean and feel too stiff. He puts them on anyway. They're better than nothing. And much better than his old clothes, that- courtesy of his stomach- smell like a back alley dumpster. He kicks them into a corner and falls into bed.
He closes his eyes and sees Altair again, staring straight at him, guarded confusion on that all too familiar face. It could be his face, if it were a little less dark, but it's still strange to see it on someone else like this, especially looking right at him. Altair's never done that before, not in all the time Desmond's spent in the animus, not even by accident. And the surprise he could feel, coming off in waves from his ancestor, had been enough to throw him out of the animus, and his lunch straight onto the floor. But it wasn't just the surprise, it was the recognition-
Desmond forces the thoughts away and tried to sleep. He doesn't know what time of day it was, if it's even night, but he feels exhausted, more than ready for sleep. His time in the animus is as exhausting for him as it must have been for Altair. More, probably. At least his ancestor was used to it. Desmond... isn't.
Even with his mind running a thousand miles an hour, he drops off quickly.
And I'm sticking to short chapters, apparently. What can I say, I have a fifty page AC4 fic sitting half finished in my school binder. I guess I'm not in the mood for complexities.