The room was a haze of fluorescent lights and the low hum of machinery as the Animus powered down around them. Claire blinked rapidly, her mind struggling to adjust to the sterile reality of the warehouse after being immersed in the warm, golden glow of Renaissance Italy. Her senses clung to the fading echoes of Amelia's breathless laughter, the rush of wind as she leapt from the tower, Ezio's arms reaching out for her in the same instant she plunged into the hay below. Even now, as her awareness shifted back to the present, she could still feel the ghostly sensation of his embrace—warm, firm, grounding. It left her with a bittersweet ache, a longing she couldn't quite put into words.
Desmond stirred beside her, his breath uneven, like he was still half-embedded in Ezio's memories. Claire turned her head to look at him, her heart caught somewhere between the euphoria of their ancestors' embrace and the heavy, unyielding weight of their own uncertain reality. Desmond's eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling with deep, steadying breaths. He looked as though he was trying to hold onto that final, passionate moment between Ezio and Amelia for as long as possible, his expression softened in a way she rarely saw.
She took in the sight of him, studying the lines of his face—the stubble along his jaw, the way his lips parted slightly as he breathed. He seemed vulnerable like this, his usual guarded expression melted away by the lingering haze of the Animus. It made something twist inside her, a yearning she didn't fully understand, a feeling that made her want to reach out and touch his face, to trace the contours of a man she was still getting to know but felt she already understood in some inexplicable way. Her hand twitched against her thigh, caught between the impulse to bridge the distance between them and the fear of overstepping a boundary neither of them had truly defined.
Rebecca's voice crackled over the intercom, breaking through the lingering haze of their shared memory. "Welcome back to the twenty-first century, lovebirds. How are we feeling?"
Claire flinched at the sound, the connection to Desmond severing abruptly as she pulled herself back to the present. Her fingers dug into the padded armrests of the Animus chair, grounding herself in the cool leather beneath her palms. She forced a small, tight smile, but her throat felt dry, the words tangled in the back of her mind like cobwebs. "It's... a lot to process," she muttered, her voice rougher than she'd intended.
Desmond slowly opened his eyes, meeting Claire's gaze with a look that mirrored her own confusion. There was something in his expression—an unspoken question, a vulnerability that wasn't usually there. His brow furrowed slightly, as if he, too, was trying to sift through the blurred lines between his feelings and those left behind by Ezio. Claire felt her cheeks flush, the raw emotions from the Animus still coursing through her, mingling with a deeper, more personal confusion.
"Yeah... Yeah, it is," Desmond finally murmured, rubbing a hand over his face as if trying to wipe away the remnants of the past. He sat up slowly, muscles stiff from the long hours they'd spent immersed in memories that weren't entirely their own. Claire mirrored his movements, her legs heavy as she swung them over the side of the chair, her boots hitting the cold concrete floor with a dull thud. She took a moment to press her palms against her knees, willing the trembling in her hands to stop, willing herself to focus on the present instead of the echoes of the past.
But it was impossible to ignore the ache in her chest, the tangled knot of emotions that had settled there ever since Amelia had turned to Ezio with that reckless, fearless smile, confessing the love she had kept hidden for so long. It wasn't just the memory of Amelia's words that clung to her—it was the way they had felt, the way her heart had surged with warmth and fear and hope all at once. And now, that warmth lingered, an uninvited guest in the quiet corners of Claire's own heart, confusing her every thought about Desmond.
How much of this was her? And how much of it was Amelia?
The question gnawed at her, a persistent ache that had no clear answer. She barely knew Desmond, not really. They had been thrust together by circumstance, by the twisted threads of fate and the mysterious designs of the Animus. Yet in some ways, she felt like she understood him more deeply than anyone else—like she had seen parts of him that he rarely showed, glimpsed through the filter of Ezio's memories and the raw vulnerability of shared trauma.
She wondered if he felt the same confusion, the same struggle to separate what was real from what had been left behind by their ancestors. Did he see Amelia's face when he looked at her, just as she sometimes caught herself seeing Ezio's shadow in the curve of his smile, the shape of his laugh? The thought sent a shiver through her, and she wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold in the emotions that threatened to spill over.
Desmond shifted beside her, breaking the silence. "That was... intense, huh?" He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a breath that sounded more like a nervous laugh. His eyes were on her, watching her with a wariness that mirrored her own.
Claire managed a small nod, her fingers clenching around the hem of her jacket as she struggled to keep her voice steady. "Yeah. I mean... I knew they had feelings for each other, but that..."
She trailed off, the words slipping through her grasp as she thought about the way Amelia's heart had raced when Ezio had finally caught her, the way it had felt like stepping off a ledge and trusting the world to catch her. Claire could still feel the echo of that leap, the way it had made her chest tighten with longing—longing for something that wasn't hers to want.
Desmond's hand moved toward hers, hesitating for a moment before he let his fingers brush against hers, a tentative touch that sent a jolt through her. She looked up at him, her breath catching at the intensity in his gaze. He seemed like he was searching for something in her expression, some hint that she understood what he was feeling, that she wasn't alone in this tangled mess of emotions.
"Hey," he said softly, his voice rough but gentle. "It's okay. I know... I know it's strange, but... it doesn't have to change anything between us."
Claire's lips twitched into a small, uncertain smile, but the weight in her chest didn't lift. "Doesn't it, though?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper. She could feel the heat rising to her cheeks, a blush she couldn't suppress. "I mean, we just watched our ancestors finally say everything they'd kept hidden for so long. And... they're us. Or... we're them, at least in some way."
Desmond's grip on her hand tightened slightly, as if he was trying to anchor them both. He shook his head, a small, rueful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "They're a part of us, sure. But that doesn't mean everything they had has to be... us. We're still figuring this out, Claire. Whatever that means."
For a moment, Claire thought about pulling her hand away, retreating back into the safety of her own walls. She had built those walls carefully over the years, brick by brick, to keep out the pain and the fear and the crushing loneliness. But then she remembered the way Amelia had leapt from the tower with a smile on her lips, fearless even in the face of the unknown. And she realized, with a pang, that maybe she wanted to be a little braver too.
She met Desmond's gaze, feeling the raw honesty in it, and she squeezed his hand back, letting herself lean into the moment. "You're right," she murmured, her voice barely more than a breath. "We'll figure it out. But maybe we... don't put pressure on it. No expectations, no... labels."
Desmond nodded slowly, a thoughtful look crossing his face as he considered her words. "Yeah. Just... see where things go. I mean, we're stuck with each other in this mess, anyway," he added, his attempt at a smile turning into something softer, more real.
A soft laugh escaped Claire, surprising even herself with its lightness. It felt like a small, tentative step toward something better, something she wasn't quite ready to name. "Yeah, we are," she agreed, her fingers finally loosening their grip on the edge of her jacket. "Let's just... be two people who are trying to figure it all out. No rush. No promises."
Desmond studied her for a moment longer, then gave a slight nod, his expression gentler than she'd ever seen it. "Okay, Claire. No promises. Just... whatever this is."
Claire let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, a tiny flutter of relief uncoiling in her chest. It wasn't a solution, not really—but it was a start. And for now, that was enough. She released his hand, feeling the absence of his touch like a sudden chill, but she forced herself to ignore the pang of loss that came with it. They had shared so much already—more than most people could imagine—and yet, they still had so much to learn about each other, so much to untangle in their own hearts.
As she stood up from the Animus chair, stretching the stiffness from her limbs, she felt Desmond's eyes on her, a quiet curiosity in his gaze. He didn't say anything, but there was a new softness in the way he looked at her, a gentleness that she hadn't seen before. It made her chest ache, and she pressed a hand over her heart, trying to soothe the thrum of emotions that threatened to spill over.
She glanced back at him, catching the small, uncertain smile that played at the corner of his lips. For a moment, she allowed herself to believe that maybe this could work—whatever form it took.
"I am going to cook up some food. Are you hungry?" Claire asked, her voice a little tentative, her eyes lingering on Desmond's as if searching for some sign of reassurance amidst the uncertainty that lingered between them.
Desmond glanced at her, a faint smile touching his lips, though the exhaustion was still visible in the set of his shoulders. "Yeah, I'm starving. I'll take a quick shower, though, before I eat—get rid of all this Animus sweat."
Claire nodded, offering a small smile in return. "Sounds good. I'll have something ready by the time you're done."
As he headed off toward the bathroom, Claire turned her attention to the small kitchenette in the warehouse, pulling open cupboards and taking stock of their supplies. She found some pasta, a jar of tomato sauce, and a bit of leftover bread. It wasn't much, but it would do. Simple, comforting food, the kind that might fill the silence between them. The kind that might offer a small taste of normalcy in a life that felt anything but normal.
She filled a pot with water and set it on the burner, the faint hiss of gas and the whoosh of the flame filling the otherwise quiet space. As she waited for the water to boil, her mind wandered back to Desmond, to the way he had looked at her before he left the room. There was a warmth in his eyes that hadn't been there before, something unspoken and uncertain but real. It made her chest tighten, a mix of fear and hope knotting inside her.
She knew that the line between their feelings and those of their ancestors was a blurry one. It was hard to tell where Amelia's love for Ezio ended and where her own emotions began. But standing here in the quiet of the kitchen, the small, domestic task of making dinner grounding her, she couldn't deny the simple truth that she cared for Desmond—not just because of what she had seen through Amelia's eyes, but because of who he was. Because of the way he had listened when she had spoken about her past, the way he had stayed close when she felt like the world was falling apart around her.
She stirred the pasta absently, her thoughts drifting between the present and the memories that lingered in the back of her mind. The sound of the shower running down the hall, the soft patter of water against tiles, added a strange sense of calm to the moment. It was such a normal sound, one that made the warehouse feel less like a hideout and more like a place where they might actually belong.
As she prepared the simple meal, Claire caught herself glancing toward the door where Desmond had disappeared, wondering what he was thinking. Did he feel the same confusion she did? The same mix of emotions that seemed to twist and pull in different directions? She felt a shiver run through her and wrapped her arms around herself, trying to shake off the weight of it all. She needed to focus on the present, on the here and now, but it was difficult when the past seemed to cling to every thought, every breath.
She finished stirring the sauce and turned off the burner, grabbing two plates from the cupboard. Desmond's footsteps creaked on the floorboards behind her as he returned, a towel draped over his shoulders, his hair still damp. He had put on a fresh shirt, and he looked a little more like himself—more at ease, though the shadows in his eyes remained.
"Smells good," he said, leaning against the counter, his arms crossed as he watched her. "Didn't think you'd have time to become a chef with everything else you've been through."
Claire let out a small laugh, the sound more genuine than she'd expected. "Well, it's not exactly gourmet, but I figured it's better than nothing. Just some pasta and sauce—should be ready in a few minutes."
Desmond's smile widened, and for a moment, the tension between them eased, replaced by a warmth that felt almost normal. He moved closer, peering over her shoulder as she stirred the sauce. "Hey, anything that doesn't come from a can or a box is a win in my book."
She shook her head, unable to suppress a smirk. "I'll take that as a compliment, then." She glanced up at him, catching his eye, and for a moment, the weight of everything they had shared seemed to fade away. It was just the two of them, standing in a quiet kitchen, the world outside far away.
As she turned back to the stove, she felt a faint blush creeping up her neck, her thoughts drifting back to their conversation earlier. The vulnerability she had felt then was still there, lingering in the air between them, but she found that she wasn't as afraid of it now. Maybe it was because Desmond seemed to understand—because he seemed to be struggling with the same questions, the same uncertainties.
Desmond's presence felt like a grounding force, like something solid amidst the chaos of her mind. And yet, it scared her too—the way he seemed to cut through the walls she had built, the way he made her want to open up, to let him in. It was a dangerous desire, one she wasn't sure she could afford.
They ate in comfortable silence, the clink of forks against plates filling the quiet of the warehouse. And as they shared this small, simple moment, Claire allowed herself to hope that maybe, just maybe, they could find a way through the uncertainty together.
After the meal, Desmond murmured a quiet thanks and headed toward the small area he had claimed for his rest, leaving Claire with her thoughts. She watched him go, her chest tight with emotions she couldn't quite name, and then turned back to clean up the dishes, letting the simple task occupy her hands.
But even as she scrubbed at the plates, her mind was still tangled with thoughts of him, with the feeling of his presence lingering in the air. When the last dish was put away, she wandered through the dimly lit halls of the warehouse, the scent of old machinery and musty concrete thick in the air. Her feet carried her to the main workroom almost of their own accord, seeking the one person who might understand the chaos swirling through her mind.
Rebecca was seated at her workstation, tinkering with one of the Animus components, her face illuminated by the soft glow of a desk lamp. She hummed under her breath, her fingers moving deftly over a circuit board. The sight of her working so calmly amidst the storm of their lives brought Claire a strange kind of comfort. It reminded her that there were constants in their world, even when everything else seemed uncertain.
"Hey, Rebecca," Claire called out softly, her voice barely carrying above the quiet hum of electronics.
Rebecca glanced up, a welcoming smile flickering across her face as she leaned back in her chair, spinning around to face Claire. "Hey, you. Can't sleep?"
Claire shook her head, stepping further into the room. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to ward off the chill that had seeped into her bones. "No... not really. I guess I have a lot on my mind."
Rebecca's expression softened, and she gestured to the empty chair beside her. "Well, lucky for you, I'm always up for a chat. Come on, spill it. What's keeping you up?"
Claire hesitated for a moment before taking a seat. She stared down at her hands, noticing the faint tremble in her fingers as she tried to collect her thoughts. She wasn't used to talking about things like this—feelings, uncertainties. It was easier to bury everything under layers of focus and action, to keep moving forward without looking too closely at what lay beneath. But here, in the quiet of the night, with Rebecca's patient gaze on her, she found herself wanting to say the words she had kept bottled up.
"It's about... Desmond," Claire finally said, her voice barely more than a whisper. The admission felt like a crack in the armor she had worn for so long, a crack that let the raw, messy truth spill out.
Rebecca's eyebrows lifted slightly, a knowing glint entering her eyes. She folded her arms over her chest, leaning back as if settling in for a long story. "Ah, I see. And here I thought you two were just sharing space in the Animus. What's going on with you and our resident bartender?"
Claire let out a shaky breath, running a hand through her hair. "I don't know, Rebecca. That's the problem. I don't know what any of this means. I... I've barely known him for more than a few months, but it feels like... like there's this... connection between us. And I don't know if it's real or if it's just—" She broke off, biting down on her lower lip, her gaze fixed on the floor.
Rebecca waited patiently, her expression gentle as she leaned forward slightly. "Or if it's just Amelia?" she finished for Claire, her tone more serious now.
Claire nodded, swallowing hard against the knot in her throat. "Yeah. Yeah, exactly. I don't know if what I'm feeling is mine, or if it's Amelia's emotions bleeding through. And I think Desmond's dealing with the same thing. He hasn't said it outright, but I can see it in the way he looks at me—like he's not sure if he's seeing me or... or her."
Rebecca sighed softly, her expression thoughtful as she reached out to rest a hand on Claire's shoulder. "That's the tricky part, isn't it? The Animus messes with your head, makes it hard to separate what's you from what's your ancestor. But, Claire... that doesn't mean what you're feeling isn't real. It's just... complicated."
A bitter laugh escaped Claire, and she rubbed her hands over her face, trying to banish the exhaustion that clung to her like a second skin. "Complicated is one way to put it. I just... I don't know what to do. It's like I'm caught between wanting to push him away, to keep some kind of distance, to keep this professional, and this... this stupid, impossible hope that maybe... maybe we can actually be something."
Rebecca's gaze softened, and she squeezed Claire's shoulder reassuringly. "You know, I've seen the way Desmond looks at you. Whatever he's feeling, I don't think it's just because of Ezio and Amelia. And I don't think it's all that different from what you're feeling, either."
Claire let out a breath, her chest tightening at the thought. "I just... I don't want to make things harder for him. He's been through so much already, and I know what it's like to have... ghosts inside your head. I'm not sure I want to add to that."
Rebecca leaned back in her chair, tilting her head as she studied Claire. "Look, Claire. You're both carrying more baggage than anyone should have to, but that doesn't mean you have to do it alone. Sometimes, the best way to get through all that... mess... is to have someone willing to stick around and help carry it. And I think you two might be that for each other, even if it's messy and complicated as hell."
Claire swallowed, her mind turning over Rebecca's words. She wanted to believe them, wanted to believe that there could be something good in all of this—something that wasn't haunted by the past or overshadowed by the echoes of other people's lives. But the fear still gnawed at her, the uncertainty that kept her from fully reaching out to Desmond, even when she felt like she might break from holding herself back.
She shifted in her seat, her hands fidgeting with the edge of her jacket as she searched for the right words. "What if... what if it's not enough, Rebecca? What if we try and it just... falls apart? I'm not sure I can handle that. Not after everything."
Rebecca's expression softened, and she reached out to gently lift Claire's chin, forcing her to meet her gaze. "Or what if it doesn't fall apart, Claire? What if it turns out to be exactly what you both need right now? You won't know unless you give it a chance."
Claire bit down on the inside of her cheek, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. She had spent so many years building walls around herself, shielding herself from the pain of loss, from the fear of letting someone in. But now, standing at this crossroads, with Desmond's presence lingering in her thoughts like a whisper, she felt those walls beginning to crack.
She took a deep breath, letting the air fill her lungs, trying to find some semblance of steadiness amidst the storm inside her. "I... I don't know if I'm ready," she admitted, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Rebecca's hand slipped from her shoulder, but the warmth of her support remained. "That's okay, Claire. Just... don't shut yourself off completely. Take things one step at a time. No one's expecting you to have all the answers right now. Not even Desmond."
Claire managed a shaky smile, a small flicker of hope curling in her chest. "Thanks, Rebecca. I guess I just needed to hear that."
Rebecca grinned, giving Claire a playful nudge. "Anytime, kid. Now, get some rest. You've earned it. And who knows? Maybe tomorrow, things will feel a little clearer."
Claire nodded, standing from the chair and wrapping her arms around herself as she took a few steps toward the door. She glanced back at Rebecca, a hint of gratitude in her gaze. "Goodnight, Rebecca."
"Goodnight, Claire. And hey—just remember, it's okay to let someone in. Even if it's scary."
Claire left the room, Rebecca's words echoing in her mind as she made her way back through the darkened hallways. She knew that the road ahead wouldn't be easy—that the scars they both carried wouldn't disappear overnight. But maybe, just maybe, she could find a way to open up to the possibility of something more. And as she thought about Desmond—his warmth, his quiet strength—she felt a small, tentative hope take root in her chest.