Day 1
"Claire, you really need to get that looked at! It's still bleeding!" Rebecca's voice carried a mix of exasperation and worry as she glanced at Claire's wounded cheek, where a thin but steady trickle of blood had formed along the jagged cut. Claire, however, barely acknowledged her, her gaze locked on Desmond's pale face, his breaths shallow and almost imperceptible.
For the past fifteen minutes, Claire had been pacing in the cramped room they'd converted into a makeshift infirmary. Shaun had managed to set up some basic medical supplies, but the sight of Desmond lying there—motionless and unresponsive—made her feel as if the walls were closing in. They had barely managed to pull him and Lucy out of the church, and now they were back at Monteriggioni, waiting for William Miles and his team to arrive. Everything had gone to hell.
"We can't keep him stable like this," Shaun muttered, eyes flicking to the door as if he expected William to arrive any minute. "If we don't find a way to get him nutrients..."
Rebecca's voice softened, trying to meet Claire's determined but weary gaze. "Claire, I know you're worried about him, but this isn't helping anyone. You need to let someone look at your face."
Claire finally stopped pacing, her shoulders tense. She could feel the sting of the open wound every time she moved, the raw edges burning, but she brushed it off with a dismissive shrug. "I'll be fine," she said, the words automatic, as if convincing herself as much as Rebecca. But she knew they needed more than just determination to keep Desmond alive. The thought churned in her mind until she made a decision.
As dusk fell over Monteriggioni, Claire slipped out quietly, her shadow stretching long against the ancient stone walls as she made her way down the narrow street. She hadn't told Shaun, Rebecca, or anyone else she was leaving. She knew they'd try to stop her, especially with the Templars closing in. But Desmond's condition weighed heavily on her, the image of him lying pale and lifeless pulling at her conscience. Each shallow breath he took felt like a countdown, a reminder that without help, he might not make it. Claire pressed a hand to her cheek, wincing as her fingers brushed the rough edges of her wound. It was a sharp, constant reminder of just how badly things had gone. She needed to get supplies if they were going to keep him stable—and if she needed a stitched cheek to help them blend in better, so be it.
On a quiet side street, she found what she was looking for: an old, dust-covered Fiat parked under a sagging tree. The streets of Monteriggioni were nearly empty at this hour, and Claire moved quickly, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. She slipped a small metal rod from her pocket and carefully jimmied the lock. The door clicked open, and within moments she was inside, the interior thick with the scent of leather and dust. She knelt in the driver's seat, her hands moving with the practiced ease she'd learned over years in the Brotherhood, and after a few tense seconds, the engine sputtered to life. With one last glance back at the quiet fortress, she drove off toward the hospital.
The hospital was just over the hills and down the highway, its white walls and towering lights a stark contrast against the darkening sky. As she neared the entrance, Claire felt a knot of nerves tighten in her stomach. She pulled the hood of Desmond's old hoodie up over her cap, casting her face into shadow. She'd borrowed it from his duffel bag that morning, and the faint scent of his cologne lingered, grounding her in the moment. She needed every bit of calm she could get.
Inside, the ER was buzzing with activity, filled with an overwhelming mix of sounds: the quick pace of footsteps, the low hum of machinery, and the sharp beeps of heart monitors. Claire kept her head low, blending in as best as she could. As she moved toward the intake desk, she heard a nurse call out for the next patient, and she took a step forward, raising a hand to her cheek to cover the wound. Within minutes, she was led back to an exam room, the air cold and sterile.
A middle-aged nurse with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense attitude entered, assessing Claire with a quick, appraising glance. She frowned, her eyes lingering on the gash across Claire's cheek. "How did this happen?" she asked, suspicion flickering in her gaze. The cut's depth and unusual angle clearly made her wary.
Claire forced a small, sheepish smile, hoping it looked convincing. "Kitchen accident," she lied smoothly. "I was reaching up for something, and the edge of a shelf... well, it wasn't my smartest moment."
The nurse let out a skeptical hum but didn't press further. "This is a nasty one. You're going to need stitches, and you'll need to keep it clean if you don't want a scar," she warned, pulling out a kit. The nurse worked with steady, practiced hands, her instructions quick and clipped. "Avoid heavy exertion. Keep it dry, change the dressing daily, and make sure to apply antibiotic ointment."
As she felt the needle thread through her skin, Claire's thoughts drifted back to Desmond. Every second here felt like a risk, but it was one she had to take. "How long until it heals?" she asked, hoping to sound casual.
The nurse gave her a flat look. "Two weeks if you don't aggravate it. But it'll take time for the scar to fade."
Claire thanked her, standing quickly as the nurse handed over a small packet of gauze and ointment. She watched the nurse leave, her mind already racing. Now was her chance. Grabbing a medical mask from a nearby tray, she slipped it over her face, pulling her hood back up to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. With a quick glance around, she stepped out into the hall, her movements quick but controlled.
The supply room was at the end of a quiet corridor, the door propped open. Claire slipped inside, her heart pounding as she scanned the shelves. IV bags, tubing, packs of saline—all the essentials were there, glinting under the fluorescent lights. Her fingers moved deftly, filling her duffel with everything she'd need to keep Desmond stable. She hesitated at the sight of the catheter on the shelf, realizing she'd likely need it too, though she'd never used one before. Swallowing her nerves, she placed it in the bag and zipped it up, determined to do what was necessary.
When she finally stepped out, her bag heavy with supplies, she kept her head down, moving through the crowded ER with steady strides. No one paid her any mind; she looked just like any other patient. Within minutes, she was back in the Fiat, the engine rumbling to life as she pulled out of the parking lot, leaving the bustling hospital behind.
The drive back to Monteriggioni was tense, the sky now fully dark, shadows pooling along the winding roads. She parked the car a block away, shutting off the engine and slipping out quietly. She crept back into the fortress, her movements silent, the duffel bag clutched tightly in her hand. She doubted the others had noticed her absence—they'd been too focused on Desmond, same as she was.
Inside, she found Rebecca waiting, relief flooding her friend's face as Claire laid out the supplies. Without a word, they got to work, assembling the IVs, connecting the tubes with a shared sense of urgency. But as Claire picked up the catheter, her fingers froze, her confidence wavering. She'd never done this before, and the thought of hurting Desmond made her hesitate. Her hands trembled slightly as she glanced over at him, his face pale and peaceful. She could feel the pressure of the moment pressing down on her; every mistake could cost him, but doing nothing was even worse.
Rebecca caught her eye, sensing her hesitation. She offered a quiet nod of reassurance. "We've got this," she murmured, though the doubt in Claire's eyes was impossible to miss.
Claire looked at the catheter and IV supplies in front of her, feeling an unfamiliar swell of panic. She'd been through so much as an assassin, taken down heavily armed men, risked her life in countless ways—but this was different. The idea of handling Desmond's fragile body, of possibly causing him more harm, made her feel a helplessness she rarely experienced. She looked down at her hands, usually so steady, and now trembling.
"Rebecca..." Claire's voice was strained, almost pleading. "I don't... I have no idea what I'm doing here. If I do this wrong..." She trailed off, the words sticking in her throat.
Rebecca took a small, steadying breath. "You're not alone, Claire. Desmond's strong. He'd want you to try."
Claire felt a pang at Rebecca's words. She thought of Desmond, the way he would probably make a sarcastic comment about not wanting her to poke him with needles or how he'd brush it off with a wry smile. The thought spurred her forward, but she knew this was something he'd probably want her to do alone. She met Rebecca's gaze and managed a shaky smile. "I think... I think he wouldn't want anyone else around for this."
Rebecca hesitated, then nodded in understanding. "Alright. I'll be right outside. Just call if you need anything." She placed a comforting hand on Claire's shoulder before slipping out, leaving Claire alone with Desmond.
The silence settled around her, broken only by Desmond's shallow breathing. She took a deep, steadying breath and stared at the supplies on the table, feeling a surge of anxiety threaten to overwhelm her. After a brief hesitation, she pulled out her phone, fingers shaking as she typed in a search. Her screen filled with tutorials and medical guides. She watched one video after another, her focus tightening, heart pounding with every new piece of information.
Once she felt ready, Claire glanced at Desmond's face, her throat tight. "Alright, Desmond," she whispered, trying to sound braver than she felt. "You're going to have to trust me on this. Just... stay still."
Her hands shook as she prepared the catheter, replaying the instructions in her mind. She knew from the tutorials that the key sign of correct placement would be a steady flow of urine into the tube. Moving with careful precision, she positioned the catheter, taking slow, measured breaths, hoping with every fiber of her being that she was doing it right. She went slowly, aware that any resistance might mean she was misaligned, and each second felt like an eternity.
After what felt like an agonizingly long moment, she saw it—a steady stream of urine began to flow through the tube, confirming the placement was correct. Claire let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her relief palpable as she secured the catheter gently, ensuring it wouldn't shift or cause any further discomfort.
With the hardest part done, she moved on to the IV, her confidence bolstered slightly but still laced with nerves. She took a deep breath, steadying her hands as she prepared the needle. Her eyes flickered over the tutorials on her phone, her mind replaying each step she'd studied: the angle, the gentle pressure, and the need to go slowly.
As she inserted the needle, she kept her focus sharp, watching intently for a flashback of blood—a sign that she'd entered the vein. For a tense moment, there was nothing, and panic began to creep in again, but then she saw it—a tiny bead of blood appeared in the catheter chamber. She let out a shaky breath, feeling a surge of relief. She carefully withdrew the needle, leaving the catheter in place as she connected the saline line.
Attaching a saline flush, she gently pressed down, watching closely as the first drops began to flow. She knew that if she felt resistance or saw any swelling at the site, she might have missed the vein, but thankfully, the saline flowed smoothly. Every second felt like an eternity, but with each passing moment, her anxiety began to ease, replaced by a fierce, determined calm as she secured the IV, taping it in place to prevent any movement.
As the silence stretched around her, Claire reached for a blanket, carefully draping it over Desmond, ensuring it covered him up to his shoulders. She moved slowly, her hands still trembling from the strain of what she'd just done. Taking a shaky breath, she sank into the chair beside him, feeling the weight of exhaustion pressing down on her, but her mind wouldn't rest. She stared down at her hands, seeing the faint tremor that hadn't yet faded. This kind of fear was different from anything she'd faced in combat. It was personal.
After a few minutes, she reached for her phone, swiping it open with a lingering hesitance. Her contacts list felt both daunting and strangely comforting as she scrolled. Her thumb hovered over a name she rarely called—William Miles. She stared at the screen, the glowing letters forming a name that held both authority and distance, a reminder of who he was to Desmond—and who he was to the Brotherhood.
Finally, she pressed the call button. The phone rang, each chime adding to her growing unease. When the line connected, William's voice came through, firm and precise, with none of the warmth she so badly needed to hear. "Claire."
For a moment, she couldn't find her voice. She forced herself to speak, but her voice wavered, barely held together by a thread of resolve. "William... it's Claire." She paused, gripping the edge of her chair as she gathered herself. "We... we managed to get Desmond out of the church and back here. Shaun and Rebecca have been helping, but—" Her voice cracked, and she had to take a steadying breath before continuing. "His condition isn't changing. I... I don't know what else to do. His vitals are stable, but... he isn't waking up."
William's response was measured, without a hint of softness, his tone direct. "I'm two days out, Claire. I've secured backup. But for now, you need to keep him stable. You've already made it this far."
Claire let out a shaky breath, her fingers gripping the phone tightly. "I stole some supplies from a hospital," she admitted, the words coming out in a quiet rush, as if saying it out loud made it more real. "An IV, a catheter... I managed to set it all up, but I'm terrified I did something wrong. His body's stable, but... it's like he's just—stuck."
There was a silence on the other end, the faintest hint of breath, and then William spoke again, his voice even. "You did what you had to. He's still breathing, isn't he?"
"Yes, but he's not... he's nothere," she whispered, struggling to keep her voice steady. "What if... what if he doesn't wake up?"
William's tone remained resolute, almost unyielding. "He's my son. And he's an Assassin. He will make it."
The words were intended to comfort, but they came out as a reminder of the mission, the burden that Desmond carried. "Focus on keeping him alive, Claire. You've done well. I'll handle the rest when I arrive."
Claire swallowed hard, nodding even though he couldn't see her. She wanted to say something, wanted to express the desperation she felt, but the words stuck in her throat. She settled for a quiet, "I understand. Two days."
"Yes. Keep him safe until then." There was a pause, and for the briefest moment, she thought she heard something like a catch in his voice, but it vanished as quickly as it came. "Stay vigilant. We're counting on you."
The line went dead, leaving Claire alone in the quiet room once more. She dropped the phone to her lap, staring at Desmond's still face as his breaths continued their steady rhythm. She reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, her heart a mixture of relief and dread. There was no telling what the next two days would bring, but she knew one thing: she would do everything in her power to keep him safe.
As the silence settled back into the room, Claire felt the weight of everything she'd been holding back pressing down on her. William's words echoed in her mind—calm, unyielding, so sure of Desmond's resilience, so confident she'd keep him alive. But as she looked down at him, lying so still, her own confidence cracked. She brushed a hand across her face, her fingers lingering over the scar that cut deep across her cheek.
The memory surfaced without warning—the temple, that awful moment when his hand had struck out, the blade cutting across her face, all of it so sudden, so brutal. She knew he hadn't been in control, that it wasn't really him. But knowing didn't erase the hurt. The shock of seeing him twisted into something he wasn't, of being so vulnerable, had struck deeper than the blade itself.
She'd spent years guarding herself, making sure she never let anyone get this close. It was the one rule she'd held onto as an Assassin: attachments made you vulnerable, and vulnerability was a weakness she couldn't afford. Yet here she was, feeling the rawness of it all. The wound on her face was only one scar—Desmond had cut deeper, breaching defenses she hadn't even realized were there until they were shattered.
A tremor ran through her, and she felt her shoulders sag, her composure slipping. She dropped her head into her hands, her fingers digging into her temples as the silent tears came. She hadn't allowed herself to feel anything until now, hadn't dared to acknowledge the weight of it all. But here, alone in the quiet, with Desmond lying so close and yet so far away, the walls she'd so carefully built began to crumble.
Her fingernails dug into the skin of her scalp as she leaned forward, elbows on her thighs, the weight of it all pressing down. It wasn't just the pain of his strike or the fear of losing him that hit her—it was everything she'd sacrificed to be here, every step that had taken her further from the life she might have had. She'd trained herself to see attachment as a threat, something to be avoided at all costs. But somehow, despite everything, he'd become her weakness.
And now, she could only sit here, clinging to the fragile hope that her best would be enough, that she wouldn't regret this moment of vulnerability she'd spent a lifetime trying to guard against.
Just then, she heard the door creak open behind her. She straightened abruptly, swiping the tears from her face with the back of her hand. Rebecca stepped in, her eyes darting from Claire to Desmond, concern etched across her face.
"Did you... were you able to set everything up?" Rebecca asked gently, noticing the faint redness around Claire's eyes.
Claire cleared her throat, steadying her voice as best she could. "Yeah," she replied, her tone clipped, hiding the crack she could still feel threatening to break through. "He's stable. For now."
Rebecca's gaze softened, but there was a hint of frustration in her voice as she crossed her arms. "You shouldn't have gone off on your own without telling anyone, Claire. You could have run into Templars, or worse. We're supposed to look out for each other, remember?"
Claire looked away, jaw clenched. She knew Rebecca was right, but in the moment, getting Desmond what he needed had felt more urgent than anything else. The thought of explaining herself, of admitting that she hadn't been able to think clearly enough to make a plan—it felt too raw. So she just nodded, her fingers drumming against her knee as she forced herself to meet Rebecca's gaze.
"I had to," she said simply, her voice steady but guarded. "I needed supplies, and... my face was a mess." She touched the fresh stitches lightly, feeling the tug of the skin. "I didn't want to worry anyone."
Rebecca let out a sigh, her expression softening as she took in the wound. "Well, I'm glad you got it taken care of, at least. That's one less thing we have to worry about. You'll need to keep it clean, though. We're all still exposed, especially with William on his way."
Claire nodded, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. She'd been expecting anger, maybe even disbelief at her recklessness, but Rebecca's concern was like a balm, grounding her in the moment. She felt the tears threatening again but held them back, swallowing down the weight of emotion.
"Thanks," she muttered, more to fill the silence than anything. She looked back at Desmond, his face still and peaceful, and felt that familiar pang of worry twist inside her. "He still hasn't... there's no change."
Rebecca nodded, her tone softening further. "He's tough, Claire. He'll pull through." She reached out, placing a comforting hand on Claire's shoulder. "And for the record... you did well. You got what he needed. You got your own wound treated. Even if you took the long way to get there." She offered a small smile, one that held a touch of pride mixed with relief.
"I'll stay up with him," Claire said, forcing herself to her feet despite the exhaustion tugging at her limbs. She felt unsteady, like her body was fighting against her own will, but she wouldn't give in. Not now. Not when Desmond needed her more than ever. "Where are my guns?"
Rebecca gave her a wary look, her eyes scanning over Claire's shaking form. "Claire, you need rest just as much as he does," she replied, her voice gentle but firm. "You're running on fumes. Staying up all night, armed, isn't going to help him."
But Claire shook her head, determination hardening her gaze. "Rebecca, with Lucy gone, I'm the only one with the training to protect all three of us if anything happens. I can't risk leaving him unguarded—not now, not with the Templars tracking us. I'll rest when William gets here. Until then, I'm staying up."
Rebecca opened her mouth to argue, but the look in Claire's eyes stopped her short. Claire's words were cold, but Rebecca knew they came from a place of unyielding loyalty, a need to keep everyone safe. She reached into a nearby cabinet and pulled out Claire's guns, holding them out reluctantly.
"Fine," Rebecca murmured, sighing. "But if I see you fading, I'm stepping in, and you're taking a break."
Claire took her guns from Rebecca, feeling the reassuring weight settle in her hands. She moved to the small table beside Desmond's bed, sitting down and laying the pistols out in front of her, side by side. Her hands still shook slightly, but she forced herself to steady them, the familiar ritual of cleaning and preparing her weapons grounding her.
Methodically, she disassembled each pistol, her fingers deft and precise despite the fatigue weighing her down. She inspected each part, wiping down the metal, checking the firing pins, running a cloth over the barrel until every inch gleamed. Her focus sharpened, the motions practiced and steady, a quiet reminder of the discipline she'd honed over years of training. This wasn't the first time she'd sat up in the middle of the night, arming herself against an unseen threat. But tonight, the stakes felt higher than ever.
With each piece cleaned and set aside, she reached for her spare magazines, loading them one by one, filling each with ammunition until her fingers ached. She placed the loaded magazines in a neat line beside her pistols, keeping them within easy reach in case anything went wrong. She wasn't taking any chances. If trouble came—and it often did, in this line of work—she'd be ready, every shot accounted for.
After she'd finished, she reassembled the pistols, sliding the magazines in with a satisfying click. She checked each one's weight, giving them a final once-over before holstering them at her side. She exhaled slowly, feeling a small measure of control return as she looked over her work, her mind prepared for whatever the night might bring.
Rebecca lingered in the doorway, watching her with a quiet understanding. She didn't push her to rest again; she could see that Claire had found her focus, her resolve locked in place. Claire gave Rebecca a small nod, the silent exchange acknowledging her readiness, her responsibility to keep them all safe.
With her gaze shifting to the darkened windows, Claire settled in, the comforting weight of her weapons at her side. For as long as it took, she would stand watch over Desmond—and, in her own way, over Rebecca, too.