Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Juno promised it wouldn’t hurt, but it does.

That is the last coherent thought he has time to have before a rush of white, searing pain flows over him like a tidal wave. It swallows him like the ocean takes a castaway, pushing him under the hungry swells and floods and into the depths, the abyss, and he can’t remember even his own name anymore. 

Some animal, primal, instinctive part of him tries to yank his hand away from the machine. His fingers twitch on the alien surface. The rest of him refuses to obey. Every limb stays anchored to place, each weighing a ton, while the pain resonates in every part of his body that can be hurt. Spasms travel down his arm but he isn’t certain whether he even feels anything below his elbow – if his hand and fingers are still there and not burned to ash and bone because he can’t look and make sure because forcing his eyes open is too big of an ask because everything, everything hurts and he can’t differentiate where he begins and ends – 

He exists in a vastness of white and light and pain, weightless and crushed under the weight of his own body and just on the verge of consciousness. It feels like seconds, an eternity, hours, weeks.

Then everything shifts. 

The whiteness around him tilts slightly to the left. It’s a blur of motion and color and vertigo that would make him puke his guts out if he wasn’t busy being burned to death. It’s like gravity had found him again and tossed him against a hard surface.

Just as fast as it came, it is gone. 

For a while, he just exists and breathes, once he remembers that he has to do that too. Over his labored breath, the thunder of his heartbeat echoes inside his skull. Colors flash behind his fluttering eyelids. 

But slowly, ever so slowly, the burn quiets.

And eventually the world around him blinks into existence. 

The first thing he becomes aware of beside his stiff and aching body is that he might be lying on something, on a surface. It’s hard and coarse, uneven, but he doesn’t find it in himself to open his eyes and take a look just yet. 

A cool breeze tickles his face and hair, and he revels in that feeling. But the wind also brings him the sound of a distant scream. He twitches in surprise, every muscle in his abused body tensing – but no, it’s not coming from him. No, it sounded like a woman, that shrill and almost animalistic wailing.

And there it is again.

He blinks his unfocused eyes open. Everywhere around him, there is darkness. In it there are only small twinkles of lights – stars? – and then the woman screams again. This time another voice joins her but with quiet, calm words barely audible from this distance. He feels he might understand them if he could focus more.

Someone’s running on cobblestones, the rabid beat of the steps almost as quick as his heartbeat.

A heavy door opens with a creak and closes with a thud.

The night falls quiet after that. He takes the chance to force his foggy brain to work, draws in a deep breath, pushes himself up on his elbows and ends up staring at a sea of sienna-colored tiles.

It’s a roof. He is on a roof. What is he doing on a roof? 

Just to add to his confusion, the world starts to whirl and rotate again. The familiar-looking stars blur into bright lines, like shooting stars even though it is him who is moving, and then the darkness devours him.

The last thing he hears is a baby crying.

A scorching sun and a cloudless sky of watercolor-like blue stare at Desmond when he remembers to exist again.

He blinks at the sight, his thoughts as hazy and muddled as his vision. What was he doing? What day is it?

Not understanding what he is seeing, he brings up a hand to shield his bleary, watering eyes from the harsh sunlight and lets out a hiss when his arm protests against the movement. Is this still the Grand Temple? Where is he?

He scrunches his eyes closed and tries to focus on the few hazy wisps of memories he has. They were at the Grand Temple near Turin, looking for a way to stop the solar flare. They went to Ratonhnhaké:ton’s homestead to dig up the key he hid there and then – 

The overwhelming hammering of his heart. Being half sure it wanted to escape through his chest as he reached for the Precursor machine. Holding back the need to throw up, turn around and run the hell away from Juno and Minerva and the Temple and never look back. Tears running down his cheeks as he touched the fucking thing and the scalding pain Juno promised wouldn’t be there swallowing him whole. He hadn’t even bothered to be surprised. After that… 

He must have been so out of it because he vaguely remembers hallucinating darkness and distant stars – and didn’t he die? Wasn’t he supposed to? Is he dead now?

Fuck, his head hurts.

And now that he thinks about it, his arm hurts too. Great. Why?

At first, he thinks it is just the sharp contrast between the shadow cast by his forearm and the painfully bright light of the sun that makes his arm look black. Then he turns his wrist just so, and the skin on his wrist glitters with shades of gold. 

Not breathing, Desmond lowers his arm and holds it against his stomach. 

It is still black, and not just bruised black, but truly pitch black, as it lies there on top of his white hoodie. The muscles and joints ache, but this pain he could combat with some over-the-counter painkillers. It has nothing on being burned alive by a Precursor toy, so yeah, Desmond thinks he can deal with this.

But what he can’t deal with are the gold, geometrical lines he apparently now has running all over his arm. 

His fingers twitch and glisten in the sunlight. 

He looks like the fucking Apple now.

"What the hell…?" 

He pushes himself up on his elbows – which is a tough order in all the hay he is lying in – and only then realizes to fully panic because it is indeed a haystack he has found himself sprawled in. 

What on earth is he doing in a haystack with a glittering arm when he is supposed to be dead? When Juno laid out her plan to save the world, his death didn’t seem like a negotiable part of the proceedings. In fact, it might be the only thing the goddess-wannabe was straightforward about. 

This doesn’t feel very dead to Desmond. So where is this exactly, and why is he here?

"What the actual fuck is happening?" he whispers to himself while his heartbeat drums in his ears, and finally takes a good look at his surroundings.

Tall, white buildings rise towards the sky, and their red rooftops seem to almost glow in the sun. Merchant stalls overflow with vegetables and meats and trinkets not far away, and the few people staring curiously at him are wearing brightly colored, decorated robes. 

It looks exactly like a busy street in Florence during the Renaissance – or Firenze, as Ezio would call it.

“Now I’ve finally lost it, haven’t I?”

It takes a few tries to get out of the haystack, and when he finally does, he has to lean against the wagon and wait until his legs stop shaking. This can't be real. He can't be here. It’s the Bleeding effect, it has to be – cranked up to eleven. There is no way he could have traveled 500 years back in time and to another continent because that just doesn’t happen. Especially since he is supposed to be dead.

He stands there, slack-jawed, when a sudden push – a passer-by accidentally knocking into his shoulder – sends him staggering towards the merchant stalls. Cursing loudly, he barely manages to catch himself just before accidentally plunging into a pile of fish – and oh God, he can even smell the hallucinations now.

Leaning against one of the poles of the stall, Desmond tries to get his bearings. These hallucinations are sturdy, if nothing else, he muses and notes how scratchy the wooden surface is under his fingers. Gonna get a splinter or something. 

Rubbing his right wrist, Desmond takes a look at his surroundings again. 

A red face, sweaty and weathered, appears from somewhere on his left and ends up far too close to his own. Startled, Desmond takes a step back and almost backs into the stall while the angry merchant points a finger at his chest and yells at him to get going if he is not going to buy anything – and what the hell is he doing there anyway, just loitering about? Is he looking for trouble or what?

“Mi dispiace.” 

Ducking his head down, Desmond blurts out the apology and stumbles away. 

He slinks into the crowd with his shoulders hunched up to his ears and realizes only when he is half way across the plaza that he was speaking in Italian, that the people around him are all speaking Italian – because of course, why wouldn’t they speak it if this really is Firenze, or at least a very good imitation of it – and he hadn’t even noticed. He had simply understood and not thought any more of it.

And to think that a few months ago he knew maybe two words of the language.

A movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention. A man has turned around to openly stare at something. Behind him, a woman leans her head back to steal a look as well. And around them, people passing by keep glancing at something – at him. For a moment, Desmond’s already abused brain struggles to catch up with what he has done this time, and then it dawns on him and he feels like hitting himself over the head. 

His clothes. 

Guess the 21st century hoodie and jeans do stick out in Renaissance Italy. Well, shit then.

Keeping his head down, he beelines to the nearest alley he can see, and from there climbs onto the roof. Once he gets himself above the street-level and crouching on the warm-toned tiles, he breathes out. 

He needs a plan, a change of clothes and a place to stay until he figures out what the hell is going on. He needs to find out what year it is and come up with some kind of a plan.

But first, he just breathes for a while and watches as the city buzzes with life all around him. A warmth blooms in his chest as he studies his surroundings and suddenly knows exactly where he is. He recognises this place, knows these streets.  

In the distance, the Palazzo Auditore shines in the sun. Even from this far away, he can tell the place is still well-kept. Probably lived in and full of staff, or if abandoned, it hasn’t been so for long.

With that realization, a heavy weight settles in his stomach, a cold pressure gathering somewhere below his ribs.

Unable to stop himself, Desmond gets up and heads towards the home of the Auditore family. He knows he should look for a disguise first and also for something to cover his arm with while he's at it, but instead he keeps running, climbing, leaping over the gaps between buildings – his sneakers feel strange on the sunburned roofs after so many years in Ezio’s boots. 

It’s almost a physical pull, his need to see the house, to find out if the Auditores are still there, if they are all still there.

Once he reaches the palazzo, he crouches behind a chimney and very carefully tries to spy on the courtyard from there. Maria and the children might not think to look up, but if Giovanni happens to be outside, he will certainly notice Desmond and then he is going to be in trouble.

He hears them before he sees them. 

A heavy wooden door is pushed open, and there are light steps on the cobblestones, followed by another set of steps. 

"Federico, be a dear and go to find your brother. He is going to get himself into trouble with that Pazzi boy again." 

A soft laugh.

"Yes, Mother." 

Federico’s voice is painfully familiar even after all these years – weeks, Desmond corrects himself, it’s been only a few weeks, a couple of months since he started going through Ezio’s memories, not over three decades. Jesus, the Bleeding effect has messed him up. Desmond didn’t see much of the boy back in the Animus, but it’s Ezio’s memories of his brother and his grief that now wash over him anyway and almost make him lose his footing and drop to his knees. 

Brushing away those wisps of borrowed emotions, Desmond leans in closer, just a little so he can see the figure of Federico disappear through the gate and into the streets of Firenze. Maria is left to stand in the courtyard, her arms loosely crossed over her chest, a hummed carefree tune on her lips.

They look so real.

They way light catches in Maria’s earrings, the strokes of brush Desmond can still spot in the dried paint on the front door, the smell of a closely packed city – these are things the Animus struggled to replicate. Even the wind playing in his short curls feels truer than it ever did in the Animus.

What if this is real? What if Maria down there is real and bound to lose her husband and half of her children in a few days?

He can’t let that happen. He owes that much to Ezio.

If he is truly here, in Firenze in 1476, he might be able to stop this. By doing so, he would change the future, alter the timeline or whatever and probably destroy the future as he knows it in the process – but then Ezio wouldn’t have to go through all the shit he did last time alone while trying to protect his little sister and traumatized mother. He wouldn’t have to spend decades hunting down Templars only to grow bitter and old and lonely – and screw the timeline, screw the future, screw everything if he can just save Ezio from that fate.

It almost frightens him, the ferocity with which he makes the decision.

Keeping away from the edge, Desmond sneaks across the roof and leaves to go after Federico to make sure that the boys will be alright. Ezio and Federico fared well enough against Vieri last time, but now Desmond knows who the Pazzi are and can’t help but worry. And perhaps Desmond simply existing in the past has somehow changed the timeline and the pebble Vieri throws at Ezio will this time kill him or something else catastrophically horrible happens. Who fucking knows.

As he jogs after Federico, he admits that if he had any of those braincells he has told Shaun multiple times he has, he would stop to think about this a little bit more and consider the changes he might be making if he really is here, but the rage in him doesn’t bother. He silences any doubts he has by telling himself that this is most likely all in his head anyway. And if he can give Ezio peace even just in his own head, he is going to fucking try.

By now, Federico has also taken to the roofs and Desmond has to keep his distance to keep the boy from noticing him. His white hoodie and jeans will make him far more noticeable than he would otherwise be – he really should have gone for a disguise already and not thrown himself head first into trouble.

So he ends up hiding behind towers and chimneys on the sun-scorched roofs, which in hindsight, does make him look even more suspicious.

He should have remembered the guards on the roofs – how many times has he gotten into trouble with them as all of his ancestors in the Animus? – but he is too hung up on keeping up with Federico while trying to stay out of his sight, too focused on the chance of seeing Ezio with his own eyes, of actually meeting him, speaking to him, to notice a guard sneaking up on him.

A movement flashes in his peripheral vision, and at the last moment Desmond leaps out of the reach of whatever it is coming after him. He rolls over and onto his feet, spinning around to face his attacker while dropping his stance low, his left wrist twitching, waiting to bring out his hidden blade, and finds himself face to face with a guard pointing a sword at him. 

“Stand down, at once!”

“Hey, just listen for a second, I can explain – “ Desmond begins and holds up his hands, which only manages to guide the man’s attention to his weird-looking right arm. Even his nails are black and, okay, do make his hand look like a monster claw from a B-rated horror movie if looked at from a certain angle. The unnaturally pin-straight metallic lines running down his fingers and wrist don’t really help either.

“What are you?” the guard demands to know, both the pitch of his voice and sword raising with alarm. “Demon! Stay away from me!”

Not wanting to kill the man for simply doing his job, Desmond turns his back to the yelling guard and bursts into a run across the rooftop, leaping over the gap between buildings to the next one. The guard is left behind, his mouth gaping open with surprise – until he shouts to the other guards stationed around the district.

Desmond is soon surrounded from all sides.

“Okay, guys, can’t we talk about this?” he tries again, the Italian a little rusty on his lips – he has been kind of busy saving the world since he last scoured through Ezio’s memories and was exposed to the language. Kanien'kéha would probably come to him more easily now.

The alarmed, armed men around him don’t pay any attention to his words. Most of them are quick to close in on him as he seems unarmed, but one by one they take notice of his weird clothes and the bizarre condition of his arm. They grow more wary, some already hurling accusations of him of being some kind of demon, their eyes wide and faces pale. 

It’s not like Desmond couldn’t take them all – he got out of far worse situations when he infiltrated the Abstergo headquarters – but he is hesitant to kill these men just to go after Federico. They are doing their job, they are not Templars. But Desmond doesn’t have smoke bombs with him, or really any other tools he could use to escape from these guys. He was supposed to be lying in the Animus, not going head to head with armed soldiers.

He dances out of the way when one of the guards finally gives into his fear and tries to stab Desmond. He ducks under another swing and swirls around to disarm one of the men, grabbing his sword to himself. The weight of it feels familiar even though he has never held a sword like this in his own hand. He gives it an experimental twirl, enjoying the muscle memory that takes over despite his uncalloused palms and the unfamiliar blade.

It’s the memory of Altaïr that guides his hand when he moves and aims to thrust the sword through a guard about to attack him, but his own conscience is the one to make him hesitate.

The short moment of indecision costs him.

Something heavy connects with the back of his head, and darkness swallows him.

He wakes up in a cell.

It's a dingy little thing, and not very clean either. Desmond lies on his back and stares at the ceiling, trying to take everything in while his skull throbs with every beat of his heart. The bruise on the back of his head is going to be something else.

He is still here. He thought – he thought that the hallucination, the fucked up and over the top extreme version of the Bleeding effect would stop once he went out cold or fell asleep or something, but guess not. 

He drapes his right arm over his face and closes his eyes, breathing in deep through his nose. He hopes that back in his time the machine did what it was supposed to do. He thinks of Rebecca and Shaun and his dad and wishes his last words to them had been something more meaningful than just telling them to go. He just wants them to be alright, for the world to be alright.

Sighing, he raises his arm up towards the ceiling and twists it in the beam of light that the lone small window casts into the cell. The golden lines amidst the black, scorched skin glitter in the sunlight. What is he supposed to do now, exactly? 

He takes a deep breath and tries to assess his situation. Okay, so he is in Renaissance Italy, in 1476, with Ezio. This might be real or a hallucination. Either way, he doesn’t know how long this will last – as far as he knows, he is just as likely to wake up back in 2012 as he is to be swung back or forward in time some more. Or to simply die if and when his brain cells being fried by the fucking Precursor machine finally give up. 

Or then all of this is real and he is stuck here for the rest of his life, and he really doesn’t know how he feels about that.

He supposes he will try to get in contact with Ezio – he would be mad not to take the chance.

There is nobody he knows as heart-wrenchingly deeply as he does Ezio. It had felt like a cruel joke to be pushed into someone else’s head and thoughts, to be made to feel Ezio’s every breath and errand thought, his private sorrows and heartaches – to know him better than he can ever know anyone else, and then be forced to deal with the fact that the most important person in his life was never his to begin with, gone long before Desmond knew he even existed. 

He has loved and grieved the people Ezio loved. He has despaired and survived and changed and grown old with Ezio. In a few weeks, he has lived a life with him. Loved him. 

And he hasn’t even met the man yet. 

He follows the line of his arm with his gaze towards the window and realizes the sun is up. How long was he out? Has Ezio's family been taken already?

Holding his head, he sits up on the cot a little bit too quickly and spends a moment just trying not to throw up. He glances at the tiny window again, and he is looking at it, seeing the sunlight, seeing that it is still afternoon – when his whole world shakes, blurring into a gray, transparent mess not unlike the loading screen of the Animus.

“What…?” 

He draws in a breath with his shoulders up to his ears and his pulse so rapid he can almost feel the far too fast rhythm on his wrists. The gray nothingness is so quiet that the lack of sound hums in his ears, and the absence of the smells of the city almost hits him harder than the disappearance of the visible reality. He longs for the hidden blade the guards have taken from him, and wishes the world would stop trying to fuck with his head so much. 

And then, just as quickly, the world returns to what it was, steady and solid and quiet. He is back on the cot in the same dingy cell, sitting on the edge, even more confused than he was before because what was the point of this new bullshit if nothing changed? 

But something has changed.

The room is dark. A panicked look through the window tells him that dusk has conquered the streets. Night has fallen.

“No!”

Desmond jumps from the cot and rushes to the window, grabbing the cold metal bars that separate him from the rest of the city. Outside, the temperature has dropped, the streets have emptied and stars have filled the ink-blank sky. 

“This isn’t fair!” he growls and slams his hands against the bars. “You hear me? You’re cheating!” He doesn’t know who exactly he is blaming for this – Juno, the machine, the universe at large – and he doesn’t really care. “I was trying to save them! You can’t do this!”

He yanks the bars, tries to push them outwards or pull them out of the wall, but none of them budge. Giving up on the window, he paces around the tiny cell and frantically looks for a way out. He spots nothing he could use to pick the lock on the door with, and his hidden blade, his phone and earpiece have been taken. The fifteenth century guards probably thought they were some demonic gadgets or something. The only thing he has in pockets is an empty bubble gum wrap of Rebecca’s, so yeah, not much to work with.

The echo of the door slamming against its hinges clangs in the hallway when Desmond kicks the door, all the while cursing in English. If he could just get out, he could stop Ezio from taking the letters to Uberto, fuck it, he could kill Uberto and get the Auditores out of Firenze, but no, he is here.

He slumps back on the cot and hides his face in his hands.

Fuck.  

So when is he now, anyway?

He was captured while he was tailing Federico who most likely followed the original timeline and went to help Ezio fight the Pazzi boys. After that… Ezio sneaked off to see Cristina and didn’t leave until the next morning. It was clearly an early afternoon now, before whatever that time jump bullshit was, so was Desmond unconscious that whole day before that? Or did he miss another skip in time while being knocked out cold?

If he remembers right, the next day Ezio was helping out his family and running errands for his father. His family was taken the same day. The Animus skipped over the rest of the day to show Ezio sneaking into the Palazzo della Signoria that evening to speak with his father, and then going back to their house to find the robes and hidden blade, and from there to deliver the letters to Uberto.

…was that what caused the timeskip? Is Desmond tied to the memories he saw in the Animus? Does he skip over everything else so that he doesn’t see anything he doesn’t already know?

Well, this is definitely all in his head then.

In his head or not, Ezio is out there, trying to save his family and Desmond is not going to let him do it all by himself this time.

Cursing under his breath, he scratches the back of his head and forces himself to focus. If he is being tossed around in time according to the memories he saw in the Animus, where, or when, is he going to end up next?

After Ezio had delivered the letters to Uberto, the Animus had shown him at the hanging of his family. If the jumps really follow those memories, Desmond will end up in the next morning soon, and then he doesn’t have much time before Giovanni and the boys are gone.  

He needs to get out of here now. 

After pondering over the best possible plan for a few moments, he lies down on the floor and curls on himself before screaming for help. It takes a while, but eventually a suspicious guard appears at the door and growls at him to keep his voice down.

“I need help, please!” Desmond wails, his back to the guard, and waits until the man opens the door and walks over to crouch down next to him. Just as the guard reaches to turn him over, Desmond moves, grabs him and smashes the man's head against the floor.

Desmond wastes no time before grabbing the unconscious man's weapons and heading out. He has only a couple hours at most, probably less, before he is jostled through time again, and by then he has to be ready. 

He gets out of the building without too much of a fuss after stealing back his gear, relying on the skills of his ancestors, and once outside, he climbs to the nearest tower to get his bearings. 

He knows where Ezio will be. He knows when the hanging takes place and where. He can get Giovanni and the kids out of there and… well, introduce himself at least. Desmond doesn’t know why exactly he is here, in this hallucination, or for how long it will last, but since he has been given this chance to know Ezio, he’s going to take it.

He needs some things first though. He has no money, at least none that will be accepted here. He has the clothes on his back, but those have got him into trouble already. He stole his earpiece and phone back, but both of those are useless. There’s obviously no internet here, and the machine that fried Desmond also burnt the electronic devices to scrap. He has his hidden blade and the sword he took from the guard he killed, but he is still in his jeans and hoodie.

So.

He decides to hunt for a tailor shop he can break into, hoping that he might find something the tailor has finished but hasn’t delivered yet and that would fit well enough. But before he can take a leap of faith down from the tower, he hears loud yelling from somewhere below. Curious, he glances down, trying to see where the sounds are coming from. 

A pair of mercenaries harassing a… monk? Not very bright robbers, then. 

Sighing, Desmond scales down the tower instead and sneaks across the roof to peek down into the alley he saw the thugs in. They have moved on from robbing the monk to simply bullying him. They have the poor man withering on the floor while they kick him to their heart’s content, completely oblivious to the assassin studying them. 

Desmond descents on one of the men, killing him instantly with his hidden blade. Before the other realizes what is going on, Desmond grabs him and plunges the hidden blade through his neck.

“Bastards…” he scoffs before turning to the monk. “Hey, are you alright?”

He gets no response. The monk lies unmoving on the ground, pale even in the dim moonlight, his face covered in dark bruises. Worried, Desmond crouches next to him and presses a pair of fingers to the monk’s neck.

“Oh man, I’m sorry,” Desmond sighs and reaches over to close the man’s eyes. He breathes out through his nose and glances at the thugs’ clothes. One of them is way bigger than him, so he can’t take his robes. The other man is more of Desmond’s size, but he is covered in blood, thanks to the gaping wound on his neck. 

“Good thinking, Miles, very good thinking.”

He glances at the monk. His dark robe seems clean enough, and it would easily fit over his clothes. It would give him access to places he would not be allowed in otherwise, and the dark color of the fabric would mask any blood splatter. And the thing has a hood too. 

Sighing once more, Desmond begins the process of removing the robes from the corpse while trying not to get any of the blood on the robes. It takes longer than he would have liked, and every moment he fears someone will walk in on him in there, sweating while robbing a dead man and wiping two others’ blood off his face and blades. 

But nobody appears to gape at him, and Desmond eventually gets the robes free. He considers the heat of the Italian climate only a few seconds before taking off his thick hoodie and leaving only his t-shirt on. He pulls the monk’s robes over his t-shirt and jeans – Jesus, what he wouldn’t give for a shower – and ends up staring at his sneakers over the hem of the robes. He glances at the sandals the monk is wearing, then at the worn, nearly broken down boots of the thugs. Yeah no, the sneakers are staying on. He is just going to have to hope nobody takes a look at his feet.

He rummages through the dead men’s things, finding two decent enough knives on the thugs and a surprisingly big and sturdy satchel on the monk. He almost gets his hopes up, hoping to find some herbs that might work as poison or something to that effect, but there is no such luck. He dumps the original contents of the bag on the ground and stuffs his hoodie in the satchel, along with the knives. He considers the blade he took from the guard – a monk with a sword is going to raise some eyebrows and questions – but he suspects he might have use for it at the hanging. He ties it to the rope belt on his robes and pulls the hood over his head. He lets his shoulders hunch and his gaze fall, and then he steps out of the alley to the wider street. 

He keeps on walking, trying to seem as innocent as possible, even though he wants to break into a run. A glance towards the sky and the moon high above him tells him Ezio is probably already heading home and towards Giovanni’s hideout, or maybe even Uberto’s home. Desmond doesn’t have much time either way, so he sets out towards the piazza where the hanging will take place the next morning. 

He passes by a fountain on his way, and he stops to check his reflection to make sure there isn’t blood on his face to ruin his disguise. His reflection is blurry and barely visible in the low light, but it is enough to make him grimace. 

He really does look like Ezio when he gets himself in some 15th century clothes. That’s not going to be fun to explain at all.

His reflection looks back at him, eyes barely visible from under the hood, and starts to waver. The water in the fountain trashes against the sides of the pool, but there is no wind. Desmond lays a hand on the stone, but the structure is unmoving, just like the ground underneath him.

“Okay, what the hell is this now?”

The water turns gray, and so does everything else around him. He is back to this… nothingness, the Animus loading screen knock off, the Gray. Gravity is once again fucking with him, and he is not certain what way is up until he is spat out again, back into the warm colors of a morning in Firenze.

Trying not to throw up, Desmond glances down at himself – he is still wearing the monk’s robe, so at least he can bring stuff with him when he jumps in time. 

But he is not where he was. He was close to the Piazza della Signoria, only a few turns away, but now he is not. He is standing next to the Santa Maria del Fiore, its white tower rising next to him towards the pale sky. 

He is not going to make it. He thought – he thought he would move only in time, not in place, and that he would have time to slip through the crowds and get closer to the gallows. 

But no, now he has to run and still he might only get to see Ezio flee the scene.

Shitshitshit!

He breaks into a run, not caring about the looks he gets from the early risers of the city. His dark robe pillows around his feet as he runs as fast as he can, pulling the map of the city from Ezio’s memories and rushing through all the shortcuts he has been using since he was a kid – fuck, since Ezio was a kid, and he hasn’t got time for his brain to think he is someone he is not.

Desmond almost flies through the familiar streets of Firenze and rushes towards the piazza, pushing people out of the way and yelling for them to look out. Blood rushes in his ears, the yells of the guards blur into the chaos of the busy streets, and his palms are so sweaty that if his hidden blade wasn’t strapped to his wrist, Desmond isn’t sure it wouldn’t slip from his hands.

And then he is there. And he is too late.

Up at the gallows, three bodies sway slightly at the ends of the ropes. Poor little Petruccio has been swallowed whole, hidden by the trap door and the platform, while Giovanni’s and Federico’s discolored faces are still visible above the cheering and bellowing sea of people.

Desmond feels sick to his stomach. The memories of Ezio that live in him bleed through – for a few seconds he is frozen to place, his mind numb and heavy, his heart torn from his chest – and then he is himself again, looking for the one kid he can still save.

There’s Ezio, screaming after his father as armed men close in on him. He is so small in his father’s robes, his face hidden by the hood, his voice so high and young. He is a lone white figure in the middle of a crowd that parts away from him. Uberto yells and points him out to the guards. One soldier in massive armor strikes Ezio’s sword from him in one good swing, and Desmond doesn’t have to see Ezio’s face to know how scared he is. 

Ezio is trying to run but he is surrounded from all sides. He is unarmed, untrained and so out of his depth it frightens Desmond. The boy will never get out of there – how on earth he managed to pull it off the last time is beyond Desmond’s comprehension. 

Desmond curses, draws the sword tucked at his waist, and runs into the crowd. He pushes people out of his way, his heart thundering his ears because he can’t let Ezio die here.

He plunges his stolen sword into the neck of the guard who’s going after Ezio. He kills another with his hidden blade, then yells to catch the attention of the soldiers trying to capture the boy. Desmond ducks out of the way of a violent swing of a broadsword and glances to the direction he last saw Ezio – and there’s a flash of white, a cape dancing in the wind, and then the kid disappears onto the rooftop of a nearby building. 

Desmond lets out a sigh of relief, then takes his chance to disappear. He taunts the soldiers one more time, trying to trick them with his face that hopefully looks enough like Ezio’s to confuse them, and then he is running in the opposite direction from that of Ezio’s.

He’s faster than the armored men, even in his awkwardly long robe that tries its best to trip him at every chance it gets, and rounds a corner, climbs up a stack of crates and leaps to the roof from there before the guards get the chance to notice where he went. Crouching low, he heads back to the direction where he originally came from to go to make sure Ezio got out of this alright.

It takes a while to find the boy. Desmond remembers the mad dash from last time that had no rhyme or reason to it, just a kid trying to get away from the men trying to kill him. Desmond, for the life of him, can’t remember where Ezio ended up hiding, curled up as small as he could get, frozen to place, barely daring to breathe, so he wanders around the rooftops of the district. 

The guards are easier to locate as they are loud and not at all concerned that someone might be tailing them. 

Desmond finds the mob chasing the boy in white. Ezio has got a headstart on them, so he is far enough that the guards catch only a glimpse of him every now and then, but not far enough to lose them completely.

There are too many of them for Ezio to fight, and they might be a handful for Desmond to take on alone when he’s so worried about Ezio and therefore distracted. So instead he descends down to the street level and cuts off Ezio’s path. Desmond grabs the running boy by his arm and yanks him into a side alley, away from the swarm of guards chasing the alleged traitor. 

He gets a shaking, broken blade pressed to his neck as a thank you.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

Desmond raises his hands to show he means no harm and finally finds himself face to face with Ezio.

Chapter Text

Almost feverishly panicked brown eyes meet Desmond’s.

Beads of water cling to the long eyelashes, and the cheeks underneath are red with exertion and lined where tears have traveled down through the dust and smudges of dirt, souvenirs from the skirmish before. The irritated cut on the lips, just barely scabbed, clashes with the softness of childhood that still lingers in the shapes of his face and – 

And then the boy tries to plunge the hidden blade through Desmond’s neck.

The move is so loudly telegraphed that without batting an eye, Desmond manages to grab the incoming wrist and wrestle the kid deeper into the shadows, clamping a hand over Ezio’s mouth just as a group of guards runs past the alley they are hiding in. 

"I’m here to help you!” he hisses which only manages to make Ezio struggle more against his grip, aiming a kick at somewhere Desmond would rather he didn’t, and flailing the arm with a deadly weapon strapped to it. Desmond half-expects to die at the hands of his ancestor right there and then, because, yes, the mechanism of the hidden blade is broken, but Ezio has made some emergency repairs with a cord, and the blade is still sharp, even if a little slanted. 

“Just, calm down a second!” he growls and pulls on Ezio’s wrist harder until the boy stops trying to murder him and looks him in the eye, glaring daggers. The enraged look on the kid’s face suggests he is not far from trying to bite Desmond’s hand to get free. “I’m not going to hurt you, okay? I’m going to let go of you now, if you promise not to stab me right after. Nod if you understand.”

The muscles on Ezio’s arm he is gripping onto tense even more, and Desmond fears he is bound for some more foolishness, but then Ezio nods, twice in quick succession. When Desmond lets go and takes a step away to give him some space, Ezio backs away from him, one violently shaking hand trying to tighten the knots holding the broken blade and bracer together. The boy eyes him warily from underneath his hood, all color drawn from his face.

And Desmond has to remind himself that this is a 17-year-old noble, a second son who probably hasn't really worked a day in his life apart from chasing after girls, and whose only experience of violence is fistfighting with Vieri. This is not his world yet.

It’s just that Desmond expects to deal with the Ezio he last saw in Masyaf, so he keeps forgetting where Ezio started off. How cruelly young he was at the beginning.

Last time Desmond saw a glimpse of Ezio’s life, the mentor of the Italian brotherhood was in Masyaf, saying goodbye to his hidden blades and Altaïr, his voice deep and gruff and shoulders heavy with knowledge and responsibilities. It is that wizened man Desmond might have been unconsciously looking for here in Firenze, and now his heart breaks because the Ezio he has found is just a child. 

A child threatening Desmond with his father’s broken hidden blade he is just learning to use, but a child all the same.

Ezio finishes the makeshift repairs of the blade and his right hand moves to hover over his empty sword sheath. His gaze jumps from Desmond to the street behind him, then to the walls around him, looking for a way out. Desmond scrambles for something to distract him with.

"You're using it wrong."

Ezio stops what he is doing to stare at Desmond with his mouth open. 

"What?" 

Slowly, Desmond raises his left arm and lets the sleeve fall down to his elbow. He twists his wrist so that Ezio can see the bracer and the mechanism of his own blade. He flicks his twist to eject the blade, then angles his arm into the position Ezio was going for but didn’t quite achieve when he tried to kill Desmond not two minutes ago.

"When you hold it like this, it’s easier to aim and you get more strength in the movement. And when you do aim, go for this part here," Desmond says, retracts the blade and brings the same hand up to his neck to demonstrate, tilting his chin up.  "Getting it right on the first try is your best bet, trust me."

The brown eyes blink.

"You are no monk, are you? Who are you?” The words seem to escape Ezio’s mouth without him meaning to release them. “Why would you help me?" 

For all his preparation, Desmond didn’t really think this far ahead.

"My name is Desmond,” he begins slowly and makes sure to look Ezio in the eye while he says it. In vain hope, he waits for a reaction to his name, because Ezio did know it, once, though not this early on. 

All he gets is a blank look. 

“I – I belong to the same brotherhood as your father did. I didn’t know Giovanni personally,” – is it wrong that sometimes when he thinks of the word father, he thinks of Giovanni rather than Bill? – “but I’m here to help you.”

“Why should I believe you?” Ezio snarls, but it is more out of fear than aggression. There’s curiosity in his eyes, a longing to hear about this new side of his father that has been revealed to him but that he can’t learn about from the man himself. 

Desmond considers this with his head tilted to one side.

“Those are your father’s robes and blades. He hid them behind a secret door in your home. There was a scroll with the blade, with its design on it.”

Ezio’s face turns white.

“How do you know about that?”

“I’m an Assassin like your father was,” Desmond says and hopes Ezio doesn’t stop to examine that non-answer for too long. “I have a blade like you do. And if I did want to hurt you, do you think I would still be talking to you?”

Ezio's eyes flash with gold – he’s using Eagle vision to see if Desmond is telling the truth. It’s weird to see it from this side. Desmond wonders what color he is, if he is the gentle blue of an ally or even gold, like someone important. If he is gold to Ezio like Ezio is to him.

Ezio blinks the eerie gaze away and looks away, clearly having come to a decision, but it doesn’t really have the outcome Desmond hoped it would.

At first, there is a heavy silence as Ezio keeps looking down. Then his shoulders start to shake, and shitshitshit is he crying? What is Desmond supposed to do now?

But just as Desmond opens his mouth to try to… do something to comfort him, Ezio whips his gaze up to glare at him, blinking tears from his eyes, his face red.

“If you are here to help me, why did you not stop them from killing my father and brothers?” 

He tried.

He tried and he failed.

Like he fails at everything else he tries.

“I’m sorry – “

Ezio doesn’t give him any mercy – he follows after Desmond, stepping into his space, looking like a hurricane. He grabs the front of Desmond’s robes, pushes him against the wall and shakes him with all the righteous anger a mourning teenager can muster. 

“What good is your brotherhood? Why do you skulk around with these blades if you cannot stop – if you cannot – !” 

Ezio’s voice breaks. His eyes fill with tears, and he bites his lip as he hides his face from Desmond. His shoulders shake with a sob he tries his hardest to hold back. 

“I’m sorry. I tried, I swear I did, but I… just didn’t get there in time,” Desmond whispers, his hand wrapped around the bracer on Ezio’s wrist where Ezio is still clinging onto the front of Desmond’s stolen robes enough to make his breathing difficult. “I’m so sorry.”

There is not much he dares to do or say to Ezio now, when he has failed him and when anything he tries might just as well end up with Ezio’s blade in his neck. So he does nothing but keep repeating that he is sorry and that he wishes it could have been different. It seems to only annoy Ezio who eventually sniffs, wipes tears and snot from his face and gives Desmond’s shoulder another shove to get him to stop. But he does step away to give Desmond some breathing room, taking down his hood and running his hand through his hair as he tries to compose himself.

“We need to get you out of here,” Desmond says after a heavy pause, focusing on trying to remember where they are and avoiding looking at Ezio. “The whole city is probably looking for you right now.” And they’ve caused enough ruckus here anyway. It’s a miracle nobody has found them yet with the way they are shouting. 

“I have a place I can go,” Ezio says after a sharp, wet intake of breath through his nose, his voice hoarse and quiet. He considers Desmond warily with red-rimmed eyes, clearly contemplating whether to trust Desmond with the location of Paola, his mother and sister. Desmond probably wouldn’t, if their roles were reversed. 

Ezio hesitates.

“I will have to go to get my father and brothers first. Tonight. I cannot leave them there,” he whispers. His fragile voice gives Desmond no room to argue. “Will you help me? I… I cannot ask my mother or sister to help, they would not – Claudia knows nothing yet, and mother, she…”

“I’ll help you. Of course I’ll help,” Desmond rushes to say. “Anything you need. Just lead the way.”

Ezio nods his thanks with his lips pressed tightly together. He glances at their surroundings, then starts scaling the wall to get to the roof. From halfway up the wall, he glances down at Desmond.

“I never said – my name is Ezio.”

Desmond watches him disappear onto the roof, a flash of a cape against the morning sun.

“Yeah, I know.”

It’s a grueling wait for the sun to go down. 

They circle around the city, keeping to the rooftops, and sneak into a stable on the outskirts of the town. They hide in the hayloft where Desmond points to a stack of hay and tells Ezio to try to get any sleep he can. Ezio mumbles quiet protests, but he is lost to sleep not long after lying down on the hay and tucking his father’s cape over himself. Desmond doubts he slept at all last night.

Rubbing his temples, Desmond sits down on the floor on the other side of the loft, his back to the wall. He pulls his sleeve more securely over his right arm, then presses his lips together and leans his head back, letting it thump softly against the wood.

Well, as far as first meetings go, he guesses he has had worse ones. Might have had. Sometime in the distant past. Maybe.

“Shit.”

He covers his eyes with his hands and just. Internally screams for a while. 

Back in his own time, before all this bullshit, he may have spent an embarrassingly many sleepless nights in Monteriggioni and the Grand Temple thinking about what he would say to Ezio if they ever somehow miraculously met, what Ezio would say to him. How Desmond would tell him how much he has changed his life, how Ezio, older and wiser, would understand and be proud of him and…

That was not it. 

He digs his palms into his eyes and breathes out through his nose. So what the fuck is he supposed to now? Didn’t the Animus cut straight to the evening and to Ezio finding Annetta back at the Palazzo – and when exactly did he smuggle the dead bodies away with Cristina?

The Gray answers him, as if reading his thoughts.

Something cold climbs up his back. He jerks away from the wall, tries not to scream like a schoolgirl and pivots around to see shadows lunging at him, with no chance of him dodging it, and then he is back in the Gray. 

Of course.

Mercifully, he is not there for long, and when he is jostled onto a random rooftop in a Firenze with an ink blue sky and white walls tinted with twilight, the stable he left Ezio can be seen in the distance. He hurries back, worried that he has already fucked this up, again, by being kidnapped by an Animus loading screen of all things, but when he gets into the hayloft, it is to see Ezio wake up with a startled gasp and bleary eyes. He looks past Desmond, has to blink a few times before he seems to register him there at all, and seems none the wiser to the fact that Desmond was not there the whole time he was asleep.

Ezio picks hay from his hair and tries to get himself awake while Desmond gets down from the loft and studies the sleepy city. Ezio appears downstairs not long after, and together they head towards the Piazza della Signoria. 

Desmond is not sure whether the bodies are there anymore, since in the memories he saw, they had been taken away and Ezio had to steal them back, but it is not like Desmond could have gone after them earlier. And Ezio managed alone in the original timeline, so surely they can do it this time as well.

The sound of heels on cobblestone echoes in the narrow street as someone approaches them. Desmond throws a hand in front of Ezio to get him to stop, Eagle vision bleeding into his eyes – and then Cristina rounds the corner.

Her pale, scared face looks ghostly in the darkness of the late hour. She too is smaller and younger and more… like an ordinary girl than Desmond remembered. 

“Ezio!”

She reaches for Ezio despite the fact that Desmond, a stranger, stands between them. She wraps her arms around the boy who seems to properly wake up only now – there’s a flicker of life in his eyes when he embraces her back. She tells him how sorry she is and promises to help with the bodies before Ezio can even ask.

It’s only after that offer that Cristina finally really registers Desmond’s presence.

“Who is this?” she asks warily while still in Ezio’s arms, looking at Desmond over Ezio’s shoulder.

Ezio glances at him too then, his mouth slightly open, his brows slightly furrowed.

“I’m Desmond. I’m here to help,” Desmond jumps in to say. “Not to sound ungrateful, but are you sure it is safe for you out here? The whole city is looking for us.”

“I will be fine.” She holds her chin high and meets his gaze, holding onto Ezio’s forearm.

Ezio distracts her by laying a hand on hers and then explains to her the sparse plan they have. She agrees to it without hesitation.

At the piazza, stars blink high above the shadows that hang from the gallows, swaying gently in the wind. 

This is different from the Animus memories.

Desmond keeps chanting that in his head the whole time it takes them to get up to the gallows and start taking the bodies down. This is different, and different doesn’t work, he repeats over and over, terrified that this is going to act as some sort of cataclysm for terrible, horrible changes that are going to steer this hallucination timeline into chaos. Perhaps Ezio came here earlier because he knew he had someone to help him, perhaps the guards are too busy looking for both Ezio and Desmond to bother with the dead Auditores – but what will it cost?

Cristina keeps watch while the boys start to take Ezio’s father and brothers down. Desmond hoists the dead body of Federico up in his arms so Ezio can cut the rope. He looks at the kid and tries to understand how he doesn’t break down sobbing. It must come later, when he’s out of danger and alone, poor thing.

With a sound that might be a grunt or a well-masked sob, Ezio cuts the rope and grabs his brother's cold shoulder while Desmond supports the body from the other side. Together, they carry Federico to the carriage they stole from nearby and lay him down next to his little brother.

“Let us go to get Father,” Ezio says in a voice so quiet Desmond just barely notices he is speaking, and then the kid has turned and marched off while Desmond is still setting Federico’s body down. He looks at Ezio’s back and stiff shoulders that have crept up almost to his ears, and wishes he could take this burden off him.

Once they get all three Auditores on the wagon, Ezio climbs on the driver’s seat. Desmond follows his lead, looking between the two teenagers for a clue to what they are supposed to do now. He really doesn’t know much about the death rites of the Renaissance – Ezio never really stuck around for the funerals. It’s not like they can get them out of the city for a proper burial with everyone looking for Ezio.

“We should probably take them to the river,” Ezio says under his breath. His hands shake as he stares ahead, probably trying to keep his mind off what their cargo is. He turns towards the girl. “Cristina, thank you. I do not know if we will – I have to leave the city soon, Cristina.”

Desmond pretends not to hear it when Ezio asks Cristina to come with him and when she cries because she can’t leave. Ezio reaches from the wagon to embrace her and give her the pendant she will treasure until her last breath – the gems covered in her own blood, the chain tangled in her cold fingers as she offers the pendant back to Ezio who is pleading her not to leave him – and then she is off, hurrying down the dark street.

Desmond and Ezio both stare after her as long as they can. 

Eventually, when she has disappeared into the night, Desmond takes the reins from Ezio’s cold hands when the boy still keeps looking at where Cristina was just a moment ago and doesn’t seem to register it when Desmond asks him if they should go. Ezio turns to look at him, almost surprised to find him there. Then his eyes stray towards the back of the wagon. His back tenses and he turns his head away with such speed it makes Desmond’s own neck hurt in sympathy.

So Desmond drives them to the river.

He is quietly proud of the fact he has to ask Ezio directions only once. 

They arrive at the shore of the Arno, and Ezio heads off into the darkness to steal a boat while Desmond eases the bodies off the wagon. They load them onto the boat, and Desmond steps away to give Ezio some privacy while he performs the last rites for his father and brothers.

Desmond looks to the stars which are so much brighter here than they ever were in his own time. The stars themselves look so indifferent to the inevitability of the fact that only 500 years from this point, the sun will scorch the earth. A countdown written in the skies, if one is feeling poetic.

He is pulled back from his thoughts by Ezio calling his name.

“Would you want to say something…?” Ezio asks, looking up at Desmond and gesturing at his monk robes. His own hood has fallen back to reveal his loosened and messy hair, and his sleeves and trousers up to his knees are soaking wet due to standing in the river. He is resting one hand on the side of the boat, not far from his father’s shoulder.

Ah, shit, Desmond can’t do even this right.

“This is just a disguise,” he admits and fidgets with his hands. “Sorry.”

“Huh.”

They push the boat to the river and stand side by side, shoulder to shoulder, watching as it floats away with its heavy, priceless burden. Ezio keeps his chin high and his eyes dry, though he bites on his lower lip the whole time. Not really thinking about it, Desmond wraps an arm around Ezio’s shoulders and squeezes, feeling the tightly knit muscles underneath relax just slightly before he lets go. 

He tugs Ezio’s hood up and over the boy’s head.

“Let’s get you out of here. Come on.”

Ezio leads him to Paola’s, though Desmond is happy to note that he would still have remembered the route there himself.

Paola takes one look at the red-rimmed eyes of the exhausted teenager and sends him to bed, promising that his mother and sister are already asleep and the bad news can wait until the next morning. Ezio answers with barely a nod and a quiet thank you before disappearing upstairs.

Once the door has closed behind Ezio, Paola turns to Desmond.

“And who might you be? A cousin, perhaps? Or did the Auditores have another son I have not heard of?”

And shit, he didn’t think this far ahead. Again. Should really invest some time in that, Miles, good job.

He could say he is a cousin or some other distant relative, but that excuse will fly out of the window the second Maria or Claudia take a look at him. Or then he could pretend to be a kind monk who saw a boy in trouble and decided to help, but he feels Paola is too clever not to think it suspicious. And he would rather be on her good side.

So he lifts the long sleeve of his left arm and shows her the mechanism hidden underneath.

“We work in the dark,” he says in a quiet voice and looks straight into her surprised eyes. To her credit, she only blinks before collecting herself, a calm, resolute expression falling over her face.

“To serve the light,” she adds and reaches over to pull his sleeve back to cover the hidden blade. “Welcome then, brother. I am Paola, but you obviously already know who I am. What should I call you?”

“Desmond,” he says sheepishly and resists the urge to scratch the back of his head. “Did Ezio’s mother and sister get here alright?”

“Yes, a little shaken and afraid for their men, but in one piece. It is more than we can unfortunately say for Giovanni and his sons, I hear. I am sorry we could not do more – I was not aware that Giovanni had been taken until his wife appeared at my doorstep.”

Forcing himself not to nervously bite his lip, Desmond simply nods and offers no information on how he got to know about the situation or why he is here in the first place.

Paola tilts her head. 

“I assume it is you we have to thank for Ezio’s safe return from the hanging.”

“I only helped a little, he was doing fine on his own,” Desmond says and glances at the stairs leading upstairs. “Well, he’s untrained and still just a kid, but you know what I mean.”

Paola hums. “Do you require something – food, a room for the night?”

Desmond’s stomach takes its cue to growl. He hasn’t eaten since – since he got here, or really slept either. Being unconscious doesn’t count.

“If it isn’t any trouble, yeah, I could eat something. Thanks. And I, uh, need to get Ezio to Leonardo da Vinci in the morning. His hidden blade is broken.”

“I will send a runner to make certain he is home,” Paola smiles and gently steers him towards one of the rooms with the promise of food and a comfortable bed. Desmond is still expecting her to ask from which brotherhood he is or what his mission here might be, and he is terrified because he doesn’t have answers for any questions she might possibly ask. But she doesn’t pry and leaves him to his rest without any uncomfortable probing. 

After a warm meal, Desmond settles on the bed, yawns and falls asleep before he can start to worry that there might be a chance he could jump forward in time in his sleep.

Morning comes, and Paola’s smile, when he meets her in the hallway, tells Desmond it is in fact the next morning and not a fortnight later. He is pretty sure he must have jumped at least a few hours, because that was not a full night’s sleep he got, more like four or five hours judging by how grumpy he is, but it will have to do.

When he drags himself out of his room, Paola’s girls herd him into the backrooms of the brothel, to a small, warm kitchen, and one of the kitchen girls hands him a bowl of something that Desmond can’t name but that tastes good.

He is sitting on a bench in the sunlight that shines through the only, small window into the kitchen, his mouth full of the porridge-like thing, when Claudia bursts through the door with her usual determination.

She glances at him with a “Ah, brother, there you are! Why are you dressed like that?”, brushes past him towards the kitchen maid who has produced another bowl for her, and then comes to a halting stop. She turns around and stares at him.

“You are not Ezio – wait, who are you?” she says. Her eyes get wider and her voice higher and higher with each word.

Desmond, with his hand frozen holding his spoon halfway through to his mouth, stares back at her and scrambles for an explanation. He swallows very audibly, almost chokes on his own spit in his embarrassment and gets some of the food on his robes. 

“I take it back. You could very well be my brother,” she sighs and rolls her eyes, apparently deeming him harmless. She accepts the offered breakfast from the other girl before turning her attention back to him, her critical eyes taking in every detail of his appearance.

Ezio takes this moment to appear at the door.

“This is Desmond,” he hops in to say before Desmond has to stumble through lying about why he looks so much like Ezio. “He is here to help us.”

That really isn’t a proper answer, and Desmond can tell by Claudia’s face that she is not satisfied.

“And why is a monk that looks like you helping us? What have you done now, brother?” Claudia hisses, still not taking her eyes off Desmond who is now trying to hide his demonic-looking right hand. “Can we trust him?”

Ezio presses his lips together and glares at his sister, while Desmond looks from one Auditore sibling to the other. He tries to see Claudia as Ezio might see her now – his only surviving sibling, a fifteen-year-old girl who knows the harsh realities of the world even less than he does. How much of what they got up to last night does he want to share with her, when she doesn't even know of the loss of their father and brothers yet?

Eventually, Ezio sighs.  

“I think so,” he mutters and refuses to give any other explanation despite his sister’s spluttering. Desmond hurries to scoot over on the bench to make room for him when Ezio marches over and slumps down to sit next to him.

Claudia eyes the pair of them, with her arms crossed over her chest, before honing in on Ezio’s Assassin robes which are strange to her. But before she can interrogate him about them or any other strangeness that she has had to deal with this morning, she remembers a far more important matter. 

“But what about Father? And Federico and Petruccio? Ezio, where are they?”

Sounds of chatter from the streets, the rhythm of horses’ hooves on the gobblestone, the loud yells of merchants advertising their goods flow in through the window and cut the heavy silence in the room. Ezio stares up at his sister with a worn expression too old for his young face.

“Claudia…” 

Quietly, Desmond stands up and leaves the kitchen to give them some privacy, but Claudia’s wails follow him all the way into the foyer.

He almost runs into Maria, who has appeared at the bottom of the staircase, silent and fragile and not quite present. Ethereal almost, like she is tethered to this world only by a thin thread, drifting and unbalanced – and unbalanced on the steps after getting startled by Desmond.

He reaches out a hand to steady her and for a moment their eyes meet. And for a moment there is a presence in her eyes as she studies his familiar-looking face – grasping hopelessly for the possibility that maybe, perhaps, he might be his son or husband returned to life – 

But it is gone just as quickly as it came. She deflates in front of his eyes, her once proud form slumping and her gaze turning vacant. 

“I’m sorry,” Desmond stutters to say while letting go of her arm and stepping aside to let her pass. She doesn’t move but just keeps gripping the railing – and were her hands always that pale, her face so lined and gray?

It is not fair that he doesn’t know whether those are his or Ezio’s thoughts.

Still, he searches for her gaze again, for her again, because she’s his… His brain offers him the word madre but he knows it is wrong. He fumbles for the correct term, forcefully pushing Ezio’s consciousness out of his thoughts, and settles for ancestor. 

She keeps looking past him, not meeting his eyes.

“I’m really sorry,” he says anyway – even though she doesn’t know him and he shouldn’t be able to know what she has lost. But she is Ezio’s mother and Desmond’s ancestor and he knows her. Loves her because Ezio loved her. 

Yet at the same time, he wants to shake her, to yell at her, to do something to make her return to how she was before, to get her shit back together, because it is not fair to leave everything – their literal survival, earning a living and taking care of a mourning teenage girl – to a 17-year-old kid who is still trying to process all of this himself. He shouldn’t have to be the one shouldering all of this. Hell, Ezio is only a year older than Desmond was when he ran away from the Farm. Desmond didn’t have anyone else to take care of when he bolted, and he barely made it.

Maria just looks at him, no reaction at all. 

It is too much. 

Desmond mumbles a quick apology and pushes past her and up the stairs, running away from her empty gaze.

Desmond can’t help but smile when he spies Ezio beaming with pride after managing to pickpocket a few of Paola’s girls without getting caught. 

He hadn’t even realized how rare these honest smiles had been in Ezio’s later years, hadn’t remembered how easy they used to be. 

Desmond leans against the windowpane, his forehead pressed against the cool glass, and lets his gaze rest on the blooming courtyard where Paola is teaching Ezio to blend in with the crowds. Midday has made the people lazy and careless, and the former noble has quick fingers and the makings of a thief. 

While the Auditores had spent that morning grieving, the Assassins had made plans. Desmond and Paola agreed that they would teach Ezio enough to let him go after Uberto and then they would sneak the family out of Firenze and to Monteriggioni.

Paola has also promised to send word to Mario beforehand – Desmond had made some off-hand comment about Vieri being out for revenge, and Paola had understood perfectly.

Down in the courtyard, Paola has finished her lesson. She shoos Ezio gently towards the house, and it doesn’t take long before Desmond hears him coming up the stairs, then stopping to knock on his door before poking his head in.

“Would you come with me to see my blade repaired? Paola suggested that having yours for reference might be helpful.”

It’s not a long walk, and Desmond is still bracing himself for meeting one of the most famous people in human history in person when they round a corner and find themselves standing at the steps leading to the workshop. 

Ezio knocks and pushes the door open to step in without waiting for an answer and leaves Desmond no choice but to follow close at his heels.

Leonardo appears from a backroom and a genuine surprise flashes on his face when he notices Ezio of all people standing at his door. A smile blooms on his lips and then he is rushing forward to greet Ezio, the relief to see him alive evident in him as he wraps his arms around him. 

Ezio doesn’t know what to do with the warmth and affection he is given so freely. He tenses up and glances over his shoulder at Desmond who shrugs unhelpfully. 

Leonardo follows Ezio’s gaze to Desmond, who waves a hand awkwardly in a greeting.

“Hi.”

“This is Desmond,” Ezio says and then pushes the broken hidden blade into Leonardo’s arms and doing so effectively wipes Desmond from the inventor’s mind. “I am afraid I need to ask you for your help. Could you repair this?”

Leonardo takes the blade with a “Of course!” and walks over to his desk to study the broken pieces, clearly interested. He turns the blade and the bracer over, looking at them from all angles and testing out the mechanism. 

Remembering how this is supposed to play out, Desmond gives Ezio’s shoulder a gentle push.

“Give him the scroll.”

Ezio throws him a puzzled look but hands over the scroll with the original design.

“You never told me how you know what it is,” Ezio whispers to Desmond while they watch Leonardo uncover Altaïr’s drawings with a childlike glee. 

“I’ll tell you some day when you’re older.”

Ezio glances at him from the corner of his eye – “What does that have to do with anything?” – but then shrugs. “You should let him take a look at your blade.”

Now that he thinks about it, Desmond would rather not, as the design is far too futuristic not to raise questions, but of course Leonardo hears the remark.

“You have a blade like this too? May I see it?”

Defeatedly, Desmond walks over to Leonardo and pulls up his sleeve to show the hidden blade to him. Leonardo studies it with a furrowed brow, occasionally glancing at Altaïr’s drawings or Giovanni’s broken blade to compare, then asks him to flick his wrist a few times to see how the mechanism should work. 

“Fascinating. The design is approximately the same, but yours is very stripped down. But thank you, I think I now know how to repair Ezio’s blade.”

While Leonardo works his magic, Desmond and Ezio retreat to the back of the room and sit down near the chair Ezio fell asleep in when Desmond was watching this in the Animus.

When the silence between them starts to feel too awkward, Desmond leans his elbows on his knees and glances at Ezio who is slumped on the chair in what looks like the most uncomfortable slouch in the history of ever, and playing with the cuff of his sleeve.

“Um, hey. Is your sister alright?” Desmond asks in a quiet voice. “She seemed to take the news pretty hard.”

Ezio nods, his gaze locked to somewhere beyond Leonardo’s desk. 

“She is strong. I am more worried about Mother. She is not… She is not usually like that.”

Of course he has noticed. 

“Just – just give her time, okay? I promise she’ll get better, but it might take a while. I’ve seen… someone like that before.”

Ezio nods again, his shoulders still tight and stiff, but at least now he is looking at Desmond and listening instead of staring blankly at nothing. 

“Hey, and if there’s anything I can do to help, just ask. Anything you need. I know I just kinda pummeled into your life and you don’t know me, but I’m on your side.”

“Thank you.” Ezio presses his lips together into a thin line and wrangles his hands together. He stares at them before looking at Desmond, then away again. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, sure,” is what comes out of Desmond’s mouth but what he means is “Please don’t” because there are about a million questions Ezio could ask that Desmond doesn’t have proper answers for.

“Are you –  Are you my –  Did my father – “ Ezio stumbles over his words, looking at anywhere but Desmond until he finally takes a deep breath and pushes the words out with such a speed Desmond has a hard time making them out. “Are we brothers?”

He looks so worried when he says it, now looking Desmond in the eye and searching for an answer he doesn’t want to hear – the kid doesn’t want to hear that his now dead father he idolized so has fathered children with another woman when everything else Ezio thought he knew about his father has has been proved wrong and his world has been turned upside down.

Desmond apparently didn’t answer fast enough because Ezio feels the need to explain.

“It is just that we look so similar, Claudia said so too and I – ”

“No, Ezio, no. No. Giovanni wasn’t my father. And yes, I’m sure. Let’s just say that knowing my father, he would have told me in no uncertain terms if he wasn’t actually my father,” Desmond says, chuckling, which only makes Ezio's eyes widen. “I don’t know, maybe you and I are distantly related or something, but trust me, I’m not your brother.”

He isn’t sure whether Ezio is relieved or not, but at least he lets out a deep sigh and slumps even more in the chair, making Desmond wonder whether the kid actually has a spine because that does not look comfortable. Perhaps Ezio would have liked another older brother to help him save the little he has left of his family. Desmond can’t blame him.

They sit there, in the sleepy warmth of midday, for at least another half an hour waiting for Leonardo to finish his work, talking in quiet voices about Ezio’s plan to go after Uberto and Desmond’s suggestions on how to get the family out of Firenze afterwards. 

Eventually, Leonardo presents them with the repaired hidden blade. Considering they have all seen the five intact fingers on Desmond’s left hand, Leonardo doesn’t bother with pranking Ezio.

Ezio thanks him profusely, and when Desmond herds him out of the workshop, he is already testing out the mechanism, flicking his wrist to eject the blade and then to retract it again. 

Desmond forgets himself in watching him, the bright wide smile directed at the shining metal of a deadly weapon, and the borrowed Assassin robes that don’t sit quite right on Ezio’s shoulders just yet.

“Ezio, hey. Just – are you sure about this?” he begins and stumbles over the words even more when Ezio looks up at him. “There’s no coming back from killing someone and… I can kill Uberto for you. You don’t have to do it.”

“No,” Ezio says and retracts his hidden blade with an audible sound. “It has to be me.”

Desmond didn’t really think Ezio would agree to it, but at least he tried. Won’t stop him from worrying about the kid.

“Okay. Would you want me to come with you anyway, to make sure everything goes alright?”

Now Ezio looks almost relieved.

“Yes. Thank you.”

And so they retreat back to La Rosa Colta and prepare until the evening comes. Desmond trains Ezio in the courtyard of the brothel as much as he can in the short time they have, with Paola watching from afar and offering some advice every now and then.

When the evening arrives with the blueish dusk, Ezio and Desmond head towards the art exhibition where Uberto will be.

Just like last time, Ezio slips into the crowds to enter the building. Desmond, on the other hand, climbs onto the roof of the cloister and hides there, pressed flat against the roof tiles to spy on the event down below. 

There’s Uberto, mingling among the guests, smiling and sipping his drink. 

It doesn’t take him long to find Ezio either, not when he knows to look for him. He’s a white figure, a ghost almost, as he gently pushes people out of the way, slowly advancing through the milling crowd towards Uberto. Just like last time, Uberto notices him before Ezio can get too close, but Ezio leaps towards him anyway and buries his blade in the man’s neck. 

Ezio clearly hadn’t thought beyond this point despite Desmond’s warnings, because after he defiantly shouts his name at the crowds, there’s a moment of chaos before he remembers that yes, he just killed a man, and the guards are probably going to want to have a few words about it with him. 

Desmond gets on his feet and waits until he sees Ezio rush out of the courtyard. Then he shadows him on the rooftops, making sure the boy gets away. A few well-aimed throwing knives give Ezio a head start.

He is happy to note that this time Ezio’s escape is not as haphazard as it was after the hanging, as there is some method to his mad zigzagging through the streets and eventually up to the roofs. 

Desmond jogs to catch up with him.

“Are you alright?” he asks, both to make sure Ezio didn’t get injured during the fight, and to see how upset the kid is about taking someone’s life for the first time. Ezio was never lighthearted about killing, even later in his life, after ending countless lives, but the first one has to affect the most. 

“Yes,” is Ezio’s clipped answer as he wipes blood off his hidden blade. There’s anger in his eyes, a need for revenge burning there in a way Desmond hasn’t seen in him in decades, and this is just another thing he had forgotten. 

“If you’re sure,” Desmond says, one brow raised, watching as Ezio tests that the mechanism of the blade isn’t clogged up with dried blood. 

“Let us go back.”

Desmond follows Ezio back to the brothel, and once the search for the murderer of Uberto Alberti calms down a little, they say goodbyes to Paola. Desmond, in his monk disguise and with his hood pulled up, heads outside first, closely followed by Maria and Claudia who walk arm in arm, shawls drawn over their heads. Ezio stays in the rear of their group, keeping an eye out for any trouble, with a hand resting on the hilt of a sword he stole sometime during the day. 

They slip out of Firenze without anyone stopping them.

The lights of the city glow almost as brightly as the stars for a good while behind their backs. Desmond keeps glancing back towards Firenze, trying to spot when the Gray might come and sweep him literally off his sweep. He rarely got to see any traveling in the Animus, so he very much doubts he is going to be there for the over thirty mile journey to Monteriggioni.

There is only the little hiccup that Ezio is not going to trust him ever again if Desmond simply disappears right in front of him.

He taps Ezio’s shoulder and pulls him away from the women.

“Hey, I'm really sorry but I gotta go soon. I have some… business to take care of on the way. But I’ll catch up with you.”

“No, wait, what?” Ezio splutters and there is a wounded look in his eyes underneath all the confused anger. 

“I’m really, really sorry, but this can’t wait. You’ll be fine, don’t worry.” 

And he jumps, not long after. He sees the edges of the world turn into a muddled gray mess, and quickly gets on his feet. He makes a hasty excuse and then he is jogging into a nearby patch of forest just before the trees give way to the Gray that swallows him whole. 

Fucking time travel.

He is spat out into a warm, sunny morning, on a hill overlooking a dirt road where he spies the Auditores. He runs over to them, shouting a greeting from afar to not alarm them, and is received back with some confused looks from Maria and Claudia and an annoyed glare from Ezio. Judging by the condition of their clothes and rations, it is at least the next day. He knows it is at least a full day’s walk from Firenze to Monteriggioni – he had spent way too much of his off-the-Animus-hours studying Italy in Google Earth on the laptop the others loaned to him, of all things – but considering the noble women’s shoes are not made such distances, they have to be traveling more slowly. They must be nearing the villa though, since Desmond has been thrown here.

Once Desmond has made his apologies and refused to elaborate on where he has been, he has time to notice things the Animus got wrong. Or well, not exactly wrong, but it changed things to help process all the information and the vastness of space and time. It had scaled down distances, and more often than not skipped over the journeys altogether. Desmond had some idea of the scope of the Italian countryside from the little he could see from their van and the rooftops of Monteriggioni at nights, and from his many hours spent playing around map apps on his phone, but it’s not the same. The world had felt so small in the Animus.

They follow the road until Vieri and his boys ambush them. Desmond knows to expect them and tells the others to stay behind him when the surroundings start to look familiar. 

“Ah, Ezio, I see you have found someone else to fight your battles for you,” Vieri gloats with an insufferable grin that Desmond would like to knock off his face. But he is busy physically holding Ezio back from launching himself at Vieri and so leaving Claudia and Maria to fend for themselves.

Desmond draws his sword and pushes Ezio behind himself because seriously, the boy might have stolen himself a sword during some skirmish but he has no idea how to use it yet. 

Luckily, Paola’s message has reached Mario, who appears not long after with his mercenaries to surround Vieri and his men. They drive them off and Mario greets the confused-looking Ezio while Desmond hangs back, behind Maria and Claudia, keeping his head down. He has a hunch that Paola might have mentioned him in her letter, but he would still not like to draw too much attention right away. He fears Mario might be well enough connected to the other European brotherhoods that he might guess that Desmond isn’t actually part of any of them, and wouldn’t that be a fun thing to explain.

But Mario is far too interested in the welfare of his late brother’s wife and children to interrogate Desmond right this second, probably writing him off as a benevolent monk.  

So Desmond follows the Auditores towards Monteriggioni, staying in the back of the group with Maria and letting her lean on his arm.

Eventually, the tall walls of Monteriggioni tower over them. Desmond has been here before, as himself in the real world, yet even back in 2012 Monteriggioni didn’t feel quite as real as it does now. Perhaps the cars parked in the narrow alleyways and electrical cords running along the stone walls turned the Monteriggioni of his time into an illusion of a kind, because this one here, this is the true one.

It does look more run down than Desmond remembered, though. He did spend God knows how many hours renovating this place up in the Animus.

Desmond glances at Ezio and Mario who are talking about something in front of the manor, Mario holding a heavy hand on Ezio’s shoulder. Guess this is the talk about Assassins and Templars. Ezio, once again, looks like he is considering moving forward with his plan to flee to Spain.

Desmond is in the middle of trying to read Ezio’s less than happy expression when he feels his arms tingle in a weird way. He frowns and looks down at his hands, and then he feels dizzy all of sudden. There’s this familiar, weird sensation of weightlessness in his arms and legs, and he has to reach for something to hold on to. The whole world feels like it is whirling all around him. 

“Here we go again.”

Time to jump.

Chapter Text

Only the softest glow of a slowly waking up sun lights up the clouds in the distance. A handful of stars persist in the dark sky of a very early morning, and the village down below is still sleeping.

Desmond takes in the drowsy sight from where he stumbled to sit down after the Gray tossed him out. Rust-colored tiles press into his thighs, as it is a roof he has once again found himself sprawled on. 

A quick look around tells him the roof belongs to the Villa in Monteriggioni, and so do the sounds of boots scraping against the wall and the head of dark hair that appears from under the edge of the roof.

Ezio is in the middle of pulling himself up onto the roof when he notices Desmond there, staring back at him, and the boy almost loses his grip and falls after letting out what Desmond can only describe as a squeak. 

After some swearing and huffing, Ezio manages to heave himself onto the roof. He is in a simple shirt, his hair tied back neatly, and seems to be almost twice the size he was last Desmond saw him – a moment ago for Desmond but apparently at least a year, maybe a year and a half, if not more for Ezio. Mario has been training him rigorously, and it shows. Gone is the gangly teenager Desmond helped to flee from Firenze.

Crouched on one knee and holding a hand to his rapidly rising and falling chest, Ezio glares at Desmond. He brushes his hair from his eyes, which are probably still bleary after such an early rise, rubs his temples and drags the hand down his face.

"It has been over a year, Desmond," he begins in a quiet voice which quickly turns into a snarl. “You left. Without a word. Not a single letter from you the whole time, nothing. And then you just appear to sit on the roof in the middle of the night, Desmond, in my uncle's Assassin stronghold!”

There is not much Desmond can offer as an explanation.

“I’m sorry.”

Ezio covers his face with his hands.

"You are infuriating, do you know that? I swear, whenever you open your mouth, it is to say that you are sorry. Do you not know how to say anything else?”

“Well, I am sorry. I didn't mean to leave like that but… things happened.”

“Ah, your mysterious things. Have you been so busy with those that you could not even write? Not once since we last met?”

Desmond looks away, towards the sliver of blooming sunrise on the horizon. It stings even sharper than he thought it could, Ezio’s disappointment.

From the corner of his eye, he can vaguely see Ezio resting his hands on his hips and blowing his long hair from his face. The next question he asks comes in the same tone as Desmond’s mom used to use at the Farm whenever she caught him sneaking outside after the curfew.

“Where have you been then?” 

Desmond wishes he knew where he has been.

“I can’t tell you. Sorry. It’s Assassin business, and unless you have joined the brotherhood…” He looks to Ezio to see him shake his head with his lips pressed together and confirm what Desmond already well knew. 

Ezio sighs audibly, then drags himself over to Desmond and sits down next to him, letting his feet dangle over the edge. He leans his head back and closes his eyes.

“Why are you here? It has to do with my uncle and that brotherhood of yours, does it not?” 

“It – it might have, yeah.” That is as good an excuse as any other, considering that Ezio now knows both his uncle and Desmond are Assassins, and Desmond needs some reason to be here.

“He is going to be at the training ring any moment now, for morning practice. You can talk to him then, if you have not already.”

When Desmond glances down, he indeed notes a few of the mercenaries warming up at the ring and the broad figure of Mario approaching them from the village gates. Perhaps he was there to speak with the lookouts, worried about the Pazzi.

Desmond looks back to Ezio to see the boy studying him with a furrowed brow.

“What?”

“Tell me – out of all places, why are you sitting on our roof?”

"I like the stars here."

And he does. He has missed Monteriggioni. Back when he was reliving Ezio’s life through the Animus, he found himself stopping many times just to watch the simulation of the sky. In his own time, when they were hiding in the sanctuary beneath the villa, he went outside to look at the stars any chance he got. Climbing on the same roof as Ezio just to sit on it and stare at the same sky five hundred years apart eased some of the heartache of getting to know and care for someone who had no idea Desmond even existed. Would come to exist. Some day.

"You are mad," is Ezio's reply, though now there is a hint of amusement on his lips. He shakes his head and leans his chin on his hand, looking at Desmond from the corner of his eye.

“I know,” Desmond chuckles and gives him a weak smile. “But what about you? I take it your uncle's been training you?" 

Ezio’s whole face lights up even though he tries his best to rein in his reaction and pretend he isn’t as excited as he is. He scoots over close enough to bump their shoulders together and leans in to show Desmond how he can engage his hidden blade with one tiny smooth movement and what kind of daggers and knives he has already managed to hide in his pockets and sleeves.

Desmond smiles at the excitement – this might be a small thing in the grand scheme of things, but it doesn't stop him from feeling proud, because this is Ezio and he is important. 

Ezio retracts the hidden blade and looks at him, all anger now apparently forgotten.

"Show me yours again. It was so strange." 

Desmond does as Ezio asks and holds out his arm, wrist up, and lets Ezio poke and prod his hidden blade and stare at the tattoo covering his forearm. 

"It looks so different," Ezio murmurs, clearly jealous. "Where did you get this made?"

"Someone gave it to me, so I don’t really know."

“You never give a straight answer, do you?” Ezio mutters and slightly twists Desmond’s wrist to get the blade to glide out from its sheath. It occurs to Desmond he should probably be more careful than to trust a way too excited teenager to play around with the deadly weapon strapped to him, but again this is Ezio. He would trust Ezio with his life, even if this is only the second time he has met the guy.

If any of this is real, anyway.

Desmond brushes the thought off with a shrug and focuses instead on studying Ezio’s face. He has grown a lot in the months Desmond has apparently skipped over, lost a lot of the roundness of a child he still had in 1476. He’s still a teenager though, and probably going to grow another inch taller. Probably eats like a horse too.

It’s with relief that Desmond notes that they don’t look identical after all. 

The Animus back in the Abstergo lab had simply plastered Desmond’s face to replace Altaïr’s, maybe to help with synchronization or to save server power. Rebecca’s Baby had performed slightly better – Ezio had been more distinguishable from Desmond than Altaïr had been, but the resemblance had still been uncanny.

Desmond had, of course, spent most of his time looking through Ezio's eyes in the Animus, never really seeing his face but only catching glimpses of it from reflections in mirrors and water and on the shiny blade of a sword. But he had seen Ezio’s face in the recordings of his sessions whenever Lucy had wanted to double-check something and he had taken a peek over her shoulder. And then the Bleeding effect had come in full force and they were in Monteriggioni, standing where Ezio had once stood, and the ghost-like Ezio had taken his breath away. He had drunk in his face, every detail and line, even reached out for him –  and had tried his best to hide his heartbreak when Lucy had called out to him and the image of Ezio had disappeared. 

The one sitting right in front of him is still there. 

They still look alike, enough that they have already been mistaken for each other at first glance, but now Ezio has his own face. His nose is wider than Desmond’s, his eyes rounder, his smile easier. The scar on his lips is in the same place as Desmond’s, but the angle is slightly different. And yet it feels like this is exactly the Ezio Desmond has been watching in the Animus the whole time.

It’s weird.

“You are wearing your disguise again,” Ezio notes, still holding Desmond’s wrist and toying with the mechanism of the blade. He looks from it to Desmond, the look in his brown eyes sharp. “Or do you have a habit of dressing up as a monk?”

“Er, I – I lost my Assassin robes?” Desmond says without any involvement of his brain – he can almost hear the question marks at the end of his sentences. “I was in my disguise and had left my robes in my safehouse which… turned out to be not so safe after all? So this is all I have.” He spreads his arms to show off the frayed robes, the slightly too long sleeves and the dirty hem.

Ezio lets go of Desmond’s bracer and huffs out a laugh at Desmond’s desperate attempt at an excuse.

“Are you sure you are actually an Assassin?” 

Desmond shrugs which only makes Ezio laugh harder, and Desmond can’t help chuckling himself. He pushes his sleeves to his elbows out of habit, then yanks the right sleeve back down to cover his blackened forearm that he had in full display. Shit.

“What happened to your arm?” Ezio asks without missing a beat. “I noticed it before but did not have the time to ask.”

“It – uh – got burned,” Desmond mumbles and refuses to look at Ezio. He grips the fabric of the sleeve and pulls it tightly over his hand and hopes that maybe, perhaps, Ezio somehow didn’t notice the obvious golden geometrical lines on it. The black, weirdly healed skin he can somehow explain, but those? Not a chance.

“Yes, I can see that,” Ezio sighs and presses the issue like a teenager who doesn’t know when to stop. “But what happened? That does not look like an ordinary injury. Does it hurt?”

Desmond presses his lips together. 

“I had to make a sacrifice… to save people,” he says in a tone that he hopes says no to any further questions. “I used a device to help them, but using it burned my arm.”

“And where is this device? What kind of device was it?”

“You don’t want to get anywhere near it, trust me. And you can’t get to it, even if I told you where it was.”

Ezio’s face tells him that the boy knows Desmond answered no questions. 

Below, in the training ring, Mario is bellowing out orders, pointing out faults in the men’s technique and footwork. Ezio watches this with a furrowed brow.

“Say, did my uncle send you to speak with me? Have you come to persuade me into joining the Assassins?” he asks, suddenly wary, and only now Desmond remembers Ezio’s hesitancy to join, how he had turned down Mario’s offer multiple times, adamant in his decision to take his family to Spain. Hell, he hadn’t fully joined the Assassin until… 1488 if Desmond remembers right. About ten years from now.

“I doubt your uncle even knows I’m here.” Desmond shakes his head and turns himself around so that he is sitting cross-legged on the roof, facing Ezio. He wraps his left hand around his right wrist and curls the blackened hand into a loose fist. “You’re not keen on joining?”

Ezio shakes his head, his gaze locked to something in the distance.

“I never wanted any of this. This is not what I… I have been thinking of taking Mother and Claudia to Spain where they would be safe from all of this. Father had some contacts in Madrid. Maybe I could become an apprentice to a banker there – I was already an apprentice back in Firenze so maybe one of his friends could be persuaded…” his voice drifts away into the breeze, his long hair swaying over his face. He glances at Desmond, clearly looking for support.

Desmond can’t picture him as anything else but the master assassin and mentor he will become, but at the same time it feels unfair to force that future on the boy. Why should he have to suffer through all the bullshit again when he could go to Spain, become a banker and have a comfortable life? Why shouldn’t he go and ask Cristina to go there with him, marry her and have a bunch of children with her, grow soft and old and gray with the love of his life?

“Hey, you gotta do what feels right,” Desmond ends up saying in the end, after waiting for Ezio to look him in the eye. “You’ve gotta decide that shit for yourself. Nobody can make you join, or at least nobody should. This is a hard life, and not one you can turn your back on very easily. So it’s your decision and nobody else’s.”

Surely this is not real. This is some wish fulfillment, some hallucination in his last moments as the precursor device fries his brain to crisp, to make him feel better. Because how else could he be here, telling Ezio of all people that he should be the one to choose what to do with his life when the choice was taken away from Desmond so many times?

Ezio looks relieved all the same.

But yeah, guess it is easy to understand how Ezio managed to restore Monteriggioni and pretty much the whole economy of Rome. A banker, huh?

They look over the sleeping village for a while, both lost in thought until Desmond hears himself yawning. 

“Hey, um, sorry to ask, but I don’t suppose you have a spare bedroom I could borrow for a nap or something? It’s been a long night and I could really use some rest. And if it’s not too much, I don’t know, a change of clothes? I’m starting to get tired of playing a monk.”

Ezio grins, clearly about to make some remark about Desmond getting the clothes stolen, but thinks better of it and shows him the way into the villa.

The servants are already awake and buzzing in the kitchen, but Ezio stills hauls enough warm water to fill a bathtub himself despite the Desmond’s protests, and then he disappears to scour through his own wardrobe for something for Desmond to wear after deeming the two of them to be about the same size. 

Desmond takes his time getting all the sweat and dirt and blood off. He lies in the bathtub and watches how his right arm glows in the water. 

Is this going to be his reality now? Is he going to live through all of Ezio’s memories? What for? Why is he here? Or more likely, why is he seeing this? Because surely, if this was real, if he was actually time traveling, he would have been plopped here and then he would stay and age in sync with Ezio and everyone else. 

But this feels so much more real than the Bleeding effect episodes he has had before. There was something ghostly about those visions before, and the modern world was always there, parallel to the whispers of an old word. Here it is not.

Whatever this is, the Precursor machine sure is powerful, he muses as he basks in the warmth of the water. A lone candle makes light and shadows dance on the old walls, and the ancient mansion breathes and creaks all around him.

He lets himself submerge in the water and stares at the ceiling through the water. How is he going to keep this from Ezio? 

If this was an Ezio from 1500 or later, or even an earlier Ezio who has got a glimpse of what the Apple is and what it is capable of, Desmond could maybe somehow try to explain his situation. But now Desmond is just some weird stranger that belongs to the mystery cult Ezio’s father apparently was part of, and Ezio himself is only a teenager who has his hands full keeping his broken family together while trying still to grow up himself. He has no idea the Precursor and their “magical” devices even exist, and has no reason to believe any of it should Desmond try to explain, not to mention the whole time travel thing Desmond has a hard time believing himself. Hell, he wouldn’t have believed any of this if someone had tried to explain it to him when he was sixteen and had just run away from the Farm. 

Still mulling over his nonexistent plan to hide all this bullshit from Ezio, he gets out of the bathtub and puts on the new clothes Ezio has left for him on the other side of the door – a white shirt, some pants, an old brown cape with a hood. He gathers his weapons in a bundle he tucks under his arm and goes to find Ezio. Luckily the villa’s layout is achingly familiar to him, so he finds Ezio quite easily near one of the guest bedrooms.

“Will you be staying for a while?” Ezio asks as he opens the door for him.

“I’m not sure if I can, but I hope so,” he says and wishes Ezio goodnight even though it’s morning and everyone else is getting up. He sits down on the bed and laughs at how surreal his life has become – it’s been, what, years since he last slept. 

He lies down on his back and closes his eyes. He supposes he should be worrying about finding a way to get back to his time. Or break free from the Bleeding effect hallucinations, in case that is what this is. Whatever.

It’s just that he is not so sure he really wants to leave. He doesn’t know what is waiting for him in the future – a scorched Earth? Or more of fighting already lost battles against the Templars, more hours in the Animus scouring through yet another ancestor’s memories and losing his mind? He has Shaun and Rebecca there, sure, and well, his dad, maybe he could go see his mom, but...

Ezio is here. Never even in his wildest dreams did Desmond think he would get this chance to meet Ezio, and now he is here, talking to him, helping him, and Desmond isn’t sure if he is ready to exchange this for responsibilities and shabby hideouts and the Animus and the never ending urgency to sacrifice himself for the world. 

But it’s not like he has a way out. He guesses his best bet is the Apple, but Ezio is not going to get his hands on it for a decade. And in any case, Desmond is steadily moving forward in time, skipping over years. Eventually he will come to the end of Ezio’s memories, and then… Well, something is going to happen then. 

He’s just going to deal with it when he gets to it.

It’s only a few hours later when he wakes up to someone yelling. 

He blinks his eyes open, still hugging the pillow, and recognises the voices as Mario’s and Ezio’s. He can just make out the muffled words coming from the other side of the thick old walls and recognizes the fight about whether Ezio and his family should leave or stay. They both sound angrier than they did last time, Ezio more confident in his decision to leave – Desmond wonders if he did more ill than good with that talk with Ezio.

Groggy and hungry and not able to sleep through the shouting, Desmond gets up, leaves his room and finds his way through the villa, on the hunt for late breakfast. The yelling ceases, and when he drags himself to the foyer, it is to see Ezio there, pacing in circles and almost tearing his hair out.

“Did we wake you up?” he asks sheepishly when he notices Desmond there. “Apologies.”

He shows Desmond to the kitchen before leaving outside to train. Desmond has barely finished wolfing down his breakfast before Ezio marches inside again, apparently to fetch his Assassin robes and gear.

“I am going after Uncle Mario. He should not be fighting the Pazzis alone when it is my fault they are here,” he offers as an explanation when Desmond follows him out into the sunshine and towards the stables.

Desmond doesn't have to think about it too long before he is saddling a horse alongside Ezio and then cantering towards San Gimignano. Ezio doesn't tell him to turn around and go back, so Desmond keeps riding, keeping his gaze on the cape flowing over Ezio’s back.

Mario comes to greet them when they arrive, eyeing Desmond while clapping Ezio on the shoulder, and Desmond feels panic running up his spine because, oh boy, hiding the time jumping from Ezio is one thing, but explaining where he came from to Mario?

Haha, no chance.

"Ezio, who is this?"

Ezio blinks – he clearly thought Mario already knew Desmond – but he brushes the question off with a "Desmond is a friend" and then starts asking about the fortifications and guard patrols and has no idea that his easy answer almost makes Desmond fall from the saddle. 

Mario, on the other hand, gives him a suspicious glance over Ezio’s shoulder. Desmond busies himself with his horse and tries to pretend he doesn’t notice the older Auditore approaching him after they have finished their planning. 

He comes to stand next to Desmond’s horse and lets the horse nibble at his hand.

“Tell me – who are you and how do you know my nephew?” he asks, his voice calm and face blank, while he scratches the horse’s forehead.

“I – helped Ezio and his family to escape from Firenze two years ago. I was with them when you and your men came to defend them from the Pazzi boy, maybe you remember me? I was in the area now, so I thought I would stop by to see how Ezio’s doing.”

That earns him a raised eyebrow.

“And why would you risk your life smuggling a wanted man and his family out of the city? He is a stranger to you,” Mario continues, still not looking away from the horse which has now moved on to going through Mario’s pockets in search of treats.

Desmond bites his cheek. 

“I recognised the brotherhood’s symbol on his robes.”

This makes Mario stop and finally look at him.

“You are one of the brotherhood?”

Desmond raises his hand, flicks his wrist and reveals his hidden blade. It earns him a frown, something he wasn't hoping for. 

“So you are the one Paola wrote about. I must say, I find you most strange. I have not received a word about an Assassin being sent here from Spain, France or anywhere else. I know of every member in Italy, yet I do not recognice you."

Well, shit, fuck and fucking hell. What to do, what to do? Desmond comes up with a lie on the spot, knows it's full of holes, and goes with it anyway. He uses the Arabic he picked up from Altaïr – some he knew from his own mother and her side of the family, but Altaïr’s archaic language fits better – to repeat the fucking catchphrase of the Assassins, then makes up a formal greeting that he hopes would fit Mario’s station in the same language and bows before switching back to Italian. 

"My name is Desmond. I am on a mission to collect our great mentor Altaïr’s codex which was brought to Italy by the Polos centuries ago. It is an honor to meet you, Signor Auditore."

He doesn’t dare straighten himself or even glance up at Mario who is studying him in silence. Desmond stays there, bowed, for a nerve-racking moment until Mario makes a pleased enough sound in his throat.

"Your Italian is excellent, I have to say. I would not have realized that you were from overseas had you not admitted to it,” Mario chuckles and lays a heavy hand on his shoulder. Desmond decides to take the gesture as the subtle threat it is. He hasn’t offered Mario any concrete proof yet – the leader of the brotherhood is going to keep an eye on him as long as Desmond is near his young nephew. “So it is Desmond, your name? It does not sound very Arabic."

Oh, shit.

"Ah, no. My father is English.” His father is very much not English, and Desmond is an Irish name if he remembers right, but Mario doesn’t know that. And Altaïr's wife Maria was English, and so was Haytham, so there is at least some semblance of truth in this. And if it comes to that, he can borrow Haytham’s accent if Mario wants to hear his English. How much can accents change in two hundred years anyway?

Luckily, Mario accepts this easily enough.

“My nephew knows you are of our brotherhood?”

Desmond quickly nods, his gaze wandering to where Ezio is talking with the mercenaries Mario has brought with him. 

“Good.” Mario hums, then starts steering him towards the city walls while Desmond tugs his long sleeve more securely over his right hand and lets his cape fall off his shoulder to hide his arm. “Come. First we bring down the Pazzi boy, then we discuss your mission.” 

Mario sends Ezio to the rooftops with throwing knives and a mission to kill Vieri de' Pazzi, and orders Desmond to fight alongside the mercenaries. He clearly wants to put Desmond’s skills to the test, to see if he is the fighter he claims to be. So Desmond checks the sword he stole in 1476 and still has with him, and goes with Mario's men instead of following Ezio onto the rooftops even though that would have been his first instinct.

He fights alongside Mario's men and is surprised to notice that he fits right in. Guess he has fought alongside them often enough as Ezio for something to catch. He keeps an eye out for the shadow on the rooftops and a few times notices the quick glimmer of Ezio’s throwing knives flying in the night. The guards go down without a sound, and Ezio is but a shadow passing over them as he heads towards the guard tower. 

Desmond is not there to hear the Templars' plot or to see Vieri die. He waits on the ground with the men, creating a distraction, while Ezio sneaks into the tower with Mario following close behind. But when the Auditores come back down again, the deed done, Ezio drags himself back to Desmond, covered in blood and with a tired grin on his face. None of it seems to be his own, Desmond notes with relief.

“You have some on your face,” he says and points out the spot on his own face.  

“Ah.” Ezio wipes the smudge off and just stares at his bloodied fingers for a while. “Uncle did not know you.”

“I am not from Italy. I haven’t been in Italy since we last met – he has no reason to know me.”

The corner of Ezio’s mouth tenses, his brows slightly furrow, but when Desmond holds Ezio’s gaze, not looking away until Ezio does, the suspicion melts away.

Desmond pulls his own hood over his head and waves a hand towards the gate of the city. They walk side by side, Ezio lost in thought and Desmond studying him. 

“Did you see those men with Vieri, the Templars?” Ezio asks when they come to stand under the arch of the gate leading out of the city. “And the Spaniard – that man is responsible for the death of my father and brothers.”

“I know of them, yeah. You plan to go after them?”

Ezio’s mouth is a tight line as he looks towards the horizon.

“Yes. They are plotting something, in Firenze, and we cannot let them go through with whatever it is. I must go back.”

“So you’re not leaving for Spain then?” Desmond asks and gives the other a sidelong glance. Apparently history likes to stick to its course.

Ezio falters in his strides, his breath halted in his throat, before shrugging the realization off.

“There are other ships to Spain, but there might be only this one chance to stop this Templar plot.”

It is a warm pride that blooms in Desmond’s chest.

“Spoken like an Assassin, you know,” he offers with a grin. 

“I do not know about that,” Ezio mutters, looking away from him again. “Would you come with me to Firenze, or do you have to mysteriously disappear to God knows where again?”

Okay, yeah, he kinda deserved that.

“I’ll be in Firenze.”

Desmond sends the Auditores on their way with his borrowed horse back towards Monteriggioni and tells them he will follow shortly after checking out a few leads for the codex pages, grimly aware of the fact that he very rarely saw Ezio travel back to the Villa after an assassination and that the Gray must be lurking around the corner. Mario is happy to accept the flimsy excuse as he is eager to finally uncover the secrets of the codex, and Ezio is too wrapped up in his vengeance plots to really pay Desmond’s reasons too much attention.

Not long after, the stars above him blacken out as the Gray creeps over the sky and swallows him, and then just as fast as the darkness fell, the sun finds him again, harsh in its brightness. He is staring at the gates of Monteriggioni when he was just a few seconds ago watching the twilight in San Gimignano, a couple of dozen miles to the north-west.

This is stupid, that’s what this is.

Blinking and disoriented, Desmond first intends to head towards the villa, then thinks better of it. He changes his course and slinks through the narrow alleys towards one of the codex pages he knows has been hidden in Monteriggioni. Considering how much lying he has been doing, throwing paper-thin excuses at everything and everyone, he should really start to back them up with something. Appearing at the villa with a codex page when he said he would go find one would be a start.

Nobody pays him any attention apart from a few of the mercenaries who wave their greetings at him when he crosses their paths on the main street. The villagers barely glance at him, and nobody stops him when he climbs the steps up to the villa and pushes the front door open.

The foyer is quiet. His steps echo on the stone floor as he makes his way through the dim room – some of the windows are still boarded up, and light cuts through the dark space in bright beams. Floating dust is like glitter in the air. 

“You are back.”

Desmond turns around slowly to meet Claudia’s demanding gaze. She stands at the top of the stairs, looking down at him with her arms crossed over her chest. 

“Hello, Claudia,” he says weakly.

“I think that’s Signorina Auditore to you, you – you coward,” she huffs and sneers in a very un-ladylike manner. “What do you think you were doing, sneaking off like that without saying goodbye?”

Desmond sighs, his shoulders sagging. Yet another Auditore he has managed to piss off. 

“I am sorry, signorina,” he says and feels like a parrot. “As I said to your brother, some things came up. It wasn’t really my choice.”

She stares him down her nose and clicks her tongue.

“And why are you here?”

“I have a meeting with your brother and uncle.”

Her cheeks flush with anger, and Desmond gets the vague feeling she would like to kick something when she keeps tapping her foot against the floor. 

“Ah! So you get invited to their meetings. Good for you! Whatever was your name anyway?” she snarls and spins around, a whirlwind of skirts. She stomps away and leaves Desmond to stand there and stare after her. He massages his neck, sighing deeply, and tugs on his shirt to straighten it. He feels like the worst brother in the world – and nope, not his thought, not his sister, not his problem right now.

He goes to find Claudia’s brother and stops at the doorway to Mario’s office to see Ezio and Mario there, studying the codex wall.

“Ah, Desmond, you are here already. Good,” Mario says and waves his hand to invite him in. “Come, you should hear this too.”

Ezio, sitting on the corner of his uncle’s desk, looks up from Leonardo’s first translation to flash a smile at Desmond before returning his attention to Altaïr's codex.

“We have been discussing our plans to stop the Templar plot. I will send Ezio to Firenze, and he has told me you would be willing to join him,” Mario says, bringing his hands together. “But first – did you happen to come across any more pages in San Gimignano?”

Desmond tosses the scroll on the desk. It rolls over the surface and gently bumps against Ezio’s thigh.

“Yeah, I think I can spare some time to go to Firenze,” he says with a grin and meets Ezio’s just as excited eyes.

“Splendid. I still have some Assassin contacts in the city, I will tell you where to find them. We must gain the upper hand in this, the Templars cannot be allowed to proceed with their plans. And as to what comes to the codex pages,” Mario says and gestures at the mostly empty wall behind him, “as you can see, we unfortunately do not possess very many of them. My brother and I hunted some in our youth and managed to translate a few, but most of them are still missing. I was planning to send Ezio to find more, but I suppose I would now have the two of you two joining forces in this.” 

“I can do that,” Desmond agrees and looks to Ezio who nods in agreement. Mario looks between the two of them before continuing.

“If and when the pages are all back together again, we will of course give them to you, Desmond, to be taken back to where they belong. But we would very much like to hear what is written on them first. Is that agreeable?”

Desmond of course agrees to this. The hunt for the codex pages will also give him a cover story for his future disappearances.

“There is some kind of map on the pages,” Ezio says suddenly and pushes himself off the desk, his eyes flashing golden as he stares at the codex wall and walks over to lay a hand on the wall.

“Yes. They were written a long time ago by an Assassin like us,” Mario says and takes the scroll with Leonardo’s translation from the desk where Ezio forgot it. “He was called Altaïr and he held a Piece of Eden, a powerful artifact not of this world. He has written a prophecy on these pages, telling us of something ancient hidden beneath the land. We need all the pages to uncover his secret.”

Ezio looks from his uncle to the codex pages with a slightly questioning expression on his face, then glances at Desmond to see his reaction. His gaze falls quickly – Desmond’s right hand twitches when he realizes what Ezio is looking at.

“What do you mean by an artifact not of this world?” 

Mario pins the codex page on the wall.

“Well, according to the legends, the artifact has the power to command human beings to the user’s will, to create illusions and even bolts of lightning. But I do not know how much that is just hearsay and embellishment – it does sound so very fantastical,” he says while taking a step back and admiring his handiwork with a hand on his chin. “Desmond, does your brotherhood have more knowledge about the secret weapon of your legendary mentor? Do you know of these Pieces of Eden?”

Considering Ezio still hasn’t looked away from his hand and the glistening golden lines on it, Desmond might just as well admit to it. He is not going to get a better chance to start dropping hints that he is not entirely what he seems. He just didn’t remember Mario knew about the Pieces this early on.

He pushes his sleeve back and raises his hand so that Mario turns to look at it as well.

“I have used one. This is the cost.”

Mario takes a few tentative steps forward, his hand reaching out.

“You have – Where did you – This is marvelous!” He wraps his hand around Desmond’s wrist, brushing a coarse thumb against one of the golden lines. “I have never seen anything like this. Tell me, are the legends true? Do the Pieces truly have the power to bend minds?”

“They are all true,” Desmond says and curls his fingers into a fist. Mario’s hand around his wrist falls slack. “The Pieces of Eden are more dangerous than you can imagine, and they are what the Templars are after.”

“And the codex pages reveal the location of one such artifact? Is that why you are after them? You hunt these Pieces of Eden for your brotherhood, do you not?”

Desmond nods, and Mario finally lets go of him and takes a step back, tilting his head.

“And what of the one that did this to you?”

“It’s gone. Nobody can find or use it anymore. The only one we have to worry about right now is the one Altaïr writes about in his prophecy.”

Ezio, who has been silent this entire time, looks from the codex wall to Desmond. His gaze once again flies to Desmond’s arm, but then he turns his eyes from it almost immediately, like it burns him to look at it. And yet he is glancing at it again not long after.

“What was it, the Piece of Eden? What are we looking for?” he asks in a quiet voice. “If it truly is that powerful, how come nobody has heard of it?”

Desmond pushes his sleeve back even more, to show how far the golden lines go, just above his elbow where the strange coloration ends.

“Most of the Pieces I’ve heard of or seen are golden metal spheres, slightly bigger than my fist. They have these lines, exactly like the ones I have on my arm, covering them. We call them the Apples of Eden.”

“Where was the one you used? How did you find it? Could its location give us a hint of where to find the next one?” Mario asks and cuts off whatever Ezio was about to say.

“Well, the ones I know of have usually been hidden in some kinds of vaults beneath the earth. Their architecture is something different – you will know when you’re in one. And the vaults are sealed, and they almost have a mind of their own. They only let some people in.”

“And you have been allowed in?”

Desmond lets out a dry chuckle.

“Yeah, I was. Guess I’m lucky.”

Ezio, still staring at Desmond in silence, is startled out of his thoughts when Mario slams a hand on his shoulder.

“Nephew, we are lucky to have Desmond here with us. Now, for the first time in years, I feel that we might have a chance of uncovering the secrets of the codex. Surely, Desmond, you raise our chance of getting into these vaults you spoke of.”

“I hope so. But the Templar plot is probably something we have to deal with first.”

“True. Come, boys, it’s time for some scheming of our own. And let us see if we can find Desmond a glove or something to cover that hand – we do not want the Templars to snatch you away from us.”

Chapter Text

Desmond spins around, throws Ezio over his shoulder in a move he learned from Ezio himself and points his sword at the boy now sprawled all over sand and gravel. 

Ezio sits up slowly, spits sand out of his mouth and tries to dust it off his hair. Holding his already bruised side, he hisses a pained curse under his breath and glares up at Desmond.

“How do you keep doing that?”

Desmond grins and lowers the blade to offer Ezio his hand to pull him up instead. 

“I had a good teacher. And years of practice.”

Ezio ignores the hand and pushes himself back on his feet, brushing more sand and dirt from his clothes before raising his own sword towards Desmond.

“Again.”

“You sure? We have been at this for quite a while now.”

“Again.”

Desmond sighs, drops into his fighting stance and waits for Ezio to attack.

They left Monteriggioni this morning, after Ezio kissed his statue-like mother goodbye and bickered with Claudia because yes, she has to do something with the villa while he is gone whether she wants to or not. Desmond had packed all the newly-found codex pages to be taken to Leonardo while Mario had shown the slightly confused Ezio the sanctuary beneath the villa and asked him to bring back any seals he could find.

Desmond had spent the whole day with cold sweat running down his spine, waiting for the Gray to snatch him up. But as he waited for Ezio to finish his business with the tailor and blacksmith back in town, and then stood by and watched the boy spend a good while climbing every other church tower they came across or drag himself up some ancient ruins to collect a feather for the memory of his dead little brother, Desmond hesitantly let himself relax. If he was to be jolted forward in time, it would have happened already, right?

Maybe there is some kind of a fucked up logic behind all of this. 

So far the pattern of his time jumps has been following the moments he lived through in the Animus. He's there for the important parts of Ezio's life, clearly defined moments that have a beginning and an ending. He still sometimes finds himself expecting to get a notification from the Animus about his synchronization going up because of a completed mission.

But there were a lot of in-the-between parts as well, in the Animus. He had spent hours as Ezio, helping people in the cities of Italy, collecting feathers for Maria, getting this and that for all sorts of errands. That had to have spanned over weeks and months in real time, in Ezio's time.

This is apparently one of those free roam parts, as Rebecca liked to call them. Desmond has been with Ezio the whole way from Monteriggioni, and he really hopes he gets to stay for the rest of the journey instead of just suddenly finding himself in Firenze on a wholly different day. He would really rather be here, on the side of a road at their little campfire. 

On horseback, they made the journey much faster than last time, and the city and its fires are already a bright star on the horizon. They’ll reach it tomorrow.

Once they had unsaddled the horses and got the fire going, Ezio had stood by the flames, curling and uncurling the fingers of his sword hand, and glanced at him. Desmond had already been studying him and this nervous behavior and now met his gaze which made the boy look away immediately, his ponytail whipping against his neck. 

“Would you train with me?” Ezio had asked with his arms crossed and gaze locked to the fire.

Of course Desmond said yes.

Ezio’s uncle has turned him into a warrior in the year and a half Desmond skipped over, but there are things Mario, in his mid-forties and as an aging leader of a comfortable fortress, isn't best suited for. And there are things Mario couldn't possibly know – things Desmond has learned through the Animus from his ancestors, three master Assassins and one Templar Grandmaster. 

He can’t pour all that knowledge accumulated over a hundred years in the poor boy’s head all at once, in one evening, but he can start to push Ezio towards a lighter way of moving, of speed and agility, instead of the more grounded and bulky stance he has learned from Mario. It really does not do good things to Desmond’s brain that out of the two of them, he is currently the one moving more like the Ezio he knows from the Animus.

Ezio’s sword clangs against the ground after Desmond sends it flying, then he knocks Ezio’s feet from under him with a well-timed sweep of his leg. The boy hits the ground ass first, out of breath, then he is pushing himself up to his feet again, his ears and cheeks red with exertion and anger and humiliation. He brushes sweaty hair from his forehead, looks anywhere but at Desmond, and then goes to pick up his sword while rubbing his wrist he must have hit going down.

“Uncle tells me you are from the Levant,” he begins as an obvious distraction, his back to Desmond, “yet your Italian is perfect. How did you learn it?”

Desmond leans on his sword and massages his neck, studying Ezio’s tense posture.

“My… my mentor, I guess I could call him that. He was from Italy,” he says with a small smile on his lips. “He had many years to teach me his language, along with his fighting skills.”

His interest piqued, Ezio looks at him over his shoulder, his brows furrowed just slightly.

“And he was an Assassin like you, this mentor of yours?”

“Yeah. Or well, we can’t really be spoken about in the same sentence. He was the leader of his brotherhood, a master assassin, and I’m just me. I joined only recently – okay, yeah, I was born into a brotherhood and raised to become an Assassin, but I didn't understand any of it until…” he lets his words die out with a chuckle, which makes Ezio give him a puzzled look. Desmond shrugs and waves his hand. “Well, it's a long story, and it doesn’t really matter."

Ezio frowns. His gaze is sharp, almost cutting.

“Your mentor is the one that made you believe in whatever it is you Assassins preach, did he not? In your… creed?” 

“He and a couple others, but sure.”

Something shifts in Ezio’s tone, in the way he stands.

“And is he the one that told you about these Pieces of Eden?” 

“I wouldn’t have found them without him.”

“I see.” Ezio breathes in through his nose. “You sound fond of him.”

You have no idea.

“He was the best man I’ve ever known.”

Ezio’s mouth falls slightly open, his shoulders slipping from the nobleman’s posture.

“I am sorry, I did not realize he was – The way you talk about him, he is… gone?”

“You could say that, yeah,” Desmond breathes out, not knowing whether to give into the grief clawing at his innards or laugh at the absurdity of who is asking that question. What he ends up with is a bittersweet smile. “You know, you're a lot like him.”

Ezio blinks, then stifles a surprised laugh.

“How so?”

Desmond raises his hand to his chin as if he has to think hard about it, a grin unabashedly free on his lips.

“Well, to start with, you’re both stubborn like a mule and have an ego the size of your head and – “

It ends with Ezio elbowing him in the side and trying to sneakily sweep him off his feet, which turns into Desmond grabbing him by the shoulders, ruffling Ezio’s hair to mess it up while Ezio kicks and half hisses, half laughs out insults, and tossing the brat once again on the ground. With the wind knocked out of him, Ezio lies on his back, one hand over his stomach, not really sure whether he is supposed to glare at Desmond or laugh with him, so he does a bit of both.

“I do not like you, Assassin.” Ezio huffs out a breathy chuckle and points a finger at Desmond. “There is not a mercenary in my uncle’s forces I have not beaten, and yet I can barely lay a finger on you.”

“Someone’s gotta keep you in check, or else that ego of yours will grow even bigger than it already is,” Desmond laughs and offers Ezio a hand yet again.

Ezio doesn’t take it immediately – he eyes it warily from his position on the ground, one knee up, one hand resting on his still heaving chest, his long hair now loose and framing his head like a halo. 

“I swear I’m not going to throw you again,” Desmond says and keeps holding out the hand. 

And eventually, after squinting his eyes at him, Ezio takes it and lets Desmond hoist him up.

The jumping in time fucks up his sleep schedule like nothing else. It feels like he just managed to fall asleep when he is woken up by Ezio shaking his shoulder. 

“Come on, we need to go.”

“ – I’m awake, I’m awake” Desmond mumbles with his eyes closed. “Just five more minutes.”

A sigh.

“I cannot understand you when you speak Arabic, Desmond.”

Desmond blinks his eyes open, trying to shield them from the rising sun with his hand, and sheepishly smiles at Ezio. It takes a few tries to figure out which language he is supposed to be using.

“Did I? Oops, sorry.”

“Just get up.”

The first thing they do once they get into the city is to go to see Leonardo and have the codex pages decrypted. Leonardo surprises Ezio with another hidden blade, and in the codex Altaïr writes of assassination techniques that Ezio picks up almost immediately. He decimates a few dummies in Leonardo’s backyard while Desmond watches him practice, making a few suggestions and corrections. Ezio seems almost annoyed when Desmond’s advice works to improve technique. But he is happy to gloat over having two hidden blades when Desmond has only one, so Desmond shoves the brat into the closest haystack which only makes Ezio laugh, his hair full of hay.

The rest of the day they spend combing through the city for any rumors or whispers, either of Francesco de’ Pazzi or La Volpe whom Leonardo told them about. They separate to cover more ground, but it does not do any good for Desmond’s brain to be alone in the busy streets of Firenze, with a hood covering his head and a hidden blade heavy on his arm. Without Ezio there to keep his identity crisis in check he isn’t sure who he is half the time. A glance at a nearby window doesn’t really help either, as all he sees from below the hood are scarred lips and the sword at his side, glistening in the sun. 

Ezio was right when he called Desmond mad.

While he is flickering between letting Ezio’s memories Bleed into his thoughts – Oh, how he has missed the city,  the shops, the palazzos, the smell of freshly baked bread, the coy smiles from pretty girls – and fighting to keep his own tired consciousness at the helm, he pickpockets any guards he comes across, hoping to get some money to buy armor or weapons of his own. Ezio has given him some more of his old clothes as well as some that he found from the attic of the villa, from Giovanni’s youth – Desmond has kept the monk’s satchel and carries the spare sets there so they should travel in time with him – but at some point someone is bound to notice if the borrowed things are the only ones he wears. He splurges a little and even finds himself a better balanced sword to replace the one he stole back in 1476.

In the end, it really doesn’t matter to the guards which one of the men in Desmond’s head does the stealing.

He collects a couple of codex pages as well and stashes them in his satchel, beneath all his clothes to hide them as well as he can. It will help to have a few at hand after the next big jump, to make up for his absence. If he was to hand them in now, it would only be suspicious. Mario and Giovanni looked for them for decades, and then Desmond arrives and finds a few in a matter of days? Yeah, right. 

He has wandered around for a few hours, checking out the places where he knows some more codex pages are held and passing out a few coins to thieves and courtesans to start building a network for Ezio, when he stumbles into La Volpe. The leader of the thieves just suddenly is there, not five feet from him, for all intents and purposes looking like he is studying the fish on the market stall while subtly keeping a critical eye on Desmond. Desmond is proud of the fact he manages to keep himself from twitching in surprise.

“I hear you are one of us,” La Volpe says in a low voice and raises his gaze to meet Desmond’s. Nobody is surprised that he is able to single Desmond out from a crowd without having ever seen him before. Or no, he or one of his thieves must have seen Desmond with Ezio.

“Mario sent you a word?” 

“He did. He wrote of your mission to find the codex pages. And to guide his nephew. I am told young Ezio is not yet of a mind to join us and that a more subtle approach is needed.”

Desmond makes a non-committal noise in his throat, waves his hand vaguely, and only then remembers that La Volpe is supposed to be a complete stranger to him. He yanks his hand back, crosses his arms a bit too fast for it to look natural and nods at La Volpe.

“I’m Desmond, but you probably already knew that.”

“I am called many things, but you may call me La Volpe,” he says with a small nod of his own. “Mario has asked me to give you any assistance you might require. 

“Thanks, really.” Desmond lowers his voice. “Do you have any eyes on the Templars yet?”

“I have men tracking them as we speak.”

For a moment, Desmond wonders if he should tell La Volpe to warn the Medici family, or at least hint that he suspects the Templars might be after them. But how to explain how he knows to suspect that? And how much he dares to intervene – what small change is the one that will fuck up the history as he knows it?

“Great. Hey, um, when you find out where they are meeting, could you let Ezio know? Let him be the one to find them and not me?”

One corner of La Volpe’s mouth curves with a sly smile.

“Ah, yes. Of course,” he drawls and turns to look over the marketplace, tapping a finger against his chin. “Let us see how I can help him.” His voice turns so quiet it is barely a whisper. “Now, you tell me something. Is it true you have touched a Piece of Eden?

His sharp gaze returns back to Desmond who glances around before lifting his glove just enough to reveal a patch of the black and gold skin on his wrist. 

It is one of the few times Desmond has seen genuine surprise in the man’s eyes. La Volpe hides most of his astonishment well, and what little he cannot rein in, Desmond notices mostly because he has known the man for decades – but La Volpe’s breath does twitch and his hands quiver slightly when he reaches out towards the unnatural inlays on Desmond’s skin. 

“It is good to have you here, brother,” he whispers, his gaze drawn to the handiwork of Those Who Came Before, then he pulls himself together with a firm nod, the unemotional mask of a spymaster falling back onto his face. 

Desmond yanks his glove back to cover his wrist. 

“I don’t suppose you have eyes on Ezio right now?”

La Volpe gives him a toothy grin.

“Of course. You will find him near the church of Santa Trinita.”

Desmond turns to look at the direction La Volpe pointed at and doing so gives the spy master the chance to disappear as silently as he appeared. Chuckling to himself, Desmond heads off to find Ezio.

The busy streets of early afternoon are buzzing with life as Desmond makes his way across the city. He finds Ezio standing in the middle of a street, staring up at the church he climbed with his brother almost two years ago.

Desmond walks over with a quiet “Hey” before touching a hand on Ezio’s shoulder. “Are you alright?”

Ezio nods, tugs his cape to better cover his sword, then meets his eyes.

“I am fine. Have you found anything?”

“I met one of Mario’s contacts. He’ll let us know when he finds out anything. You?”

Ezio shakes his head and starts walking away from the church, telling Desmond about what he has been up to – scouting around only to hear a rumor or two here and there, loitering around the Pazzi properties in hopes of catching a glimpse of the Templars, but nothing concrete. 

They haven’t got far, discussing their plans, when they turn around a corner and find a familiar street. Ezio’s steps falter. A stupid, wishful smile appears on his lips, and suddenly he is gone, leaving Desmond to gape at his receding back.

“Where are you going?” Desmond gasps and jogs after Ezio who has already reached the end of the street and has stopped to study the wall he is standing next to.

“Cristina,” he says as if that explains everything and backs a few steps to get a running start – and then he is off, scaling the wall. 

“Oh.” Desmond stares at him awkwardly, not knowing what to do with himself now as he is certainly not going to follow Ezio up there. Then he tries to remember which visit to Cristina this might be – it has to be some of the early stuff he had seen only when they had been going through Ezio’s Rome days, for some reason. Repressed memories or something like that. Though it is no wonder why Ezio would want to hide them deep in his heart, considering how they end. “Hey, I’m not sure if that’s such a good idea – “

But Ezio disappears through the open window, and Desmond. Will not. Follow him. No thank you.

Soon Cristina screams, then the muffled sounds of their hurried conversation float in the wind while Desmond stands there, leaning against the wall to look less suspicious, arms crossed over his chest. 

It doesn’t take long before Cristina’s friends appear to tell them that Cristina’s fiancé is getting himself beaten up because of his gambling debts not far from here, and Cristina pretty much pushes Ezio out of the window to send him to deal with it. 

And so they go, to beat up the people that are beating up Ezio’s girlfriend Cristina’s fiancé. 

Ezio looks… so many things when they make their way through the city. Elated. Upset. Lost. Hopeless. Hopelessly in love in a way only a teenager can be. 

“So,” Desmond begins tentatively when it seems Ezio needs some help getting his thoughts sorted out, “you met Cristina again.”

Ezio glances at him, a wounded look on his face.

“She is engaged,” he says, perhaps more to himself than Desmond, as they jog through the streets. He seems almost surprised that he is sharing this with him. “She will marry someone else, and I am left to save her… fiancé.” He spits out the last word like it tastes foul in his mouth. 

“I’m sorry.”

“It has been almost two years,” Ezio says in a tone that betrays how angry he is, mostly at himself for daring to hope. “But I thought… I do not know what I thought.” He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching, and it breaks Desmond’s heart all over again. It hurts more sharply this time, when he knows that Ezio will love her for the next twenty years, then continue to grieve for her for at least another thirteen. 

Desmond doesn’t know how much of that shows on his face because Ezio throws a glance at him, frowns and picks up the pace, forcing Desmond to hurry to keep up with him.

They hear the thugs’ threats and Manfredo’s pleas for mercy long before they arrive at the half-constructed bridge where Cristina’s new fiancé is on his knees, making excuses for his gambling debts – Ezio mutters curses under his breath and for a moment looks like he would like nothing more than to turn around and walk away. 

“This is what she chose?” he asks through gritted teeth, then he launches himself at the thugs. Desmond expects him to be a hurricane, ferocious and bloody, but the boy is almost clinically cold and methodological in his anger as he takes the men down one by one. Desmond has barely managed to knock a couple of the thugs unconscious by the time Ezio has finished and grabbed Manfredo by the front of his shirt and nearly pushed him off the pier and into the river below.

“Do you love her?” he growls into Manfredo’s already pale face which is getting even whiter by the minute. To his ever growing misfortune, the poor guy seems to have no idea who Ezio is talking about, and it only makes Ezio push him further off the pier. “ Cristina! Do you love her?”

“Yes, yes! Please do not drop me!” Manfredo screams and grabs Ezio’s arm, trying to somehow pull himself back onto dry land. “Of course I love her!”

Ezio is supposed to threaten Manfredo some more, then let the bastard go. 

That’s what he is supposed to do.

What he actually does is violently flick the wrist of his free hand to bring out the hidden blade and thrust it towards Manfredo, stopping the blade less than an inch from the soft flesh under the man’s chin. 

“I could kill you right now. I could kill you, tell her I was too late to save you, and marry her myself. Do you understand?”

Desmond steps towards them, a hand reached out.

“Ezio – “

“Do you understand?” Ezio is shouting now. The hand he is clutching Manfredo’s tunic with shakes with effort. 

“Yes!” Manfredo snivels, almost screaming. He is holding onto Ezio’s arm for dear life. “Please, Signore, please just let me go, I swear I will – “

Ezio’s arm twitches. The metal pressed against Manfredo’s neck gleams in the sunlight, and for a moment Desmond fears Ezio might go through with his threat. 

Then Ezio yanks Manfredo back on the half-constructed bridge and tosses him down at his feet. The hidden blade is still pointed at the now kneeling man. Ezio nearly spits the next words at him.

“If you ever hurt her – if anything ever happens to her – I will find you and I will end you.” 

With that, he spins around and walks away. 

Desmond, with his own heart thundering in his chest, looks back to Manfredo to give Ezio a minute to collect himself. He does not offer to help Manfredo back to his feet.

“The gambling had better stop for good,” he says, his voice calmer and more level than he feels, when Manfredo makes the mistake of looking at him for pity. 

“Yes – Yes, of course, I swear,” Manfredo hurries to promise, giving him a wide berth as he stumbles to circle around Desmond to get back to solid ground. Desmond manages to grab his arm anyway, and holds him in place.

“Twenty years from now, there will be riots in the city,” he says in a low voice and yanks on Manfredo’s arm when the man tries to escape. “When they start, you can’t wait. You have to leave the city with Cristina and keep her safe. She will die if she stays. Do you understand me?”

Manfredo looks at him like he very much does not understand, but by now the man knows when to agree to save his skin. He nods furiously and turns around on his feet and runs away the second Desmond lets go of him.

Rubbing his temples, Desmond sighs and goes to see where Ezio disappeared off to. They’d better get out of here as soon as they can – he is surprised if nobody has alerted the guards after all that. 

It’s the third alley he peeks into that is hiding Ezio. He has pressed one hand over his mouth, slumped his back against a wall, and he sniffs a breath when he notices Desmond there. Before Desmond can get a word out, Ezio has squinted his eyes at him, the skin at the corners of his eyes glistening.

“I am fine.”

“Okay.”

“I do not want to talk about this.”

“That’s alright too. Do you want to leave?”

Ezio pushes himself off the wall and marches down the alley without a word. Desmond doesn’t comment on it when Ezio heads back the same way they came, towards Cristina. 

They run into her soon enough, literally – she has come out to see what became of her men, her fiancé and the boy she loves, and stumbles onto their path. Ezio grabs her by the arm, twirls her around and is kissing her before Desmond has the time to blink in surprise. 

He stares at the teenagers in love for two seconds, confused, before he realizes what he is doing and turns away. He scrunches his eyes closed and is so close to just holding his hands over his ears because he doesn’t want anything to do with this – his life is weird enough as it is. 

He steps away from them, to keep an eye out in case someone might walk in on them. It doesn’t prevent him from hearing what Ezio has to say to her. 

“Cristina, I – let me say it this once and then I will never bring it up again if you do not want me to.“ 

Desmond glances over his shoulder to see Ezio hold both of Cristina’s hands in his and softly stroke the back of her hand with his thumb. “I have bought passage on a ship to Spain. We might still make it if we leave now. Please, Cristina, come with me. We could leave all of this behind and start over there, get married, have a life together – ”

She bursts into tears.

“Ezio, I want to, more than anything but – I cannot, I am sorry I – “

Desmond tries not to listen to them – tries to focus on the street in front of him, on the fact that he has managed to change Ezio who was supposed to bow out of the competition, take on his father’s work and accept the fact he can’t bring a wife and family into his life as long as he spends it as an Assassin. Not this.

Ezio’s voice trembles only a little when he speaks next.

“I understand.” He brings her hands up to his chest and rests them over his heart. The words radiate with how much he doesn’t understand, how much he wants to tell her how worthless a husband Manfredo will be. “Your family is here. And your fiancé.”

“He lives? Where is he?” Cristina looks past Ezio, expecting to see Manfredo hiding somewhere behind him, and stares at Desmond in dumbfounded confusion, only now realizing he is there, before glancing back at Ezio. “Who is that? No, wait. I know him.”

“That is Desmond,” Ezio huffs and throws a glare at Desmond’s way. “He is not important right now. And yes, your Manfredo lives.”

“Excuse you,” Desmond mutters under his breath, rolling his eyes.

Cristina takes a step back from Ezio while still holding onto his hand, her knuckles white.

“I have to go to find him.” Her voice shakes. She looks up at Ezio, wiping tears from her eyes. “I did not wish it to be like this. I am sorry. ”

“Do not be.” Ezio brushes his fingers against her cheek.

Her breath hitches.

“Goodbye, Ezio.”

She backs away, squeezing his hand once before letting go. 

Ezio is still reaching out towards her when she disappears behind the corner. Slowly, he curls his fingers into a fist, one by one, barely breathing.

Then he slams the fist against the wall.

“Do not follow me.”

Desmond lets him go. 

When the setting sun is painting Firenze with soft shades of orange and pink, one of La Volpe’s thieves brings Desmond the news that the Templars are on the move. 

La Volpe is pointing out the entrance to the catacombs to Ezio when Desmond arrives. The spy master meets his gaze over Ezio’s crouched form, then shoos them both towards the tunnel entrance.

Ezio stays silent the entire journey as they crawl through the catacombs, finding their way towards the church. Desmond keeps glancing at his tense back and opening his mouth to ask if he is alright, but each time he means to do it, Ezio does something that betrays how on edge he is – clenches his jaw with what looks like enough force to break his teeth, glances over his shoulder with the Eagle vision glowing bright in his eyes and just looks right through Desmond, kills a Templar guard and moves onto the next one without even stopping to lay the first man on the ground – so Desmond lets it be. 

When they find the passage with the small opening into the crypt below, the empty room tells Desmond they are early.

Perhaps due to meeting Desmond, La Volpe showed Ezio the secret path early. Maybe it took them less time to make it through the catacomb because Desmond knew the way and remembered where the traps were. Either way, there are no Templars making nefarious plans against the Medicis in the empty crypt just yet.

After a glance at each other, they sit down to wait and lean against the cold stone wall, one on each side of the opening.

Ezio’s voice, hoarse and quiet, echoes in the cold and damp passage.

“So Templars and Assassins,” he sighs and pulls his hood back and lets it pool at his neck. He rubs his forehead before leaning his head back against the wall. “What a world I have found myself in.”

“Not very keen on dealing with mysterious secret societies and cults, are we?” Desmond chuckles in just as quiet a voice while angling himself to peer down into the crypt.

“Since you asked, no. No, I would rather have my old life back if I could, be blind to all of this.”

Desmond glances at him, his own brows raised at the odd tone in Ezio’s voice, but doesn’t make a comment. Shadows swallow half of Ezio’s face – it’s hard to read him, as familiar as his expressions might be. 

“Tell me of them, your Assassins. To pass the time,” Ezio says then, his eyes now finding Desmond’s. “Uncle has told me many things, but he is so eager to get me to join that in every other breath he praises the brotherhood to the heavens and reminds me how I should follow in my father's footsteps. I doubt the Assassins are quite the messiahs he paints them out to be."

Oh, crap.

"I'm not sure I'm the best person to ask if you still want to join afterwards,” Desmond offers with an awkward laugh.  

“All the more reason to ask. How did you become an Assassin? What made you join? Was it that mentor of yours?”

“Uh, not really. He came later. Or well, this is really complicated, like I told you.”

Ezio gestures at the empty crypt.

“We have time.”

Desmond slumps against the wall with a sigh and tries to think where to begin.

“Okay, so, I was born to the Mentor of our brotherhood, and I guess my Dad was… a better leader than he was a father. I was trained to be an Assassin pretty much from when I could walk, and Dad didn’t make it easy for me. We lived away from pretty much anyone, had no contact with the outside world – and yeah, I know, it sounds kinda like a cult now that I say it aloud. It kinda was.” He chuckles, not really because he finds it funny but he doesn’t know how else to deal with it.

“All we kids knew of the Templars were these horror stories. They were horrible and evil, and we were supposed to fight them and stop them from taking over the world, but we were never really told why. No one gave any reason for it. if you asked about the reasons why we were training or hunting Templars, questioned any of it, it… it didn’t end well. So I never believed in any of it.” 

Desmond picks at the scar on his lip as he stares at the darkness around them.

“Nothing I ever did was enough for Dad.”

He glances at Ezio and finds him looking at Desmond’s hand. No, the scar underneath.

“Did he give you that?” Ezio asks after a hesitant silence.

Desmond covers the twitch of his mouth with a smile.

“I was sixteen when I ran away. I couldn’t take it anymore. And I was gone for almost ten years. Until I was captured by Templars, and well, they had this fucked up plan that had to be stopped. Trying to find Pieces of Eden. So I helped the Assassins that got me out and… My mentor I told you about came into the picture and well, the rest is history.” He tries very hard not to giggle at his own joke.

Ezio studies him with pursed lips.

“You do not paint a very flattering picture of the order.”

“Because I told you all the shitty parts. I warned you. No, we aren’t perfect, far from it. Everything we teach and try to do is a paradox. We say people have the right to choose and yet we train kids to become killers. We say we want peace, yet we kill,” Desmond ponders, looking down at his own hidden blade, safely tucked in its sheath. When he looks up, it is to see Ezio stare at him with a slightly alarmed expression on his face.

Jesus, what if he has accidentally managed to scare off Ezio from ever joining the brotherhood?

“Hey, don’t get me wrong. We do a lot of good, and in the end I believe in a lot of this stuff now. I know we fight for peace and freedom and everyone’s right to choose for themselves, and that makes up for a lot. The brotherhood isn’t perfect, but I hope the one you might join one day is better than the one I was born into.” 

“And what makes you think I want any part in this?”

Desmond’s breath gets caught in his throat.

“What?”

“You and uncle both talk as if there is no other destiny for me. That I am supposed to join just because my father was an Assassin. Because you say he was one!” Ezio hisses, slamming his hand on the ground. “And you dare to bring him into this – into this madness! As if he could ever have been part of anything like the cult you were brought up in! Or my uncle – he might belong to a secret brotherhood, but never one such as the one you speak of!”

Oh boy.

“It is not the same – the brotherhoods are different, leaders are different, mine was fucked up but it doesn’t mean your father was – “

“That is not all! You speak of vaults and thunder and bending people’s minds almost in the same breath. You do realize that asking me to believe that is impossible?” Ezio’s eyes gleam with fury, with panic, with desperation. “All of this, it is too much.”

Desmond looks at him, not saying anything.

“I can understand believing in tales – I know my uncle. He is a good man and dear to me, but he… he has his faults. He lives in a rundown villa that underneath it, houses a dungeon filled with statues of killers and an old worn nameless armor that he believes to be legendary and centuries old. He has a whole wall dedicated to an old man’s encrypted ramblings and prophecies he cannot understand.” Ezio looks down at his shaking hands, his chest heaving up and down.

“You don’t believe him?”

“I believe he genuinely believes in them,” Ezio answers after a pause, massaging the wrist he bruised the day before. “But I have not yet seen anything that would prove that any of the magic my uncle speaks of exists beyond his imagination.”

Desmond might have fucked up.

“So you think I’m lying.”

Ezio slowly turns his gaze to him, his head slightly tilted and one eyebrow raised.

“What do I know of you? Nothing, apart from your name which could easily be false, and the fact that you have a blade similar to my father’s. Your only proof that you belong to the Assassin order like my father and uncle, which is really no proof at all,” he growls in a voice that despite its young and high pitch has echoes of the threat it used to carry in Constantinople. “All I know is that you just happen to appear to help me the very same day my old life is torn to pieces, my family executed. Then you disappear conveniently when my uncle, someone I can truly trust, my flesh and blood, finds us and takes us to safety. Then, over a year later, I find you in my home in the middle of the night – your excuse is that you have come to talk to my uncle, yet he has no idea who you are. So no, when you start to feed into his fantasies to get in his good graces, I do not think I believe you. I do not care what you have done to yourself to make your arm look like that, but my first instinct is not to think it was done by a golden sphere that spits out lightning.”

Ezio’s heaving breath is audible in the heavy, damp silence of the catacomb.

“Do you want me to leave?”

Ezio turns away from him. 

“I do not know yet,” he says, his jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tight. “You might follow me anyway if I do. To Monteriggioni, to back home, to wherever I might go after this, and I would be none the wiser to it.”

“I wouldn’t.” And he would not. He would steer clear of Ezio, if that was what he wanted, for the rest of his life, even if the Gray would continue to throw Desmond at him. 

Ezio chuckles.

“Ah, but believing that requires taking you at your word.” His teeth flash white in the dimness of the passage. “What is it that you want from me, anyway? And if you are going to say that you cannot tell me, do not bother. If that is your answer, you can leave.”

Oh, and isn’t that the question? What does he want from Ezio? It knocks the breath out of Desmond’s lungs, makes him hide the fucking Precursor arm behind his back. He has to look away from Ezio and close his eyes, because how can he put into words something he can’t explain even to himself? 

He doesn’t recognize the weak, breathy voice as his own.

“Just you to be safe. That’s all.” 

Ezio swirls around to face Desmond, his cheeks ablaze with anger, his eyes gleaming with the golden light of the Eagle vision. 

“Why?”

Because.

“If this is some Assassin or Templar plot, just tell me. Or of that hidden cult of yours, whoever they are, because that would not surprise me in the slightest anymore. Just tell me and leave me alone. I do not care which you are – I am no Assassin, I am just trying to avenge my family. Once I am done in Firenze, I will be taking my mother and sister to Spain, away from all of this. So you do not need to spy on me.”

“That’s not why I – I’m an Assassin, like I told you, but I – “

“Then why? And do not try to tell me it is because of some misplaced affection. You have known me for what – three or four days.”

Thirty-five years.

Desmond takes a deep breath.

“Despite what you think, what I said about the Pieces of Eden and the codex pages was not meant to make your uncle like me.” Why does he have to keep making up lies? “I have seen Pieces of Eden, and I believe that what Altaïr writes in his codex is true. His prophecy is said to tell of a Prophet. I’ve set out to find that Prophet.” He lets his voice die out, hoping that Ezio will put the pieces together and create the lie for him because, God, he is so tired of this. 

Ezio stares at him before scoffing out a harsh laugh.

“And you believe I am that Prophet?” There is an almost cruel note in his voice. “Do tell me – why on earth would you think that?”

“You have the Gift, like Altaïr is rumored to have had,” he says, full of bullshit, and reminds himself to never use his Eagle vision when Ezio is near. “Your eyes turn golden. You can see things others can’t, right? Altaïr writes that the world turns dark, and people show up as different colors, to indicate whether they are your ally or enemy.” He is pretty sure Altaïr never mentions this in his codex, but Ezio doesn’t know that. Yet.

Ezio freezes.

“That is not – I do not know what you are talking about. My eyes do not turn any colors, this is not some magical fantasy,” he huffs with his arms crossed over his chest, not meeting Desmond’s eyes. “And even if they did, that does not prove that this – “ he makes a vague gesture with his hand, “ – prophecy or the so-called Pieces of Eden are true. One strange phenomenon does not prove the existence of all the others.”

Desmond forces back the urge to smile at the bullheaded denial.

“Well, I’m pretty convinced you’re the Prophet, so I’m going to try to keep you alive, if that’s alright with you. That’s all.”

Ezio breathes in sharply through his nose, his eyes darkening as he measures Desmond with his gaze.

“I do not know if you are truly mad or if this is yet another convenient lie.”

Desmond makes the effort to gesture at him with his right hand, the lines on it catching the little light there is in the tunnel. 

“Use your gift, see what color I am and decide for yourself if I’m a threat. But I swear, I’m not going to harm you or your family. I am here to help you and your uncle.”

“I will not because I do not have any such gift,” Ezio scoffs but is cut off when a door clangs open in the crypt below them. The Templar meeting has begun.

They lean down to peer through the opening, their shoulders pressed tightly together so that they can both see. Ezio’s breath is hot against Desmond’s ear when he turns to hiss at him.

“Help me to stop them or leave, I do not care. Just do not expect me to believe any of this or to become an Assassin. I have no desire to become like you.”

“That’s okay,” Desmond breathes out, biting his cheek, and ignores the glare Ezio throws at him in favor of trying to focus on eavesdropping on Rodrigo Borgia’s plan to kill the Medici family.

From the corner of his eye, Desmond can see the golden gleam in Ezio’s eyes, directed at him.

Chapter Text

Il Duomo demands attention in the bright midday sun, the vibrant colors of the cathedral matched only by the excitement of the crowd gathering for the Sunday mass. 

Desmond scans the crowd from under the cover of his hood, his gaze flying over the elaborate dresses and pieces of jewelry and passing the guards in uniform. Beside him Ezio is doing the same, his eyes shockingly golden as he searches the masses of people for the Templars. 

After they had climbed out of the catacombs yesterday, the rest of the evening and the following night had mostly been spent in a tense silence back in La Rosa Colta – Paola had sent them word, perhaps thanks to a tip from La Volpe, and offered them lodgings at the brothel again, a safehouse. Partly due to the awkwardness between them, they don’t have much of a plan – be there at noon for the mass, try to stop the Templars from killing the Medicis, kill the ones that arranged the execution of Ezio’s father and brothers, that’s pretty much it. Desmond could not offer much additional advice, as Ezio’s memories from the event are a blur of blood and adrenaline, and he doesn’t have any believable way of warning Ezio of what is about to happen.

In any case, Desmond counts it as a victory that Ezio at least let him come here with him.

Considering the Pazzi conspiracy is something Desmond had actually kind of heard of before ever even laying eyes on an Animus – there was at least one silly period drama he remembers using it as a plot point – he doesn’t have high hopes of managing to change the events, let alone of saving Lorenzo’s brother. If he can’t change history even to save a small family not mentioned in any history books – among them a thirteen year old sickly boy who had no power to speak of, who was no threat to anyone – he can hardly expect to alter historical events that are still spoken about 500 years later, when the death he is trying to prevent is the death of a member of a powerful and influential bloodline. And who knows how much of European history Desmond would rewrite in the process?

In his head. Because this is not real. 

Focus. 

“There.” 

Ezio yanks on Desmond’s sleeve and subtly nods towards the Medici brothers, in their lavishly embroidered robes, with their wives at their side. Desmond shakes his head to get his thoughts in order.

“You take Lorenzo, I’ll guard Giuliano,” he whispers, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword, and meets Ezio’s eyes. He gets another stiff nod, and then the boy is on the move, blending into the crowd, making his meandering way towards the frontline. Desmond throws one last worried glance after him, then heads towards the Medicis as well, his own eyes golden now that Ezio is out of sight. Where is Francesco?

Gently pushing people out of his way, he makes it to the front just in time to see the fight erupt. Bernardo di Bandino Baroncelli and Francesco de’ Pazzi advance on the Medici brothers, weapons raised – the crowd roars in alarm, the sound almost like thunder – Ezio is a flash of white and steel as he plunges himself between Francesco and Lorenzo – blood rains on Lorenzo’s intricate robes – Giuliano screams – and then Desmond is busy launching himself at Lorenzo’s brother to tackle him to the ground and away from the blade swinging towards him. 

Desmond rolls back onto his feet, meets Bernardo’s furiously swinging sword with his own and almost trips on Giuliano who is still lying on the ground at his feet. Blood pours out of a gaping wound on the man’s chest. Somewhere behind them Lorenzo screams for his brother. Desmond curses out loud in English and rushes at the Templar again. 

The fight goes on. When Desmond isn’t protecting Giuliano who is bleeding profusely and hanging onto the edge of consciousness but still alive, he spends most of his time making sure the overconfident teenager he has brought into the battle stays alive. Like, seriously, when he first went through these memories, Ezio’s fighting style had not really stood out to him, perhaps because his only comparison had been Altaïr, whose suicidal way of fighting is another issue entirely, but now that Desmond has seen what Ezio grows up to be, the eighteen-year-old currently swinging his sword with far less self-preservation than he should is going to give him a heart attack. 

Ezio and Desmond are fighting back to back, both out of breath, sword arms heavy and tiring, when Francesco bolts. Desmond jerks forward to go after him, then stops himself, grits his teeth together and lets him go. The Medicis need him more. They have managed to keep Giuliano alive this long, so it would be utterly pointless to lose him now because of Francesco, who fled last time as well. Nothing has changed – Ezio will find Francesco this time too. He’ll be dead by the evening.

The problem is that Ezio doesn’t know that.

“What are you doing?” he shouts and keeps glancing past Desmond and towards Francesco’s receding back whenever he isn’t busy defending himself against the blows of a sword. “He is getting away!” He leaps to a run, meaning to go after the Templar himself, but Desmond catches him by the arm.

“Let him go! The Medicis will not survive without the both of us!” Desmond yells back and hurls one of the throwing knives he snatched from Ezio at one of the Templar’s mercenaries. They are thinning their ranks, and by now Lorenzo, bleeding himself, has dragged himself to his dying brother, pleading and begging him not to leave him.

Ezio yanks himself away from Desmond’s grip with enraged urgency, clearly not understanding why Desmond does not understand –

“He is the one we are after!”

Desmond shakes his head and nods towards the alley Francesco ran off to. He is gone already. 

Ezio lets out a frustrated growl and plunges his sword through the nearest Templar’s stomach. Then he collects himself with a deep breath through his nose, pushing past the anger.

“The mob will take over the streets soon. We cannot stay here,” he says and pulls his sword free. He crouches down next to the dying Medici and his brother. “Signore, we have to get you out of here.”

In the end, Ezio and Desmond carry the unconscious Giuliano while Lorenzo follows them, barely managing to stay upright. They move slowly, trying to both avoid the mobs and to make sure neither of the Medici brothers dies on the streets. 

They reach Lorenzo’s palazzo not a moment too soon. One of his guards runs over to help Lorenzo inside, and Desmond and Ezio pass his unresponsive brother on to the waiting servants. Giuliano’s head hangs, his chin pressed down to his chest, eyes closed, and Desmond has a bad feeling even before Ezio touches a hand to Giuliano’s neck.

Lorenzo stares up at Ezio and Giuliano from where he has dropped to sit on the ground. Ezio turns to him with an uncomfortable look on his face.

“Signore, I am sorry. I fear he is dead.”

History follows its course.

As Lorenzo wails for his dead brother and swears vengeance on the Pazzi and Ezio looks on with a gut-wrenchingly deep sympathy, Desmond wonders what his place in all of this is. What good is he here, when he knows who will die and when and how and is still unable to stop any of it? 

After Giuliano’s death, Desmond’s only option is to launch Ezio at Francesco. He goes after him like a bird of prey, in his bloodthirst does not give Desmond a chance to help, and comes out of it bloodied and steel-eyed. He does not bother to stop to look when the people of Firenze hang Francesco’s body from the battlements, and when Desmond jogs up to him afterwards, Ezio walks right past him, barely bothering to glance at him, and heads towards Paola’s without a word. 

Apparently whatever fragile truce there was between them has now died, alongside with the Templars.

Desmond is almost thankful for the cold shoulder he receives, because it makes everything easier when the Gray comes for him almost immediately after.

He is not thrown far – it’s a red-tiled roof in Firenze he is standing on, warm in the morning sun, and down below, on a bridge over the Arno, he spies Ezio talking with Lorenzo. It’s not something he really needs to be part of, so he makes way down to the street-level slowly, waiting for Lorenzo to leave while trying to guess how prickly Ezio is this morning.

Ezio is leaning against the railing of the bridge, wind playing with the hem of his cape. In his hand, he holds the codex page Lorenzo gave him. He will go to see Leonardo, then make his way home to Monteriggioni. After that, the hunt for the Pazzi conspirators will span over almost two years. Desmond will certainly not be there for all of it. 

He stops a few feet away from Ezio, who glances at him over his shoulder, then returns to staring at the murky depths of the Arno. 

“I thought you were gone already,” Ezio says and twirls the codex scroll in his fingers.

“No, still here.”

The corner of Ezio’s mouth twitches.

“You did not stay at Paola’s.”

“No.”

Ezio manages only barely to rein in his annoyance at Desmond’s non-answers. With his teeth gritted together, he turns and looks Desmond up and down. “I think it is for the best,” he begins and drums his fingers against the railing, “if we hunt the Templars separately for now.”

It's nothing Desmond didn't expect, and yet it hurts, like claws ripping his lungs to shreds. 

“Or, I will look for the Templars and you may continue your search for the codex pages. Or whatever it is you actually are here for.” Ezio tucks Lorenzo’s codex page into one of his pouches. He meets Desmond’s eyes defiantly, chin held high. “ I will be the one to take this to Uncle Mario.”

There is a tiny part of Desmond that would like to quip back, to get annoyed by this almost childish bullheadedness and arrogance, and he is pretty sure he would have, had he been the person he was not even a year ago. But now there are ghosts of consciousnesses living in him, one of them the remnants of a 92-year old Mentor, and it is Altaïr’s ancient patience that tells him that this is an upset teenager, not a challenge. Ezio has lost his first love and the little trust he had in Desmond in the course of one day, he is allowed at least some prickliness.

So Desmond just raises a brow at Ezio and shrugs.

Ezio scrunches up his nose. 

“You can tell your masters – the Assassins or the Templars or whatever group of lunatics you belong to – to stay out of my life.”

“Alright,” Desmond says and with great mental effort turns around and walks away, not looking back once. That is what he guesses Ezio expects, some sort of manipulation attempt, pleading or excuses. “Good luck.”

Desmond spends the rest of the day stealing codex pages and money from guards and taking down posters with Ezio's face on them, while staying well away from Leonardo’s workshop and the stables near the gates of the city where he knows Ezio will be. He chats up La Volpe’s thieves and Paola’s courtesans, listening to both idle gossip and rumors about the Templars, and much in the same way he did as a bartender back in the 21st century, he keeps nudging the conversations in the right directions with a smile and a joke without revealing much at all about himself. 

By the time dusk is settling into the streets of Firenze, the Gray catches up to him and snatches him up. To skip the long and dust-filled hours of travel from Firenze to Monteriggioni, is his guess, and the midday heat in the Tuscany countryside proves him right. The sky is clear, the village peaceful and Desmond barely has a recollection of what he has been sent here to see. Ezio reporting to Mario, perhaps?

Great. Just great. Ezio is going to think he is some kind of a stalker.

Warily, Desmond heads towards the villa, though first stopping to spend some of his coins in the struggling shops of Monteriggioni. When he doesn't immediately run into Ezio after talking to the tailor about a doublet or perhaps a new cape, he wanders up the stairs and to the villa and then to Mario's office. Hesitantly, he knocks on the door frame before peeking in. Mario, seated at his desk, looks up from his papers and stands up with a smile. 

“Desmond! It is good to see you!”

“Yeah, you too.” He plays around with the thought of asking what day it is, but decides against it. “Is Ezio here?”

“Yes, you just missed him. But worry not, he cannot be far – I am to go to train with him right now. But perhaps I could help you somehow first?”

“I, uh – here.” Desmond snatches one codex page from his satchel and presents it to Mario to buy himself more time to come up with an excuse for being here when he just promised Ezio they would work separately. Ezio most likely wants him nowhere near his family, and yet here Desmond is, in his home. He could of course head back to Firenze, or maybe to San Gimignano, but sees no sense in it. He has no plan, no idea what he is supposed to do now, and so far he hasn’t been given a lot of time to breathe and take all of this in, let alone think. He has been busy saving Ezio’s ass and failing to help anyone else. “I was wondering if I might spend some time here, studying the pages we already have. There might be some hidden message we could piece together already.”

“Of course! Take as long as you need, stay as long as you like. I will see to it that a room is prepared for you.” Mario claps a hand on Desmond's shoulder. “Pardon me for saying, but you look like you need the rest, my boy. You are as thin as a twig and look like you have not slept for a century. It would not do to send you out like this again.”

Desmond is painfully aware of the fact he has spent the last three and a half months in the Animus, and a couple weeks of it in a coma. Didn't have much time to eat or sleep when they had a world to save. Now, with all this jumping around in time, his habits aren’t much better. 

He just didn’t realize it was apparently so obvious to everyone else.

“I wouldn't want to impose – “

“Nonsense, dear boy! Now that the imminent threat of the Templar plot has passed, you can leave the hunt for Ezio for a while. And besides, it would be such a waste to lose our only expert on the Pieces of Eden to injury or exhaustion.” Mario emphasizes his point with a swing of his hand, and along with it, the codex page. “It is fortunate that you are here, actually. You can make sure we have translated the pages correctly – Altaïr’s language is not my strong suit.”

Desmond blinks.

“Yeah, sure, I can do that.”

Mario beams with a smile, then walks over to the codex wall. He touches a hand to one of the ancient parchments.

“I am especially interested in ensuring that it is truly a Prophet Altaïr writes about, and not just some translation error,” he says and almost caresses the codex pages, his eyes full of wonder.

“Well, so the legends suggest, yeah. Did you find a mention of it?”

“Yes, on the page Ezio brought with him.”

Ezio must have been so excited to hear his uncle mention the Prophet. 

Mario points out the particular page to him, and well, the part of him that is Altaïr can read his own writing. Desmond agrees that it has been translated correctly, and Mario leaves him to study the pages with a triumphant grin and the promise that he will come to find Desmond later once he has finished training with Ezio.

Desmond spends the next few hours napping in Mario’s office. He doesn’t dare to wander outside, fearing that he might bump into Ezio. When Mario returns, he takes Desmond on a walk to the ramparts with the excuse that Desmond might get to know the town better – as he has never been here before apart from his two short visits, vero? – but the older Assassin just spends the time needling Desmond with every question imaginable about the Pieces of Eden. Desmond tries to answer the best he can, sticking mostly to the truth about what he remembers from Altaïr’s and Ezio’s experiences while omitting a few crucial details.

They have almost made it to the main gate when Mario notices something and points it out to Desmond.

Below, Ezio is a tiny figure by the stables as he mounts a horse and turns it towards… San Gimignano, is Desmond’s bet. 

“We received word that one of Jacopo’s lackeys had been seen in the countryside,” Mario explains, his gaze fixed on his nephew. “I have sent Ezio to go after him – I am afraid he will be gone for a while.”

Desmond hums and tries to hide how nervous it makes him to watch the big bay mare and her rider trot away from the town. Guess they will now see how tied to Ezio his existence here is, whether he is yanked through the Gray towards him when the distance becomes too great. 

They stay there, watching, until Ezio disappears into the horizon.

Desmond stays. 

He stays for the rest of the late April of 1478, then well into the month of May. Continuously. Without jumps. 

He doesn’t know what to do with himself now that he has to live his own life instead of that of his ancestors. There are suddenly a lot of hours in a day. He trains with the mercenaries and sometimes even with Mario to get his muscle memory to catch up with his brain – his mind might know how to parkour and climb and ride horses and sword fight, but most of those things he has never done in this body before. He offers to help to exercise the horses Mario owns, and spends as much time as he can climbing every building in the town. Back in town, newly-arrived workmen are working on restoring a few shops and building the new barracks Ezio has procured funds for, and they can always use a pair of helping hands. 

Slowly, the exercise and sleep and food start to make up what he lost to the coma and to the countless hours in the Animus. 

After a few days of Desmond staying in Monteriggioni, Claudia starts to seek him out. Perhaps he is more acceptable now that her brother has left him behind as well. He helps her with the villa’s bookkeeping a couple of times, the little he can, when she finds no one else she can ask to check her numbers, then he catches her standing in Mario’s office and studying the codex wall, and promises not to tell a soul he saw her there.

He is in the training ring with Luca, one of Mario’s senior guards, just finishing their training and wiping sweat from his brow, when Claudia approaches. Her calculating expression makes her look more like her brother than she probably would like. Desmond hurries to straighten the worn shirt he uses when he trains, deems looking even slightly presentable impossible and surrenders to his fate.

“Desmond,” she begins, her hands clasped together in front of her, and somehow she is both very much a seventeen-year-old girl and a forty-something assassin and the Madam of the Rosa in Fiore at the same time. “My brother told me I should not trust you.”

Desmond chokes back a nervous laugh. Well, she certainly doesn’t beat around the bushes. What the hell is he supposed to say to that?

“O-kay?” 

Her eyebrow raises.  

“Should I not trust you?”

Jesus, these Auditores will be the death of him. Desmond clears his throat, swallows and massages his neck, all the while screaming inside.

“Well, if that’s what your brother told you, I don’t think it’s my place to convince you otherwise.”

She snorts and crosses her arms over her chest, looking down her nose at him.

“I think I am quite capable of making my own judgments. Besides, my brother is not here right now.”

“Ah.” Should he be worried that she is so quick to discard Ezio’s warnings? What if she trusts someone else as easily, someone who is not Desmond? She’s only seventeen, no, maybe a few months short of actually hitting seventeen, she’s still a kid and trusting strangers – 

“If you were an actual danger, my uncle would have thrown you out a long time ago,” she adds, rolls her eyes and waves her hand dismissively. Her dark eyes hone in on him, a smug grin flashing on her lips. “So what did you do to make Ezio not think so highly of you anymore? He was quite upset when you disappeared after bringing us here, and now he barely uttered a word about you when he told us what happened in Firenze – apart from warning me to stay away from you, that is.”

Ah. 

“I guess I… told him some things about my past – who I am, what I believe in – that made him reconsider whether he wants anything to do with me. I think he feels I’ve been lying to him.”

She hums, then considers him with her head tilted to the side. 

“And have you been lying to him?”

Desmond looks down at his hands, dirty and slightly callused after a few weeks of intense training. He curls the blackened fingers of his right hand into a loose fist. 

“About some things,” he says slowly, dragging each word out of his throat. “Not because I want to but because I can’t tell him the truth. Yet.” 

She clearly didn’t expect him to admit to lying, because she freezes for a second, staring at him with a half of an expression forgotten on her face. But she is quick and clever and fiercely protective of her only surviving brother, and she brushes her surprise off with a few blinks. She nods towards his arm which now glitters in the sunlight. It might be the first time she has properly seen it like this.

“Does the truth have something to do with your hand looking like that?”

He smiles faintly at her.

“Yeah.”

She walks over and holds out her hand. He stares at her confusedly for a second before he realizes to rest his own on her palm and let her examine it. She runs soft fingertips over the golden lines over his forearm.

“I have read the codex pages in Uncle Mario’s office. I have overhead some of the conversations he has had with Ezio,” she says and glances up at him. “I know of Ezio’s gift, and I know you must have seen him use it. There is more to this world than we are led to believe, is there not?”

He can do nothing but nod at her words.

“Was this done to you by these Pieces of Eden my uncle speaks of?”

“I – yeah,” he stumbles to answer, then lets out a nervous chuckle. “Yeah, it was.”

“And Ezio does not believe in any of it despite being the one with the gift of the second sight,” she states and rolls her eyes. “I envy him sometimes. For many things.”

She lets go of his hand and takes a step back, narrowing her eyes.

“These lies you have told him, will they hurt him? Or us, my uncle and mother and myself? Our family?”

Desmond closes his eyes and lets his hand drop to hang by his side.

“They might. They probably will,” he admits in a whisper. “I don’t want them to, but they might.”

She stands at least a head shorter than him, in her dress that is a little bit frayed at the hem and probably horribly out of fashion, being at least two years old since it’s one she had in Firenze, and yet she easily holds him in place with the gaze of her dark eyes.

“Will you tell the truth someday? To Ezio, to me?”

He meets her eyes and breathes a little easier.

“Yes.”

She weighs his words, her brows furrowed and lips pursed, until she seems to come to a decision and rolls her shoulders back. She holds her hand out again, this time towards his sword.

“Tell me, Desmond, what does your brotherhood think of training women to fight?”

Desmond doesn’t know if Mario has refused to train her or if she simply hasn’t asked her uncle. Her only remaining brother isn’t there either, to teach her to use the blade or climb a wall, and he won’t be here for a long while. 

But Desmond doesn’t have a reason to say no.

It doesn’t take long before he has heard every single piece of gossip Monteriggioni has to offer – which, to be fair, isn’t much – and even some old tales from Firenze. Claudia is desperate for someone to speak to, even if it is only Desmond who mostly listens and nods. She complains about the villa’s bookkeeping, about Ezio leaving her here and making her work, about the insufferably slow and quiet life they have here in the countryside. A week later, she opens up to him about how worried she is for her mother and how much she fears that Ezio might not come back from his travels but bleed to a slow death somewhere far from home, gutted in some back alley. 

The whole time he is in Monteriggioni, he keeps warning Claudia and Mario that he might get a lead of a codex page or an order from his brotherhood and that he might have to leave without a moment’s notice with no clue when he might return. Both of them promise he can come and go as he pleases.

Desmond doesn’t dare to examine what it tells about their loneliness that they are so willing to accept him into their lives and home, both of them actively searching for his company – Mario to ask and question and almost pester him about the Pieces of Eden and legends of Altaïr and stories of about Desmond’s supposed journeys as an assassin, Claudia perhaps to make up for the absence of all her three brothers. Desmond clings onto every moment with them with feral desperation. He doesn’t even try to tell where his love for them ends and Ezio’s begins.

A few weeks into staying in Monteriggioni, it is already a habit to head to the sitting room downstairs to listen to Mario’s wild tales of his youth, to play chess with Claudia – she beats him every time and gloats horribly – and to sit by Maria and read to her while she works on her embroidery with a soft, vacant smile on her face. 

He wants this to be real. More than anything, he wishes this to be real.

The small, lone flame of an almost burned out candle dances when Desmond turns the page on his notebook. He smooths out the page, glances at the candle, then at the darkness that has crept into the room, and blinks. He hadn’t realized how late it was. 

He yawns and stretches his arms over his head, then rubs his neck. He has been cooped up here for who knows how long. 

He glances back at what he has written down – he has tried to make sense of the years and what he remembers of the original timeline, trying to predict when he is going to jump and to where, and decide what he could try to change. All it has done is give him a massive headache – he has been letting Ratonhnhaké:ton’s thoughts to the surface, to borrow his language. He didn’t even consider using Italian for this, no, and English felt risky as well, if someone was to get their hands on his notes. He could use Altaïr’s Arabic and his encryption, but he already knows Mario and especially Leonardo can translate it. And if nothing else, they would certainly recognise the handwriting – that usually Bleeds through as well. So he borrows Ratonhnhaké:ton’s Kanien'kehá. Well, Ratonhnhaké:ton’s own version of the written form he had played around with and based on English, since the standardized form hadn’t been created until the 90s. The 1990s, that is. Desmond had checked, back in his own time. 

He is fairly certain nobody but him, and Ratonhnhaké:ton three hundred years from now, can read his notes. 

Still, he hides the notebook in his satchel, among the codex pages he hasn’t yet given to Mario, and then stashes that under a floorboard he has loosened up. He pulls the rug to cover the hiding place, then stands on top of the whole thing and jumps a little to test that the floorboard doesn’t creak. 

It doesn’t. Good. 

He ends up standing there, with his hands on his hips, in the middle of his room – his room, he still can’t believe it, but that’s what Claudia has been calling it – and looking at the dark window. His own reflection stares back at him from the glass, his stubble closer to a beginning of a beard now, his hair soon long enough to curl. 

Someone moves in the hallway. Stumbling steps move slowly from one end to the other, accompanied by muffled sobbing. 

Worried, Desmond opens his door and peeks into the dark passage.

What greets him is Maria in her nightgown, looking at him with wide eyes like, seriously, a deer in headlights. Her long hair, loose and tangled, covers half of her face, and her bare toes peek from underneath the hem of her gown.

“Signora, is everything alright?” Desmond asks and steps towards her, letting the door to his room close behind him. He has heard from Claudia that her mother sometimes wanders – whether she is sleepwalking or not, they are not certain – but this is the first time he has seen her like this. He has no idea why she has come here, into this dark hallway when her room is on the other side of the villa. “Do you know where you are?”

She just looks at him with her wide eyes, her mouth slightly hanging open, and he has no idea who she sees when she looks at him, if he is Ezio to her, or one of her lost boys, or her dear Giovanni. Doesn’t know if she registers at all that he is there. 

“Let’s just take you back to your room, if that’s alright?” Slowly, he offers her his arm. He waits until she realizes to look down at it, then stays still until she lays a slightly shaking on his elbow and leans on him. “Okay, ready to go?”

She looks up at him and – oh, Ezio has her eyes.  

Her fingers are cold on his arm. Desmond shortens his steps to match her slower pace and worries endlessly that she might trip over her long nightgown. The floor can’t be too pleasant on bare feet either. 

They get to the main hall and to the bottom of the stairs, and he changes his hold on her to better support her when –

“Mother!” 

Ezio’s boots beat on the stone floor as he rushes across the hall. Behind him the front door of the villa closes with a clang and hides the pitch black night behind it. He has dirt on his face, blood on his sleeves, the smell of sweat and horses and cities packed with people on him, and then he is taking her hands into his, pulling her into a one-armed embrace while speaking to her softly the whole time. “Mother, are you alright? You should not be here, you will catch your death – “

Desmond backs away when Maria cups her son’s face with both of her hands, and it’s the first time tonight that Desmond notices any light in her, strength in her movements. In turn, Ezio covers one of hers with his own, leaning his cheek into her touch. 

“Come, Mother. Let us get you back to bed.”

Ezio wraps an arm around her and then practically lifts her up, meaning to carry her up the stairs. Desmond glances at the many, many steps, then at the dark hallway leading to her room upstairs.

“Do you need any help – ?”

Ezio finally, finally, meets his eyes.

“No.

With that, he carries Maria upstairs like she weighs nothing, and Desmond is left to stand in the main hall with the moonlight shimmering through the glass cupola as his only company.

He sighs and drums his fingers against his thigh. He expects Ezio to storm down the stairs to yell at him once he gets Maria settled down. Ezio hasn’t straight up warned him to stay away from his family, but it has been heavily implied. He is going to have an aneurism when someone lets him know Desmond has been here the whole time, cosying up to his uncle and sister and apparently now to his mother as well.

Desmond drags himself to the room Claudia has been using as her office, the one with the model of Monteriggioni. Better to have the fight here, away from the bedrooms, because a fight they will have, he is sure of it. 

He is in the middle of lighting up a candle, sitting on the desk, when Ezio arrives at the door.

“Why was she out there?” he snarls, his worry over his mother almost violent. 

“I don’t know. I just found her near my room. She seemed to have no idea where she was, so I thought I should walk her back to hers.” Desmond takes the candle and lights another one with it, not focusing on Ezio but on not getting molten wax on his fingers.

Ezio’s boots stomp loudly against the floor as he marches across the room.

“Why are you here?” 

Fuck, Desmond should have just left when the Gray threw him here.

He doesn’t answer immediately, and it makes Ezio’s face flush with anger. He steps into Desmond’s space, grabs the front of his shirt, yanks on it. Ezio’s bracer, the one pressing against Desmond’s chest, is covered in blotches of old, dried blood. He is missing a couple, actually more than a couple, of his throwing knives, and there is a faint bruise on his jaw, below his ear.

“What game are you playing? Answer me!”

“Your uncle invited me to stay and study Altaïr’s codex,” Desmond states in a dry tone and meets the enraged brown eyes. Jesus Christ, he would die for Ezio in a heartbeat but that doesn’t mean the brat doesn’t make him want to tear his hair out sometimes. 

“You have – what?” Ezio asks in a thin voice, staring at Desmond. Then his voice rises until he is honestly shouting. “How long have you been here?” 

Desmond breathes out through his nose.

“A few weeks now. I arrived right when you left.”

“You have been here this whole time? ” Ezio’s gaze flies towards the ceiling, towards his sister’s and uncle’s bedrooms. His breath comes to a halt, his eyes widen with a wild and honest panic and – Why? Does he think Desmond has done something to them? Why would he –

Ezio turns back to him, and in that moment Desmond is absolutely certain Ezio is going to kill him. 

Ezio moves. Desmond hears the click of the hidden blade, doesn’t have the time to see it slide out – yanks himself away from the blade thrust towards his neck. He elbows Ezio in the gut to get him to let go of him, grabs Ezio’s arm and throws himself at the boy to bring them both down on the floor. He lands on top of Ezio with force, pinning the arm with the hidden blade down with his knee, the other with his hand. 

The slam knocks air out of Ezio – he gasps violently for breath, for air he can’t get into his lungs. It doesn’t stop him from trying to trash against Desmond’s hold. It’s like trying to stay on a bucking horse, taut muscles spasming underneath him. Wild eyes, full of rage and panic and fear, glare at Desmond who looks back at Ezio with a strange calm. 

“Now, listen. This is not a fight you are going to win anytime soon,” Desmond sighs and leans more heavily on Ezio’s arms when he tries to fight back. ”I have done nothing to your family. They are all fine. I don’t know where you have got such an idea, but I will never, never, do anything to harm them or you. I would rather die than let anything happen to them, okay? We can’t get anywhere until you accept that.”

Still frantically gasping for breath, Ezio tries to hit him with his knee, to kick him, to topple them over, anything. It is the boy’s fifty-year-old self Desmond channels when he stops Ezio’s every attempt with exasperated ease while frowning the whole time.

“Would you stop that?” he grunts. “I am not your enemy.”

“You let Francesco escape! You let Giuliano de’ Medici die!” Ezio wheezes, his words barely a whisper, and wrenches his right arm free from underneath Desmond’s hand. He flails blindly with it, activating the hidden blade on it, which makes Desmond growl in annoyance and grab his wrist, pinning it down with his full weight. “You told Vieri where to find us!”

Desmond stops what he is doing to stare at Ezio in dumbfounded confusion.

“...what?”

“I did not realize it until last week,” Ezio hisses, out of breath, “but you disappeared on the road to Monteriggioni. Year and a half ago. You disappeared, then came back and what happened right after? Vieri found us.” There is a hint of satisfaction, of pride in his voice, of supposedly having figured Desmond out as a – what, a Templar spy? “He and his men would have killed us had it not been for my uncle. As if you were not already suspicious enough with all this nonsense about magic and prophecies!” 

“That’s – no! No, you’ve got this whole thing figured out wrong – ” 

“No, I have finally got it right! You were there, in Firenze, on the day my family was hanged, and you did nothing! I have seen you fight, I know what you are capable of, and yet I am supposed to believe you could do nothing to stop it! No, you just did not want to!”

Demsond’s heartbeat thrums in his ears.

“That’s not – I let Francesco go because we had to try to save the Medici brothers. I tried to save your family, but I was there too late. And I had nothing, nothing, to do with Vieri, it was just an unlucky coincidence – “ 

“Shut up and let me kill you, Templar scum,” Ezio spits and tries to yank his other arm away from underneath Desmond’s knee. 

Desmond has had enough.

He grabs Ezio by the neck – not to strangle or choke, but just to force him to meet his eyes.

“Look at me!”

Ezio stares at him defiantly, but then twitches when Desmond learns in closer and tightens his hold.

“Look at me.”

Bright gold bleeds into the boy’s eyes. 

Desmond knows one thing. He might be gold or blue or even white, but he is not red. Not the cold, all-consuming red he saw in Lucy in her last moments, or the fiery glow of the Templars his ancestors all hunted. He is not red.

The door slams against the wall as it is thrown open. Mario stands in the doorway, out of breath, in his sleeping clothes. His face is blotched with red in the faint light of his candle.

“What on earth is going on?” he roars and storms into the room to pull them apart. He pushes Desmond away from Ezio, then pre-emptively grabs Ezio by the shoulders to keep him from getting any funny ideas about launching himself at Desmond. “Explain yourselves, now! I will not have you killing each other in my own home!”

Desmond takes a step back and dusts off his clothes, not looking at either Auditore. Mario turns his ire to Ezio who scowls and turns away from his uncle.

“I had good reason to believe Desmond was a Templar,” he mutters and rubs his wrists.

“Bah! Desmond a Templar? What nonsense is this?” Mario looks between the two of them, still red in the face. “If he was a Templar, do you truly think he would hunt his own with us when he could have just killed all of our family already? Pray tell, what made you imagine such foolishness?”

Ezio can’t bring himself to voice his doubts about his uncle’s beliefs in magic, what he thinks is magic, or Desmond’s motives for supporting them. 

“It does not matter now.”

“Ah, so you are finished with this. Good.” Mario sighs deeply and presses his hand against his forehead. “Go to bed, Ezio. I will deal with you in the morning.” 

“But – “

“Go to bed.”

Ezio slinks out of the room with a hand pressed to his chest, his breath still slightly weezing, and favoring his right leg. Mario waits until the door shuts after him before he turns to Desmond.

“Now, is there any truth to his accusations?”

Desmond shakes his head, ashamed.

“No. It was just… a massive misunderstanding.”

Mario hums, though his expression is not entirely without suspicion. 

“Quite a misunderstanding indeed, for it to come to blows,” he says with a raised brow. “I hope you understand I will not tolerate this kind of behavior under my roof in the future. And if it is ever revealed that Ezio was correct in doubting you, I will know no mercy, no matter how pleasant it has been to have you here with us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now, off to bed with you. We will talk more of this come morning.” 

Desmond doesn’t get much sleep that night. He wakes up early and packs the little he owns, then heads downstairs. He finds Mario in the sitting room and gives him a note to be passed to Ezio, along with a short explanation of what happened last night.

“This is what I have on the men Ezio is looking for.”

He can’t be sure that the rest of the Pazzi conspirators are already there where Ezio killed them originally in 1479, as he doubts the Templars sat and waited for their deaths in one place the whole time, but he can nudge Ezio towards finding the clues that will lead to the conspirators. 

Mario blinks his bleary eyes at him, still trying to wake up.

“You are leaving then?”

“I think it’s for the best. At least for a while. Please tell Claudia I’m sorry.”

Mario sighs.

“It might be the right thing to do in this situation. But we will be sad to see you go.”

And so Desmond leaves Monteriggioni.

Chapter Text

Calling it anything else but running away would be a lie, an atrocious one.

He could have stayed. He could have stayed and hoped to come up with an elaborate and fully ridiculous excuse to explain to Mario why Ezio would ever think he is a threat. But by doing so, he would have had to take the risk that when Ezio next laid eyes on him, his gaze would still be full of naked hatred and suspicion. 

Desmond would not be able to bear it. He just would not. Could not. 

There is no lie Desmond can tell to make Ezio suspect him any less, and the truth is not an option – Ezio would not think it was the truth.

So he leaves before Ezio can tell him to get out and go. 

It is easier to go and just… let him forget. Maybe forgive, with time.

He sets out on foot. Mario offered him a horse, but Desmond fears, knows, that they are close to Ezio killing the first conspirator, Antonio Maffei, and then what will happen to the poor animal when the Gray comes for Desmond and sends him tumbling through time? No, better not to take anything he will be forced to leave behind. 

The road to Firenze is not more inviting than the one to San Gimignano, or one to anywhere else, but that’s the one Desmond takes anyway, in the absence of better ideas. 

He toys with the idea of waving goodbye to the original timeline and hunting down Rodrigo Borgia himself. But he knows only that Rodrigo will be in San Gimignano in the early 1480, then in Venice five years later and that’s it. Rome and the Vatican are of course solid bets for the time in between, considering the man is already a cardinal, but there is the tiny problem of the Gray undoing any process Desmond might make – he could set out towards Rome right now, but as soon as Ezio kills one of the conspirators, the Gray will yank Desmond from wherever he is and hurl him back to Ezio, both in time and space. He could be standing at the gates of Rome, only to be sent back to Tuscany, weeks of travel lost in the matter of seconds.

No, better to wait until 1480 and Jacopo’s death. Rodrigo will come within reach on his own, and all Desmond has to do is to be there and wait. And it’s not like Desmond has to be patient for two years, no. With his magical time traveling bullshit doing the heavy lifting, he needs to sit around and twiddle his thumbs for a couple of weeks at most.

After Desmond has spent three days wandering around the countryside, making plans and just existing, the sky turns dark as the Gray rises from the horizon and sweeps over the land, rushing towards him like a landslide. Ezio has found his first target.

Desmond steps out of the fucking Animus loading screen wannabe into a crowded street. He pushes his way past a couple of women gossiping among themselves and pretends he didn’t just appear out of thin air and was just about to walk through here like normal people who don’t get abducted by time itself. He turns around a corner, and after making sure nobody is watching him, climbs to the nearest roof. 

San Gimignano. Desmond stands with his hands on his hips and looks over the city with narrowed eyes. It should be the spring of 1479, according to the timeline he scribbled in his notebook. Antonio Maffei was Ezio’s victim in 1478. Here, Francesco Salviati dies first, then Bernardo Baroncelli. Stefano da Bagnone is the last one, before Ezio finds Jacopo almost a year later. 

That is, of course, if everything happens like it did the first time around. 

Desmond spends that morning mingling among the townspeople – he buys a loaf of bread and asks the vendor what day it is, because silly him, he has lost track totally. A smile and a shiny coin earn him the answer – it’s the fifteenth, but of what month and year? He has seen enough seasons in Italy by now to guess it is indeed spring, but it looks to be earlier in the year than where he just came from, from May.

He draws his hood over his head and heads off to find a herald. One is screaming warnings and news in a nearby piazza, and helpfully yells out the words “In the year 1479 of our Lord – “ not long after Desmond has started bartering with a nearby blacksmith.

Despite the herald’s eagerness to caution people off a couple dozen other things, he hollers out no warnings about any Assassins lurking in the city, preying on the innocents. Ezio hasn’t caused a ruckus in here for a while then. 

The few wanted posters of him Desmond has seen, forgotten in some back alleys, look months old as well. Probably from last year. That doesn’t mean Ezio isn’t here already. He has to be, otherwise the Gray wouldn’t have dumped Desmond here. Desmond glances at the sky and the rooftops before tugging his hood better over his head and letting his cape fall over his sword. He would rather avoid another fight if he can help it – either with Ezio or with the guards who mistake him for the young not-quite-assassin.

During the next couple of days, Desmond scours through the city while making plans. He collects a bunch of codex pages, sneaks into the storage rooms below Torre Grossa to steal the Assassin seal from the tomb, and climbs towers and onto rooftops for feathers to be taken to Maria. All the while, he keeps an ear out for any rumors about a young Assassin prowling in the nights of San Gimignano. 

He stumbles upon one of the Templars quite by accident. It’s Baroncelli, who must have only just escaped from Lorenzo de’ Medici’s men who in turn had dragged him back from Constantinople where he had originally fled to hide. And okay, Desmond can’t really call it an accident when he knows the man is supposed to be in the city, but he didn’t think Baroncelli would be here quite yet. Because his death now would be ahead of schedule, at least by a few weeks, maybe a month or two even. Ezio is probably still only collecting clues, piecing information together and trying to figure out where Baroncelli might be, especially if he has decided to ignore Desmond’s help – Desmond certainly wouldn’t put it past him right now. Perhaps Ezio doesn’t even know yet that the Templar has run away from Lorenzo’s men.

In any case, Baroncelli is just suddenly there, skulking around in broad daylight with two burly men following at his heel, and Desmond has to stop himself from very obviously staring at the man before he is noticed. He tails them all the way to Baroncelli’s lodgings, the whole time half-expecting Ezio to materialize from somewhere to exact his revenge, but when the men pack into a small building in the poorer part of the city, Desmond is still spying on them alone.

Should he kill him now or let Ezio handle it? Desmond scratches his chin and watches the nervous man through a window from his vantage point, perched on the balcony railing of a nearby building. The guy is not supposed to die yet, and when he is, it is to Ezio’s blade. But, and this is a very big but, if Ezio was to ever find out that Desmond saw the Templar, knew where he was and was within reach to kill him, and then didn’t, that would permanently cement Ezio’s bullheaded conclusion that Desmond was, at best, not to be trusted and an enemy at worst.

Yeah, Desmond is not going to take that risk, thank you.

Buying a guy’s affection by taking a life, what has his life come to, Desmond chuckles and tests the mechanism of his hidden blade. Still working, though maybe not quite so smoothly as it did when it was brand new. He really should take it to Leonardo for some maintenance soon.

He eyes Baroncelli again. There had been some controversy about the man’s death anyway – Shaun’s initial research had shown that the man had been executed – hanged by the Medicis in December 1479 – while the Animus had clearly shown Ezio killing him months earlier. A few weeks here or there shouldn’t really matter at this point. 

The house has only one entrance, guarded by one of the bodyguards. Desmond could go through one of the windows, but the sound of breaking glass would ruin the element of surprise – the house is small, so there is no way it would go unnoticed.

So Desmond waits patiently in his hiding place on the balcony, for the rest of the evening and the following night. The sun has barely risen beyond the horizon when his patience is rewarded, because Baroncelli heads out again with his guards. He walks with his head down and shoulders up, turning around after every couple of minutes to make sure nobody is following him. He doesn’t realize to look up to the rooftops, where Desmond is on his tail. 

After several minutes of this paranoid meandering through the streets of San Gimignano, Baroncelli makes the mistake of leading his guards into a quiet back alley. Desmond doesn’t waste his chance.

The shadow of his cape draws the wings of an eagle on the opposite wall when he drops down from the roof and descends, and his hidden blade pierces the back of Baroncelli’s neck. 

He lands on the ground with enough force to make his knees bend, one leg on top of the dying man, his left hand still stuck at Baroncellis’ neck and covered in his blood and hair, and then the whole world lurches.

It seems he gets his version of the… thing that happened each time one of his ancestors killed a significant enemy. He had always wondered if it had been just the Animus doing its thing, when the world had melted away to bring his focus only to his ancestor and his target, to hear the last words and confessions. Now it is the Gray that does it for him, swallowing everything but Desmond and the man he has just killed and wiping the world from existence. But it is different.

So far, the Gray has always been a vast and soundless emptiness of white and silver. Now it is threateningly black and blue and dark, and there is an allconsuming thrum resonating through the space and through him, pounding against his ribcage. Desmond swears he can see lightning strike somewhere in the distance.

It is almost like the Gray is angry, if loading screens can be angry.

“What is going on?” 

He yanks the blade out of the body, stands up from where he was crouched next to the dying Templar and turns around, taking in the threatening darkness around him. 

“Was I not supposed to do that?”

The only answer the Gray gives him is the continuous low hum that makes it hard to breathe, as if he was at a concert and standing right next to one of the massive speakers with the bass rhythm making his heart jump erratically.

Desmond looks down at the dying man who is gasping for breath he can’t take, gurgling blood and spit. Desmond crouches down next to him and turns him to his side so Baroncelli doesn’t die with his face to the ground. Ezio is supposed to be here, to demand to know where he can find Jacopo, to be angry and vengeful, but he is not, and Desmond has no energy for anger when he has already heard everything Baroncelli can tell him. There is not much a man with his throat pierced could say anyway. 

Sighing, Desmond closes the man’s eyes.

“Requiescat in pace,” he says under his breath and readies himself.

As soon as the Gray bleeds away to reveal the back alley, the dirtied bricks and blood dripping on the muddied cobblestones, Desmond jumps to his feet and swirls around with his hidden blade ejected, slashing open the throats of the guards who are still recovering from shock.

Desmond stands in the middle of the carnage he has created, slightly shaking his hand to get the excess blood off. His other arm, the one touched and changed by Precursor bullshit, tingles uncomfortably. 

Time to go.

San Gimignano roars with horror and alarm for days after the city guards find the bloodied corpse of the murdered Templar. 

The blame is soon pinned on the young Assassin that plagued the city last year and whom someone somewhere remembers seeing in the city during the last month or so, because apparently nobody else but Ezio ever kills anyone in this town. Desmond rolls his eyes at the whole thing while trying to scrub Baroncelli’s blood off his shirt in the sorry excuse of a bucket he has stolen. Ezio is going to skin him alive for this.

He hangs the shirt to dry in the small abandoned attic he has been staying in – he remembered Ezio staying here a couple of times back in the original timeline, so it was no trouble finding the place. He takes a step back and considers his handiwork. Still a little bit pink at the sleeve, but it will have to do.

He pulls on another, dry shirt and heads outside. He needs to see if this changed anything, if the world has been thrown into chaos because Baroncelli died a few weeks in advance.

Desmond doesn’t know if he should expect the Gray to kidnap him again soon. Usually he jumps after every assassination, but considering it has been a couple of days now and he was the one doing the killing, he is pretty sure even the magical Animus loading screen throwing him around in time is confused by the mess he has made of the timeline. He is starting to think he is here for events and not necessarily certain days – he has already made some things happen earlier than they did the first time around. And perhaps Desmond’s meddling has made Ezio catch up to the Templars earlier, so the Gray might not be tossing Desmond forward because there is no need. He is going to see Ezio kill the conspirators by just staying here. 

He loiters around the marketplace, listening for rumors and wondering if he should leave the city and go after the remaining Templars when someone calls out for him.

“Signor Desmond! Is that you?”

Trying not to let his panic show – because who the fuck knows him here? – Desmond turns around to see a couple of Mario’s mercenaries heading towards him with smiles on their faces, waving their hands in greeting. 

“Oh, hi guys. What are you doing here?” he asks and tries to get his heart to calm down. Jesus.

“We are scouting the city for… you know who. Helping Ser Ezio,” one of the mercenaries says in a loud whisper, trying to hide the words behind his hand, poorly. 

“He is here?”

“Aye, though he has had to stay in hiding for a few days now, after that Templar Baroncelli’s murder. The city guards are hunting Ser Ezio – they think he is the one responsible, even though he had no idea the Templar was even here yet.” The mercenary blinks, then tilts his head and considers Desmond. “You did not happen to have anything to do with it, now did you?”

“Er, maybe,” Desmond mumbles and looks around to see if anyone is listening to their conversation. He continues in a low voice: “Can you please tell him I’m sorry he got in trouble for it?”

“Of course, do not worry yourself about it,” the mercenary says and waves his hand dismissively, then pats Desmond on the shoulder. 

Desmond smiles sheepishly.

“And hey, can you tell him something for me? I don’t think he wants to see me, but he needs to hear this,” Desmond says and then asks them to pass on to Ezio the information of where to find the remaining two Templars, presenting it as if he had got the locations from Baroncelli during the man’s final moments. 

The mercenaries leave soon after, joking among themselves. Desmond watches them disappear into the city and feels… nervous is not the right word, but… unsettled. Unsure. He wants to go look for Ezio and see if a year has calmed down his anger even a little bit. To see if he is going to accept the information Desmond has now given him or if he is going to discard it as a trap or a manipulation attempt or something of the sort.  

But he forces himself to stay put. Ezio is going to come to him if he wants to work together. Just appearing at his door after last time would just make things more complicated. Even more than they already are. So Desmond gives up on that and resigns himself to waiting. 

He could go after one of the Templars, but he isn’t sure that is very wise. The Gray has never looked like it did after he killed Baroncelli, and it certainly can’t be a good sign. Desmond sighs and rubs his right wrist. Better let Ezio take care of it. 

Another couple of weeks crawl by. Desmond doesn’t dare to leave the city, but he has learned from his earlier mistakes. He tears a page from his notebook and writes a short letter to Claudia – to apologize for leaving so suddenly, to tell he has returned from his travels, which is not technically a lie, but that he doesn’t know when he can visit Monteriggioni again, an outrageous lie.

Then the news come. A man has been found murdered in his own estate in the countryside, not far from the city. Francesco Salviati. The culprit apparently barely escaped with his life, after the estate caught on fire and burned to the ground. The city is in uproar once again, and more wanted posters about the vile and horrendous Assassin pop up than Desmond can tear down. 

Ezio was early. And it caused everything to go to shit. Because Desmond sent him there. And now the boy might be injured, might be dead, who knows, and it’s all Desmond’s fault. He tears down another poster with Ezio’s face on it and throws it in the gutter, his lungs so constricted with worry he can hardly breathe.  

So when he notices a couple of the mercenaries from Monteriggioni haggling and drinking near the marketplace, he can’t stop himself from marching over. Most of them he has trained with, and they greet him with jovial smiles. 

“Is Ezio here, in the city?” he asks and throws a couple of coins at the mercenaries to buy their next round of drinks. “Is he alright?”

The mercenaries let out a loud cheer at the money and immediately call for more to drink. The closest one of the men points towards the city gates.

“We are staying near the stables. He is there.”

Desmond thinks of absolutely nothing as he jogs towards the city gates and the stables. 

A few more familiar faces greet him at the mercenary camp, and they guide him towards the stable itself.

It is cooler in the shadowy stable than it was outside, in the heat of the sun. Quiet too, with only a handful of horses inside, the few inside munching on their hay. 

Soft, gentle Italian flows from the last stall.

Relief nearly knocks Desmond off his feet. He sags against one of the stalls, holding a hand to his mouth. God. 

Once he gets his legs back into working order, an uncomfortable feeling of nervousness settles in his stomach, a cold weight. It has been a year for Ezio, and that makes it both better and worse.

Desmond finds Ezio in the dim stall, bent over one of his horse’s legs to clean the hoof. The mare is nibbling at his clothes, looking for treats, and Ezio laughs, gently bumping his side against the horse’s before letting go of the leg. He looks up and freezes, the smile he still had on his face now dying.

Desmond clears his throat.

“Um, hi.”

Ezio’s gaze darkens, his mouth thinning into a hard line as he glares at Desmond – well, tries to, but then his mare pushes its head against him for scratches with enough force to make him take a step back not to lose his balance. Ezio sighs at the horse and gives in, reaching over to pet its forehead before glancing back at Desmond, then away again. 

He is fine. He is fine. His left eyebrow has been singed, and there are bruises and broken skin on his knuckles, a bandage on his right forearm, but he is fine. And he has gained a year – his hair reaches now well past his shoulders, his face has grown more angular. Even his clothes have changed – there was still something reminiscent of his noble past in his wardrobe last Desmond saw him, but now he has aimed for practicality. He is dressed more like a stable boy than an Assassin, his clothes rough and full of horse hair, his sleeves pushed back to his elbows. 

“What do you want?”

Well, at least he didn’t try to kill Desmond the first chance he got. 

“I… came to see if you were in one piece. The whole city is talking about what went on at Salviati’s estate.”

Ezio blinks at this, narrowing his eyes as he mulls the answer over.

“Well, now you have seen me,” he scoffs and spreads his arms to mockingly show off himself. “Satisfied?”

Desmond breathes out through his nose.

“Are you alright? Seriously.”

Ezio could tell him to fuck off, say that it is none of his business and why does he care anyway, sneer and accuse him of a million things, but he doesn’t. Instead, he feeds his mare a treat, his hand flat to offer the half of a carrot to the horse, before shrugging and glancing at Desmond. 

“It is nothing worse than the bruises Uncle has given me in the training ring.”

Jesus, this kid is going to be the death of him.

“Oh, that’s – that’s good,” Desmond breathes out a chuckle, his throat dry, and blinks furiously to keep his eyes dry. To distract himself, he reaches over the stall door to let the horse sniff his hand. “So, is it safe to approach or will you still try to kill me?” 

Ezio sneers, his teeth white in contrast with the dust and sand and horse hair floating in the air. He marches over to the stall door, pushes it open and tosses the hoof pick at Desmond’s feet before picking up a brush.

“Can you honestly say you would have not done the same, had you been in my place?” he asks in a low voice and straightens himself, a challenge in his eyes. “When there is no one else to share the responsibility of ensuring the safety of your family?”

Ezio points a finger at Desmond’s chest.

“I am all my mother and sister have. There is my uncle but he never married, he does not have children. He was not there when my – that day. He does not understand,” Ezio emphasizes the point with a wave of his hand. “Thus protecting my family falls to me, and I cannot, cannot, take the risk of anything happening to them. Not again. Not ever. And if that means being overzealous with my blade and suspicions, then so be it. I will not be sorry.”

Ezio heaves a breath.

“So tell me, could you have accepted the risk to your family and let a stranger into your home when he tells you nothing but lies about himself? When his words promise friendship and yet everything he does or does not do points to him working against you?” 

“Not everything, you know. That’s not fair.”

“It is entirely fair when there are still many things for which you have not provided a reasonable explanation, Desmond,” Ezio huffs with an almost arrogant air about him. “My uncle has told me that there are secrets you cannot reveal to me yet, because I am not an Assassin. But I know that is not the only reason you tell me only half truths.” 

Desmond takes a step back, lowering his gaze from Ezio, and runs a hand through his hair.

“I would tell you, if I could. Honestly. This shit is driving me crazy as well. But I can’t give you a better answer when you do not want to hear me talk about Prophets and ‘magic’, and I don’t want to lie any more than I already have.” Desmond sighs and looks at his hands, then shakes his head. “So let’s just skip that and move on with the assumption that I am mad. But on your side. Please.”

Ezio just looks at him for a while, suspicion apparent in the hard line of his mouth. Then he turns back to his horse, stepping back into the stall and clicking his tongue at the horse to get it to move so he can get to its other side. 

“You killed Baroncelli.”

“Yeah.” Desmond crosses his arms and leans them on the stall door, resting his chin on top of them. “Would you have wanted to do it yourself?”

“It does not matter now. The man is dead.”

Desmond shrugs, though judging by the tone of Ezio’s voice, it did matter.

“Only one more to go.”

Ezio makes a noncommittal noise in his throat. 

“Would you like some backup when you go after da Bagnone?” Desmond says and prepares to duck in case Ezio might hurl the brush at him. “Like, not to insinuate anything, but considering how your last job went, you might want someone to watch your back?”

Ezio throws a dirty look at him, scowling, and finishes grooming the horse in silence, his jaw clenched and brows now apparently permanently furrowed.

Encouraged by the fact he has not been violently murdered yet, Desmond drums his fingers against the stall door and decides to gamble with life once more and just throws his next question out there. 

“What color was I, when you looked at me with your gift?”

Ezio’s back tenses. Then he turns around on his heels, grabs one of the empty buckets outside the stalls and marches past Desmond all the way outside. 

He did not think he would have to wear this again. Desmond sighs and pulls the robes of a monk over his head. 

Beside him, Ezio is holding onto the reins of both of their horses and eyeing the monastery in the distance. 

“How do I look?” Desmond spreads his arms to present his new outfit to Ezio to make sure there is nothing about his appearance that will immediately give him away. Ezio considers him with a critical eye, reaches over to straighten the collar and then tugs the hood over Desmond’s head.

“It will have to do.”

They ride to the monastery in silence, Desmond in his disguise and Ezio with Desmond’s cape thrown over his white robes that were never meant to be a disguise in the same way as Altaïr’s robes they are trying to mimic. Attention-grabbing, that’s a better word for them.

They leave the horses near the entrance, planning ahead for the inevitable escape from the monastery. After a quick glance at Ezio and a curt nod from him, Desmond enters the monastery’s courtyard. With his head down, he moves from group to group, blending in, slowly making his way across the courtyard while keeping his eyes open for da Bagnone. 

When nobody has raised the alarm after a few minutes, Ezio appears at the entrance like they agreed, and starts making his way towards Desmond on the other side of the courtyard, much in the same manner. 

The courtyard nearly overflows with monks going about their business. Desmond dares to activate the Eagle vision for a few seconds at a time in the cover of his hood, but none of them glow red or golden – unlike Ezio who is a bright like the sun when he just suddenly is there, behind him, and resting a hand on Desmond’s shoulder to get him to stop in place.

“He is not here,” he hisses into Desmond’s ear. 

“He might be inside,” Desmond whispers back and glances up at the windows. They are almost two months early though. 

Ezio’s fingers dig uncomfortably into his shoulder.

“You said he would be here.”

“Yeah, well that’s what Baroncelli told me. It’s not my fault if he lied.”

Ezio makes a disgusted sound in his throat, then eyes the herd of monks gathered in the courtyard. 

“You head inside first, I will follow once you have made certain the way is clear.”

Before Desmond can agree or disagree to this change of plans, Ezio marches off to go hide in the courtyard, to stand next to a group of monks and pretend he belongs or maybe to skulk behind a particularly large pillar, who knows. Jesus Christ, Desmond would like to swat him over the head sometimes.

After holding back a massive sigh, rolling his eyes and checking that nobody is paying attention to him, Desmond sneaks to one of the heavy wooden side doors of the monastery, pushes it open and slips inside to a dim hallway. His footsteps echo in the empty space where cold, indifferent stone walls stare back at the intruder. He wanders down the hall, trying to orientate himself, and peeks into a few unlocked rooms. No da Bagnone, but at least they will have a few hiding places if someone happens to spot them.

He goes to fetch Ezio before the boy decides to come find him. He holds the door open just enough for Ezio to slip in.

“He’s not on the first floor.”

They head off to find a staircase, sticking together in the hopes that Ezio will not stand out quite so much if he is accompanied by what seems like a monk.

They find da Bagnone in one of the small bedrooms in the back of the monastery. He is just one more figure on his knees in prayer, wrinkled aged skin and gray, thin hair. Desmond would not have recognised him on sight, Ezio might have walked past him, but then Ezio’s eyes flash golden and he stops, holding out a hand to get Desmond to stop as well.

Ezio heads into the room, his steps quiet, while Desmond hangs back by the door. 

The hidden blade is quiet when it slides out of its sheath, but not quiet enough. 

Da Bagnone springs onto his feet and stumbles away from Ezio, all the while yelling for help as loudly as he can. He surprises Ezio and turns around to push him back – not with enough force to make Ezio fall, but he has to take a step back and ends up backing straight into a cot behind him, which sends him off balance. Da Bagnone grabs the only wooden stool in the room and hurls it at Ezio with all the strength he has in his withered muscles. 

Outside, people are yelling. Someone is running towards them. 

Da Bagnone rushes towards the door, unaware of Desmond hiding behind it.

“Desmond! Do not let him get away!”

Desmond has maybe half a second to sacrifice to being afraid of how the Gray might react when he kills another one of Ezio’s targets. But if he doesn’t tackle the old man to the ground and kill him right now, Ezio might never ever trust him again. 

So he grabs the running priest and plunges his own hidden blade through his neck.

The dark, stormy Gray returns. A thundering low hum fills the space, and harsh winds billows over him, nearly knocking him over. His right arm responds to the hum – an uncomfortable feeling runs down from his fingers towards his elbows.

“Not this again,” Desmond mutters and lays down the dying man. “Yeah, yeah, I get it, you don’t like it when I intervene. But I didn’t exactly have a choice now, okay?”

The wind blows right into his face as in an annoyed answer. He swears he sees a lightning flash somewhere in the distant void. 

Life bleeds out of the Templar. Desmond has barely time to close the man’s eyes and whisper the words that should be said by Ezio when the Gray fades away and returns him to the present. 

Ezio is pushing himself up to his feet, slightly swaying, and seems to be none the wiser to what just happened to Desmond. His gaze stops at the dead man on the floor, the dark pool around the corpse’s neck – then his head snaps up when he registers the yells and the sounds of running headed towards them.

Desmond grabs his arm.

“We need to get out of here!”

He pushes Ezio out of the room ahead of him and then they are running, in the opposite direction of their pursuers, not caring who sees them. They burst through a window, then leap down to the courtyard where startled monks stumble out of their way, not many of them realizing what has happened yet.

The horses are waiting for them where they left them, and they have jumped onto their backs and galloped away before anyone can stop them.

Chapter Text

The Gray, now once again dull and tranquil, fades away to leave Desmond standing in the middle of a dirt road. A clear sky opens above him, shockingly blue, and rolling hills shine green as far as the eye can see. The sun is climbing up from the east. 

Shielding his eyes, Desmond swirls around slowly and tries to find anything even slightly familiar because where is he and why is he here – and there, in the far distance, he spies the tall walls of Monteriggioni reaching towards the blue sky.  

The mighty fortress looks smaller than the thumb he holds up to compare it against.

Quite a walk then. 

Desmond sighs, adjusts his satchel so it sits better on his shoulder, and starts walking.

Just a few minutes ago, he had arrived in San Gimignano with Ezio, tired and sweaty after a couple of days’ travel back from the monastery of Monte Oliveto Maggiore. Not trusting the Gray not to be just plainly evil, Desmond had pushed one of the codex pages he had hoarded along with the one tomb seal he had into Ezio’s hands as soon as he got down from the saddle, and said something about coming to find him when it was time to go after Jacopo. On the way back, Desmond had lied, as he seems to do every time he opens his mouth nowadays, and told Ezio where the Templars would meet, as if he had got the information from Baroncelli. And then he had walked away. He had turned around and walked away as if he had something better to do than to follow Ezio around like a lost puppy.

And he had been right to do so. The world had lost its colors not long after and he had been thrown here, whenever this is it. Probably 1480, almost a year later. 

It is weird to think that as far as Ezio and Claudia know, Desmond has been spending this time rummaging through the country, perhaps making a detour or two in Spain or perhaps France, doing who knows what for his Assassin masters. Ezio, who he just said goodbye to, has had months to dig holes into Desmond’s less than perfect cover story. 

Desmond kicks a pebble off the road. At least no one has still picked up on the fact that Desmond doesn’t age in sync with everyone else. That one will be a fun one to explain someday.

He hasn’t walked far before a wagon drives by him. He pays no mind to it, only stepping aside to get out of the way, but then a voice calls out.

“Signor Desmond, is that you?”

The lined, friendly face smiling down at him from the driver’s seat belongs to Luca, one of Mario’s men. 

“Oh, hi.” Desmond blinks, surprised the man remembered him after two years.

“Are you heading towards Monteriggioni? Do you need a ride?”

So after Desmond’s hasty retreat from Monteriggioni two years – a couple of weeks – ago, he returns to it sitting in the back of an old wagon, squeezed between sweaty, burly mercenaries. He is not much better himself, with days’ worth of dirt on him, his clothes the same he was wearing when they rode up to the monastery, minus the robe he has stuffed back into his satchel. The Gray didn’t deem it necessary to give him a moment to wash up before hurrying him forward.

Still, it is a sigh of relief that escapes him when the walls of Monteriggioni finally stand tall beside them, close enough to touch.

“Here she is!” the mercenary sitting next to him says with a satisfied tone in his voice and hops down from the wagon. Desmond turns around, leaning his elbow on the edge of the wagon, and watches the tall walls of his home reach towards the sky. Back here again.

He glances at the stables, then at the surrounding areas and the shops by the gate, half-expecting to run into Ezio any minute now. Usually, no matter where Desmond is thrown, it is not far from Ezio. The bay mare grazing out in the field behind the stables suggests Ezio is indeed here somewhere, but Desmond gets to wander through the village, stop by the blacksmith and make his way to the villa without catching a glimpse of the young would-be-Assassin. 

It is yet another new version of Monteriggioni he has found himself in. Two years have passed since Desmond was last here, and it shows that Lorenzo de’ Medici has recruited Ezio to take Giovanni’s place as the Medici’s own blade in the night. Money has flowed into the village – the main street boasts vendors, the church bell that was quiet during Desmond’s last visit now chimes to tell that it is noon, and the villa up on the hill stands in respectable condition, though not yet quite as grand as it will be someday.

After this particular discovery, Desmond glances down at himself, gives his worn down shirt one useless pat to get even some of the dirt off, and gives up. 

The empty foyer in the villa echoes his words back to him when he pushes the door open and calls for each of the Auditores. Neither Ezio or Claudia answer, but his shouts make one of the servant girls appear from the direction of the kitchen. She stares at him quite rudely for a second, then seems to recognize him because her expression turns into a more polite one and she curtsies.

“How may I help you, Signore?”

“Er, is the family at home?” he asks and feels so very ragged and dirty in his stinky clothes. He doesn’t dare to glance down to see if he is leaving muddied footprints on the polished floor.

“I am afraid Ser Mario is out of town, and Signora is resting and is not to be disturbed. But I could go to inquire if Signorina Claudia might receive visitors.”

“Great, thank you. I’ll just wait here, or…?”

Oh, she clearly remembers him from two years ago, because she turns around and leaves him there unsupervised without a second thought.

He stands in place for a minute, absent-mindedly rubbing the wrist of his right arm. 

He has time to nervously fuss over his less than appealing appearance some more, pull his cape to cover more of his ragged clothes, then push it back over his shoulder because what if it looks like he is trying to hide something, or no, it’s definitely worse this way –  

And even after a full minute of that, he is still alone.

His mind wanders, and his feet follow suit.

He runs his fingers over the few weapons and armor pieces Ezio already has on display, knowing how each of them would feel in his hand without ever having touched them. He walks up the stairs to fall breathless in front of the paintings – only a handful of the collection that will be here someday – and oh, he hadn’t even realized how much he had missed the art and the literature Ezio had hoarded throughout his life. How much all the books and paintings had revealed about the man, hinted about the many, many layers hidden beneath the cover of the cold-hearted killer, the human that existed and lived through the years and decades the Animus skipped over. 

Did Ezio ever get around to reading all the books he collected in Constantinople, did he paint all those portraits of his targets himself, did he continue his studies of mathematics and languages and philosophy that were cut short when he was cast out from Firenze as a traitor and a murderer?

It’s a sudden, deep, gut-wrenching longing for that world-traveled and learned Mentor that makes Desmond draw in a wavering breath. It is the same solitary longing that had kept him awake in the eerie darkness of the Grand Temple, the knowledge that there would be no more of Ezio’s memories, no more Ezio – because they had a world to save, because Ezio had no more to show them, because Ezio had already been dead for nearly five centuries, and there was nothing Desmond could do about any of it.

And yet nothing is enough – he is here, with Ezio, but this Ezio is not the same. Not yet.

The impossibility of it all makes Desmond turn his back to the paintings and head back down the stairs. He has just managed to rein in the hurt that must have shown on his face when Claudia appears at the foyer, her skirts flowing behind her as she marches over to him.

“Desmond!”

She ends up standing not two feet from him, hands on her hips, her head tilted back so she can glare up at him. Desmond hasn’t been this scared in his entire life.

“You – how could you just leave like that?” she howls. “Why do you keep doing that? It is so unbelievably rude!” 

Her fist connects with his shoulder, then just as violently she grabs him and pulls him into a hug. She has to stand on her toes to get her arms around him – she has no qualms about yanking him down by his shirt – and without thinking, just obeying, he bends down to make it easier for her.

Only then does his brain start to process what is going on. He wraps his arms around her smaller form gently, and then lets go immediately when she makes a move to pull back – because this is not his little sister who has always been there because there are only two years between them and he was too young to remember a time when she did not exist, who is a part of him as much as he is a part of her and – Jesus, could Ezio get out of his head, thank you? 

“I'm sorry, Claudia,” Desmond says sheepishly because there is not much else he can offer her.

She scoffs, rolling her eyes, and playfully slaps him on his arm. Then she takes him by the same arm to drag him along.

“Come, you must tell me everything – where you have been, what you have seen. Nothing interesting ever happens here, so I fear I shall soon die of boredom.”

Claudia herds him to his room – she still names it his – and lets him go to get cleaned up and changed while she asks one of the maids to go to the kitchen and arrange something to be prepared for them. Then she leads him outside to the small garden behind the villa where they can see the fields and vineyards spreading all the way towards the horizon. Claudia pesters him about where he has been these last two years, and he repurposes some of his ancestor’s adventures to be presented as his own antics. In turn, she talks his ears off about her uncle and mother and especially her brother – oh, how she enjoys telling all the stupid things Ezio, like all twenty-year-old young men, gets up to when he isn’t running around the country and killing people.

The brother in question interrupts their gossiping when he opens the window of his room up in the attic to let some fresh air in and leans against the window pane, yawning. His loose hair looks like he literally just got out of bed, and that conclusion is supported by the fact it is the shirt he likes to sleep in that hangs from his shoulders all askew.

“Brother! Did you wake up only just now!” Claudia yells at Ezio, exasperated, and catches him completely by surprise. He visibly flinches and holds a hand to his chest before glaring down at her.

“I just got back last night!” he shouts back and hides another yawn behind his hand. “I want to see you rise up early in the morning after a night like the one I just had.”

Ah, of course. Ezio had a life beyond what Desmond saw in the Animus. These early years must have been full of lording over the bankrupt and nearly empty Monteriggioni, helping townsfolk and training, and taking on some Lorenzo’s contracts that weren’t important enough for the big picture for the Animus to bother to show them. 

Claudia laughs at her brother, shaking her head.

“Get dressed, you idiota, and come down. We have a guest.”

Ezio rubs his eyes and drags the hand down his face.

“It is only Desmond, not a guest,” he mutters under his breath, his words barely audible, but he disappears into his room to get changed all the same.

Claudia rolls her eyes and sighs theatrically. Desmond is so used to Ezio’s sour attitude by now that he doesn’t even mind and just chuckles at the chaos of the Auditore siblings. 

By the time Claudia guides him to the dining room after his stomach has made it known that he would like to eat something, the table has been set and steaming food awaits them. He waits for her to sit down first at one end of the long table, then takes a seat opposite of her. 

Not long after Ezio drags himself into the room and slumps at the head of the table so that he is seated between them. He absolutely slouches in the chair, one leg thrown over the armrest, and his hair, loose, still drips water on his fresh shirt. 

Claudia slaps Ezio’s hand away when he tries to steal her piece of bread.

“Manners, brother.” The sigh she lets out is like that of a long-suffering parent, the murdering look in her eyes her own. Ezio, like the mature twenty-year-old he is, repeats her words in a mocking tone, changing his voice to mimic hers. 

It earns him the piece of bread thrown in his face.

Ezio brushes the breadcrumbs from his hair and points at Desmond.

“When did he get here?”

Claudia nearly gets up from her seat to go to hit him over the head. 

“Just now,” Desmond says in a purposefully light tone and smiles. “You can go ask your mercenaries – I hitched a ride in their wagon.”

Ezio eyes him over the table while skewering the food on his plate, a few wet strands of hair falling over his face. He brings the fork to his mouth and moves his gaze to his sister who scoffs and crosses her arms over her chest. She then proceeds to kick Ezio under the table, because he twitches in his seat, yanking his foot away from her and glaring at her. 

But he gets the message. He sighs and then, very slowly and as if it was a great sacrifice on his part, Ezio turns back to Desmond. He plasters a very artificial smile on his face and his tone gets so aggressively pleasant that Desmond would like to kick him as well.

“So, Desmond, do tell us where you have been,” he says like the little shit he is. “What fantastical ancient artifacts have you been digging up since we last met?” 

Desmond purses his lips. He leans back on his chair and just glares at Ezio over the table.

“Oh, don’t you worry about me,” he drawls, narrowing his eyes. “But how’s your vision been, Ezio? Seen any golden people lately? Has anyone turned red?”

Ezio sneers at him. He sneers, but he also shuts up and sits up straight.

Just to annoy him, Desmond tells more tales about what he could have been up to, continuing to borrow some of Altaïr’s and Ratonhnhaké:ton’s and even Ezio’s own memories. He paints a picture of a man who travels and helps folk out with no strange magical artifacts involved, and he can see it in Ezio’s face how much it gets on his nerves that for once, Desmond does not refuse to tell them about himself or what he has been up to. Ezio keeps pushing the remains of his food around on his plate, leaning his chin on his hand, while Claudia listens intently, her eyes shining with wonder.

Eventually, Ezio gets enough of this charade. He pushes his chair back and stands up, leaning his hands on the table and staring down at Desmond.

“I do not know why you are here. I can take care of Jacopo de’ Pazzi myself, I do not need a nursemaid to hold my hand while I kill a man responsible for the deaths of my father and brothers.”

This again. Could Ezio grow up already? Because seriously, Desmond knows he isn’t this difficult all his life – but knowing it doesn’t make suffering through this young man’s cockiness any easier. 

“Ezio, the Spaniard will be there,” he says, wringing his hands together and hoping that his absence of almost a year gives Ezio’s imagination enough freedom to conjure up a way for Desmond to have found this out. He looks up to see that Ezio has become statue-like, his face devoid of any emotion. Beside him, Claudia is the total opposite, her mouth curving into a snarl at the mention of Rodrigo Borgia. “And Jacopo has to be expecting us – well, at least you – since we killed all his buddies. You can’t just go there alone without a plan and hope for the best.”

The thought of bringing Ezio – this Ezio, this early – anywhere near Rodrigo when he already got himself captured here in the original timeline, makes Desmond want to pull brakes on the whole operation, because there is no way this isn’t going to go south and fast. But he can’t very well do that. So the least he can do is to give Ezio the proper warning. 

“Brother, you would be wise to take Desmond with you,” Claudia states and looks between the two of them. 

She would obviously want to suggest that Ezio take her with him instead, but the tired annoyance in her eyes tells Desmond this topic has been reshashed enough times that she doesn’t even bother to try now. “He has offered you his help. You would be even more of an imbecile than I thought was possible if you turned him down just because of your damned pride.”

Ezio scowls, clearly about to argue, but Claudia beats him to it.

“He has been nothing but kind to us. Whatever it is you hold against him, let it be, at least for now. Until Rodrigo Borgia is dead.”

With gritted teeth, Ezio manages a stiff nod.

“Fine,” he says, runs a hand through his hair and then waves the same hand dismissively. “Fine, fine. Your brotherhood wants him dead. I want him dead. Our interests are aligned in this, I can see that. So let us plan then.” 

Ezio’s eyes blaze as he gets up from the table to fetch a map of San Gimignano from his uncle’s office. He spreads the map on the dining table while Desmond and Claudia move the plates and goblets out of the way. The three of them bend over the map, their heads together as they study the dark shapes that are supposed to represent the ruins near the city. 

“The Templars said they will hold the meeting here,” Ezio says. “We can get there first and ambush them. With the two of us, we can take both Jacopo and the Spaniard and end this once and for all.”

With Rodrigo gone, Ezio and Claudia would have peace. The Templars’ plans in Venice would be halted without Rodrigo to guide them. His son Cesare, currently only five years old, might not become a threat without his father there to shape him. Perhaps the loss would hit him so early that he wouldn’t even remember his father enough to want revenge as a grown man, or know who to blame. And Ezio, though already having brought down a few of the Templars, would fade from their minds after a few years and get to live in peace.

On the other hand, without Rodrigo, the Apple might never be brought to Venice and so to Ezio. But Desmond knows it is in Cyprus. He could go to get it himself, if the need be. And if things get really desperate, he knows where Altaïr’s own Apple awaits. 

No, yeah, Rodrigo needs to die.

Night has fallen by the time Templar guards spread out into the ruins of the ancient theater. Their steps echo in the broken down auditorium as they search through every crook and cranny to make sure nobody is lurking in there, planning to kill their Grandmaster. 

Planning on doing exactly that, Ezio peeks from their hiding place in the half-collapsed pathway that frames the auditorium.

“They are coming this way.”

Desmond nods and gets up to his feet, checking his throwing knives and hidden blade, then glancing at Ezio’s gear just in case. 

“You good? Ready to go?”

“Yes,” Ezio whispers and takes another peek down at the theater. He holds up his fingers to indicate how many guards he can spot from here – at least five. He backs away from the opening and means to follow the pathway to circle around the guards, but Desmond presses a hand to his chest and forces him to a stop. 

“Hey. Just keep your head together in there. I know what killing the Spaniard means to you, but you need to be careful.”

Ezio raises an eyebrow but swallows the “Yes, yes, I am not an idiot” Desmond can see echoes of in the roll of his eyes. 

Shaking his head, Desmond steps away from Ezio’s path and lets him vanish into the dim ruins.

Desmond heads to the opposite direction of Ezio, staying to the edge of the auditorium and silently taking down the guards he encounters on the way while trying to keep an eye on Ezio. He supposes he should be glad he isn’t able to see him anywhere, because then the Templars shouldn’t be able to either. But Rodrigo is out here somewhere, and right now Desmond is starting to wish he had come here alone. What if something goes wrong and something happens to Ezio? 

He makes his way down and ends up crouching in the shadow of one massive column. No Templar Grandmasters in sight yet. He glances up at the column and the starry sky, then back at the auditorium. 

Painstakingly slowly to keep as silent as possible, Desmond climbs one of the tall columns. He pulls himself up on the large slab of white stone resting on top of two columns, and drags himself to the edge so he can glance down. If he doesn’t get noticed, he can take Rodrigo by surprise and end all of this here.

Ezio’s brilliant golden glow reveals his location at the base of the auditorium, crouching behind another column. Just as Desmond notices him, red bleeds into his peripheral vision as more Templars swarm into the ruins of the theater. Rodrigo Borgia, Emilio Barbarigo and their guards. 

Desmond waits until the Templars are standing almost directly below him before he gets slowly on his knees, then into a crouch, hoping that none of the men down on the ground think to look up. He and Ezio have to move fast before someone realizes that there should be more of the guards stomping about the place. But Desmond doesn’t dare to make the first move – Ezio has moved and Desmond can’t see him anymore. He has no idea whether he is ready. 

And well, to be honest, Desmond is slightly worried about what the Gray’s reaction will be to killing Rodrigo two decades too early. It is not going to stop him from trying, but he gets to be a little bit hesitant, right?

Jacopo arrives, one lonely red figure meandering towards Rodrigo and Emilio. 

Gold glitters on the edge of Desmond’s vision. Ezio is on the move, getting closer to the Templars, slowly sneaking from one column to the other and sticking to the shadows, and Desmond finds himself cursing at the extravagance of Giovanni’s bright white robes again. Ezio’s father, with decades of experience and the Medici family as his employer and protector, could flaunt his skills by wearing white, but his son, with only a couple of years of training to help him, could really use some other color than fucking white. Like, Ezio is good and talented and a quick learner, but he is not that good yet. 

When Desmond remembers to look back to the Templars, it is to see Rodrigo pull his bloodied sword out of Jacopo’s throat.

“So sorry to have claimed your price, Assassin!” Rodrigo calls out – and Ezio, who was heading towards him, hesitates. He hesitates only for a second, but it is enough for a pair of guards that must have circled around him, pounce on him and tackle him to the ground.

“Shit,” Desmond curses under his breath and glances at Rodrigo again. If this is playing out like last time, Rodrigo will flee before Ezio breaks free. He is running out of time.

Desmond flicks his wrist to release the hidden blade and jumps. 

The bastard saw him. 

Rodrigo steps out of the way and raises his sword to block Desmond’s blade, and that’s all Desmond has time to take in before he hits the ground. The impact sends pain pulsing through his legs even though he turns the movement into a roll. Shit, shit, shit!

“Stand down or he dies!” one of the guards holding Ezio yells and raises a dagger to his neck, pressing it against the skin. The clever bastard yanks Ezio to stand right in front of him so that Desmond can’t hit him with throwing knives without sacrificing Ezio as well. Fuck.

Still hissing with the pain of the impact of hitting the ground from such a height, Desmond raises his hands, palms up, his gaze glued to the blade on Ezio’s throat, while another Templar appears to grab his arm and force it behind back, holding him in place.

“It seems we have two Assassins on our hands instead of just one.” 

With a self-satisfied smirk on his face, Rodrigo glances between the two of them. His gaze barely passes over Ezio’s face but finds something of interest in Desmond, because he walks closer and indicates for the guard restraining Desmond to pull his hood back. Rodrigo studies his face with an almost bored expression.

 “The Auditore whelp I expected, but you – you, I do not know. Not that it matters now either way,” he says and turns to his men. “Kill them.”

Ezio meets Desmond’s eyes, and at the same time, they turn on their captors. Ezio plunges his hidden blade through one guard’s throat, then slashes through the other’s with his second blade. Desmond headbutts the guard standing behind him, smashing his head right into the man’s face, then wrenches his arm free. 

With his path suddenly clear in front of him, he throws himself at Rodrigo, his hidden blade ejected, and – 

The world turns into the Gray. There is nothing but the nothingness and Desmond and blue and black lightnings and a physical force holding him back, nearly throwing him back and –

Rodrigo’s sword meets his hidden blade with a loud clang. The impact shakes his wrist, pain shoots up all the way through his elbow, and when Rodrigo wrenches his sword free, he nearly yanks the loosened hidden blade out of the bracer.

Desmond really should have gone to get the blade looked at.

He falls on one knee, then forces himself to move out of the way as the Templar Grandmaster swings his sword wildly at him. Just as he stumbles out of the blade’s reach, one of the Templar guards launches himself at Desmond, and he has to whip out his own sword.

A throwing knife flashes in the darkness, and the man falls dead right at Desmond’s feet. A quick glance to his right – and there’s Ezio, aiming another knife at Rodrigo. He pulls his arm back, about to let the blade fly, but then he has to duck when yet another sword tries to cleave him in two. 

But they are persisting. The Templars are falling.

Rodrigo realizes this as well. His chest heaves with rapid breaths as he backs away from the fight, Emilio Barbarigo following close behind him.

“Kill them!”

Desmond makes to rush after him, but then he hears Ezio yell out. With his heart in his throat, Desmond swirls around to see Ezio fighting off multiple guards – Jesus, where do these guys keep coming from? There is a gash on his shoulder, bleeding on his white sleeve, but Ezio manages to punch the guard closest to him in the face despite the injured arm. 

Desmond glances back to Rodrigo, but the man is out of his reach already – and then, just as Ezio twirls around to plunge his hidden blade through yet another man’s throat, the guard with a freshly broken nose and blood running down his face, raises his sword.

Ezio doesn’t see it. 

Desmond leaps. 

He crashes into Ezio and pushes him out of the way just as the sword comes down. He raises his hidden blade to meet the sword, and he is back in the frozen Masyaf, the howling of the icy winds almost drowning out the shouts of the dozen Templars surrounding him, the cold certainty that he is going to die washing over him as he watches the tip of his blade break off –

The sword slides past the short stub that used to be his hidden blade and burrows itself into his side. 

Desmond falls to one knee. The Templar yanks the sword out of him and raises it again, above his head. Desmond lifts his arm to block the attack – the whole arm shakes from fingertips to the shoulder, the open wound screams and warm liquid oozes down his side, and he knows this is it – 

The Templar soldier falls to the ground and into a pool of his own blood, dead. Ezio stands over the body, his chest heaving, his hand red where blood spilled on him from the gaping wound on the man’s throat. His throwing blades are all gone and the rest of the Templars are dead all around them. 

He retracks his hidden blade and turns to look at Desmond. Fury disappears from his eyes and his face grows white.

“Desmond!”

He rushes to Desmond and drops to his knees in front of him, his quick hands suddenly on Desmond’s shoulder, then on his side trying to put pressure over the wound. Desmond in turn reaches towards him, his own hand suddenly so pale against Ezio’s robes when he tries to find out if Ezio is injured, because God, what will he do if something happens to him – 

Ezio swats his hands away exasperatedly.

“I am not the one that got himself wounded, stop mothering me,” he mutters with a surprisingly fond tone and unceremoniously lifts Desmond’s shirt to see the wound. The once white shirt is now drenched in blood, and the wet fabric sticks to Desmond’s skin.

Relieved that Ezio is not going to keel over and die, Desmond lets himself slump on the ground and close his eyes. He is cold.

“How bad is it?” he barely manages to hiss through his clenched teeth, because Jesus Christ, that hurts now that he thinks about it. 

“Bad enough that we need to get you to a doctor. I am not stitching that up. Come, on your feet!” Ezio says and then he is snaking an arm around Desmond’s back to help him to sit back up. Desmond nearly passes out when the pain shoots through him – his vision full of blurry lights – but when he blinks himself back to full consciousness, Ezio has managed to drag him over to the steps of the auditorium.

A wave of nausea passes over Desmond and he pats Ezio’s forearm furiously to get him to listen.

“Wait, wait, just wait a second – let me sit or I’ll pass out.“ 

Ezio presses his mouth into a thin line and lowers Desmond to sit on the stone bench. His hand is sturdy on Desmond’s shoulder where he keeps it to hold him upright.

Not far from them, Jacopo is still alive. Just barely. Writhing and croaking, with blood bubbling on his blue-tinted lips.

“Help him,” Desmond groans and presses a hand to his wound. He feels lightheaded, and considering the worry on Ezio’s face, he must look as bad as he feels. 

“He does not deserve it.” 

Ezio’s grip on his shoulder tightens and Desmond doesn’t even bother to pretend he doesn’t lean against the touch. He closes his eyes and just. Tries not to move when he breathes. Tries not to breathe.

“Nobody deserves to suffer like that. Go,” he breathes out and sways slightly. Ezio’s nails dig into his shoulder through his shirt.

Desmond listens with half an ear when Ezio puts the old Templar out of his misery and says quiet last words to him before leaning over to close his eyes. 

“Can we go now?” is Ezio’s slightly annoyed question when he hurries back to Desmond and helps him up again, taking Desmond’s arm and guiding it onto his shoulders so he can grab Desmond by the waist. “Or should we wait until you have bled yourself dry?”

“Yeah,” Desmond mumbles, not sure what question he is even answering, and just focuses on putting one foot in front of the other.

Ezio half-carries him back to the city and to the first doctor he can find. It is all a blur to Desmond – first there’s Ezio’s strong arm around him, the smell of sweat and blood, Ezio’s voice urging him forward – then he is lying on something in a dim room he doesn’t recognize, the wound on fire and his throat dry, Ezio’s frown hovering somewhere on his left while a stranger bends over him, poking at the open wound – then nothing.

When Desmond blinks his eyes open the next, the only other person in the room is the doctor.

“Where’s…?” he tries to ask but all that comes out is a croak. But it is enough to get the doctor to look up.

“Your friend asked me to tell you he went to make certain you were not followed,” the doctor says with a plain smile. “Do you need anything? Please do not try to get up.”

Desmond, feeling woozy and all kinds of wrong, doesn’t think he could even if he tried. 

“How long… When…?”

“He just left. Do not worry, I am certain he will be right back. Now, do you need something? How are you feeling?”

Desmond struggles to keep his eyes open and his thoughts in order. His throat is so dry it hurts to speak.

“Water… please.”

The doctor disappears to the next room, and Desmond closes his eyes and tries not to move. 

But the world does want to move. 

The bed he is lying on dips down underneath him and disappears just as the Gray bursts through the only open window in the room like the ocean spills into a sinking ship, filling it with murky water. Swells of the void crash against the walls of the small room, flooding the space filled with multiple glass bottles and drawings and dried herbs, and washing over him like waves that devour a shore. 

San Gimignano vanishes and the Gray takes its place.

Chapter Text

He wakes up.

It’s less of a sudden jolt into consciousness and more an arduous crawl out of the dreamless oblivion and back into the pains of the waking world. A merciless headache pulses against his skull, and damp, sweaty sheets stick to his skin.

A warm, flickering light of a candle is the first thing that greets him when he gets his bleary eyes open. The candle is sitting on a nightstand right next to him in a dim room he doesn’t recognize. Desmond stares at it, then presses his chin to his chest to look down at himself. Groggily, he lifts the blanket covering him and finds his now otherwise bare chest and side have been covered in bandages. Fresh, clean. The wound still throbs, and he doesn’t dare to move. Not that his stiff and aching body would be up to the task anyway. It feels so heavy. He lets his hand fall back down on the mattress.

This is not the same room he was in before. No, there was the Gray and… Where is he? And more importantly, when?

There’s a smell of sweat hanging in the air, of sickness. His forehead is hot to the touch. That’s not good. 

Something moves in the murky darkness. 

A man Desmond doesn’t recognize gets up from the only chair in the room, tucked away in the darkest corner, and walks out of the door without a word to Desmond.

Desmond blinks, blinks again and tries to croak something after him, but the man doesn’t come back. 

His eyelids are so heavy.

Before he can give in and nod off, the door opens and a hooded figure, someone familiar, enters. He grabs the now vacant chair and moves it near the bed, sitting down on it by Desmond’s bedside. He leans forward and touches a hand to Desmond’s forehead.

“How are you feeling, my friend?” La Volpe asks and meets Desmond’s gaze. 

“Like shit.” Desmond almost scares himself with his voice, because it sounds so raspy and awful that he barely recognizes it. “Where…?”

“You are in my safehouse here in Firenze,” La Volpe says and pours water into a goblet from a jug on the nightstand. He offers it to Desmond, then reconsiders and reaches over to help him drink. “My thieves found you two days ago, unconscious near the Palazzo Medici, and brought you to me. Rest easy, you are safe here.”

Pain pulses behind his eyes. Desmond closes them for a while. The light of the candle is red through his eyelids. 

“What day is it?” he forces himself to say, and then has to repeat himself when La Volpe can’t make out his whispered words.

“Friday, the 23rd.”

“No, argh, that’s not what I – “ Desmond furrows his brows and tries to get his feverish brain to cooperate. It’s hard to form the words, to put sentences together. “What month is it?”

Something flashes on La Volpe’s face – surprise, worry, pity?

“July, Desmond. It is July.”

Shit. It’s been… Desmond will count how many months it has been since Jacopo’s death when his head doesn’t feel like it’s going to explode. Many months, in any case, and Ezio is going to murder him. Fuck. He needs to find him and explain – 

La Volpe’s hand weighs a ton when he presses it on Desmond’s shoulder and pushes him back to the bed.

“You are in no condition to go anywhere. Sleep now, and gather your strength,” he says and leans over to blow out the candle. “The doctor is coming to see you again today.”

“Is it infected?” Desmond manages to mumble. He feels so tired.

“Just sleep.”

And Desmond sleeps.

Desmond spends a better part of the week flitting in and out of consciousness, with varying degrees of pain and clarity to his waking moments. La Volpe comes to see him a couple of times, that he remembers, and once it is Paola sitting by his bedside, studying his broken hidden blade, but mostly he has to content himself with the rotating roster of thieves tasked with keeping an eye on him.

His fever breaks, eventually, and his mind comes back to him, though he is still weak and doomed to stay in bed. 

It’s July of the year 1480, about six months since Ezio and Desmond fought Rodrigo Borgia. Confined to bed, Desmond has all the time in the world to scare himself by imagining all the ways this jump in time might have managed to shatter the fragile, very thin trust there was between them. It must be gone now, disappeared the second Desmond vanished without a trace, and the next time they meet, Ezio will demand explanations. Desmond might just as well give them, but he knows Ezio won’t believe him, and then the cycle of distrust will begin all over again.

Desmond is so tired of this. Exhausted.

He doesn’t dare to guess what the Assassins think of him now, because surely Ezio must have said something to Mario when he returned home from San Gimignano, covered in blood with no Desmond in sight. There is no doubt in Desmond’s mind that Mario has told the Italian Assassins to be on the lookout for him. So the question is – how much of a patient is he, and how much a prisoner?

If La Volpe is Desmond’s jailer, he has had an easy job so far. He hasn’t had to even lock the doors, because Desmond can barely get out of the bed by himself, let alone make it down the stairs. Not that the spy master has indicated that Desmond isn’t allowed to leave. Yet. The problem with La Volpe is that it is often impossible to tell what he is thinking – his hood hides much and his words reveal even less. So he, the discreet Assassin he is, does not ask where or how Desmond got injured when he doesn’t freely offer the information, but Desmond is sure that he has his thieves scouring the city and combing through the place Desmond was found in, looking for clues. Even when La Volpe sits by his bed and tells Desmond of the research on the Pieces of Eden the Italian Assassins have conducted, Desmond feels like he is being interrogated. Every word, every silence is studied and analyzed, and Desmond fears what he might have revealed in his feverish daze.

Desmond asks about Ezio only once and presents it as if the thought of him only just now crossed his mind. He is in the city, Desmond is told. Was seen speaking with Lorenzo de’ Medici a couple of days ago, and apparently is now spending his time by taking down Lorenzo’s enemies. The thieves-turned-nurses are happy to fill in the holes in La Volpe’s story – when Ezio isn’t busy being Lorenzo’s attack dog, he is buttering up merchants and traders, gathering supplies and asking about ships leaving for Venice later this year.

Has La Volpe told him Desmond is here? 

While Desmond is worrying about Ezio appearing at the safehouse to chew his head off, he has more than enough time to consider the Gray’s latest shenanigans. 

Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised that it can physically stop him from changing the future. The past. The whatever. It has been, after all, tossing him around the 15th century and loudly protesting when he does something he shouldn’t have. But okay – no assassinating Rodrigo Borgia twenty years ahead of schedule, understood.

But what is he supposed to do here, if not to change the past? Just watch from the sidelines as history follows its course and rushes towards the end of Ezio’s memories, like a train wreck you know is coming but can’t look away from?

A week into his stay at the thieves’ safehouse, these worries are keeping him company long past the time the house has quieted for the night. Most of the pickpockets and burglars have left to roam the streets in the hopes of finding drunken fools, so the muffled sounds of conversation floating in from the other side of the door make Desmond look up from his book.  

“ – just lying in the gutter, with fresh injuries and blood all over him.”

“Any idea where he came from?”

“None. He has not said anything, and my thieves did not see anyone leave him there. Ezio, we had no idea he was in the city at all. It is as if he simply appeared out of thin air. We are dealing with someone truly dangerous.”

A pause.

“Ezio, he had no idea what month it was. He looked horrified when I told him. It is possible that he – “

When La Volpe lowers his voice enough that he can’t make out the words anymore, Desmond seriously considers dragging his injured ass out of the bed and sneaking – stumbling – to the door to eavesdrop. 

His heartbeat pulses so loudly in his ears it almost drowns out the voices entirely. Shit, shit, shit. 

His arms nearly give out, shaking, when he tries to sit up, and the injury, barely having started to heal after fighting off the infection, protests loudly against the movement. He falls back on his back, swallows a cry of pain and lies there in cold sweat, awaiting his doom. How the fuck to explain this, where should he even start? How could he explain any of this?

After some more quiet words and a curt knock, the door opens to reveal Ezio. He is in his Assassin’s robes, his cape adorned with the sigil of the Medici family, and his hood shadows his face. His mouth is a hard line as his eyes meet Desmond’s, and oh fuck, this is it. Desmond should have been honest from the start, should not have lied, should have done everything differently –  

Desmond doesn’t realize he has gripped the hem of his shirt and balled it into his fist until his fingers start to ache. He releases it and looks up to see Ezio push back his hood and sit down in the chair right in front of him. His knees bump against the edge of the mattress, and he busies himself with draping his cape over his shoulder to get it out of the way. He looks at Desmond, clenches his jaw, then runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath through his nose.

“Ezio  – “

“I apologize. Truly,” Ezio blurts out and cuts off everything Desmond meant to say. His gaze shies away from Desmond, shame coloring his cheeks, and Desmond understands nothing anymore. He feels like there is a visible loading circle on top of his head, just processing and processing and failing to come up with an answer.

“...what?”

Ezio drums his fingers against his thigh nervously and scrunches up his nose.

“It is my fault you were taken. I should not have left you alone.” The words are short and clipped, as if he has to force them out of his mouth one by one. He barely stays on the chair – everything about his clenching hands and the curve of his shoulders screams how much he does not want to be here. “It did not cross my mind that the Templars would go so far as to abduct you.”

Oh. Oh. 

Ezio looks down at his hands which he curls into fists and continues, oblivious to Desmond’s ever-growing confusion. “La Volpe told me where his men found you, and in what condition. Did they… What was it they wanted of you?”

Desmond just stares at him. Ezio thinks he was taken prisoner and… what, left to rot for six months at the Templars’ mercy in some hellhole, injured and tortured? Okay, yeah, it is not a bad excuse to come up with to explain his disappearance, all things considered, and it’s certainly easier to accept than the truth Desmond was about to reveal. But Desmond isn’t sure he wants to commit to this kind of a lie. He doesn’t know what he wants.

Very strategically, Desmond pulls his blanket to better cover his torso. He would rather not have Ezio notice that the wound that has sent Desmond here, to suffer through fever and infection, is the same one which as far as Ezio knows, should have healed and scarred months ago. It doesn’t matter to Desmond that he has a shirt covering the many, many stitches and there is not an inch of the wound visible, he’s not taking any risks here, thank you.

“Well, it’s…” he begins with absolutely no idea how to end the sentence, then buys himself time by stopping to clear his throat.

He could say that Ezio is wrong. He should say that no, he wasn’t abducted and held prisoner for half a year and that the wound which just got him almost killed is not a new injury but the same one he got by saving Ezio in San Gimignano. Because he is a time traveler, and it’s not the Templars who kidnapped him but time itself. That he is a time traveler, from 500 years into the future, who died to save the world from the burning sun, commanded to do so by would-be-gods who died 75,000 years ago and sent him a message through time via their predetermined Prophet, Ezio himself. A time traveler who has seen Ezio’s life from the moment of his birth, who has been him – 

Desmond coughs and rubs his neck, turning away from Ezio.

“Don’t worry about it, it’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known.”

The chair screeches against the floor when Ezio jumps up to his feet and starts pacing around the room. 

“But I should have! You were in no condition to defend yourself, you were barely conscious! We had just attacked the Grandmaster of the Templar Order, of course they were going to retaliate, and I should have known that,” Ezio shouts, pointing his finger at some invisible enemy, and spins around to glare at Desmond. 

Desmond frowns. Where is this coming from?

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“You saved my life!” Ezio snaps, the words a violent snarl. “You saved me and got injured in the process, and that is why you were not able to protect yourself!” 

 “I am an Assassin. I knew the risks when I joined the Brotherhood, and it was my decision to save you. And hey, if it is any comfort, this was not the first time I’ve been taken by Templars either – ”

“Six months, Desmond! Six months, and you almost died!”

“To be fair, you have tried to kill me several times now yourself. You didn’t seem particularly concerned about my wellbeing then,” Desmond points out and gets a furious glare thrown his way. “You gotta be careful, you know. If you keep this up, I’ll start to think you actually care about me.”

Ezio buries his head in his hands and seems to internally scream for a while.

“I hate you,” he whines and glances at Desmond through his fingers. With a sigh, he lets his shoulders slump and his hands fall away. “Why would the Templars take you? Is it just because you are an Assassin, or…” 

Ezio falls quiet. Bites his lip. Breathes out through his nose. 

“Do they think you have something to do with the Pieces of Eden? Is it your arm – “ He makes an absolutely disgusted expression when he acknowledges Desmond’s blackened hand resting on top of the blanket. “This is why you have been so secretive, is it not? Because I would not have listened if you had told me?”

Different Templars, a different time, but the same reason. So it is not really a lie, is it?

“Yeah,” Desmond croaks, his throat dry. “They thought they could use me to find out the location of an Apple.”

Ezio seems somehow both pleased at having guessed the right answer and annoyed at having to deal with this magic bullshit again. So he very adamantly makes sure Desmond doesn’t get the wrong idea. 

“I am not saying I believe the Pieces of Eden are true, mind you, I am just acknowledging the fact that the Templars seem to believe in them.”

It takes all Desmond has not to chuckle and grin at the stubbornness bordering on willful ignorance. He raises an eyebrow at Ezio instead.

“Whatever you say.”

Ezio knows when he is being made the butt of the joke – his frown returns, but he also drags himself back to the chair and sits down to interrogate Desmond some more.

“What happened? It has been so long since you were taken – we thought you had to be dead. There was not a trace of you anywhere,” he says, furrowing his brows. “How did you manage to get away from them?”

Desmond stammers.

“Er, I don’t really remember. It’s all a little hazy to me – I just remember… fighting Templars guards and getting wounded, and then just waking up here.”

Ezio leans forward.

“Do you remember anything about where you were held?”

Would Ezio believe it if Desmond said he doesn’t remember anything, or that the little he can recall is a blur of strangers and dark cells he couldn’t recognize? Would Ezio still trust him if Desmond said he doesn’t want to talk about it because going through it again hurts too much?

Desmond looks Ezio in the eyes, an ugly, cowardly yearning burning deep in his chest, and lies.

“Castel Sant’Angelo, in Rome,” he says and continues to describe in great detail the layout of the castle and the cells deep within. He borrows from Ratonhnhaké:ton’s memories of the prison he was in, of the smells and sounds, the violence – not to tell Ezio of them, but to get the right tone into his voice. It is relatively easy to suggest that Cardinal Borgia had had him thrown in there with some excuse or the other. La Volpe should not yet have a presence in Rome, so nobody should be able to blow holes through the lie.

“But how did you end up here in Firenze?”

“I guess they were transferring me somewhere, I must have escaped then. I don’t really know.”

Ezio nods at this, his gaze cast down on his hands that he has clasped together.

“It is… it is good you are safe now,” he says, looking anywhere but at Desmond, and clears his throat. “I have to write to Claudia to let her know that you are alive. She was very upset when I returned home without you.”

Oh, Claudia. And oh, Ezio who has been carrying the weight of Desmond’s death on his conscience for the last six months. Desmond never wanted this. He wanted to know Ezio and his family, to live with them and love them and be loved in return but he didn’t mean – they weren’t supposed to get hurt. Especially when nothing happened to Desmond.

“I’m sorry,” Desmond blurts out, because what else is he supposed to say? But it makes Ezio let out a dry chuckle.

“What are you sorry for?” he laughs and shakes his head. “Desmond, you are impossible. Even on your deathbed you keep repeating the only words you seem to know.”

“Hey, I am not on my deathbed here, thank you.”

A faint smile tugs at the corners of Ezio’s mouth, and it is worth the bitter taste of every single lie.

Ezio leaves about half an hour later, after making Desmond concoct a dozen more lies about his time in Templar hands. He is headed to see Leonardo the next morning and insists on taking Desmond’s broken hidden blade with him to get it repaired. Leonardo has already left for Venice, but there is not a good excuse to explain why Desmond would have that information, so he keeps his mouth shut, surrenders his weapon and lets Ezio go on his merry way into the night. 

The next day is as uneventful as all the ones that came before it, and Desmond is starting to lose his mind to the utter boredom – the heart attack that was Ezio’s visit doesn’t count. So when La Volpe himself appears at his door that evening, carrying a pile of ointments and cleaning supplies, Desmond swears he could kiss him. Even getting interrogated sounds better than sitting still, propped up by pillows, and twiddling his thumbs.

Usually it is one of the thieves that gets tasked with cleaning Desmond’s wound, but now it is the master spy himself who lowers the supplies on the bed and sits down on the chair by Desmond’s bed. 

“What did the Templars want with you?” La Volpe’s tone is light, casual even, as he finally brings up Desmond’s alleged misadventure for the first time – either Ezio told him or the walls have ears, which is only to be expected in a hive of thieves. La Volpe doesn’t even glance at Desmond as he says the words, but instead focuses on laying out the supplies and picking out what he needs. 

Oh, what the hell, let’s just fully commit to the lie at this point. 

“They are looking for the Pieces of Eden just as we are,” Desmond says while wracking his brain to recall what the Templars were up to by this point. And would it be so bad if he warned the Assassins about something the Templars will do but haven’t gotten around to yet? “One of them is making a map of the locations of the codex pages. They know that I have seen Pieces of Eden and touched one.”

La Volpe’s gaze darkens, the pretense of cleaning the wound now all forgotten.

“Have they got their hands on any of the Pieces? Or codex pages?”

“Only on a few pages. I managed to steal the ones they had,” Desmond says, lying through his teeth for fear that La Volpe might have gone through his things and seen the codex pages he has collected. Now he is happy he went through the trouble of encrypting his own notes. He continues with describing the insides of the castello, telling how to get from the cells to the living quarters upstairs, just to sell his story.

La Volpe raises an eyebrow in surprise, but his expression soon turns into a frown. He touches a hand to his chin and crosses one leg over his knee.

“If they truly know about the codex, the situation is worse than we feared. Do they know about the Prophet?”

Desmond nods. 

La Volpe curses under his breath.

“I will have to let Mario know about this.”

A knock at the door interrupts this plan. Ezio has opened the door and peeked inside before La Volpe has managed to open his mouth to tell him to come in.

“Leonardo has left the city,” is Ezio’s solemn greeting as he walks in. La Volpe springs up at the sight of him and disappears through the door after a touch on Ezio’s shoulder, the cleaning supplies still untouched on the bed.

“You can take over here, Ezio. I have urgent letters to write.”

It takes all Desmond has not to leap from the bed and grab La Volpe to physically hold him in the room. Cold sweat runs down his neck as he looks from La Volpe’s receding back to Ezio, his eyes wide, his right arm pressed tightly over the injury. He can’t let Ezio see the wound. He can’t.

Ezio seems as excited about the idea as Desmond as he stands there with his mouth hanging slightly open, staring at his new patient. But when it is becoming evident that La Volpe is not going to come back, Ezio lets his shoulders slump, drags himself over to Desmond and starts sorting through the supplies and cleaning his hands with alcohol. He waves a hand in Desmond’s direction in a vague order to get the shirt out of the way.

“There’s really no need, I can do it myself – “ 

“You can barely sit up by yourself,” Ezio huffs. ”The less you complain, the sooner this will be over for both of us. Now, show me.” He steps closer and without waiting for permission gently pulls Desmond’s hand away from his side, his fingers warm on the blackened skin. With the same calm determination, he lifts Desmond’s shirt to take a look at the line of stitches running from Desmond’s ribs all the way down to his hip bone.

There is no good explanation for the absence of a months old scar. Nor can he explain why the wound he has now is exactly the same, in the exact same place as the injury he got in January. His only, desperate hope is that Ezio might not have gotten a good enough look at his wound from all the blood and gore six months ago, but when has Desmond ever been lucky – 

Ezio’s warm fingertip brushes against his skin, and Desmond’s futile protests die in his throat. 

With surprising tenderness, Ezio runs another finger over Desmond’s side, near the deep, hastily stitched together cut. He opens his mouth to say something, then thinks better of it and reaches for the cleaning supplies instead, setting to work. Desmond barely dares to breathe.

Ezio works with the efficiency of someone who has done this many times before, leaning in close to get a good look at the ugly stitches and the still slightly irritated skin around the wound. He cleans it, then spreads one of the ointments on it to ease the healing. 

He is bent down, reaching around Desmond’s waist to wrap the wound in bandages to keep the ointment from spreading everywhere – Desmond is staring at the ceiling and thinking about nothing at all – when Ezio finally breaks the awkward silence.

“How did you get injured? Did they wound you in the same place you were struck before on purpose? That is so unnecessary cruel of them – “

Ezio freezes. 

And Desmond knows.

“Desmond. There is not a scar on your side where the Templar wounded you in San Gimignano.” The words are delivered in a slightly shaky voice as Ezio tries and fails to understand what he is seeing. “I saw it, it was deep enough to leave a permanent mark on your skin. I know I saw it. I know.”

Desmond scrambles for an answer – he could pretend one of the faint scars, reminders of the Farm training, is the one Ezio is trying to find, he could say that the “new” injury is right on top of the old one, fancy that – but he knows the excuses are ridiculous even before he can open his mouth to lie.

So instead he just… looks at Ezio.

Ezio stares back at him, his brows furrowed. When Desmond refuses to answer, he lets go of Desmond’s shirt and pulls back, his gaze flying from Desmond’s face to the healing wound and then back up again.

“Answer me.”

There is no point in lying anymore, is there?

“I can explain, I swear – I’ll tell you everything, just, promise me you’ll listen to the whole story, as fucking weird as it is – shit, I don’t even know where to start – ” Desmond is already out of breath, his chest falling and rising with rapid speed, and each movement translates into a twinge of pain on his wound. He presses a hand to his aching side, over the half-done bandages. His right hand, the black one. “Okay, so, you have read Altaïr’s codex, you know what he writes about. You have your Gift, and I’ve told you about the Pieces of Eden but this is –

The golden lines on his wrist catch the little light there is in the room.  

Ezio notices it as well. 

His eyes narrow. He stares at the arm, not breathing, only shaking his head just slightly as if he is not entirely aware he is doing it. 

The sound the chair makes when it is knocked down on its back on the floor is violently loud in the small space. Ezio almost trips on the chair in his rush to back away from Desmond.

“This is – this is not possible. Are you claiming that you…?” Ezio trails off, still staring at Desmond’s hand with his eyes wide, his face having lost all color. 

Then his gaze darkens and he gets back right into Desmond’s face. “No. No, this cannot be.” He grabs Desmond’s right arm and twists it so that he is face to face with the ink black skin and the geometrical lines, the metal inlays running down his forearm. Ezio yanks the sleeve down all the way to Desmond’s elbow where the discoloration ends. His grip on Desmond’s wrist is tight enough to make the tips of Desmond’s fingers tingle, and his chest heaves with rapid breaths. 

“This healed you. Or one of those Pieces of Eden,” he whispers, his face white. The hand holding onto Desmond’s wrist shakes. 

Ezio lets go of him just as abruptly as he grabbed him, his movement so jerky it is as if the touch burned him. His voice is but a whisper.

“You were not lying.”

The stitches on Desmond’s side scream when he reaches for Ezio.

“No, Ezio, wait – !“ 

Ezio takes another step away from him.

“I need a moment – “ 

Then he is out of the door.

Desmond lets his hand fall.

“Shit.”

He should really go after Ezio, shouldn’t he?

With his teeth gritted together, he scoots to the edge of the bed so that he can get his feet on the floor. He lays a hand against the wall for support and pushes himself up to his unsteady feet, probably looking like a newborn foal. The distance to the door is daunting – Desmond has been up and walking only a few times since he was brought here, for bathroom breaks mostly, and never without someone there to help him. So this is not going to be fun at all. 

Sweat runs down his neck as he makes his way across the room with short, slow steps, trying not to move his torso at all. He catches the loose end of the bandage Ezio never finished wrapping, and haphazardly tugs it in. The floor is cold against his bare feet, and he shivers underneath the thin shirt he has been wearing to bed, now damp with sweat.

It takes him so embarrassingly, mind-numbingly long to drag himself from his room to the hallway and then to the staircase that he almost turns around half way through. The edges of vision blur when he forces himself to descend the stairs and limp to the dim sitting room after Ezio.

Rain pounds against the windows. Behind the glass, the approaching night has inked the streets. The flame of the lone candle by Ezio dances in the draft of a leaky window, and Ezio has wrapped his cape around himself to protect against the chill. He is curled up in an old armchair, Altaïr’s codex pages in his still slightly shaking hand. The ones La Volpe must have found in Desmond’s satchel. None of them are translated, with Leonardo having left for Venice, but it doesn’t stop Ezio from staring at them like they would give him all the answers if he just glared at them hard enough.

Out of breath, Desmond leans against the wall and just watches him. Ezio is so close to the truth. And yet he got it so wrong. He has misunderstood and it makes everything both harder and easier.

If Desmond was worth the little trust Ezio has placed in him, he would go there and tell Ezio the whole story, like he was about to just minutes ago. He should, now that Ezio has come face to face with the fact the world is not what he has always thought it was. 

But Ezio can barely handle the thought of a wound healing without leaving a scar. How is he supposed to deal with time travel and the Precursors and genetic memories and all the other bullshit that brought Desmond here? Ezio is not supposed to start believing in this shit until like 1488, when he comes in contact with the Apple. Almost a decade from now.

Is it fair to spring all of this upon him just because Desmond doesn’t want to lie anymore?

“Hey,” he says in a quiet voice and gets Ezio to look up from the old parchments. “You alright?

Ezio looks up slowly, his face still pale in the candlelight, and tilts his head to the side so that his loose ponytail falls over his shoulder. He sighs and waves the hand holding the codex pages, turning his gaze to them.

“I have been reading the translations of these for years now. Never did I think they were anything else but ramblings of an old man, either crazy or too fond of the bottle. And now when I need answers, he refuses to give them to me.”

“I’ve been told he was a man of few words,” Desmond says and smiles at the private joke. Ezio, surprisingly genial, chuckles. 

Desmond pushes himself off the wall and slowly and gingerly makes his way across the room. Ezio, seated by a side table, kicks the chair’s pair from under the table so it is easier for Desmond to maneuver himself into it. Desmond slumps down in the chair with a sigh, slightly adjusting his posture so the wound doesn’t hurt quite so much. “I’m not sure the giant statue of him you have in your cellar would be up to his tastes.”

“The statue looks like you,” Ezio blurts out, his brown eyes quick as he glances at Desmond. Desmond can almost see the gears turning in Ezio’s head as Ezio recalls Desmond’s fabricated backstory. “Was he an ancestor of yours, do you know?”

“Uh – yeah. On my mother’s side.”

Ezio sighs.

“I wonder what it is like, to know from the very start where you come from, to be born into something greater and be raised to be ready for it,” he says and raises his left arm, twisting it around slightly so that the light catches on the filigree on Giovanni’s hidden blade. “My father never told me about any of this. I barely knew about Uncle Mario, let alone the fortress he commands, before we were forced to leave Firenze. And did you know the villa and the tunnels beneath it were built by my great-great-grandfather, he too, an Assassin? That is where I come from, a line of Assassins, yet I had no idea.”

Desmond wipes damp curls from his forehead.

“Your father wanted to give you a childhood. You can’t blame him for that.”

“I do not,” he says quietly and looks up at Desmond. His dark eyes reflect the light of the candle. “I just wonder if all of this would be easier, if I had known everything from the start.”

“Probably. I don’t know, I wasn’t told about this shit until not so long ago, even though I was born into the Brotherhood. If you want my opinion, I think that makes it even worse, somehow,” Desmond says. “Anyway, the point I’m trying to make here is that I know it’s a lot to take in. It’s shit, that’s what it is.”

Ezio hums, a noncommittal answer. He leans his elbows on his knees and taps the codex page scrolls against his palm.

“So all of it is true? The Pieces of Eden, the Apples, the Temples…” he wonders out loud. There’s a breathiness to his voice, and he tries to mask his shiver by turning it into a shrug. He turns his head to look at Desmond over his shoulder. “The Prophet?”

“Yeah.”

“And you still think I am the one Altaïr writes about?”

“Positive.”

Ezio considers him with his lips pressed together, but then rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair.

“So which one did that to you?” he says and points at Desmond’s midriff. “And how come you have not healed that new one?”

Um.

“I think I’ve used up any power there was left in this,” Desmond says and slowly twirls his right arm, spreading his fingers and then balling them into a fist. “Worked only once.”

Ezio sighs and massages his neck, letting his head drop.

“I guess I should really collect all the codex pages. Find out what secrets Altaïr hid in them before the Templars can get their hands on them,” he mutters. “I am leaving for Venice later this year to hunt them down, once I have got everything in order back in Monteriggioni. I suppose I will have to keep an eye out for any ancient artifacts as well.”

Desmond presses his lips together.

“I’ll come to find you, once this heals. If you’ll have me.”

“As if the lack of my approval has ever stopped you before,” Ezio scoffs, shaking his head. But the fake scowl soon turns into a small smile. “Claudia is going to hold this over me for so long, I just know it. She has believed you from the beginning, has she not?”

“Hey, you can comfort yourself with the fact that out of the two of you, at least one has some taste.”

Ezio barks out a laugh.

“I would hit you for that if you were not injured.”

“You would try to hit me,” Desmond says with a smug grin, but it turns into a honest smile when Ezio throws his head back and laughs. How he has missed that sound.

Ezio lets his laughter die out and slumps against the backrest of his chair, with his eyes closed and head leaned back. He runs a hand through his hair and accidentally pulls the red ribbon loose.

“You are golden,” he says as if it was the weather he was talking about, as he pulls his hand back and tangles the ribbon into his fingers. “When I look at you with my Gift, you are golden. You glow more brightly than anyone I have ever seen.”

Chapter Text

“You know, you could have just listened to me the first time I told you about all of this,” Desmond mutters and leans a hand against a stone wall, trying to catch his breath. He presses his free hand against his aching side and closes his eyes for a moment to get the world to stop spinning. Around him, the sounds of an early afternoon in the poorer districts of Firenze blur into a comfortable lull, the smells less so.

Once he stops seeing stars, Desmond glances over his shoulder at Ezio who merely shrugs and tilts his head to the side. Ezio has been tasked with the “mind Desmond” duty after all the thieves in the hideout suddenly found a reason to be elsewhere when it was time for Desmond’s daily visit outside for some fresh air and exercise. Not that Desmond needs any minding, thank you – his wound has been getting a lot better in the last couple of weeks, despite the very unimpressed expression Ezio is currently sprouting, and there are no Templars lurking in the shadows, trying to snatch him back, even though that’s what Ezio and La Volpe are worried about.

“If you had shown me that you can magically heal yourself, and by doing so proved that all you said was true, I might just have paid more attention,” Ezio says in a dry tone, crossing his arms. “Or are you claiming that you started to believe in all of this without any proof? Without seeing these Pieces of Eden with your own eyes?”

Does it count if Desmond saw the proof through Altaïr’s eyes?

“This wasn’t enough for you?” he scoffs and wiggles his blackened fingers at Ezio. It’s not one of his smartest moves, because a sudden pulse of pain caused by the stretching of his side has him wincing immediately after. If he wasn’t out of breath before, he certainly is now. “No, really, I want to know – how on earth did you explain this to yourself?”

“You have a tattoo on your other arm. It is not that far-fetched to think you might have gotten your whole arm covered in them.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” 

The hint of a grin flashing on Ezio’s lips might suggest otherwise. 

Desmond groans.

“I don’t even want to – okay, let’s just pretend for a moment that I believe that. How do you explain your Gift then, your vision?” he begins and leaves the steady support of the dirty wall to continue his walk. “Like surely you would at some point have thought that, hey, I have this weird magical ability, so maybe, perhaps, possibly, all the other bullshit could be true as well.”

The widening grin reveals Ezio’s teeth.

“Do you find it magical that you can see? Or hear or taste?” he says. “I have had this Gift for as long as I can remember. It does not feel any more fantastical to me than reading a book.”

Desmond almost gives him the finger.

“Your father never warned a tiny five-year-old Ezio not to go around telling everyone he runs into that he can see people in weird colors unless he wants the scary church men to come to collect him away? Yeah right.”

Ezio just smiles. 

“I used to scare Claudia with it,” he says with a far-off look, grinning like he is remembering some particularly funny story from their childhood. “She said that my eyes looked like those of a cat in a dark room. Little Petruccio just thought it was fascinating. I do not know how many times I sat by his bedside and tried to read to him only for him to keep insisting on seeing my eyes glow. It made my head ache like nothing else when I tried to read a book with my Gift activated.”

“It does not feel that magical to you, my ass,” Desmond chuckles and bumps his shoulder against Ezio’s, making him take a step sideways to stay in balance. “You’re full of shit, do you know that?”

Ezio snorts and ducks when Desmond tries to swat him over the head. He dances away from Desmond’s violent hands and pivots around so he is walking backwards in front of Desmond, his curious gaze finding his black right arm again. There is a new lightness to his steps, a certain confidence returned to his stride now that he has been welcomed back to his city after four years of exile. 

“Can you do anything else with that apart from healing yourself once?”

“You know what, I don’t actually know,” Desmond says and stops mid-step to stare at his hand, curling the fingers slightly, palm up. Could he actually have absorbed some of the Precursor device's powers? He hadn’t even thought of the possibility – and how ironic would it be if he had had the proof Ezio needed this whole time?

But yeah, he has himself many times now thought that he looks like the Apple – wouldn’t it be just fair that he got at least some benefits out of this? 

Ezio forgets himself into staring at Desmond so that he almost backs into some poor woman when he doesn’t remember to make sure there is no one behind him. After a hasty apology, he jogs back to Desmond, one hand reached out towards the strange arm.

“So how does it work? How did you get it to heal you?” he whispers conspiratorially as they stare down at the blackened skin and gleaming inlays together. Gold flashes in his eyes as he checks the arm again, as if it had suddenly miraculously changed colors since the last time he looked at Desmond with Eagle vision.

“Er, I just kinda… wished it would work and it did the rest by itself? That’s how the Pieces have worked so far, anyway.” He wiggles his fingers some more, focusing on the by now familiar feeling of commanding an Apple.

Ezio’s hand is an unexpected but welcome weight on his shoulder when he interrupts Desmond and starts steering him towards a nearby alley.

“Perhaps let us not try that in broad daylight?” 

“Oh, yeah. Right.”

They end up standing in the shadows of the narrow alley, heads together as they stare down at Desmond’s arm – the sleeve has now been pulled down to his elbow – and expect it to do… something.

Desmond closes his eyes and focuses again, trying to grasp the feeling of underlying currents of power that dwelled within the Apple. He has used the Apples, as Altaïr and as Ezio and as himself – he has bent minds with it, created illusions, demanded knowledge, and he has the right mix of genes to wield the Precursor artifacts – but all he wants from his weird arm is for it to do something. Glow. Thrum with power. Something.

The arm remains unimpressively normal. 

“Nope,” Desmond sighs and shakes his wrist. “Nothing.”

Ezio’s shoulders sag. He massages his neck and tilts his head to the side.

“Oh, well. Perhaps it is better this way. Just imagine what could have happened if you had the ability to use it at will and the Templars had found that out when you were still their captive.”

“Yeah, considering getting their grubby hands on the Pieces and wielding them is kinda their whole game plan,” Desmond mutters. But it does make him think. He looks at Ezio and considers him. Maybe the arm doesn’t work because he is not the wielder anymore – maybe he has become more of an artifact himself, and needs someone else to release the power.

“You try,” he states and holds his arm out for Ezio. They are the Savior of the World and his Prophet, after all – with capital letters – linked through time and fated to know of each others’ existence with five centuries between them and all that jazz. The Apple obeyed Ezio like it obeyed him. If Desmond has become a Precursor artifact, surely the one to wield his power would be Ezio.

Who is staring at him blankly right now.

“Just humor me,” Desmond mutters and lays his hand on Ezio’s. “Maybe it needs someone else to use it, like all the other Pieces do.”

Ezio stares at the hand with such wide eyes you could think it was about to bite him.

“I – alright. Just know that if this ends badly, it was your idea.”

He curls his fingers around Desmond’s and lightly clasps the gold-covered wrist with his other hand, the skin of his palms and fingers already rough with callouses. He brushes a thumb against one of the golden lines, which is cooler than the surrounding skin.

And so they stand there, holding hands.

“So, um, what am I supposed to be doing?”

“Just focus on what you want – the lines on my arm to glow, nothing more. If there is any power in it, you should feel it as almost a tug at the back of your mind. Focus on it, tell it what you want, and pull on the feeling.”

Ezio closes his eyes, his brows furrowed. His grip on Desmond’s hand tightens as he focuses, every muscle on his arm and shoulders tensing up.

Desmond tries again to reach for the power he felt in the Apples, has held in the palm of his hand – 

“I do not see how this is supposed to do anything,” Ezio mutters under his breath, his eyes still closed.

“Just shut up and focus.”

A good ten seconds go by. Somewhere behind them, a heavily loaded wagon drives by, the wheels creaking and rumbling on the cobblestones. A mother calls for her children. A flock of pigeons coo on the rooftops above them.

Nothing happens. 

Ezio blinks one eye open to peer at their joined hands, then opens them both and shakes his head. He lets go of Desmond's hand.

“I do not think it is going to work.”

“It looks like it,” Desmond mutters and rubs the wrist of the said hand. If his magical Precursor arm didn’t so much as twinkle when the fucking Prophet touched it and told it to glow, it is probably safe to say the lines on it are nothing more than decorative. Oh well. “At least we tried.”

“You should probably invest in a pair of gloves though,” Ezio grins and starts steering Desmond back towards the main street and La Volpe’s hideout. He falls into step with Desmond, slowing down his pace to match his. “It is a little eye-catching, even if it holds no magical powers any longer.”

“Buy me a pair, and then I’ll think about wearing them,” Desmond chuckles and hides his arm with his cape. 

A hint of expression Desmond doesn’t quite have the time to interpret flashes on Ezio’s face.

“You know what, maybe I will.”

They stop by a merchant’s stall before heading back.

It takes another week before Ezio is ready to leave Firenze behind – the last few weeks of his time have been spent arranging builders and materials to be sent to Monteriggioni, so he can have more houses built and the mines near the town opened again. Desmond even heard him mention employing a new gardener for the villa. But eventually the preparations for the journey to Venice call him home.

By that time Desmond has gotten well enough to walk to the city gates and the stables there without having to stop to catch his breath more than once, and the sword hanging at his side serves as his only guardian.

The sky beyond the high walls of the city is hiding behind blue-tinted clouds when Ezio leads his mare out of the stable. He stops to go through his pouches and saddlebags one more time to make sure he has not forgotten anything. He has forgone the Assassins robes in favor of the safety of a disguise, his clothes plainer and simpler than the ones he used to wear when he still belonged to Firenze.

Desmond leans against a nearby paddock fence and watches as Ezio lifts his foot to the stirrup and climbs into the saddle. He brushes his plain brown cape out of the way and pets the horse’s neck before looking at Desmond. He considers him, opens mouth, closes it, then opens it again.

“Are you certain you do not want to come with me?” Ezio asks, still reaching down to pet his horse. “I can saddle a horse for you – I could go ask the stable owner if he has any for rent.”

The warmth that blooms in Desmond’s chest at those words makes even the tip of his fingers tingle. He smiles and leaves the fence to walk over, letting Ezio’s mare sniff his hand before scratching its forehead and looking up at Ezio.

“I’m sure. There are things I need to take care of here, and I’d hate to draw the Templars to your home. But thanks for the offer anyway.”

Ezio presses his lips together. His gaze flies from Desmond’s face to his side and then back up again.

“I hope they have the sense to stay away from Firenze,” he mutters. “We cannot let you get into their hands again.” 

“La Volpe has promised that I can stay as long as I need. I doubt there is a safer place in the whole city.”

Ezio sighs, looks at Desmond again, and pulls his hood over his head.

“We will meet in Venice then, and stop whatever it is the Templars are planning.”

“I’ll see you there.” Desmond takes a step back to make room for the horse to turn around. “Tell Claudia I said hi.”

Ezio waves a hand as a goodbye before steering his mare towards the road and Monteriggioni.

Desmond watches him go, then returns to the stable and the pile of hay in which he has hidden his satchel along with the rest of his equipment. He hoists the satchel over his shoulder, the still sore muscles around the wound thanking him immediately, and heads off to find a place where he can sit and wait for the Gray to come for him. He already said goodbye to La Volpe and the thieves before he left to see Ezio off.

“Took you long enough,” Desmond mutters when about ten minutes later, the Gray spills against the wall of Firenze, making the buildings vanish into nothingness. It floods over the high walls and washes towards him, splashing against his feet as if he was standing in the ocean. The now familiar silver void embraces him and hides Firenze from view. Or perhaps Firenze, the illusion of it, ceases to exist.

Next, he spends ten minutes standing in a forest, near the Apennine mountains, while Ezio and Leonardo get ambushed by Templars and ride off with Leonardo’s wagon, leaving Desmond no way to help or follow.

When the Gray pulls away from him for the second time, it leaves Desmond stranded knee-deep in water. In the horizon, the masts and riggings of ships create intricate patterns against the cloudy backdrop of the sky.

Forlì is as murky as ever.

Desmond steps out of the water back to dry land and spends a moment emptying his boots and just cursing and swearing out loud in his own, comfortable English.

The fortress of Forlì rises from the waters and covers the gloomy sky. The portcullis is up, the way in open, and a steady stream of people meanders in and out of the gates. It seems Desmond has got a head start – if he remembers right, Ezio should be somewhere south of the town, only just heading towards Forlì. He probably spends at least a day or two here, maybe even a week, looking for codex pages and tomb seals and running some errands for easy money. Then he has to run into Leonardo and get the pass to get on board the ship headed for Venice.

Desmond just needs to stay out of his way until then. 

He counts his coins. With a little pickpocketing, he can easily afford renting a room in an inn and just rest. Let himself heal some more so that Ezio won't immediately notice something is still wrong when Desmond appears in Venice.

He heads into the city, his wet boots making weird noises with each step. He steers clear of the places he remembers Ezio stayed in the first time around, and after a little bit searching finds a decent enough tavern. The innkeeper doesn’t glance twice at him or his face which resembles Ezio’s, and his coins easily rent him a room for a week. It is not the fanciest place Desmond has stayed in, but it will keep him from running into Ezio. 

Feeling overly paranoid, Desmond draws the curtains over the tiny, sole window of his room and locks the door. He sits down on the bed, lets his satchel drop on the floor next to it and pulls out his notebook. 

He skims through the pages to see if there is anything La Volpe might have understood about his notes – what are the chances the spy master didn’t try to read them when he searched for any clues about what happened to Desmond? He has used abbreviations for names and only the last two numbers of years, so hopefully not very high ones.

He opens the page where he has listed the Templars Ezio killed – will kill in Venice.

Emilio Barbarigo, extorter of the people of Venice, dies in 1485. Carlo Grimaldi becomes a victim of Ezio’s blade only days later, after conspiring and succeeding to kill the Doge. Marco Barbarigo, the new Templar Doge, is shot during the Carnevale of 1486. A few months later, Silvio Barbarigo and his servant, Dante, take over the Arsenale and capture Bartolomeo, only to be taken down by Ezio, but not before the Templar ship leaves the harbor. The Apple reaches the shores of Italy two years later, in 1488. 

Desmond taps a finger against his chin and stares down at his notes. What to change – what to try to change, when all his attempts to alter the course of time have failed so far?

Saving the Doge is the biggest change he can think of. 

That whole thing is a mess, now that he thinks about it. Ezio risks breaking his neck – every bone in his body, really – trying to fly with Leonardo’s contraption basically for nothing. He won’t be there in time to save the Doge, not if he waits for evening to fly in the cover of darkness. Carlo has poisoned the Doge long before that. But Ezio will be shot down if he attempts the feat during the day. 

If he wants to save the Doge, they will have to find another way into the Palazzo Ducale. There is always the question of how much he should try to change, since the Gray’s displeasure at his antics have been made known. Will the loudly opinionated void jump in to stop him from saving the Doge like it sabotaged his attempt to kill Rodrigo? 

But doesn’t he owe it to the man to at least try? Owe it to the creed? 

Could he live with himself if he did not try to?

He lasts for three days. He stays in his room and rests, tries to exercise, and plans what to do once he gets to Venice. He also tries to recall all the lies he has told so far – what he has told and to whom – before he fucks up royally and says something to someone he shouldn’t have.

But. As much as he needs to stay away from Ezio until Venice, Desmond has had enough of staying cooped up in small rooms to last him a lifetime. On the fourth day of staying at the tavern, he tugs his hood well over his head and heads out to clear his head.

He pickpockets a few guards to pay for a delicious, steaming hot pastry he eats while sitting on a well, accidentally eavesdropping on a couple of old ladies chatting nearby. He tests out his new pair of gloves and his healing muscles by climbing on a roof and sitting there, petting a stray cat that jumps to him from a nearby balcony. He wanders near the city gates to see if that poor woman, whose husband is cheating on her, is still there, looking for help. He wants to see if Ezio has gotten around to helping her yet. 

The place he remembers Ezio encountering her is still far away when he runs into a crowd gathering near one of the city’s piazzas. Not remembering what incident this might be, he skulks closer, blending into the masses of cheering people. He glances to the rooftops around him, looking for a shadow of white and red.

He is still trying to spot Ezio, now scanning his surroundings with his Eagle vision, when the crowd parts to let someone pass.

Desmond has to stand on his toes to peer over people’s heads at the woman who makes the crowd step out of her way with her mere presence. She is young, still young enough to be called a girl, but the proud posture she wields like a weapon despite her age makes Desmond think twice about it. Her red hair singles her out, shining like the gems on her earrings.

The lady of Forlì, the young wife of the leader of the fortress, already a mother of two, has come to see her city.

It’s Ezio’s fond smile Desmond finds blooming on his own lips at the sight of Caterina. He forces himself to drop the expression, trying not to drown in Ezio’s consciousness that is pushing to the surface. 

It is hard to believe Caterina is only seventeen. That makes her four years younger than Ezio. And yet somehow, if Desmond had had to guess before knowing that, he would have thought she was the older one out of the two of them.

Her expensive, long skirt keeps brushing against the dirty cobblestones as she and her maid make their way through the crowd. Desmond gently pushes people out of his way as he follows her, not really sure why he is doing it or if it is really him that wants to see her just one more time, just once, even when looking at her is like picking at a wound. 

Caterina notices him. 

She looks up and notices him, and it makes Desmond come to a halt as he suddenly returns to himself – the last thing he needs is her seeing him. Remembering him. Shit.

She raises an eyebrow at him, then gives him a sly half-smile when she thinks she knows what he wants. And Desmond. Will not. Let Ezio take over right now. Jesus Christ.

He ducks his head down, tugging his hood better on, and backs away, slipping back into the crowd and practically running away. 

He does not want the feelings Ezio had for her. Not because he doesn’t like or respect her – hell, she is one of the coolest people he has got to meet through the memories of any of his ancestors – but because out of all the women Ezio cared for, she is the one that feels most like a challenge. Desmond could never compete, would never even try, with Cristina or Sofia – not when a part of him loves them just as much Ezio did – and whatever Ezio had with Rosa turned into a strong, solid friendship over the years. None of these Desmond would take away from Ezio or stand in the way of them. 

But Desmond still remembers how Ezio’s voice wavered after Caterina had revealed that the night in Monteriggioni had been nothing but her way of ensuring the alliance between the Assassins and Forlì.

That hurt in his voice makes Desmond want to march back to Caterina and ask for a pass for the ship heading to Venice, just so that Ezio never has to meet her, never has to grow fond of her. 

It makes him want to act on the feelings he has had since the days he spent in the Animus – and he can’t be thinking about that. 

Not when he is neck deep in all the lies he has told Ezio.

He pushes those thoughts back into the deepest parts of his mind he doesn’t let himself touch, and heads back to the inn, letting history play out like it is supposed to.

The cries of seagulls fill the air near Venice’s docks. Men hurry across the piers, unloading baggage from a ship that has just arrived. Among the things being lifted onto dry land is the unmistakable shape of the flying machine. A little farther off, Leonardo is watching the proceedings with a worried frown on his face, tapping one foot anxiously against the ground. Next to him stands a figure in white with a far more relaxed posture.

After one nervous breath, Desmond walks over to them as if he had already been in the city and knew to come to meet the ship, and didn’t step out of his personal time traveling portal into Venice just minutes earlier. He raises a hand in greeting when Ezio happens to glance in his direction. He half-expects a frown to darken Ezio’s face for some reason or another, but to his relief Ezio returns the greeting and leaves his bags by Leonardo to come to meet Desmond halfway.

“It is good to see you,” he says with a small smile and lays a hand on Desmond’s shoulder. “Have you been in Venice for long?”

“Just got here as well. But I have been in Venice before, I know the city a little.” 

“Any idea where we should start looking for our Templars?”

“Not yet,” Desmond says – he thinks it’s better to let this part play out like it did before. “But I think we should try to get in contact with the thieves and courtesans of the city first, they’ll know for sure who we’re looking for.”

Ezio agrees to this, having seen the usefulness of La Volpe’s and Paola’s people with his own eyes in Firenze.

They start making their way back to Leonardo and the massive amount of stuff he has brought with him. The inventor himself is busy checking the flying machine, dangerously close to entertaining the thought of climbing on the nearby wooden boxes to get close enough to the deathly contraption. 

“Ah, hello again! Desmond, was it?” he jumps to say when he notices Ezio has returned with a friend in tow. He offers Desmond a hand to shake. “I have heard so much about you from Ezio – all good things, I promise – so it is almost like I know you already!”

Desmond grins and glances over his shoulder at Ezio who very much looks like he regrets ever introducing the two. 

“I have also heard so much about your work, maestro. I’m a big fan,” Desmond says and genuinely means it.

Leonardo’s face brightens with a brilliant smile.

“Oh, I am just a fool that likes to dabble in some things… But would you like to see what I have been working on – ?“

Ezio clears his throat.

“Leonardo, did you say someone was supposed to come to greet you and to take care of all this?” he asks with a slightly annoyed look on his face and points to the chaos all around them. “Because, I am sorry to say this, my friend, but I am not carrying all of this through Venice.”

As if summoned, the servant of Leonardo’s new patron, Alvise, chooses this moment to arrive with a few other men in tow. After Leonardo has instructed the men on how to handle all his inventions and artwork, the artist is promised a tour of the city, and he insists on Ezio and Desmond tagging along.

When they have made it to the marketplace, Ezio slides up to Leonardo.

“My friend, do you remember what you repaired for me not long after we first met? Desmond has found himself facing the same problem now, and we were wondering if you might be able to help.” Ezio presents his request in a low tone, mindful of the presence of Alvise, while Desmond almost trips over his feet. He had thought that maybe he could ask Leonardo about the hidden blade later, once the man has had time to settle down, but not as the first thing after getting off the ship!

To his relief, Leonardo looks just as enthusiastic as ever.

“But of course! Just leave it with me and I will take a look as soon as I am able.”

“Thank you,” Desmond mumbles and throws a look at Ezio who just shrugs and smiles. Asshole.

Soon after Leonardo busies himself with getting excited about the wooden mannequin on sale, and Desmond, warned by the familiarity of the scene, realizes to look over his shoulder to see Rosa and her friends approaching. Ezio has been roped into buying the mannequin for Leonardo – he is counting his coins so he doesn’t notice them. 

The glint in Rosa’s eyes tells Desmond she has noticed them, as in mostly Ezio and especially his money. The first time around she ran off with a handful of his coins. 

Desmond moves to stand by Ezio’s side that it is him who Rosa runs into in her haste.

He knows to guard his money from her quick hands, and she realizes that. She looks up, almost frightened, but Desmond just raises an amused eyebrow at her.

“Hey! Watch where you are going!” 

Ezio’s shout makes her set off into a run again. Desmond lets her go, and she throws one last quick look over her shoulder before she rounds a corner and disappears into the busy streets. 

“Did she take anything?” Ezio asks, his brows furrowed, his hand clenched around his money pouch.

Desmond chuckles and shakes his head.

“Nah, though she did try.” 

After that, the tour of Venice goes much the same it did last time. They see the abuse of the merchants, the cruel guards paid by the Templars, the fortifications of Emilio Barbarigo’s palazzo. They walk Leonardo to his new workshop and leave Desmond’s hidden blade there for repairs, then head back to Emilio’s palazzo. 

They stand side by side in front of the magnificent building, trying to see a way inside. Ezio is making a comment about not being able to make the jump from one windowsill to another when Desmond spots the thieves storming in to lure the guards away.

“Watch out,” he calls out to warn Ezio and steps out of the way just as Rosa dashes by them and starts climbing the building. 

Now, to make sure she doesn’t get hurt.

“Archers, on the roofs!” Desmond barks and hurls a throwing knife at the closest guard aiming for Rosa. It takes Ezio a few seconds to comprehend the situation, but then he is fighting back as well, the blades he throws gleaming in the sunlight as they fly through the air and bury themselves in the throats of his targets. 

The guards fall one by one, and it’s all going so well until –

Rosa screams.

Desmond twirls around to see her lose her grip on a windowsill, her palm pierced by an arrow. She falls, badly, from higher up than Desmond remembers from the first time. 

Her leg makes an awful cracking sound when she hits the ground. 

Desmond knows it is broken even before he jogs over to her and sees the mess that used to be her right lower leg. The bend of the shank is wrong, and the broken end of a bone is trying to break through the skin. Rosa tries to get up, tears running down her cheeks, her face white with pain. He offers her his arm but she slaps it away.

“I do not need your help,” she hisses, clearly recognising him, and drags herself another couple of inches backwards from the palazzo, biting her lip so she doesn’t whimper in pain. 

“You’ll never get out of here alive if you don’t let us help. Come on,” Desmond says, crouching down to her level, then shouts for Ezio to get his ass here. He doesn’t trust that his wound is quite healed enough to endure carrying the full weight of another human being.

Ezio hurls one last throwing knife before running over to them.

“Hey, you are the one who tried to steal Desmond’s money – “

“Not the time,” Desmond cuts him off and stands up. “You carry her, I’ll make sure the way is clear.”

A confused look flashes on Ezio’s face, but it passes as fast as it came, and he bends down to pick her up as carefully as he can. She screams and grabs onto Ezio’s shoulders for dear life, her face even more ashen than before. 

“Where are we taking her?” Ezio asks, glancing at Desmond, then looks down at Rosa who seems barely conscious. “Hey, Signora, is there a safe place we can take you?”

Rosa mumbles something about Ugo and Antonio, her eyes closed, which leaves Ezio looking just as lost as before. 

“Just follow me,” Desmond says and unsheathes his sword.

The way to Ugo and his gondola is bloody. Desmond fights off the guards while Ezio tries to stay out of the way and keep Rosa awake. Once they reach the gondola, they give her to Ugo’s care and separate – Desmond goes ahead of the gondola, picking off guards one by one, while Ezio follows the boat, making sure nobody can sneak upon them. 

Rosa is awake when Ezio lifts her from the gondola and brings her to the thieves’ hideout, but she doesn’t have the energy to scream and curse at everything and everyone like she is supposed to. Ugo and Desmond rush to clear the nearby table so Ezio can lay her down on it.

Antonio appears. He takes one look at Ezio’s robes and Desmond’s face, so similar to Ezio’s, deems them safe and beelines to Rosa’s side – because of course Mario has written to tell him that his nephew is coming, along with an Assassin with features much like the Auditores, because why wouldn’t he?

Ezio and Desmond awkwardly hang back while Antonio takes in the damage to Rosa’s leg. He rips the leggings out of the way to get a better look while Rosa curses quietly under her breath. She asks how bad it is, but Antonio doesn’t answer, just glances at her pale face and presses his lips together.

“Fetch the dottore,” he whispers to the nearest thief, not looking away from Rosa. When the thief takes a second too long to comply, Antonio’s voice turns into a harsh growl. “Now!”

The thief takes off running. Antonio reaches over to brush Rosa’s hair from her face. 

Desmond turns away from them, trying to focus on the gentle sway of the gondola, on the stench of the canals, on the coos of pigeons flocking on the rooftops. On anything that isn’t Rosa and the fact that he has somehow, again, managed to make things worse by just trying to help. If he hadn’t intervened, the arrow meant to pierce Rosa’s thigh would have found its target, stopped her from climbing any higher, stopped her from ending up here, just quietly lying there while they can do nothing but wait for the doctor.

Next to him, Ezio is fidgeting.

“Could we help in any way?” he asks Antonio, his voice quiet and subdued, not yet knowing exactly who has stumbled upon.

“You brought her here, that is enough. Thank you,” Antonio sighs, shaking his head, and finally turns towards them. His gaze jumps from Ezio to Desmond and back again, then lingers on the Assassin’s symbol on Ezio’s robes, on his face that is starting to resemble Giovanni’s more and more with each passing day. “You are Mario’s nephew, right? Giovanni’s boy?”

Not keeping the Assassin identity a secret this time around, then. 

Ezio blinks.

“How did you – Yes, I am.” Ezio glances back at Desmond, his eyes wide as he tries to  understand how this seemingly random man knows his father and uncle. When Desmond doesn’t offer a reasonable explanation, Ezio narrows his eyes at Antonio. “Are you saying you are also – “

“An Assassin, yes, obviously,” Antonio growls and cuts him off. He lays a hand on Rosa’s arm, making shushing noises at her when she mumbles something incoherent. Then he jumps up and starts pacing around. “Where is the damn doctor?” 

Ezio taps Desmond’s elbow.

“Could you heal her, with your arm? I know you said it did not work last time you tried to heal yourself, but what harm can it do now to try…?”

It is not going to do anything, that is the point. 

“I don’t know, I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Desmond mumbles and gestures at Ezio to get him to keep his voice down, so that Antonio doesn’t hear the suggestion and get his hopes up for nothing. 

Which he obviously does.

“Can you help her? Please, if there is anything you can do, you must try!”

So Desmond ends up standing by Rosa’s leg, with his sleeve pulled all the way down to his elbow to reveal the black-and-gold arm, his glove tossed into Ezio’s hands to get it out of the way. 

“You are the one Mario had us searching for, yes?” Antonio notes, out of breath, as he stands on the opposite side of Rosa and stares like a hawk at Desmond.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Desmond mutters, focused on the broken bones and swollen, blue and black skin on Rosa’s leg. He is no doctor, despite the quite extensive first-aid training they had on the Farm, but that is not the problem here. The problem is that his magical healing abilities are a blatant lie, and he has nobody to blame but himself for the situation he has put himself into.

Desmond glances at Rosa to see her staring at his arm, almost transfixed. 

“Can I?” he asks her and nods towards her leg. She mouths a silent “Yes”, then looks to Antonio who lays a comforting hand on her shoulder.

To try to save his own skin, Desmond very, very carefully lays his hand on Rosa’s leg, near her knee, and closes his eyes. 

On the off chance that it might just work, because you never know with Precursor shit, he reaches for power as if it was an Apple he was commanding and not his own limb. It is his fault Rosa is like this and he needs to fix this, he needs to –

“Dio mio, Desmond, you are glowing!”

Ezio’s outcry startles Desmond into blinking his eyes open to see that he is, indeed, glowing. Well, his arm is. The golden inlays on it shine brightly like the Apples do, even in the afternoon sun. It surprises him enough that he almost lets go of the energy whirling in him, the glow dimming until he gets himself back in line.

So he can glow.

That just seems to be the only thing he can do. 

He tries to guide the soft hum of energy tingling in his fingers down into Rosa's leg, to steer it towards healing her, but the power vanishes when he tries to focus on the damage on the bones and muscles, slips through his fingers like water. It is like trying to move a mountain with one shovel alone.

“I’m sorry, I can’t do it,” he says and pulls his hand back. He resists the urge to rub the wrist even though the muscles on it feel weirdly sore. He is going to have a monster of a headache. “Whatever power I have in this thing, it’s not enough to heal her.”

He meets Antonio’s gaze, afraid of what he is going to find in there, but before neither of them can open his mouth, one of the thieves bursts into the courtyard.

“The dottore is here!”

Chapter Text

The murky water of the canal gently sways and splashes against the stone steps Desmond is sitting on peeling flakes of dried blood from his fingers. On the other end of the tunnel leading out to the Adriatic sea, he can see the setting sun. Its last rays of light paint sections of the nearby buildings with pinkish hues, while the parts the light doesn’t reach are already lost to the deepening shadows. Somewhere behind him, the tired doctor is collecting his supplies while Antonio counts his coins to pay the good man.

On the step above Desmond’s, Ezio, with his face buried in his hands, is having an epiphany. 

“Uncle Mario, an Assassin, wrote to Antonio, another Assassin, to tell him that I was coming here without mentioning anything to me,” he mumbles into his hands. “He has arranged his Assassin friend to be my nursemaid, has he not?”

Desmond hums in agreement and scratches some of the dried blood underneath his fingernails.

“Speaking of his friends, La Volpe is not just some thief Uncle ran into as a young Assassin, years ago, is he?” Ezio wonders out loud in a slightly horrified voice. “He is one of you as well – because why would a leader of a fortress in Tuscany work with the master of the thieves of Firenze, if not for the fact that they belong to the same secret brotherhood? Am I understanding this correctly?”

“Yup.” 

Ezio lets his hands drop from his face as he stares blankly out to the lagoon, his shoulders slumping as the realization sets in. A hint of desperation sneaks into his voice. 

“Tell me it was a coincidence that the sister of the madam of the Rosa Colta was a servant in our household – in an Assassin household.”

“Nope.”

As hard as Desmond tries, he can’t call the sound Ezio makes anything but a whine.

“Paola is an Assassin as well?”

Desmond nods and watches as Ezio bends over his knees, grabs a fistful of his own hair into both of his hands and has a meltdown. 

“I am surrounded by Assassins,” he whimpers and drags his hands down his face. There is a mortified note in his voice. “What does my uncle tell them when he asks them to mind me – here is my young nephew, please make sure he does not stab himself with his own hidden blade? And when you point out the Templars to him, please let him think he found them all by himself?”

“Pretty much, I’d guess,” Desmond muses and tries not to laugh at the expression Ezio makes. “Hey, he cares about you and tries to make sure your sister doesn't have to cry over your dead body. It’s not a bad thing.”

“He could have told me!”

“In all the years I have known you – how long has it been now, what, five years? – you have never shown any signs of wanting to have anything to do with the brotherhood. Can you blame him for not trusting you to take this well?” 

Ezio turns to glare at him over his shoulder.

“And you. You did not tell me either!”

“Last time I told you anything about the Assassins, you tried to kill me.”

Ezio harrumps, narrows his eyes and completely ignores the raised eyebrow Desmond gives him. 

“What did my uncle tell you? Are you here as well to hold my hand and make sure I do not get myself killed?” 

“I think we already established that I am, like, years ago,” Desmond says flatly. He stretches out the fingers of his right hand, then clamps the hand into a fist. It still aches, as a consequence of the lightshow with Rosa.

Ezio scoffs and leans in closer, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. 

“Are there other Assassins in Venice that know to expect me?”

“Er, a couple? Another madam, and a mercenary. That I know of,” Desmond admits, then rushes to add: “Not because your uncle told me, but because the people back home – my home – like to keep tabs on everybody.”

Ezio holds his gaze for a moment longer, searching for something in Desmond’s eyes, then he sighs and leans back so that he ends up sprawled over the steps, tugging his cape over himself as a makeshift blanket.

“I do not like this,” he says and makes a vague gesture with his hand which in no way indicates what “this” is.

“I noticed.”

Ezio closes his eyes. Breathes out through his nose.

“I just want him to trust me.”

Desmond mulls over that revelation, watching Ezio and the tenseness at the corners of his mouth. Then, without saying a word, he lies down next to Ezio, close enough that their shoulders brush together. It is not comfortable, with the cold, hard edges of the steps digging into his back, but they are doing this now, having a moment, so his back is going to have to take one for the team. He turns to Ezio and waves his hand, gesturing for him to continue to open up about his feelings.

“I guess I have been… stubborn,” Ezio begins after a while of listening to the water lapping against the stone. “Thinking only of what I want. First wanting to take Mother and Claudia to Spain. Then using the Assassins to get my revenge on the Templars – taking only the good, easy parts, their weapons and their resources but not their responsibilities. I never really listened to what Uncle said when he talked about your creed. It is no wonder he does not trust me with all his secrets. He treats me like a child, because I have acted like one.”

Desmond hums and turns to study Ezio’s profile as the other stares up at the sky. He rubs his right wrist with his other hand, the warm glow of the disappearing sun glittering in the gold on his skin. He runs his fingers over the inlays, trying to get rid of the weird feeling still lingering in his muscles.

Ezio pokes the arm Desmond is massaging.

“I never properly apologized for not believing you about this either, did I? And for being an ass about… everything, really,” he says and turns to meet Desmond’s gaze. A small grin dares to bloom on his lips. “Or for trying to kill you. Say, how many times have I tried that now?”

Desmond snorts.

“I’ve stopped counting.”

“What’s a little murder between friends?” Ezio chuckles and glances quickly at him, then looks away. His shoulder is warm against Desmond’s. “No, really. I am sorry,” he says with a sigh, and Desmond wants to tell him to stop. 

“You had your reasons.”

“Still,” Ezio says, swallowing. “Would you tell me more about the Assassins, sometime? About your creed… and your mentor. I swear I will listen this time.”

Desmond blinks, then lets himself smile.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think we can do that.”

They lie there for a while, staring at the darkening sky that seems both so new and familiar at the same time. It is the first time under the Venetian sky for Ezio, a stranger in a strange city so unlike anywhere he has been before. Antonio and Rosa are still just faces in the crowd, and Desmond doubts Ezio could yet find his way back to Leonardo’s without stopping to ask for directions. Ezio must have felt so lonely here, in the original timeline – Desmond tries to grasp the wisps of that memory, but it has been years – thirty years. He’s only human, Ezio was only human, and no one remembers everything.

Still, if nothing else comes out of Desmond stumbling through time and breaking everything he touches, at least Ezio doesn’t have to be alone today.

“Someone is bound to come to look for us soon,” Ezio mutters next to him, tugging the cape to his chin like a child not wanting to get up.

“Yeah,” Desmond says and props himself up on his elbows. “You know, I’m sure there are better places to spend the night than right here. I think I have already broken my back.”

“Getting old, are we?”

“Oh, shut up.”

But it does make him look at Ezio, and to think of how old he is. Young. Ezio is turning twenty-two this year. On paper, he is only three, four years younger than Desmond. He was seventeen only months ago. And once Desmond jumps to the assassination of Emilio Barbarigo, they will be the same age, if only for a few days. Then Ezio will be the older one, and will keep getting older. 

Not that Desmond feels twenty-five, turning twenty-six. Hasn’t felt like he is in his twenties in a long while.

The quick fingers poking and prodding at his arm pull Desmond out from those thoughts.

“It is one thing to hear about the Pieces of Eden, but another entirely to see your arm actually glow,” Ezio mutters, brows furrowed as he focuses on the strange markings, though he flashes a stupid grin at Desmond when he notices the latter’s annoyed look.

Desmond pulls his hand away and pushes himself up to his feet. Okay, yeah, it’s weird, considering Desmond didn’t know it could do that, not that it was any use. The arm was supposed to be just useless and get him into trouble every now and then, not turn him into a human flashlight

“Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet. Just wait until we get our hands on an Apple.”

Ezio laughs, a clear sound in the calm night, then clamps his mouth shut when he notices Antonio approaching them. 

He jumps up to his feet, straightens his cape and follows after Desmond when Antonio gestures towards the headquarters of the thieves. It is time for him to learn about the Templars plaguing Venice.

When Desmond knows what to look for, he sees the thieves’ guild for what it is – an Assassin cell in all but name, trying to take the city back from a tyrant. Rosa is Antonio’s prodigy, even if she or the other young thieves haven’t been told of the creed yet. Perhaps most of them never will hear the tenets, but that doesn’t stop Antonio from putting the young people to good use. Desmond sees all of it differently now, having the wisdom of two Mentors, while Ezio, even after his realization, is still blind to most of it, to the moving parts of a well-oiled machine working as intended to bring down Templars and restore Venice to its people.

Antonio takes one look at the young man in front of him and recruits him to fight for his cause. It will be good for Ezio, as the years working for Antonio will teach him much about leading a brotherhood – building up a guild, rooting out traitors and working right underneath the Templars’ noses are all skills he will need in Rome.

But first, he needs to learn how to climb.

It’s a couple of weeks after their flashy entrance into the thieves’ guild when Desmond finds Rosa and Ezio in the courtyard, and not for the first time. Rosa is on her feet, though leaning heavily on her crutches. She is craning up her neck to cast a critical eye on Ezio who is brushing sweat from his forehead where he is sitting atop a scaffold he has managed to climb according to her instructions. He is wearing some old light shirt and breeches, fit for the weather and exercise, and looks so miserable that they must have been at this for a while already.

“It was acceptable. You can take a break,” Rosa says to Ezio and grins at the way he slumps down to lie on his back the second he is given permission, his breath wheezing. 

Rosa turns to Desmond.

“Well, hello you,” she says, smiling, and rests more of her weight on her good leg. “Did your inventor have what you wanted?”

“Yeah.” Desmond nods and crosses his arms over his chest. His repaired hidden blade rests over his left forearm, now covered with a bracer that better fits into the fifthteenth century. He nods towards Ezio whose feet dangle over the edge of the scaffolding. “How’s he doing?”

She scoffs, her amused gaze finding Desmond’s. 

“He told me he has known you for years. How come you have not taught him to climb and leap? I have seen you move, I know you can do it.”

“Ah, well, I thought he needed to get a grasp on the basics first before we could move onto the more advanced stuff,” Desmond chuckles and brings a hand to his neck, tilting his head to the side. “Some people just learn at a slower pace. It’s not their fault, they can’t help it – ”

“Hey, I can hear you, assholes!” Ezio yells and pushes himself back to sitting up. He glares at them, wipes sweat from his neck and aggressively braids his hair that has come loose from the usual ponytail. 

“No, you cannot! Now shut up and try again like a good boy!” Rosa shouts back and gestures towards the bottom of the scaffold.

Grumbling the whole time, Ezio makes his way down and then starts climbing again while Rosa and Desmond sit down on a nearby bench to watch – and comment.

“He doesn’t jump high enough even though he would have the strength for it,” Desmond notes after a while of studying Ezio’s still unsure technique. 

Rosa hums and watches with narrowed eyes as Ezio tries again, leaps, and once again almost loses his grip.

“You are right,” she says and then raises her voice to point this out to Ezio. “Hey, codardo, jump like you mean it! You will only hurt yourself if you keep hopping like a little girl.”

The muscles on Ezio’s back tense, and the glare he throws over his shoulder at them is sharp. He has been trying to impress Rosa with the same eagerness he did last time, but now Desmond is there, throwing the whole dynamic off, and apparently ruining everything as far as Ezio is concerned.

But his next attempt is a lot better.

“Give him another week and he might get the hang of it,” Desmond declares, then shouts out some more corrections to Ezio whose face by now gives the impression that Desmond might just die in his sleep tonight.

“Bah! At least two, and he will still be only passable.” 

When Desmond and Rosa finally let Ezio off the hook, there are scrapes all over his hands and his legs shake with exhaustion. He drags himself over to them, plants himself very strategically between them on the bench and grabs the carafe of water Rosa had just handed to Desmond. He downs half of the water before he even attempts to speak.

Rosa pushes Ezio’s shoulder.

“Ugh, you stink. Get out of here,” she laughs and laughs even more when he bumps his shoulder into hers as if trying to push her off the bench. Despite his outward crankiness, the corners of Ezio’s mouth turn upward, and he is quick to search for her gaze again. 

In the parts of Desmond that are more Ezio than himself, only warm feelings linger when it comes to Rosa. It had always been an undefined thing between them, her and Ezio, that had crossed the boundaries of friendship and romantic affection without them never putting much of it into words. The loss of Cristina had been still too fresh a wound to allow Ezio to let it become anything more serious. Not that it had been a possibility in the first place, with the life he was now living. And Rosa had had no dreams of turning into a wife and settling down when she had a future of her own right in front of her. They had enjoyed it for the time they had, and then parted ways as close friends with no bitter feelings between them. 

“No, no, you truly stink! I am leaving now.” Rosa can barely get the words out of her mouth due to all the laughing, and then she struggles just as much clambering to her feet, almost tripping on her crutches. She swats Ezio’s hand away when he offers to help her up, and points a finger at his face.

“The same time tomorrow. You still need a lot more practice.”  

She hobbles a few steps before stopping to look over her shoulder.

“You are welcome to join us as well, Desmond,” she says, her words dripping honey, and winks at him.

Desmond just smiles sheepishly, like he has done every time she paid him this kind of attention. He massages his neck and looks from her receding back to Ezio to see him make a face at the obvious flirting. 

Desmond smirks, just to be annoying.

Ezio elbows him. 

“So, when do you leave?” Ezio asks between sips of water, twirling the carafe in his hands. Desmond, in preparation for the eventual time skips all the way to 1485, has let Ezio understand that he has received orders from his brotherhood, to go to hunt some Piece of Eden or a batch of Templars or some other suitable nuisance far from here. That should cover for most of his absences. 

“In a couple of days.” Antonio hasn’t yet approached Ezio about breaking out the captured thieves, but it can’t be more than a day or two away. Just as close is the Gray, lurking behind a metaphorical corner, waiting to snatch Desmond up and toss him forward and make everything a thousand times more difficult than it has to be.

Because they are rapidly approaching the part where the Animus had skipped over literal years without really making a fuss about it. Back in 2012, Desmond hadn’t even realized how much time had passed until Shaun had made some sarcastic comment about him not having paid any attention. 

Because first they had watched Ezio step off the ship in 1481, then there was a mission or two with him helping free Antonio’s men and rooting out traitors, all of which Desmond had assumed happened in the span of maybe a few weeks at most. Then Ezio had gone after Emilio Barbarigo, and suddenly the year was 1485 – four years later. When Desmond had questioned Rebecca about it, because surely it was some glitch in the Animus, she had explained something about blending things together to try to get his synchronization up while trying to avoid spending more time than necessary on this part of Ezio's life. They had a world to save, after all.

And it had been all fine and not a problem until now, when his existence is dictated by what he did and did not see in the Animus.

Ezio downs the last of the water and drums his fingers against the empty carafe.

“You only just arrived here. Why on earth are they sending you away right now?”

“It just is like that sometimes. I've gotten used to it.”

Desmond expects Ezio to complain or be difficult and interrogate him some more, but instead Ezio just hangs his head, taking a deep breath. 

“I cannot get to Emilio by myself. You saw the palazzo, the fortifications, the guards. I do not think even the two of us could do it, had you been able to stay. So I need the thieves’ help, but they are in no condition to help me yet.”

“Antonio did lose a lot of men in the attempt to take Seta. And it almost cost him Rosa,” Desmond agrees and studies the hideout. It is a lot emptier, quieter than he remembered it. “It will take him years to rebuild.”

Ezio is silent for a moment, staring at his hands. 

“I will stay here and help them. At least for a while. Antonio and Rosa and the rest are good people,” he says and glances at Desmond. “And even if I cannot go after Emilio yet, there is a chance I might find out where his accomplices are hiding.”

“That sounds like a plan.”

The corner of Ezio’s mouth rises with a smile.

“I am telling you this so that when you come back from your mysterious travels, you know where to find me. You said you would come to Venice to take the Templars down with me – I am holding you onto that.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that. I’ll be here when the time comes.”

Ezio bumps his shoulder against Desmond, the smile forgotten on his lips. Gingerly, he pushes himself up to his feet and starts stretching his aching muscles. 

“I think I might have to give the Assassins a chance,” he blurts out without a warning, his back to Desmond. 

Desmond blinks.

“Really?”

“If you and your Pieces of Eden are true, then the Sanctuary hidden in my uncle’s basement might be genuine as well. And Altaïr and the things he wrote into his codex. The hidden war between you and the Templars. And if the secrets are true, then my father died protecting them. I cannot let it have been in vain.” 

Ezio breathes out through his nose.

“And it is not like I can go back to my old life. My family is… my father and brothers are dead, my mother has shown few signs of getting better, our home in Firenze is gone. Cristina has married someone else. The life I was supposed to have as a banker’s son is gone. I might just as well embrace this one I have been given.”

Desmond just watches him for a while.

“I’m sure Antonio will be happy to let you in on all our secrets in exchange for you staying to help,” he says in the end, trying to hide how seeing Ezio make that decision has made him feel. Not that he really knows himself how he feels. 

Ezio considers him with pursed lips.

“Are you sure you have to leave? It is not that I have anything against Antonio, but…”

“Yeah, pretty sure. Sorry.”

Ezio sighs.

Desmond has dubbed this part of Ezio’s life, spanning from 1481 to 1485, the Montage Memories.

He gets moments, sometimes an hour here, then two days there. He can spend a whole week, 168 hours straight with Ezio and the thieves trying to take back their city, and then be thrown forward in time to the next month. One time Desmond slumps down into a chair in the back corner of the safe house to take a nap and falls asleep to the soft sounds of Ezio and Rosa's conversation, only to wake up in the same chair, in the same kitchen, six months later.

He eats when he can, tries to nap when he gets the chance – he never knows when he will be taken again or where he will end up. He is just as likely to suddenly find himself in the middle of a fight Ezio has started with the city guards as he is to end up on top of a tower Ezio is climbing just to take in the view or back in Monteriggioni during one of Ezio’s rare visits back home. A couple of times he has woken up to Ezio shaking his shoulder and asking why the hell he is sleeping where he is – on the roof of Antonio’s safe house, in a gondola Ezio was about to steal.

It is hard to say how long it takes, really, to reach 1485. He stops trying to keep track of time when he visits three different days in the span of twenty-four hours. It’s not really worth asking Ezio or the thieves what day it is – it is a nuisance to come up with an excuse to explain why he doesn’t know, and in the end, the date doesn’t really matter. It won’t stop the Gray.

The only reliable way to tell the passage of time is to look at Ezio. The boy is becoming a man – his face loses the last traces of the softness of adolescence, his dark hair grows to reach past his shoulders, and the tanned skin on his hands gets marked with new scars. The lithe frame of his teenage years turns into the solid, strong build of an adult man who has spent the better part of the last decade training and fighting and climbing. 

And it is not just Ezio’s body that changes. The restlessness of boyhood begins to vanish as he finds his place among the thieves of Venice and as Antonio’s right hand, and Rosa’s embrace mends some of the wounds the loss of Cristina has left on his heart. The urgent need to find Emilio and kill him mellows down, and soon there are more important reasons for Ezio to stay in Venice – friendships, a girl, a brotherhood of thieves, a purpose beside killing. A life. 

Four years is enough time for Ezio to learn the history and the creed of the Assassins from Antonio, from Mario, from the writings of Altaïr – and to accept them. He becomes an Assassin in all but name, and Desmond isn’t even that surprised when he eventually finds himself spying on the courtyard of the thieves’ hideout to see what appears to be a regularly scheduled meeting between Ezio, Antonio, Teodora and Bartolomeo long before Ezio was supposed to meet the latter two.

“There you are again! I swear, you are like a ghost sometimes,” Ezio grumbles as a greeting during Desmond’s latest visit, looking up from the map Antonio has spread over the table between them. “Nobody ever sees you leave or enter the city, I do not know how you do it.”

Desmond, who just stepped out of the Gray in a back alley near the hideout and wandered into Antonio’s office to interrupt whatever it is Ezio and Antonio are doing, tries not to have a heart attack and die on the spot. 

“You’re just jealous,” he quips back and tries to cover his panic with a weak chuckle. 

Ezio scoffs and rolls his eyes, while Antonio greets Desmond and gestures for him to come to take a look at the map as well.

“The least you could do when you leave is to say goodbye,” Ezio mutters as he lays a warm hand on Desmond’s shoulder and pulls him into a one-armed hug. “You had barely arrived in Venice when we last met – when was it, two months ago? – and then you just disappeared without a word.”

"I'm sorry. Sometimes there just isn't time – you know how it is."

“Do you ever have time? I do not think I have ever seen you stay in one place for more than a few weeks.” Ezio sighs and pulls back, shaking his head slightly. "It demands a lot from you, this brotherhood of yours."

Desmond hums, a noncommittal sound from his throat, and leans his hip against the table, glancing down at the map on which Antonio has laid out mugs and coins to mark positions near the Palazzo della Seta.  

“You’re finally going after Emilio?”

“Yes. Will you join us?”

So they are in 1485 already. Four years, gone just like that. 

“Yeah, of course. What’s the plan?”

Emilio Barbarigo dies. Three days later the Templars meet to plan the Doge’s murder. 

Now, shielding his eyes from the sun, Desmond watches as Ezio steps off a roof.

The creaking wings of the flying machine catch the wind, and then Ezio is unsteadily gliding over the rust-colored roofs of Venice.

Leonardo cheers, his face a little paler than normal because of the height of the roof they are standing on, while Desmond turns to look in the direction of the Doge’s palazzo. While Ezio has been busy scouting the place with Antonio, roping Leonardo into lending him the flying machine and then getting it somewhere high enough for lift-off, Desmond has spent his time studying the Palazzo Ducale on his own.

Climbing the walls and getting in via the roof had already been ruled out. Even flying in won’t work, despite the fact that Ezio and Leonardo managed to pull off a small miracle just now. Storming their way through the front doors is not something to be even entertained. There are far too many guards, and most likely the attempt would just make it easier for Grimaldi to kill the Doge in the chaos and put the blame on them. 

Desmond has considered trying to get a message to the Doge, to warn him from drinking or eating anything Grimaldi offers him, but how is he supposed to do that? None of the guards would agree to just take a note from some random citizen to the Doge. Then Desmond had the idea to go after Carlo to remove him from the picture before the poisoning could take place, but the bastard has holed up in the palazzo, and so is out of reach. 

The Gray might have had some opinions about that solution anyway.

A shout pulls Desmond’s attention back to Ezio. 

A couple of guardsmen, on the roof, are pointing and shouting at the demon-like apparition that sails past them, their shrieks getting louder as the shadow of the flying machine flies over them and then descends quite uncontrolledly towards a nearby canal.

Leonardo lets out a prayer for Ezio and his machine while Desmond glances from the archers to the Doge’s guards stationed around the Palazzo Ducale. He might have an idea.

After making sure Leonardo can get down safely, Desmond hurries to go to fish a very drenched Ezio and his flying machine from the muddy canal. He is stuck under the half-sunk device, trying to push one of the wet wings off of himself and cursing like there is no tomorrow when Desmond finds him. Desmond reaches over to lift the machine so that Ezio can dive and get out of the cage of the main structure.

Ezio wipes his hair from his face, spitting water from his mouth, and waves his hand at Desmond to get him to pull him up from the canal.

“I have half a mind to dump that thing back in there,” he mutters, still dripping water, when they have managed to drag the flying machine out of the murky depths. “It is useless.”

“I wouldn’t say useless, since it did fly.”

“But nowhere near long enough to reach the Palazzo.”

Desmond considers the wreckage of the flying machine, the disheveled and angry Ezio and the position of the sun. 

“Maybe we don’t need it.”

Ezio, emptying one of his boots of water, looks up at him.

“What do you mean? Antonio and I studied every inch of that façade – there is no other way in.”

“Well yeah, not if we try climbing the walls. But what if we just walked right in?”

Ezio just looks at him.

“I assume you have an actual plan in that head of yours and have not just gone crazy.”

“Disguises,” Desmond says and resists the urge to glance around to make sure no one is eavesdropping on them. “We knock out a couple of guards, take their uniforms and pray that nobody takes too good a look at us when we walk in.”

“That is madness,” Ezio huffs, dropping the boot on the ground and maneuvering his foot into it. “But to be fair, so was flying, and I gave that a try.” He huffs, brushes more wet strands of long hair from his face and looks at Desmond. “But in all seriousness, will they not just take one look at us and realize we do not belong?”

“We can take that chance or you can try your luck with that thing again,” Desmond says and points to the miserable carcass of the flying machine.

Ezio’s shoulders slump.

“I guess we do not have any better ideas.”

And so they skip the arduous wait for the sun to go down and the process of lighting the fires on bridges and roofs of Venice, and head towards the Doge’s palazzo hours before Ezio is supposed to get in.

Acquiring two sets of uniforms is not the hard part of this plan. The two unfortunate men they locate not far from the Palazzo go down in seconds, and after a few minutes of comparing the armor pieces to see which fits whom better, Desmond and Ezio flag down a couple of Antonio’s thieves to take their own clothes back to the hideout and to keep an eye on the unconscious guards.

“I really hope this works,” Ezio says under his breath as they approach the Palazzo Ducale, touching a hand to his borrowed helmet covering his head and face to make sure it sits straight.

“Trust me, I have done this before,” Desmond mutters back, then promptly shuts his mouth as they finish crossing the clearing and reach the entrance to the palace. Despite his bold words, sweat runs down Desmond’s neck as they nod at the soldiers posted at the gate and try to pretend they are supposed to be here. 

The heat of the afternoon has made the guards drowsy, because they barely glance at the pair of them. With his heart in his throat, Desmond has to remind himself not to burst into a run the second they reach the inner courtyard, and instead forces himself to think about the little he can remember of the layout of the building. After a few glances at the pairs of guards stationed all around the palazzo, they decide to stick together to seem less suspicious and start the painstakingly long process of trying to locate the Doge. 

“The Doge’s rooms are upstairs, I think,” Desmond whispers to Ezio and discreetly tugs on his arm to get him to follow. He remembers Ezio climbing down from the roof to a balcony to warn the Doge, and even though there is no guarantee the Doge will be in the same room right now, it is the best place to start looking.

The clangs and creaking of their armor feels almost violent in the dignified calm of the palazzo as they march through the lavishly decorated hallways, trying to estimate how close to the Doge’s rooms they might be by the ostentatiousness of their surroundings. A couple of times they catch a glimpse or two of a servant carrying a plate of food or drinks, and each time Desmond wonders if that dish is the one with the lethal dose in it.

Eventually, they find an extravagant door with a pair of guards standing in front of it.

“I guess that’s him,” Desmond says and slows down his pace, forcing Ezio to do the same.

“We have to take them out at the same time,” Ezio mutters under his breath, his eyes glowing with the color of the sun for a moment. “I will take the one further away. Are you ready?”

Desmond nods. Ezio flexes the fingers on his left arm, the one with his primary hidden blade concealed under the trappings of the uniform. 

Ezio is still lowering the unconscious guard onto the floor when Desmond storms through the door.

"Messere, don't! The food has been poisoned!" 

The plate that the Doge was holding hits the marble floor. Behind him, a lavish dinner has been set on a large table, the white tablecloth immaculate and the silverware gleaming. A gentle breeze flows in through the large open windows.

Doge Mocenigo stares at them with wide eyes, and all color leaves his wrinkled face when his gaze falls onto the unconscious guards lying on the ground behind Ezio. 

“What is this?” he splutters, now taking tentative steps backwards, his eyes wild. “Guards! Help!” 

“No, messere! We are here to help!” 

Desmond’s worried rush towards the old man is stopped only by Ezio’s hand on his arm, warning him from alarming the Doge any further.

Then Carlo Grimaldi appears through a door on the other side of the room. 

“Assassins!” he hisses at the sight of them, then turns to the Doge like the snake he is. “Messere, the assassins have come to kill you, like they killed Emilio Barbarigo!”

Now it is Ezio who pushes past Desmond and launches himself at Grimaldi. Precious silverware goes flying as the pair crashes on the large table in the middle of the room.

“Messere, please just listen to us – “ Desmond tries to explain, but he is cut short when the Doge surprises them all by grabbing a silver platter and tossing it at Ezio with all his might. 

“Unhand him, you fiend!”

It hits its target with a bang, and Ezio, more confused than hurt, lets Carlo escape his grip, and Grimaldi immediately dashes to hide the Doge behind his back so that the Doge ends up between Grimaldi and the open window.

“I will not let you harm him, Assassins!” Carlo screams, brandishing a small dagger he pulled out of his robes and now keeps pointing at Ezio. His hands are shaking so obviously it has to be fake, and there is a pleased look in his eyes. And what isn’t there to be pleased about, when Grimaldi is either going to get himself back in the Doge’s good graces with this stunt and maybe manage to persuade him to join the Templars after all, like the original plan was, or he is going to get rid of the Doge and have a convenient scapegoat to blame.

“We are trying to save him from you!” Ezio growls as he gets up from the floor, massaging the beginning of a bruise on his jaw. “Grimaldi is trying to poison you, messere. You have to believe me!”

While Ezio has both men distracted, Desmond strikes. He rushes towards Grimaldi, to either plunge his hidden blade into his neck or to push the man out of the window – he hasn’t decided yet – because if he kills Grimaldi now, when he likely hasn’t even received the poison yet from Silvio, the Doge will be saved, the future will be changed, and Desmond will have managed to do something differently and – 

His hand is an inch away from Grimaldi’s shoulder when the whole world glitches. 

Everything freezes for a heartbeat, for a blink of an eye. Every color turns inverted, the air ruptures and tears apart and the room seems to shift and move and –

It’s the Doge Desmond crashes into. Not Grimaldi, but the old man in his late seventies who was a few feet to the left not a second ago – and who doesn’t have the strength or balance to stay upright when Desmond slams into him, focused on keeping his hidden blade from the Doge’s neck. 

There is no wall to stop Doge Mocenigo’s fall. There is only an open window. 

Desmond only barely manages to stop himself from falling after the Doge, hanging onto the windowsill with all his might. 

“No!”

Strong hands grab his shoulder and pull him back. Desmond staggers away from the window, almost tripping on his own feet. He stares down at his hands, trying to understand what just happened. When he glances at Ezio, it is to see him stare down to the ground, his jaw clenched and his mouth pressed into a thin line, and Desmond knows the Doge is dead. 

Grimaldi enjoys the situation far more than he should.

“Help! The Assassins have murdered the Doge! Murderers!” he screams like his life depends on it while a pleased smile spreads on his lips. He backs towards the open door and the sound of guards rushing towards them.

“You pushed him!” Ezio shouts back, turning away from the window. “You did something, you pushed Desmond or stepped out of the way! You did not try to save the Doge, you were trying to kill him!”

“No one will ever believe you, Assassin,” Carlo smiles, sure of his victory.

Desmond, having learned his lesson, whips out a throwing knife and hurls it at Grimaldi. 

It hits him right between the eyes.

“Requiescat in pace, you son of a bitch.”

Ezio grabs his arm and starts dragging him towards the window.

“Come, we have to get out of here!”

They scramble through the window and down to the courtyard, not stopping to glance at the broken body resting on the ground, and dash through the gates, their disguises working just enough that the alarmed gatekeepers don’t realize to stop them until it is too late. They keep running, heading towards the maze of streets and alleyways and canals, all the while the thunder of countless guards chasing after them follows at their heels. 

The heavy armor weighs them down, Desmond’s labored breaths are loud to his own ears, and he is still trying to comprehend what exactly happened with the Doge when Ezio’s hand is suddenly on his arm, yanking him to follow around a corner, up the arch of a bridge – and into the canal below. 

Plunging into the soundless, cold, dark void under the water’s surface feels like stepping onto another planet after the chaos of being chased through the streets. The water fills Desmond’s nose as the armor pulls him downwards until his feet hit the muddy canal floor, but a few kicks bring him back to the surface. 

Desmond comes up in the shadow of the bridge, disoriented. He grabs onto a nearby structure beam and holds onto it to stay afloat, gasping for air. He looks frantically around, searching for Ezio. Where is he? 

The approaching sound of a dozen armored men running makes Desmond sink back in the water. The whole city must be looking for them by now, and they are still very close to the Palazzo. They need to get rid of the disguises, they need to get to the rooftops and away from the streets. 

Ezio should have come up to the surface already – where is he?

Desmond is just about to dive in after him when a hand grabs onto his shoulder, and Ezio, heaving for breath and coughing up water at the same time, emerges from the murky depths. 

Desmond wraps an arm around Ezio to keep him afloat while he coughs and spits out enough water to fill half of the canal and tries not to die. The helmet Ezio wore as part of the uniform has been lost to the bottom of the canal, and his long hair falls wet and dripping water all over his now pale face. 

Ezio clasps a hand over his mouth, trying to hold back his coughs when another group of guards rushes over their bridge. He hides his face in the crook of Desmond’s neck to muffle the sounds. Desmond tightens his hold on him, to keep Ezio from slipping back into the water.

“You alright?” Desmond asks when the sounds of the patrol have quieted down and Ezio has stopped trying to cough his lungs out and now just limply hangs onto Desmond, trying to catch his breath.

“Yes,” Ezio croaks. “We have to get out of here.”

“We can’t go to Antonio’s, we would just draw the Templars to him,” Desmond whispers and decidedly does not focus on the fact that Ezio is still there, very close, and is showing no signs of meaning to move anytime soon. Desmond needs to focus on other things, like the looming threat of the Gray coming to take him away any minute now. “We have to get out of the city. And we’ll need to split up. The guards will be looking for two Assassins – staying together is asking for trouble.”

“If I did not know better, I would think you were trying to get rid of me, Desmond,” Ezio whispers back and chuckles, though it soon turns into another cough. The smooth grin that accompanied that statement contrasts with the paleness of his face and the drowned rat look he has got going on. “You are always leaving.”

“You would know if I was trying to get rid of you,” Desmond says and gives Ezio’s shoulder a push. “Now, let’s get going.”

Chapter Text

The angry shouts of the guards looking for the Doge’s murderers echo in the background when Desmond focuses, forces his tiring feet to move once more, and leaps from the rooftop. When his boots hit the ground, Venice is not the same.

Floating paper lanterns fill the darkening sky. Colorful, glittering masks hide the identities of the few people loitering at the other end of the street Desmond has been placed in. The faint cacophony of music and cheering and drunken merriment heralds a procession of acrobats, fire breathers and other performers.

The Carnevale has arrived. 

His momentum has him stumbling a few more steps forward. Once he stops, he leans his hands on his knees and focuses on breathing for a moment while glancing around to see which district he has landed in. There is a taste of iron in his mouth, and he rests his hand on the hilt of his sword without much thought when he notices movement in his peripheral vision.

But no, it is just some drunken fool staggering around and singing off key to himself.

It still takes a while for Desmond’s heart to stop trying to burst through his chest. He sighs, closes his eyes and rubs his temples, feeling a headache coming on. It would be nice to spend more than a few days in one place, and not just be tossed from one emergency into another. Just saying, in case the Gray might be open to feedback. 

But seriously, Desmond has had enough of the Gray to last a lifetime. What the fuck is he supposed to do here if he is not allowed to change anything? Like, what is the point of all this? He can’t kill Rodrigo before 1503, the Gray has a hissy fit when he takes down the Templars Ezio is supposed to assassinate, and when he tries to save someone, they either die in some other way as a massive fuck you to Desmond and his haphazard saving attempts, or then the Gray makes him kill them himself! How is any of this fair?

“What the fuck do you want? Hey, seriously, what the fuck is your issue here?” he hisses and really hopes he could just punch the loading screen knock-off in the face. “You put me here in the first place so it would be nice to fucking know what I’m here to do! It’s not my fault when things go to shit when I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to be doing!”

He buries his face in his hands and groans. 

“Come on, the dude was old, he would have died soon anyway. Did you really have to make me kill him? Really?”

The Gray doesn’t answer.

Asshole. 

Desmond drags his hands down his face and looks down at himself. He discarded the stolen armor when he still had Ezio to watch his back, but the clothes he had underneath are still damp from their dive. He needs to change before he runs into Ezio – he really doesn’t want to come up with an excuse for why he looks like he took a swim in the canal. 

Luckily, the Gray has been cooperative for once and dropped him near Leonardo’s workshop and so near one of his stashes he took time to prepare in the few weeks he had in 1481. He anticipated something like this might happen and hid a few caches around the city, so that he would always have access to a change of clothes, a few knives and a couple of smoke bombs at least. His notebook and satchel he left in Monteriggioni during one of Ezio’s quick visits, around 1482 maybe – it wasn’t that difficult to sneak into the Sanctuary and hide them behind one of the statues when the Gray was so kind as to dump him into Mario’s empty office. 

Keeping his head down – because his cape was among the things he gave to the thieves to take back to the hideout, and because the city is probably full of wanted posters with his face on them – he makes quick work of navigating the streets and climbing to the top of a nearby tower. Once there, he crouches down to pull away a loose floorboard and reveal a tightly-packaged bundle of weapons and slightly dusty but dry clothes. 

The view from up here is really something else. Desmond gets the new shirt over his head and his arms slipped through the sleeves, and then he forgets himself into staring at the lights of the city. To think most people never get to see it from this angle, to see the sea of lights of the celebrating Venice. It took his breath away even back in the Animus, even though the sterile reproduction could never get it just right. Perhaps “sterile” is the key word – somehow the stench of the canals and the occasional rat and stray dog just add to the atmosphere. It feels more alive than it ever did in the Animus – and how could it not, when Rebecca had to purposely fiddle with the code just to get the Animus show weather and other animals beside horses.

At least his dying brain cells are having a blast with this hallucination.

He straightens the shirt, puts on the backup cape he was smart enough to stash here, and stands there for a while, trying to anchor himself. It’s 1486, it’s the Carnevale, and that means it has been about five months since the Doge fell through the window to his… untimely death? Can it really be called untimely when the guy was supposed to die the very same day – 

Beside the point. The important part about all of this is that for Desmond, the chase from the Doge’s palazzo was just minutes ago, and yet in the eyes of the rest of the world, many months have passed since. How do you deal with something like that?

By refusing to think about it at all. Better to go find Ezio.

Last time, the first thing Ezio did after returning to Venice was to go to see Leonardo who sent him to find Antonio at Teodora’s and consequently to meet yet another Assassin ready to guide him on his path. This time Ezio already knows Teodora, knows who she truly is, and that thought almost makes Desmond head towards the thieves’ guild instead. But after stopping to think about it, Desmond keeps walking towards the brothel. It’s Antonio who Ezio is after, and he should still be at Teodora’s, even if things have changed. Hopefully.

Desmond is half-way there when he remembers that before all the contests and golden masks and the smiles of the courtesans, one of Teodora’s girls has to die. 

His steps falter as a wave of deep, dark exhaustion washes over him. Not again. He doesn’t even remember the girl’s name, doubts he ever saw her face, but…

Please, not again. 

Despite the weariness that makes it hard to draw breath and force his already tired body to move, Desmond pushes himself to jog a little faster, to lengthen his strides in the hopes that by some chance he might just get there in time. That despite all the evidence to the contrary, his presence might make a difference.

His hand touches the front door of the brothel when the echo of a gunshot greets him from the streets somewhere behind him. Ezio has found the murderer.

Desmond lets his hand fall. He bites his lips and hangs his head, stepping away from the door. The last thing he wants now is to go inside. He doesn’t have the patience for Antonio’s annoyance – back in the original timeline, the master of thieves wasn’t sold on Ezio’s idea of killing this new Doge after the colossal failure of his last plan – nor does Desmond want to introduce himself to yet another friend he already knows. He always liked Teodora, but he just… doesn’t want to put on the act.

So he hangs back, leaning against a wall not far from the brothel with his hood drawn well over his head, and lets Ezio walk right past him when he comes to report to Teodora that the murderer is dead. Desmond turns to watch him go, his gaze glued to the comforting golden glow.

He blinks his Eagle vision away not long after when the door of the brothel opens again to reveal Ezio leaving the building. Desmond pushes himself off the wall and heads towards Ezio who is still clearly mulling over the plan for tonight, clenching his jaw like he always does when he is focused on something. Desmond doesn’t call out to him, but Ezio happens to look up anyway. Well, not up at him, but at his surroundings, and at first his gaze flies right past Desmond. Then it snaps back to him. 

Ezio’s face lights up.

“You are here!” 

“Hi,” Desmond manages to say right before he gets his arms full of Ezio as the other practically tackles him into a hug. He is warm and solid and there, and Desmond hugs him back just as tightly even though he has to mind all the weapons and armor plates strapped to Ezio.

“You could have sent a message you made it out, you know,” Ezio mutters against Desmond’s ear before pulling back enough to look at him, one hand still squeezing Desmond’s shoulder. “Claudia tried to kill me when I told her we did not leave Venice together.” 

Desmond finds the strength to smile.

“How’s she?”

“Oh, she is fine. Still annoying as ever, but fine,” Ezio chuckles and lays his hand between Desmond’s shoulder blades, giving him a light push to steer him in the direction of the Carnevale games. “She told me in no uncertain terms that if I ever ran into you again, I would have to tell you to come see her in Monteriggioni. And now I have. Apparently she has no one to gossip with.”

“You won't do?”

“I suspect I am the main character in most of her tales,” Ezio notes with a wry smile and touches a hand to his face to make sure his mask is sitting straight. He turns to glance at a pair of street kids huddling by a merchant’s stall and tosses a few coins into their waiting hands. “And besides, I have not had the time to visit often. Antonio has needed me here, and I need access to Leonardo’s skills whenever I find a codex page. The Templars are here. But I do try to write to Claudia, I do. When I remember. I know it is not the same but…” 

Desmond glances at Ezio when his voice drifts off. Ezio notices and gives a dry chuckle.

“She did have something to say about it – how I have to be chased out of Venice as the most wanted man in the city before I bother to visit her and Mother and Uncle. Which is not true, I will have you know.”

“Is it?”

Ezio presses his lips together before sighing.

“In any case, Monteriggioni is hers now, more than it is mine. I have now called Venice my home longer than I did the villa. I send Claudia money, and she screams at me when I dare to suggest what to invest it in. She does not need me, and I do not want to bring this life there, to her and Mother.”

“Maybe she would just like her brother back home every once in a while, you know. She has to be lonely, stuck in a small town in the middle of the countryside.”

Ezio shakes his head with a humorless laugh.

“She has Mother and Uncle and all the people back home. She does not need me there, and certainly will not appreciate it if I start appearing out of the blue to lord over her town.”

Desmond valiantly resists the urge to whack Ezio over the head for being an idiot. This is what drives the siblings to have that massive fight in Rome, and Ezio is utterly blind to it.

“Just talk to her. Spend time with her the next time you’re back home, okay?”

Ezio makes an incomprehensible noise and shrugs, which Desmond is willing to take as a yes. 

“And your uncle and mother, are they well?”

He hadn’t realized how closed off Ezio’s expression had become until he flashes the brilliant smile again.

“Uncle is as strong and stubborn as ever. And Mother – oh, Desmond, I think she is starting to get better.”

“That’s great. Really great,” Desmond says, touching Ezio’s shoulder, and finds the strength for a genuine smile. She will get better. There is no catch to that, and it in no way depends on Desmond. He can’t fuck that up. 

Ezio beams at him.

“She does not speak yet, but I think she seems more like herself and is more aware of what is going on – “

Desmond lets Ezio ramble about Maria’s current condition as they make their way towards the festival grounds. Ezio talks with his hands when he gets excited, and his shoulder keeps brushing against Desmond’s as they walk along the narrow streets filled with people dancing and drinking.

“So, how long are you staying in the city?” Ezio asks as he wraps his arm around Desmond’s shoulders after thanking the few courtesans they asked to distract a couple of guards blocking their way. “The Carnevale continues for yet another couple of days, and I have a few places I would like to show you – I am certain you have not seen them, and the views are incredible – “

The muscles at Desmond’s neck tense as he clenches his jaw. He looks to the crowds, to the performer balancing on her hands not far from them.

“I’m here just for tonight.” 

He can feel how Ezio’s shoulders slump.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, just stopping here because I need to catch a ship,” Desmond says in a tone he forces to be light. “I’ll leave in the morning.”

“That is… Well, at least you are here now,” Ezio says after a pause. He plasters a smile on his face when Desmond turns to look at him. “Though we need to get you a mask before the guards notice you. We would not want you to get stuck here in some jail cell and miss your ship, now would we?”

With that, Ezio jogs over to the nearest vendor and haggles for one of the masks on sale while Desmond hangs back, eyeing the few guards mingling among the crowd, bright red figures amidst all the white of the innocents. 

He blinks the Eagle vision away when Ezio returns to him.

"Here," Ezio says and pushes the mask into Desmond's hands. "Come."

Desmond barely has time to tuck the mask into place and tie the knot behind his head before Ezio grabs him by the arm and leads him into the sea of people.

“So what are we doing here? Are we after someone?” Desmond asks when he remembers he isn’t supposed to know what is going on.

“Marco Barbarigo, the new Doge,” Ezio answers and glances over his shoulder at Desmond, still tugging him forwards. 

“And what’s the plan?”

“There is a series of contests held tonight. Whoever gets the most wins in them is given a golden mask and invited to the Doge’s party. That is our way in.”

“Let’s go win some contests then.”

Ezio drags him over to the piazza where the main stage stands. Considering that they are taking part in the Carnevale activities because they are trying to gain access to the party to murder someone, Ezio seems to be enjoying himself almost too much when they wait side by side for the host to reveal the objective of the first trial. A wide grin blooms on his face when he hears that they are competing to see who can get the largest amount of women’ ribbons, of all things.

Desmond chuckles under his breath, remembering how this went in the Animus. Ezio can be smooth when he isn’t being a brat.

What Desmond doesn’t understand, however, is why Ezio makes him take part in the contest as well.

“It is the Carnevale, you are here and the night is beautiful. Why not participate?” Ezio grins when Desmond voices the question.

“We need you to win the competitions.” 

“No,” Ezio says with an infuriating grin and pokes a finger to Desmond’s chest. “We need one of us to win.”

Desmond rolls his eyes, shakes his head and gives Ezio’s shoulder a push.

“Go on then.”

Ezio salutes him with the stupid grin still shining brightly on his face.

“I will bring you a ribbon, as a trophy!” he laughs before disappearing into the crowd just as the starting bell chimes and tells them the first contest has begun. Desmond watches him go, shaking his head. What he wouldn’t do for that idiot?

Mostly just for Ezio’s sake, Desmond drags himself over to a group of ladies and steals a few of their ribbons before they even notice he is there. He proceeds with this plan a couple of times, just so that it looks like he is participating even though he doesn’t even bother to really try. Not when it is Ezio and his brilliant smile he is competing against.

When Ezio returns, arms full of ribbons, Desmond has managed to get a respectable handful. He is leaning against a wall near the stage, watching the remaining contestants run around like headless chickens, so he doesn’t even notice it right away when Ezio slides up to him, close enough for their shoulders to touch. He has the grin he usually reserves for pretty ladies on his lips as he leans in even closer and bats his eyelashes at Desmond. 

“Ciao, bello. Have you got any ribbons for me on this beautiful evening?”

Desmond snorts and rolls his eyes before dumping his haul in Ezio’s arms. 

“Grazie,” Ezio says, close enough that the warmth of his breath tickles Desmond’s neck. Desmond glances at him, meeting his golden-brown gaze, then Ezio is pulling back from him, laughing with his eyes closed. Shaking his head, Desmond shoves him away, which just makes Ezio laugh more before winking at him.

After Ezio and his precious cargo of an armful of ribbons are pronounced the winners, he hops down from the stage and approaches Desmond, looking insufferably proud of himself. 

“I seem to recall you promising to bring me a ribbon,” Desmond says and pretends to be offended as he falls into step with Ezio. 

“I did,” Ezio agrees. He raises his right hand, closed in a fist, and opens his fingers to reveal a single red ribbon. Desmond can’t help but laugh. He offers his own hand so Ezio can drop the ribbon on his open palm.

The next contest is the race, and Jesus Christ, Ezio is fast. That is all Desmond has to say afterwards.

“I only let you win because you need to win the whole thing,” he wheezes, holding up a finger when Ezio looks like he would like to gloat. 

“Keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better.”

The host takes this moment to tell the crowd that the next competition will take place an hour later. They decide to split up – Ezio says something about Antonio mentioning an Assassin tomb being somewhere near here, while Desmond goes and gets himself something to eat. He could sit down for a while and rest. He, after all, just sneaked into the Doge’s palazzo and then had to flee the city, only for him to be thrown right back and roped into running in silly races, for pity’s sake. 

He buys a pie and a pint to drink and sits down on a bench in a relatively quiet, small piazza. He stretches out his legs and leans his head back. Fuck, he doesn’t really know how long it has been since he got to just rest a while. 

It’s 1486. Ezio’s turning twenty-seven this year. It has been almost ten years since Desmond woke up in the hay wagon back in Firenze. A decade for everyone else but him. People have aged, will keep on aging, and Desmond is running out of time. How long until someone notices he is not growing older? 

Leaning his elbows on his knees, Desmond sighs and rubs his temples. What came after the Carnevale? …Bartolomeo and his thing, then… the two year jump to 1488 when the Apple will be brought into the city. And from there the Assassins will take it to Forlì for safekeeping.

Shit.

What will follow is the nine-year-jump from 1488 to 1497. It’s not the first time Desmond has thought about the massive timeskip since he arrived here, and not the first time he has racked his brain for a solution. He has entertained the panicked thought of telling Ezio that he has to return to his homeland to explain his absence, but that doesn’t help him with the fact that he is going to look twenty-five in 1497 when Ezio will be rapidly approaching forty.

Desmond needs to get a move on and tell Ezio the truth before that timeskip.

Not that he has meant to keep it a secret forever, there just hasn’t been time. Or then it hasn’t been the right time, with years of Ezio not believing anything he said. But once the Apple gets here, once Ezio holds it in his hand and feels the power the Precursor artifact has, hears all the whispers and promises of wisdom in the back of his mind, Desmond has no reason not to tell him.

It is a relief in a way, to know that all this lying will come to an end. It won’t be long now – Desmond is here at the Carnevale only for tonight, and taking back the Arsenale with Bartolomeo can’t take more than a week or two at most, if even that. Once he gets to 1488, Ezio will get the Apple almost immediately, and that’s it.

Desmond watches the crowd and lets his shoulders relax. Not long anymore.

When Desmond drags himself back to the main stage, he finds Ezio already waiting there by the finish line of the next contest. There is a preoccupied look on his face, and he doesn’t notice Desmond until he taps him on the arm.

“Something wrong?”

“No. No, I was just thinking. It is nothing,” Ezio is quick to say. He flashes a meaningless smile at Desmond and turns back towards the stage.

“O-kay.” Desmond raises an eyebrow at the dodgy answer, but before he can interrogate Ezio further, the host starts explaining the rules of the next round. It is the catch-the-flag contest, which will consist of multiple elimination rounds until only the winner is left. Desmond is already ready to give up on the contests altogether, since Ezio has already won two, and again, Desmond doesn’t need to win anything. But Ezio pushes him towards the starting line anyway despite his loud protests.

“Are you saying you do not think you have what it takes to beat me, old man?” Ezio boasts, a wide grin on his face. “Scared of the thought of facing me in the final round?”

“You? I’ve been kicking your ass as long as I have known, brat – and no, the race earlier doesn’t count, because I let you win,” Desmond quips back, and wishes so badly he could reveal which one of them is actually now the technically older one. “Also, very bold of you to assume you will make it to the last round.”

Desmond makes it through the first few rounds easily enough. He has the unfair advantage of knowing the fastest route to the flag and back to his base, since he spent what felt like hours stuck on this part in the Animus, just trying and re-trying – he swears the Animus made the other contestant move inhumanly fast on purpose. So yeah, he has some experience in this. 

But by the time he gets to his third opponent, he has to start to take things seriously and put all the skills of his ancestors to the test. It's lucky he has been here in the past for a while now, training and exercising – he doubts he could have done this a few months ago, plucked straight from the Animus and only a few weeks after waking up from his coma. 

He snatches the opponent’s flag from the base, turns on his heels and starts running. Another pair of footsteps creeps up on him, practically on his heels. Desmond swears he can feel the man's breath on his neck. Desmond feels his mask starting to slip downwards, but he ignores it and just keeps running.

The finish line is in sight. There is a crowd waiting for them, cheering and yelling, Ezio the loudest of them. 

“Come on! You can do it!”

Desmond crosses the finish line, jogging a few more steps before coming to a slow stop, leaning on his knees and rasping for breath. Ezio pushes his way through the crowd – “You did it, Desmond! ” – and his touch is familiar as he lays a hand on Desmond's shoulder before moving to wrap his whole arm around Desmond’s shoulders to steer him away from the contest area. “Now we will face each other in the last round!” 

“You will have to win the qualifying round first, you dolt,” Desmond chuckles, but the sound dies in his throat when Ezio touches a hand to Desmond’s mask. 

“Watch out,” he laughs, his gaze surprisingly soft when he meets Desmond’s gaze. The ribbon holding the mask in place comes loose anyway, and Ezio pulls the mask away despite Desmond’s muttering. Reaching his arm out, Desmond tries to yank the mask back before someone sees his face and gets him into trouble, but Ezio holds it just out of his reach. 

“You know, Desmond, you do not look half bad under the mask,” he chuckles, holding the mask high above and behind his head, standing on his toes to keep it from Desmond. He smirks. “Considering your advanced age, that is. I swear, sometimes I think you do not look a day older than when we first met.”

There is so much about all of this Desmond is just not going to be unpacking right now. Instead, he first tries to jump to get the mask back, then when that doesn’t work, he extends his foot so that when Ezio next takes a step back, he trips on it. His arms whirl wildly as he tries to regain his balance, and while he is busy with that, Desmond snatches the mask back.

“Really, Ezio, really? If that’s how you speak to all the people you try to seduce, it’s no wonder you are stuck here with me instead of some pretty girl.” 

Pretending that he wasn’t just about to fall over, Ezio dusts off his robes and turns to look at Desmond. A slow grin spreads on his lips – Desmond might have been looking at them, yeah, okay – and something shifts in his gaze.

“Ah, Desmond, you have got it all wrong. When I seduce you, it will not be like with everyone else.”

Suddenly Desmond’s heart is drumming in his ears, even if he manages to keep a straight face and only raise an eyebrow at Ezio – who is just being Ezio, flirting with everything that moves.

“Really?”

“Mm-mh.” 

“Yeah, well. Keep dreaming,” Desmond chuckles and deliberately looks away and distracts himself by getting the mask back on. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your race, mister I’m faster than you?”

Ezio doesn’t drop the flirty tone. The opposite, in fact.

“Oh, I will be ready and I will win – if you come to cheer me on, caro.”

Desmond smacks Ezio’s shoulder.

“Shut up, you idiot,” he fake-grumbles and immediately after has to dance out of the way, laughing, when Ezio tries to grab him – to wrap an arm around him, to hug him, to who knows what. He avoids capture for a few seconds, then Ezio practically tackles him. 

They are laughing, Desmond with his arm around Ezio’s shoulders and Ezio’s playfully around his waist, when they run into Cristina.

Neither of them recognise her at first. But there is something familiar about her dress, something about her bejeweled mask that makes Desmond stop and stare as he tries to understand what is so important about her, and then he realizes who she is. 

His abrupt halt is what makes Ezio take a look at her as well. He tenses under Desmond’s arm, his shoulders and neck suddenly like they were made of stone.

There's Cristina, vanishing behind a corner with her colorful skirts dancing around her feet, and there's Ezio, staring at the spot she was occupying mere seconds ago, an unexplainable expression on the little Desmond can see of his face past the mask. And there's Desmond, immediately missing the warmth of Ezio's arm as it leaves its place on Desmond's waist.

"I will just…" Ezio manages to breathe out before he completely forgets either how to speak or the fact that Desmond is there at all, because his gaze is bound to her last steps, and then he is running after her. 

Desmond doesn't follow. Because it is none of his business. Because he doesn’t want to know. He already knows far better than he would like how Ezio is going to kiss her and how her lips will feel like against his – Ezio's, not his, not Desmond’s – and he doesn’t want any more reminders of how much Ezio’s heart belongs to her. Cristina haunted Ezio through his life, always appearing from somewhere one moment and then blinking out of existence the next, but always on the back of Ezio's mind. She has been there as long as Desmond has known Ezio’s thoughts – and Desmond knows he has no chance to ever compete with that. 

Should not have even thought to try. 

All this flirting, all this attention Ezio has been giving him tonight, has been a distraction for Ezio, to keep him from thinking about Cristina – because Desmond should have remembered. Should have remembered that at some point tonight, Ezio ran into Leonardo who let him know Cristina was here, tonight.

Ezio loves her. It is not a new revelation and it should not hurt, but it does. 

Ezio loves Cristina and Desmond loves Ezio and none of it matters because they won’t be able to save her. 

The year 1498 will come, along with Savonarola and the riots, and she will die. Desmond knows this, and all this time he has been in the past, he has been dead set on trying to save her. But now he can’t help but think that if he tries, something even worse will happen to her. Who is to say she will not end up like the Doge – suffering an even more painful death because of Desmond’s meddling, or worse yet, die to his blade because the Gray won’t let him have his sanity intact. 

It hurts to even think about it – Ezio’s consciousness somewhere in the back of his mind howls with rage at the thought – but would it not be kinder to let the events play out like they are supposed to? To let her go when it is her time?

He knows the answer – he could never look Ezio in the eye again. He would never be able to smile at Ezio and laugh at his meaningless flirting without being reminded of the fact that he let the love of Ezio’s life die.

He just hopes he doesn’t doom her to a worse fate.

He doesn’t wait for Ezio to come back. He turns his back to the lovers and pushes through the celebrating crowds, not caring where he ends up or what becomes of the stupid contest. Ezio will win the competition, he will be the one to get the golden mask – even if he will have to steal it from Dante because Templars can’t help but intervene at any chance they get – he is the one that will kill the new Doge, and he doesn’t need Desmond for any of it. 

Is this what his existence here is going to be? Bound to follow a man who doesn’t need him, without any means to change the inevitable? What has Desmond changed since he came here? Nothing. So why is he here?

Why is he forced to live in this hallucination? He was supposed to die the moment he touched the Precursor device and saved the world – Juno didn’t have much empathy, but she promised him that, and yet he is here. Hasn’t he done enough?

He misses home. He misses the twenty-first century, he misses technology and modern showers and his awful little apartment and his phone and clothes and stuff. He misses his friends, he misses Rebecca and Shaun, he misses his mom. He even misses Bill. 

He misses the time when he was the only person in his own head. 

He has wandered far enough from the festivities for the noise and music to quieten down and the streets turn dark. He keeps going, not knowing where he is or where he is going, just taking turns at random until he finds himself in a dark street next to a clearly abandoned building. There is an alcove by the door. He hides in it, pressing his back against the wall and letting himself slide down to the ground, burying his face in his hands.

He doesn’t even know how long he has been here. Yeah, ten years from 1476 to 1486, that he knows, but here. In the past. Months at least, but how many? He can’t even say how long it has been since he was in 1481. He has lost track of time, and never had he thought how utterly horrifying that would be. 

Couldn’t he just wake up from this hallucination? He woke up from the coma, so what if this is the same? What if he survived and the guys plugged him into the Animus again and this time he just happens to imagine all this time-travel bullshit because he has finally lost it? Couldn’t he wake up again, and preferably without having to go through another twenty years of memories? Please?

He doesn’t want to be here. 

Wiping his eyes, Desmond heads back towards the celebration. He should find Ezio before the Gray finds him.

He has been away longer than he realized. The last contest, the fight, is already over by the time Desmond gets back. A few coins tossed at a group of Teodora’s courtesans confirms what Desmond already knows – Ezio won but it was Dante who received the golden mask.  

Sighing, he heads towards Teodora’s since Ezio will end up there. No use trying to get into the party.

Desmond is sitting by a fountain in a piazza in a viewing distance from Teodora’s brothel when he realizes he doesn’t want to be there. He doesn’t want to see the not so subtle way Ezio tries to flirt with Teodora, clearly interested in spending the rest of the night with her, or him heading upstairs with a few of the courtesans – when anyone will do to get his mind off Cristina and the angry rejection she has given him. To top it all off, Antonio will be there, shoving his shirt in his pants after getting up to who knows what, hair tousled, pushing the girls towards Ezio – and no. Just no. Not after a whole evening of Ezio flirting with Desmond, no matter how much of a joke it clearly was to Ezio. Or perhaps because of it.

The night is still beautiful, despite it all. A few rogue fireworks bloom in the night sky, the colors reflected by the waters of the canals, and Desmond feels blue. At least he will jump soon and get out of here, to an Ezio whose head isn't quite so full of Cristina. 

The front door of the brothel opens. Teodora steps outside. She notices him, but doesn’t pay him any more attention than to the other people outside. She walks over to the fountain while glancing into the distance, in the direction of the Doge’s party, and finally looks at him again. This time she takes her time studying his features.

“I apologize,” she says with a smile when he stares back, “but you do not happen to be Ezio’s friend, do you?”

He nods because of course. Of course she has been told. 

She chuckles at his expression.

“Antonio told me to keep an eye out for a hooded man with features much like our Ezio’s. It seems I have found him. I am Teodora. I hope Ezio has mentioned me.”

“Yeah.”

“My girls tell me he is going to be here any minute now,” she says while studying the quiet street. “Would you like to come inside to wait for him?”

“I think I’d rather not. No offense or anything.”

“None taken,” she says and glances at him from the corner of her eye. “Your heart is heavy. Care to share your troubles?”

The words to decline are half-way through to his lips before he stops to think. He's just a stranger to her, someone just passing through – she is not going to hold his secrets against him. 

"I just – I care for someone I can't have. This day has kindly decided to remind me of the fact. And that," he gestures vaguely in the direction of the brothel, "is too much right now."

She gives him a pitying smile.

“Some would say it is the very cure for that particular ailment. My church can heal many things.”

He manages a dry laugh, shaking his head.

“It’s still a no from me, thank you.”

Her smile becomes even more sympathetic, and isn’t that fucking nice?

“Still, do not hesitate to call on me if you ever find yourself in need of our brotherhood’s help,” she says. “Yours is a lonely burden to bear, and I am sorry for it."

“Yeah. Tough luck, I guess.”

Just as she leaves, Ezio appears.

“Hey, where the hell did you disappear off to?” he says when he jogs over to Desmond. “I almost missed the last contest because I was so busy trying to find you.”

“I needed to take care of something,” Desmond mutters, not meeting Ezio’s gaze. He doesn't want to deal with this right now. “Did you manage to kill the Doge?”

Ezio breathes out through his nose.

“He is dead.”

“Good. If that’s done, I've gotta go,” Desmond hears himself say, devoid of any emotion. He turns to a random direction and starts walking just to get away from Ezio, from all of this. The Gray can snatch him up from anywhere. 

“No, wait – are you truly in such a hurry that you have to leave right now?” 

Ezio sounds disappointed but Desmond doesn't turn around to see what kind of expression might be on his face. He doesn't want to think about this. Any of it. 

He waves a hand as an answer to Ezio's question and rounds a corner. 

The Gray is waiting for him, and for once Desmond welcomes the feeling of nauseating weightlessness as the nothingness grabs him.

The only problem is that while he does get away from Ezio, he doesn’t get the time to feel sorry for himself, alone and miserable, because whatever force it is pushing him around time and space, it always spits him out near Ezio.

He is standing on the Rialto bridge – one of the thieves will come to ask Ezio to come see Antonio because Bartolomeo is in trouble. The morning is bright, the streets are lively, and the thief runs past Desmond almost immediately after he has recognized when and where he is. The morning breeze carries over Ezio’s voice soon, the words light and amused, and this is the last place Desmond wants to be right now. 

Tugging his hood down to cover more of his face, Desmond sneaks away from the bridge, making sure neither of the men notice him. Ezio can do this one by himself – he was just fine on his own the last time. 

It is easy to disappear in a city like Venice.

Chapter Text

If Desmond closes his eyes and pulls the bed covers tightly over his head, he can almost convince himself that he is back in his cramped, shitty apartment in New York. The chatter of the people drinking in the tavern right below his rented room can almost pass as the chitchat of his clients at the Bad Weather, and if he focuses just hard enough, he can nearly trick himself into hearing the bass rhythm of an over-produced mainstream pop song. 

It’s stuffy under the covers. Not that it would be much better if Desmond found the energy to dig himself out of them – the room was already dusty and dingy when he arrived, but that was only to be expected considering it was the only room he was able to get on such a short notice. It is after all the Carnevale and the city is packed. But really, the miserable room he has holed himself up in is just one more thing on the long list of things for which he can feel sorry for himself.

Facing the wall and with his legs curled up close to his chest, he stares at the little he can make out of his right arm in the darkness. His head is already aching but he tries once again to get it to glow – to get it to take him home. To end this hallucination – he knows that is what all of this is, and he wants out. If it is the device giving him these visions, the limb marked by Precursor technology has to be his link to the device. Now if he just could get the fucking thing to do as he tells it to.

“Fuck,” he mutters when the lines once again stay dull and unresponsive. He rolls onto his back and covers his eyes with the arm, pressing it down hard enough that colors flash behind his eyelids. He is tired and hungry and his head hurts. He feels like shit. He lets himself toy around with the thought of stealing the Apple.

But really, he could just take it.

He could just wait until it is brought to Venice, fuck off for nine years with the help of the Gray and then get himself on a ship to the Americas. Columbus will have left for his voyage by 1492, so when Desmond lands in 1497, traveling to the newly discovered continent should be possible at least in theory. He has already made the journey once as Haytham. If he survives the sea voyage, he only needs to get himself to the Grand Temple. Ratonhnhaké:ton’s memories should be able to help him with that, and once he makes it to the cave, it should not matter to the door of the temple if he and the Apple are 500 years ahead of the schedule. It is still him, with the right key – the Apple.

Unless it is Minerva's touch in 1499 that makes the Apple the key. 

Okay, rethinking the plan – 

When the morning comes after a few hours of fitful sleep and dreams Desmond cannot remember afterwards, it takes his foggy and exhausted brain a few moments to remember his master plan from last night. When the memories finally come, Desmond buries his head in his pillow with a groan and just. Feels ashamed. What is he, a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl rejected by her crush?

So Ezio loves Cristina, what about it? He already knew that. What is he getting so worked up over? And really, the only one he can blame here is himself – a guy jokingly flirts with him after ten years of nothing but platonic friendship, and Desmond is dumb enough to get his hopes up so much that it actually hurts when Ezio chooses Cristina over him.

He turns his head to the side and stares at the opposite wall. It’s not really even about his feelings for Ezio, if he is being totally honest. Instead, it’s…

It’s the fact that none of this is any different from his life before.

Back at the Farm, nothing he ever did was enough for his father. He could train and train and be better than all the other kids combined and still he was ordered to run faster, climb farther, jump higher every time with no explanation for what it all was for. When he got fed up with it and left the brotherhood to disappear in New York, all he could do was to drift from one place to another, never committing to anything, never changing or achieving anything in the fear that someone from his old life would find him. He never dared to get close to anyone, never got to make any plans or promises for the fear that at any moment he might be forced to leave everything behind and hide somewhere else. The whole nine years he was on the run, his life was on hold. Being kidnapped by the Templars and forced into the Animus was just a cherry on top. And it’s not like he had much of a choice when he was moved to the Assassins’ care. Sure, Lucy asked him if he really wanted to do this, but he never truly had a choice. Because his past had caught up to him. Because it was his dad orchestrating the whole Assassin operation. Because he couldn’t walk away. Because the Precursors had predicted 75,000 years ago that he would see it through.

Being here, in the past and watching from the sidelines as history repeats itself, it is just more of the same.

He never has a choice. And nothing he ever does matters. God, he doesn’t even know if he managed to do the one thing he was destined to do, to save the Earth. And he died for that. Was supposed to. Managed to fuck up even that.

Ezio leaving Desmond to run after a girl barely counts as a problem, all things considered.

He forces himself to sit up on the bed, his toes brushing against the cold floor, his legs tangled in the sheets. He just has to tell Ezio the truth. He’ll tell him everything, about the future, what is going to happen in Ezio’s life – and then Ezio can decide what to change and who he wants to save. He will know what to do, and he will get it done. Ezio has beaten the Templars, built a brotherhood, and found Altaïr’s secret library. He is the Mentor of the brotherhood, he is the Prophet, he is the one whose name is whispered with reverence by Assassins born almost five centuries after his death. If anyone, he is going to change history and help all the people Desmond would have tried and failed to save.

Desmond can just step out of the way and let him. 

He closes his eyes and breathes out through his nose. He’ll just have to figure this out.

There is not much of a choice when it comes to picking the right moment. Right before the  big jump to 1497 Ezio will be busy saving Forlì and running around the countryside looking for Savonarola and the Apple, and it’s probably best not to spring something as life changing as time travel on him right then. No, if Desmond wants to do this right, the best chance he has is right after Ezio officially joins the Brotherhood, when the Assassins poke and prod the Apple in Leonardo’s workshop. The only problem with that moment is that Desmond remembers that “scene”, if you will, ending very soon after Mario and Ezio had decided to take the Apple to Forlí and Caterina’s fortress, so he won’t have much time. But if he can manage to get Ezio alone for just a moment to explain…

Not that he knows how to even begin explaining any of this.

How do you tell someone that? “Hi, I’m your descendant from the year 2012. I saved the world and kinda died and woke up here, and now I can’t seem to stick to one place in time but keep getting tossed forward according to what moments of your life I saw in this bullshit machine the Templars built to find Pieces of Eden to take over the world.” Yeah, right, ‘cos that’s going to go over well. 

Thinking about it makes his palms sweat and stomach turn, so for the next couple of days he distracts himself by sneaking around the city to empty his caches and retrieve his stuff, since he won’t be returning to Venice after this jump. It keeps him busy enough, as avoiding both Antonio’s thieves and Teodora’s girls requires some concentration. Desmond doesn’t want a word getting back to Ezio that he has been seen in the city – doesn’t want Ezio to know he is avoiding him.

When the signal fire lights the night sky to mark the beginning of the attack on the Arsenale, Desmond ignores the anxiety settling down into his stomach in favor of gathering his things and jogging across the rooftops to the east side of the city. His boots slip on the tiled roofs and his cape flows violently in the wind, but he makes it in time to stand there and watch as the Templar ship glides out of the harbor and sets course for Cyprus. 

A gust of wind rushes over him, with enough force to make it difficult to breathe. It pushes him back a few steps, and he has to raise his arm to cover his face. His cape tugs on his shoulders as it fights wildly against the Gray.

When the gale dies down, he is finding his balance in the same exact spot as before, but now he is looking at an afternoon sun almost two years later.

Hoisting his bag to sit better on his shoulder, Desmond sighs and turns around, shielding his eyes from the sun as he tries to remember where Rosa is going to run into Ezio and give him the shipping manifest along with the news that the ship will return to Venice tomorrow. 

He is half way over there when he happens to glance down and spots a familiar figure marching on the street below. Smiling to himself, Desmond jumps to a nearby balcony, then drops down to the ground from there.

“Signor Auditore!” he calls out and soon is greeted by Mario’s wide grin.

“Desmond, my boy, is that you?” Mario laughs and grabs him into a bear hug. “It is so good to see you again after all these years.” 

Mario’s hair shines with richer shades of silver than it did last time Desmond saw him, and a few more wrinkles and crows’ feet line his face. But his bellowing laugh is still strong and warm when he tells a tale of his youth over a pint of beer in an alehouse on the opposite side of the street from Teodora’s. On the seat next to Mario’s, La Volpe is eyeing the crowd, his face mostly concealed by his hood. Antonio is hanging by the bar, ordering something for himself while they wait for the women and Bartolomeo.

Mario slams his drink down on the table with enough force to spill some on the table. He mutters a curse, then chuckles at himself before turning to Desmond. 

“It is good that we ran into each other. In fact, I have been hoping to reach you. I assume you have heard about the ship that is bound to arrive at the harbor tomorrow, and the cargo it carries?”

La Volpe’s sharp gaze finds Desmond as well, studying his expression before returning to scanning the drunken crowd.

Desmond sighs and lowers his voice. “Yeah, I’ve heard. We can’t let the Templars have the artifact, no matter what happens.”

“That is why we are all here,” Mario says in a grave tone and leans his elbows on the table. “To take back the Apple and to see the Prophecy fulfilled. To find the Prophet.” He emphasizes each point by tapping his hand against the wood. He takes a moment to down the last drops of his beer before rolling back his shoulders and exchanging a look with La Volpe. “And it is also time to officially welcome my nephew into the Brotherhood. It has long been overdue, and now it is certainly the right moment for it, since we have all gathered here.” 

Antonio interrupts them as he appears with drinks of his own and sits down on the seat next to Desmond. He winks at the waiter girl passing by their table, then makes a fuss about straightening his clothes.

“What did I miss?” 

Mario raises his empty pint as a greeting.

“I was just telling Desmond here about Ezio’s ceremony." 

“Ah, that boy has more than earned it by now. But does this mean you mean to take him away from La Bella Venezia? I would still have use for him here.” 

“I would have him guard the Apple, as you well know. The Templars will not wait around once we take it from under their noses, so it cannot stay here. I have already negotiated an alliance with Caterina Sforza of Forlì and ensured that her fortress will keep the artifact safe. It is Ezio I trust to take it there.”

“You take my best man from me, Mario,” Antonio mutters – to whine for the sake of whining, not to protest. 

“You have a city full of men to pick from!” Mario barks a laugh. “And do you not have that girl Ezio was sweet on?”

Antonio and Mario banter some more like the half-drunk old men they are while Desmond nurses his drink. He grins when La Volpe meets his gaze over the table and rolls his eyes.

Mario hiccups and points a finger at Desmond.

“But about what I was saying before, my boy –  I am glad you found us tonight. I know my nephew and I know he would like you to be there when he joins our brotherhood. From what I have heard, you have been as much of a mentor to him as the rest of us, if not even more. You must stay for the ceremony.”

Desmond swallows.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, nodding, and looks away. He is not thinking about this, he is not allowing himself to read anything into Mario’s words – he can lose his mind over this once Ezio knows the truth. “Yeah, sure.”

Well, Mario seems pleased, at least.

“Good. That is settled then.”

Desmond runs a hand through his hair and looks to La Volpe. 

“I hope you know Rodrigo Borgia is in the city.”

The spy master nods while Mario raises his hand in a request for a new drink. 

“We expected as much,” Antonio adds and drums his fingers against the table’s surface. “The bastardo would not miss this for the world.”

Desmond leans his elbows on the table. The soft light of the small candle twinkling in the middle of their table catches in the golden lines running over the skin on his wrist. 

“Whatever happens, we can’t let him get his hands on the Apple. I’ve seen what the Pieces of Eden can do, and trust me when I tell you it’s not pretty.”

Mario scratches his chin and nods encouragingly.

“And that is why we are all here, to make sure that this time the Assassins triumph.” He slams his hand decidedly on the table. “Do not worry yourself, my boy. We have plans, and we shall discuss them more when we are here in full strength – ah, speak of the devil!”

Desmond glances to the door to see Paola and Teodora enter. Antonio, seated next to him, waves them over while La Volpe goes to fetch more chairs. They have just managed to get the women seated when Bartolomeo appears as well, his bear-like presence demanding attention and drinks both. It takes a while for the rest of the Assassins to get him to sit down and stop talking about his dearly beloved Bianca. Mario takes care to introduce him and Desmond – and it is good that he did, because Desmond had forgotten he has not met Bartolomeo as himself and was about to greet him like an old friend. 

“Where do you suppose this vault the Prophet is supposed to open is? And who is this mysterious Prophet?” Antonio wonders in a hushed whisper, conspiratorially leaning forward, when they have each got a new drink in front of them.

Mario takes a sip of his drink. 

“I have my suspicions.”

They are probably expecting the Prophet to be some kind of a savior of the world, Desmond muses while he leans his chin on his right hand. Not merely a conduit for a message he could never understand. Desmond remembers the half-disappointment, half-relief that washed over Ezio when he stood before Minerva, and he remembers how the feeling morphed into confusion and bitterness that kept nagging at the back of his mind for over a decade all the way to Masyaf.

Suddenly Desmond realizes all the Assassins are staring at him.

“What – no, no, no. Guys, it’s not me. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Mario, with his head tilted, raises an eyebrow and smiles knowingly. 

“You said it yourself that one vault had opened to you. Had chosen to let you in, Desmond.”

“The mark of the Pieces of Eden is quite an obvious tell too,” Antonio adds, sounding far too smug, and Desmond would like to push him off his chair.  

“Guys, it’s not me,” Desmond whines and covers his face with his hands. This is going all wrong. Jesus fucking Christ, could one thing in his life be simple for once? “I’m not – I wasn’t supposed to be here, it can’t be me. Like, seriously. If anything, my money’s on Ezio. You all know he has that vision of his, when his eyes turn gold and he sees things we can’t. There’s some Prophet bullshit for you. Or, hear me out, it might be someone else entirely. Someone not me.”

“Truly, Desmond? We have you and your magical arm and Ezio with his gift, and you think it might be some stranger off the streets that will just happen to be at the right place at the right time?” Antonio quips, not even bothering to hide his amusement.

Desmond is going to kick Antonio’s chair over any second now. 

“Has anyone even told Ezio anything about this plan of yours?” he sighs and lets his shoulders slump. It doesn’t really matter who the others believe to be the Prophet, right? “Does Ezio know the ship is going to be here?” Of course Desmond knows Ezio knows, but the others don’t know he knows. Jesus, this is confusing.

“Rosa told him about the ship today after she let me know,” Antonio says and looks to Mario.

“Ezio is young, adaptable – we will find him tomorrow before we strike, and tell him of the plan,” Ezio’s uncle says with a fond, almost embarrassed smile. “I have to admit that the main reason for having kept this a secret from him is just because I want to surprise him with the ceremony. He has not said anything, but I know he has been hoping that I would allow him to join the brotherhood officially for a while now.”

The old man’s suddenly revealed softer side makes Desmond smile. 

Bartolomeo almost startles him when he stands up with enough force to jostle the table.

“Ah, Niccolò, come here!” he shouts and waves to a young man, barely in his twenties if that, who has just stepped into the alehouse. 

Niccolò Machiavelli walks over and claims the last free chair at their table. Desmond tries his best not to stare – because the fact that Machiavelli is ten years younger than Ezio only cemented itself in his brain right now. He is far more used to the grown man from Rome.

“Desmond, let me present to you our youngest member, Niccolò di Bernardo dei Machiavelli,” Mario says with a proud grin on his face. “Niccolò, this is Desmond Miles, our visitor from the Levant and a little bit from England too.”

Desmond nods at Machiavelli who studies him with hawk-like focus that is so similar to the look he often used to give Ezio in Rome that Desmond has a hard time separating this young man barely out of his boyhood from the Mentor of the brotherhood. 

 “I have to say, Signor Miles, that considering everything I have heard about you, I thought you would be older.”

Desmond tries not to choke on his drink.

“Yeah, I get that a lot. I’ve got one of those faces, you know.”

To Desmond’s ever-growing anxiety, Mario decides to latch onto the topic.

“He truly does look young, does he not?” he laughs, brandishing his pint. “I knew I had grown old and fat since you first came to stay with us, Desmond, but the truth had not quite hit me until I looked at you today. You do not seem to have aged a day, and yet I feel every year I have lived in my bones. Oh, to be as young and strong as you again.”

Desmond presses his lips together and doesn’t say anything.

The sun has climbed high in the deep blue sky the next day when the Assassins spread out in the area surrounding the Arsenale to greet the ship. Antonio is sent to intercept Ezio whom they spotted heading towards the battlements, while the rest of them take their places. Mario, Machiavelli, Paola and Teodora are to follow the Apple on street level, while Bartolomeo will stay put with his mercenaries farther back in case they need back up. La Volpe and Desmond stay on rooftops, waiting their chance to ambush the courier and take the Apple.

When the courier leaves the safety of the Arsenale for the bustling streets, they make sure that at least one of them has eyes on the Apple at all times, but they also keep going back and forth between themselves, trying to decide what to do – whether to run with the Apple the minute they get it in their hands or to try to take the courier’s place so that they might find Rodrigo Borgia and kill him. Not that’s going to work, but the others don’t know that.

Desmond leaps from a roof to another, then hides behind a chimney when the courier turns around to make sure he is not being followed. Not that far from the Templar, Mario and Ezio are speaking with their heads together, pretending to be studying the nearby blacksmith’s store, blending in. There is a frown on Mario’s face as Ezio explains something to him, but eventually the older Auditore nods and clasps his nephew’s shoulder before Ezio takes off after the courier. Desmond follows after him, staying on the rooftops while Ezio hunts the man on the ground. 

Ezio takes the courier out in the same spot as he did in the Animus. Mario arrives just in time to stand watch while Ezio changes into his new disguise, and they manage to hurriedly pry open the box and toss the ornate case holding the Apple into Mario’s arms just before Desmond whistles to signal that the rest of the Templar guards are approaching their location. Mario slips into the shadows while Ezio slams the lid of the box closed and joins the guards to follow them to Rodrigo.

Once they are gone, Mario waves over Desmond.

“Can you take this and keep it safe? Use it, if need be.”

With that, Mario unceremoniously dumps the Apple’s case into Desmond’s hands and runs off to make sure nothing bad happens to his nephew. Desmond is left standing there, holding the case as far from himself as he can and staring at it like it personally insulted him.

“Fucking great.”

He swears he can feel a hum of power through the case, tingling his fingertips. Tendrils of the Apple’s power slither at the edge of his mind, barely audible whispers that disappear and slip through his grasp as soon as he focuses on them. 

“You stop that right now or I’ll dump you in the sea,” he mutters under his breath and tucks the case under his arm. “Don’t think I don’t know your tricks. I’ve dealt with you before.”

After climbing back to the roofs, Desmond follows Ezio’s path to Rodrigo Borgia. He finds La Volpe and Antonio crouching on a roof, looking down to the narrow street where Ezio has come face to face with the Templar Grandmaster. The spot is as good as it can be – tall buildings stand on one side of the street, while a canal cuts Rodrigo from escaping on the other. 

“Do you have it?” La Volpe whispers when Desmond crouches down next to them. Desmond shows him the case. La Volpe nods, then points down to the street where Ezio has taken out the guards escorting him and is brandishing the empty box at Borgia. 

“All this bloodshed, for this? For what?” Ezio growls. He removes his borrowed guard helmet with his free hand and throws it on the ground, never taking his eyes off his enemy. “How many have died for us to end up here, Rodrigo? Is it truly worth all of this?”

The cardinal’s voice is as smug and self-righteous as always.

“You are still just a child if you think anything of value can be achieved without sacrificing something,” he drawls and looks down his nose at Ezio. “I take what I have to, kill who I have to so that I can fulfill my destiny. I am the Prophet – I am the one destined to wield the Piece of Eden and enter the vault.”

“It is not for you. It was never for you. You are not the one Altaïr writes about.” 

“And who are you to say that I am not?” Rodrigo taunts and spreads his arm. “Have you allowed yourself to think you are the chosen one? How predictable. Childishly unimaginative, almost. No, let me tell you something, Ezio – the fact that you somehow managed to get your grubby hands on the Apple does not mean it belongs to you.”

Ezio squares his shoulders and raises his chin, his steely gaze never leaving the Templar.

“No. It is not for me. It is for someone more worthy than either of us.”

Rodrigo’s bark of disbelieving laughter fills the air while Desmond tries to stop the Apple’s case from slipping from his suddenly weak hands. On the street level, Rodrigo takes a few steps towards Ezio. His sword gleams with the harsh sunlight as he swings it around, as if warming himself up.

“Then why are you even here? It is not your fight,” he scoffs and reaches his free hand towards Ezio. His face darkens with annoyance. “Hand me the Apple.”

The familiar, toothy grin returns on Ezio’s lips.

“Oh, I just wanted to see your reaction to this.”

With an exaggeratedly casual swing of his arm Ezio tosses the box towards the canal. His relaxed posture is at odds with the almost inhuman sound Rodrigo makes when he hurls himself into a run with surprising speed for someone his size. 

“ No!” 

The box doesn’t quite make it to the canal, probably just as Ezio intended. It flops down on the paved curb, falling on its side just inches away from the drop to the water. The lid, on the other hand, does open and hangs over the edge, and if the Apple had still been inside the box, it would certainly be sinking towards the muddy bottom of the canal right now.  

Rodrigo stares at the empty box, his face red, his broad chest heaving. 

“What have you done with it?” 

“That is not for you to know,” Ezio hisses back, his hands now free to pull out his sword and point it at Rodrigo who hurries to raise his own blade to his defense. Ezio’s face twists with anger so raw it hurts to look at him. “This is for my father and brothers.”

What begins down there is not a duel. It might look like one, with two men circling each other with choreographed, predatory steps, their rapiers dancing and gliding in the air, but this is a feud that can only be settled with bare hands and broken bones, bruised skin and bloodied knuckles. It is an orphan raging against the man that took both his childhood and future from him, and a man in love with his greed seething at the walking collateral damage that dared to have enough guts to fight back and pull it off. 

The weight of a hand on his shoulder almost makes Desmond startle. 

“You should leave,” La Volpe says and nods to the horde of Templars spilling to the street below to defend Rodrigo. “Antonio went to signal the others – we will see this through. But to do that, we need to know that the Apple is safe.” 

“Yeah,” Desmond agrees with a sigh and tears his gaze from Ezio who just yanked his sword free from a dead Templar’s body to thrust it through another man’s stomach, his eyes burning and his face covered in blood. “Yeah, alright. Stay safe.”

Desmond hides his sweaty hands behind his back to stop himself from fidgeting.

It is easier said than done when he is squeezed between Bartolomeo’s bulky frame and Paola’s lithe, scented form as they all try to fit in the tower that is to act as the stage for Ezio’s joining ceremony. The platform at the top of the tower was not designed to host nine people at once, they have noticed, but it will have to do. 

On Desmond’s left, La Volpe is gossiping with Antonio and Bartolomeo, while on his right, Paola and Machiavelli are discussing something in hushed tones as they all wait for Mario and Ezio to arrive. Teodora keeps moving from one corner of the space to the other, lighting up torches and candles. She shoots Desmond a smile when their gazes meet. 

The Assassins burst into loud cheering when the Auditores finally climb up to join them. At first they see only Mario’s hand as he reaches up to pull himself up to the ledge, then the rest of him follows, and Ezio after him. Machiavelli walks over to give Mario a hand while Antonio and Bartolomeo crowd Ezio – Bartolomeo claps a hand on Ezio’s arm and stops to tell him something, his booming voice full of pride and laughter, while Antonio wraps an arm around Ezio’s shoulder with a mischievous grin on his face and starts whispering something in his ear.

“Give him some space, you barbarians,” Paola laughs and gently pushes the men out of the way to go to hug Ezio who obediently leans down to embrace her. 

Ezio is pulling away from Paola when he looks up over her shoulder and straight at Desmond. 

At least one of the seven Assassins around them has to have mentioned Desmond to Ezio, because he doesn’t look surprised to see him there. Desmond can’t really say how Ezio is feeling. He doesn’t look angry either, or sad, or what would be the worst of all, indifferent. No, if anything, the tiny smile Ezio gives him seems nervous.

But that is to be expected, right? When Desmond lived through this the first time, his stomach – Ezio’s stomach, Desmond’s stomach, someone’s stomach – was a churning concoction of anticipation and nausea. He remembers having to subtly keep wiping his clammy hands on his robes and having to force himself from massaging the ring finger of his left hand. He wasn’t sure if he was glad that his uncle had told him a couple of hours beforehand what was going to happen. 

But despite all the nerves, Ezio’s smile is genuine, and Desmond finds it easier to return it than he thought he would. It is still Ezio, and Desmond doesn’t feel any less for him than he did before.

Eventually the chatter quiets down and they all take their places. Desmond doesn’t really fit into the original blueprint of this scene, so he hangs back until everyone else has chosen a spot to stand on. That leaves him pretty much behind Ezio – not that he minds, he has already seen this all from the best angle possible – but just as they are about to begin, Bartolomeo, standing next to Mario, waves him over. 

Puzzled, Desmond goes to him.

“Here, you take my place. You have known Ezio much longer than I have so you should be here. And besides, I am much taller than you, so it does not bother me to stand in the back,” Bartolomeo says with a genuine, well-meaning smile and then walks off before Desmond realizes to say thank you. 

And so they begin. Ezio steps forward to stand in the middle of the circle of Assassins, facing his uncle and Machiavelli. A heavy, meaningful silence falls over them, broken first by lonely howls of wind, then Mario’s strong voice which is full of pride when he begins the ceremony.

Desmond knows these words by heart. How many times has he done this now? How many times has he welcomed yet another master assassin into the fold, uttered the ancient phrases of the creed? Countless times to countless faces, in Rome, in Constantinople, in Masyaf, in Boston and in New York. The words flow out of him so easily now, as he repeats the tenets with the others after Mario. 

The whole time, Ezio stands still, keeping his eyes locked to his uncle, his back straight and tense. But when the glowing-hot branding iron is brought out and Ezio offers his left hand to be branded, his gaze flies to Desmond. It is gone as quickly as it came, and Desmond is half-convinced he imagined the whole thing until the brown eyes find him again. He holds the gaze until the iron touches skin and Ezio scrunches his eyes closed to hold his reaction in.

After everyone has made it down safely from the tower, their ragtag group of Assassins disperses into the city – some leave to drink and celebrate, some to follow Rodrigo’s tail to see where he has run off to lick his wounds, some to return to study the Apple. Desmond has time to hear Teodora order Ezio to follow her so she can tend to the burn on his finger, then the Gray quite literally grabs him by the collar and flings him to a dim corner of Leonardo’s workshop maybe an hour or two later. 

The soft murmur of Leonardo’s voice floats in from one of the backrooms. It seems the Maestro is in the middle of giving his guests a tour of his workshop and the study where he probably has a few translated codex pages waiting for Ezio. Judging by his excited tone, the tour could very well take an hour.

Desmond should probably go to interrupt and ask if they could spare Ezio for a moment. 

His heart gallops in his chest as he slips through the cluttered workroom, trying to avoid knocking into the haphazardly laid out priceless inventions and paintings people will line up to see in museums five centuries later.

He is tiptoeing around a half-finished painting while trying not to knock over what looks like a miniature of the flying machine when he glances up and notices Ezio. Who is not in the backroom with the others but sitting on a desk next to a pile of documents and sketches carelessly thrown out of the way, the faint glow of a single candle illuminating his face. His hood is down and his hair spills loosely over his shoulders. His left hand rests on his lap, his burn tended to and bandaged, while in his right, gloved hand he holds the still dull and grayish Apple of Eden. 

They both startle when they realize they are not alone.

Ezio hurries to catch back the Apple after he almost drops it in his surprise.

“You could have let me know you were here, amico mio,” Ezio chuckles and shakes his head. His eyes shine like amber in the soft candlelight, and Desmond could hear the smile in his voice even if he didn't see the curve of his lips. “It is good to see you, Desmond.”

“Yeah, you too,” Desmond mumbles, his mouth dry. He makes a vague gesture at Ezio’s hand to distract himself. “Congrats, by the way. Welcome to the brotherhood and all that.”

“Thank you,” Ezio says in a quiet voice, returning his attention to the Apple in his hand. He tests its weight, slowly turning it around in his palm. “I have to admit, I was surprised to see you tonight. After this year’s Carnevale, when it had been two full years since we had last seen you, I thought we might not see you again. ”

Looking away, Desmond clears his throat.

“Yeah, well, it was your day, I had to show up. I would never miss the chance to see you become one of us,” he offers and chuckles to cover how thin his voice sounds.

A small smile tugs at the corner of Ezio’s mouth.

“I am glad you did not.” 

Desmond should really say something now. Just open his mouth and tell him everything. Something. Anything, Jesus – 

Ezio breathes out through his nose and waves his bandaged hand at Desmond.

"Come, see if you understand this damned thing any more than I can."

Desmond really doesn't want to be anywhere near the glorified golden paperweight, but the hint of a smile on Ezio’s lips and his hand, reached out towards Desmond, are things he finds himself unable to say no to. So he drags himself over to Ezio and makes the conscious effort not to stand too close to him and to keep an appropriate distance – a valiant effort entirely unappreciated by Ezio who scoots closer, close enough to lean his shoulder against Desmond’s. He twirls the Apple in his fingers before glancing at Desmond.

“So do you know what it is for?”

Desmond hums noncommittally, keeping his gaze on Ezio’s hands instead of his face. 

“Power,” he says and lets himself enjoy Ezio’s warmth. “Control over people. Nothing good.”

“No wonder the Templars want it so badly,” Ezio mutters and gives the orb another twirl. “Not that it looks very dangerous like this.” He tilts his head to the side. “I guess I could hurl it at someone to kill them – it is heavier than it looks.”

Desmond snorts. 

“You just don’t know how to use it.”

Ezio looks at him. Smiles. Reaches over to take Desmond’s hand into his own bandaged one and turns it so that Desmond’s open palm is facing up. 

“Show me then.”

Ezio lays the surprisingly warm metal orb on Desmond’s hand.

The Apple bursts into life. It recognises him, because this one was his in the future. Will be. Is. It recognises him and sings. Blooms with pulses of light and warmth that light up the entire room. Ezio’s long hair dances like in the wind as the energy washes over him and the Apple’s bright glow caresses his face.

In its love for Desmond, the Apple brings the starry sky inside. 

The Apple paints the walls, floor and ceiling with illusions and holograms, images of distant planets, inventions from the future, civilizations of the ancient past, with symbols that glitter on the workshop walls like stars. The glowing golden, geometrical lines on Desmond’s blackened right arm pulse in sync with what Desmond can only call the Apple's heartbeat.

Ezio’s mouth falls open.

"It speaks to you," he whispers, out of breath, as he slips down from the desk and slowly spins around to take it all in, the artificial starry sky the Apple is casting into Leonardo's workshop, all the twinkling and glimmering mathematical equations and scientific discoveries not yet made. Their light is reflected in Ezio’s dark eyes, and Desmond feels like a fool for noticing, for paying attention to it.

"Well, it's certainly trying to," he sighs and looks away. Isn’t he doomed enough already?

Ezio’s voice turns into a whisper as he comes to a slow stop, now facing Desmond.

“And you kept saying that I am the Prophet when the Apple is clearly meant for you.” 

Desmond scrunches up his nose.

“Trust me, it’s not me,” he mutters and glares at the map of stars and symbols floating around him. He gestures for Ezio’s branded hand, and when Ezio obeys, Desmond drops it on Ezio’s open palm. “Focus.”

For a moment, everything is white. The golden light doesn’t discriminate as it oppressively finds its way into every inch of the room. When Desmond blinks his watering eyes open again, the star map is gone, but images of the past and future fly by with more furious speed, most of them as blurry and incomplete as Ezio’s control over the Apple is non-existent. 

“Now, whatever you do, don’t listen to what it’s trying to tell you,” Desmond says and glares at the hologram of an Animus floating by his shoulder. “It will try to manipulate you. Don’t trust it.”

“This is…” Ezio sounds out of breath, and his eyes, slightly unfocused, are wide open with wonder. Desmond wonders if he has just made a mistake – Ezio never wanted anything to do with the Apples and only used them when he absolutely had to. The last thing Desmond wants is him ending up like Altaïr.

Desmond lays a hand on the Apple now resting on Ezio’s palm. The lightshow calms down to a soft glimmer around them. The hum of power quiets down.

“I have to tell you something.”

Ezio leans his hip against the desk and looks at him, a toothy grin forgotten on his face. 

“Alright.”

Desmond takes a deep breath. This is it.

“I haven’t been entirely honest with you,” Desmond says slowly and studies Ezio to see his reaction. Which is to drop the grin and narrow his eyes just the slightest bit but to nod to encourage him to continue. 

“About where I come from. Who I am. Why I am here.”

Ezio is quiet for a while, his shoulders tense as he takes this information in. The Apple still glows in his hand, responding to his thoughts by making the floating holograms freeze in place.

“Has this something to do with you being away so much?”

“Yeah,” Desmond sighs and covers his face with his hands. “God, I’ve been planning telling you this for so long, and I still don’t know even how to fucking begin. Uh, remember when I told you about that device that did this to my arm? That I used to save a bunch of people. Turns out that’s not the only thing it did – no, no, that’s just gonna confuse you more.”

Ezio furrows his brows as he tries to understand and leans in closer. The stars the Apple projects glow on his skin, traveling over his cheeks and nose and lips like on a trajectory. 

Desmond bites his lip and shakes his head, frustrated.

“Argh, I don’t know how to explain any of this, this is all so fucked up and I have no idea what’s going on myself – ”

Ezio lays a hand on his arm.

“Just breathe first. What did the device do?”

“It – “

“You got it to work! Marvelous!” 

Leonardo’s delighted voice cuts Desmond off and makes him twitch. Fuck, not now. The Apple’s lightshow becomes a blurry mess for a few seconds, then Ezio regains control, his attention now fully back on the artifact. 

Leonardo crosses the room with light speed, his eyes shining, while Mario and Machiavelli follow with almost as amazed looks on their faces. 

“I have never seen anything like it before. How does it work?” Leonardo asks and peers down at the Apple. Before Ezio can answer, Leonardo has twirled around to study the images of inventions and symbols, mumbling something none of the others can follow.

“Desmond, do I remember you saying one of these things could shoot out lightning? Influence people’s minds?” Mario asks with his hands on his hips, his head tilted back as he stares at the holograms.

“Yeah. You could easily kill multiple people at once with it,” Desmond mumbles. “Make them kill themselves.”

Machiavelli steps forward to stand by Mario and glare at the Apple.

“We must not let it fall into the wrong hands,” he says and looks to Mario who nods. 

“It cannot stay here. It is not safe.”

Mario starts explaining his plan to have the Apple brought to Forlì for safekeeping, and Desmond knows he has lost his chance. He will jump straight to Ezio meeting Caterina once the Assassins finish their planning. He can already feel the hum of the Gray as it approaches. 

He cuts Mario off.

“I will go to make sure there are no nasty surprises waiting for us when you arrive with the Apple. If I leave now, I might still be able to catch a ship tonight,” Desmond says and decidedly does not stare at the wisps of Gray crawling into the room from under the doors like smoke. One wisp is already slowly curling itself around Ezio’s leg like a tentacle. He doesn’t wait for the others to answer before he whirls around on the spot and heads outside. “See you there.”

He hasn’t made it far when Ezio grabs his wrist and pulls him to a stop.

“Do you really have to leave now? Right now? It is getting late,” he asks in a quiet voice. “And what about what you were going to tell me?”

“I – I swear I’ll explain everything in Forlí,” Desmond whispers back and gently pries his hand free. “I just really have to go now. Trust me.”

Ezio’s brows furrow in concern but he takes a step back.

“I will see you there.”

When Desmond reaches the door, the room is almost filled with the smoke-like Gray. It has covered everything, the furniture, the inventions, and swallowed even the people. He pushes the door open and rushes through it just before the nothingness comes.

The last thing he hears before he jumps is Mario’s and Ezio’s conversation.

“What are you looking at, nipote? Is something wrong?”

“No – no, I thought I saw something, but it was just my imagination. It has been a long day.”

Chapter Text

Desmond stumbles out of the Gray and straight into sloshing through a mud puddle, swearing loudly the whole time. Rain beats harshly against his face, and by the time he has managed to find dry land between the pools of sludge and occasional piles of horseshit on the dirt road he has landed on, he is soaked from head to toe. He pulls his hood up to shield his face from the rain, but it is too little too late by now. 

He stares at the open palm of his right hand, then buries his face in his hands and just screams.

He was so close to all of this being over! So fucking close! Just a few more minutes and he could have been done with this. But no! No, Leonardo had to appear and interrupt right that second, like a personal, cosmic fuck you to Desmond. It is not often that Leonardo has managed to get on his nerves – his or Ezio’s – but Desmond was literally in the middle of trying to explain this shit – 

He drags his hands down his face and groans. Kicks a pebble into flying across the dirt road. Curses some more. Stands in the pouring rain and seethes.

Sighing, Desmond rubs his aching forehead. Okay, okay, he still has time, no need to freak out. He’s just going to have to move onto plan B, and he’s going to get this done. First he needs to keep the Apple from getting into Savonarola’s hands, then he is going to spend the time Ezio would have used on hunting down the monk to tell him the truth.

With his plan decided, Desmond glances at the tall walls of the fortress looming in the distance. He is at the edge of the town spread around the city of Forlì, in the north near the docks. Through the rain, he can make out the shape of a small, plain-looking ship that has just arrived at the docks. A couple of hooded figures stand on the pier, one of them armed to the teeth.  

Ezio lifts his hood to take a peek at him when he hears Desmond’s footsteps on the wooden pier. Water drips down his cloak as he relaxes the arm that flew to hover over the pouch holding the Apple, tied to his belt under the cape. His smile is warm even when Desmond can barely see his eyes past the hood

“No problems on the way here?” Desmond asks and slows his jog down to a walk, trying to get his voice to be heard over the hum of the rain. He mouths a silent “Hi” at Ezio, then nods to Machiavelli whose greeting is not quite as affectionate as Ezio’s. 

“None so far, but judging by your expression that might be about to change,” Machiavelli says and frowns at the murky landscape. 

“Yeah, we’ve got a situation,” Desmond says and gestures in the general direction of the fortress to get the others to follow him.

Ezio’s smile drops while Machiavelli’s eyes sharpen.

“Already?”

“The Templars have recruited some band of mercenaries to attack the fortress. I just saw them heading in – they will be here any minute now.”

“Merda,” Ezio hisses as he falls into step with Desmond and glances at the fortress. “How could have they learned of the Apple already? We have been here the whole of two minutes.”

“I don’t think they are here for us.”

“It is that map Signora Sforza’s husband was making that they want, is it not?” Machiavelli says and looks to Desmond. “Mario told me you learned of it years ago during your captivity. Now Cardinal Borgia wants to get to the vault, and that map and the codex pages will lead him there.”

Desmond nods grimly. 

“Yeah, and I’m also worried the attackers might have taken hostages,” he says. “I… overheard some people in town say they saw a bunch of armored men drag a couple of kids towards the main force.”

Ezio swears out loud.

“Then we have to warn Caterina. Come.”

They hurry towards the city walls but do not make it very far before they run into Caterina herself, who in turn has left her fortress to come to greet them. A few heavily armored guards flank her smaller form which is covered in an elaborately decorated cape that hides her even more expensive-looking dress. One red lock of hair falls to frame her face when she looks at them, and a grin spreads on her lips when she recognizes Ezio.

“I thought there was something special about you. But an Assassin…” she says in that tone Desmond remembers from the memory he saw in the Animus, the tone that easily caused Ezio to saunter closer and properly introduce himself with that charismatic, flirty voice of his. This time Ezio cuts her off before she can really even get started.

“You have to get back inside the citadel. The Templars are here – there is going to be an attack any minute now.”

She reacts like a bolting horse when she takes in the news, her nostrils flaring.

“What? Who would dare to attack against Forlì?”

Ezio frowns and turns to Desmond for the answer. Caterina follows his gaze.

“The Orsi brothers,” Desmond mumbles, praying nobody will question how he knows this. His words make Caterina spit out curses.

“Those sons of bitches! I should have never hired them in the first place!” She turns around on her heels and starts marching towards the fortress. “Everyone, back inside! We will have to defend our home!”

Caterina, her men and Machiavelli run towards the gates but before Ezio can follow them, Desmond grabs his arm and pulls him to a stop.

“You go with her,” Desmond rushes to say when  Ezio turns to look at him with a puzzled expression on his face. “I’ll try to release the hostages. If the Orsis really have taken some kids – Caterina can’t fight back.”

Ezio frowns. His hand brushes against Desmond’s arm when Desmond pulls his own hand away.

“Should I not come with you?”

“No.” Desmond doesn’t want to risk Forlì falling because he and Ezio were busy trying to change things elsewhere. Better to have Ezio follow the original plan, just in case. Not that Desmond has much confidence in his meddling changing anything – and isn’t it a sign of madness to keep doing something over and over again and expecting something to change? “If the Orsis have already gotten inside the fortress, Caterina will need you there. And I’ll have a better chance of going unnoticed alone.”

“I am not sure this is a good idea,” Ezio mutters before he waves to Machiavelli who has turned back to come to see what is taking them so long. His frown deepens as he takes another long look at Desmond. “But I will not object if you are certain…”

“I’ll be fine. Just focus on keeping yourself and the Apple safe.”

Ezio presses his lips together before reaching out and briefly squeezing Desmond’s shoulder. 

“You had better come out of there alive. You promised to tell me your secret, and I will not let you walk out on me for a second time,” he says with a tired grin before hurrying to catch up with Machiavelli and Caterina.

Desmond lets himself watch Ezio’s receding back for a few moments before he sighs and heads towards the town.

Because he is not dressed in the white robes of the Assassins or the uniform of Caterina’s guards, he easily passes as one of the townspeople when he enters the town. The Orsi mercenaries are already on the loose in the settlement, raiding homes and rounding up the villagers. Desmond keeps his hood up, his head down, and tries to appear smaller and less threatening than he is as he slips through the occupied street towards the house in which he remembers the Orsi’s men holding Caterina’s girl, Bianca.

He hangs back once he reaches the house and just waits by the neighboring building, subtly keeping an eye on the place. No people go in or come out, and when he slowly circles around the house, he sees no mercenaries. They are not here yet. No girl, no guards.

Shit. 

Turning on his heels and activating his Eagle vision, Desmond starts heading towards the main force gathered near the gates of the city. If Bianca isn’t here yet, she and her brother might still be near the head of the army. If he is really lucky, the mercenaries might not yet have separated the kids.

And for once, he is lucky. 

He finds Bianca and Ottaviano at the edge of the town, being hoisted down from the back of a horse and guarded by a bunch of mercenaries. No Ludovico Orsi in sight. He is probably busy threatening Caterina with his brother right now. 

Desmond makes short work of dispatching of the mercenaries – the first two he takes down with throwing knives, then with a few quick strides he reaches the third one, slicing his throat open with his hidden blade. The last mercenary takes his chance to rush towards Desmond with his sword raised, but Desmond pulls out his dagger and parries the attack, then feints and plunges the blade into the mercenary the moment the man makes the mistake of leaving himself open.

He lays the body down in the mud and swipes most of the blood off his dagger. Raindrops dilute the deep red blood. He blinks the golden glow away from his eyes and turns to the children. 

Ottaviano’s wide eyes and Bianca’s tightly together pressed lips make Desmond put his dagger away and push his hood back despite the rain. 

“Um, hi. My name is Desmond. I’m here to take you back to your mother.”

Bianca, the braver of the two, stands in front of her older brother and thanks Desmond while staring at him warily. Deciding that their caution is a good thing, all things considered, Desmond goes to fetch the horse the kids were brought here on. The big chestnut spooked and ran off when Desmond attacked the mercenaries, but he manages to get close enough to grab the reins and calm the horse down. 

By the time he leads the horse over, the kids have deemed him trustworthy enough to follow at least for now. He helps the kids into the saddle, then gives them his long cape to cover their expensive clothes and to keep them from drawing attention. Desmond clicks his tongue and leads the horse towards the city.

The biggest problem they face on the way there is that it takes ages to reach the gate leading into the fortress. Or at least it feels like ages, when Desmond expects every stranger they come across to attack them. His paranoia is not entirely unfounded, since most of the people they run into are Orsi bandits, but the mercenaries are too busy with looting homes to pay too much attention to what seems like a young father escorting his two kids to safety.

When they are close enough to see the massive, closed gate and the Orsi mercenaries guarding it on the ramparts above the entrance, Desmond brings the horse to a halt and tries to estimate at what point of the battle they are now. The Orsi forces are holding the city, so Ezio and Caterina and their men have probably withdrawn into the citadel inside to wait for the next wave of attackers. 

There is no way Desmond is getting the kids inside through here. 

For a moment he considers leaving the children in some safe hiding place and slipping in alone, to take word to Caterina that Bianca and Ottaviano are safe. But he fears what could happen to children if one of the mercenaries found them. He glances at the kids’ pale faces, their drenched hair and clothes. He hopes that taking the Orsis’ leverage away has changed enough – that Caterina might be able to fight the attackers off. If that happens, the safest place for the children to be is inside that citadel. 

“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do.”

After explaining his makeshift plan to them, Desmond helps the kids down from the saddle and leads them along the edge of the moat towards the boats he knows will be there. He pushes one of the boats into the water and lifts the kids into it before jumping in himself. Keeping an eye out for archers the whole time, Desmond slowly guides the boat around the fortress to the hidden entrance in the back. 

The portcullis is down, its teeth hiding deep underwater. Desmond measures it with his gaze, then glances at the scared and soaked children.

“Okay, so I know this is scary but we need to get in the water for a bit, okay? We can dive under this and get inside,” he says and grabs a hold of the metal grate. “I’ll keep the boat steady while you jump in the water, then you’re gonna wait for me and we’ll dive together.”

It takes some coaxing and encouragement to get both kids off the boat and into the water. Neither is a particularly good swimmer, so Desmond wastes no time before he jumps into murky water himself. After making sure both kids are still fine, he swims to the portcullis barring boats from entering the fortress and extends a hand towards the children. 

“Okay, I’ll go first and then help you. Follow me one at a time.”

It is not a very deep dive to get under the portcullis and to the other side, he notes as he emerges on the other side. But he fears the kids might get scared and confused in the dark, muddy water and hit their heads or get stuck on something. And if that isn’t enough to worry about, he has to keep an eye out in case some mercenary decides to wander in and walk right in on them.

Bianca goes first. Desmond reaches for her just as she disappears under the surface, but at first his hand meets only cold water. Then he manages to grab a handful of her dress and pull her to the right side. She comes out looking like a drowned rat but is otherwise okay. Desmond presses a finger to his lips to tell her to stay quiet while he helps out her brother. Ottaviano needs a little more kind words before he has the courage to dive, but this time Desmond manages to get a good grip on the boy’s arm and help him to the other side. 

“Good job, guys. We made it,” he whispers, his teeth clattering because of the freezing water, and manages a smile. “Now, let’s get out of the water before we get a cold or something.”

While he helps the kids to climb out, he glances to the inner walls separating the citadel from the rest of the fortress. The hard part starts only now – the Orsi mercenaries have the fortress, and if the gates to the citadel are opened to let Desmond and the kids in, the bandits will have their chance to storm into the citadel.

But surely there has to be some secret entrance into the citadel, some hidden door in some back corner of a garden or something?

Desmond isn’t sure whether it is just his imagination, but he might have seen some movement up on the battlements. He just hopes it is Ezio, looking down at them and coming up with some plan to get them out of here.

Keeping to the shadows and sticking close to walls, they make their way painfully slowly towards the citadel gate. The kids, pale and shaking in their wet clothes, follow the best they can while Desmond scouts ahead. This would be so much easier if they could take to the rooftops, but the children can barely keep up as it is. 

Desmond is just about to lead the kids across a street when a pair of Orsi mercenaries walk by. He throws himself back into the shadows and turns to shush the kids when Bianca trips on the soggy hem of her dress. She manages to catch herself before falling down, but she can’t stop herself from yelling out in alarm. 

The bandits freeze. They back up a few steps and crane their necks to look in the alley Desmond and the kids have retreated into. Ugly grins spread on their faces.

“Hey, we have some more over here!” one of the men shouts, presumably to his buddies farther away. 

Fuck. Desmond steps in front of the kids and readies his sword. Two mercenaries he could deal with, but taking on more of them while trying to keep the children safe – 

Metal clashes against metal when he blocks a swing of a sword with his own blade. He has no time to think, as the other mercenary moves in right that second and gives Desmond no choice but to wrench his sword free to defend himself against the new attack. 

He parries another blow just as two more mercenaries appear at the other end of the alley, gleefully taunting him as they join the fight. Desmond swears and steps out of the way of a shortsword, then pierces one throat with his hidden blade. 

Something falls on one of the mercenaries. Ezio, with his hidden blade deep in the man’s neck, throws a throwing knife at the other, surprised bandit. He wrenches his blade free, then rushes past Desmond to take out the last mercenary.

Desmond stares at him, his chest heaving, then looks around to see if any more bandits are on their way.

“Are you alright?” Ezio asks as wipes blood off his blades.

“Yeah. Thanks,” Desmond breathes out and turns to the children. “Are you guys okay?”

The kids nod, their eyes wide as they huddle together behind Desmond, staring at Ezio and the dead men on the ground. Probably scarred for life then, but otherwise intact

Ezio takes one look at the kids, then at their grim surroundings. 

“We need to get them inside the citadel right now. It is not safe out here. Caterina was beside herself with worry when she heard they had been taken.”

“Is there any other way in? Opening the gates seems risky,” Desmond asks as he starts to usher the kids forward. Ezio steps in to lead their group while Desmond stays in the back to watch out for any more mercenaries.

“I do not know if there is. I came over the walls, but we cannot take them in that way. But we will think of something. Let us go to see what the situation is like at the gates first.”

Surprisingly, they are able to reach the gates without any more drama, but the piazza right next to the entrance to the citadel is guarded by Orsi mercenaries. Ezio swears under his breath and brings their group to a stop. He waves Desmond over and leans in close to whisper in a low voice so that the kids don’t hear. 

“We will need to distract them somehow. They will not open the gates with those men so close to the entrance,” he says, furrowing his brows. “Caterina does not have that many men with her inside. We were taken by surprise – we lost a lot of people on the way there.”

Desmond considers the piazza in front of them.

“Do you have any smoke bombs on you?”

“Just one. I do not think it is enough for that many.”

“Yeah, no. Shit.”

They glare at the mercenaries together from their hiding place for a moment before Ezio gets an idea and starts searching through his pockets. 

“Did you think of something – “ Desmond asks but gets cut off when Ezio pushes the Apple into his hands. 

“Use it to distract them. To kill them. Anything.”

Desmond stares at him, dumbfounded.

“You brought the Apple here?”

Ezio dares to find his reaction funny.

“So what was I supposed to do with it instead?”

“Just – argh, fine, whatever,” Desmond mutters and tests the weight of the Apple in his hand. It has started to glow again, gently, and echoes of promises of power and wisdom tickle his mind as the artifact tries to manipulate him into loving it. He glares at it, then at Ezio who has a self-satisfied smile on his lips. “Fine, fine, I’ll do it. Mind the kids.”

For a moment he thinks about being stealthy about this, about making a plan to draw the mercenaries away, but in the end he just ends up walking right in the middle of the piazza with the Apple in his hand. 

Of course he is spotted immediately. Yells fill the air, swords are drawn and boots scrape against the cobblestone as the dozen men camping in the square jump on their feet and rush to surround him. And that is just fine with Desmond.

Once the men are close enough, he closes his eyes and reaches for the power sleeping inside the Apple and sets it free. Bolts of white lightning shoot out from it as the Apple releases a pulse of golden energy that washes over every single one of the mercenaries. A thrum of familiar power pounds in the back of his skull as Desmond breathes out and allows the Apple to worm its way into the men’s head and cripple them. 

The mercenaries drop like flies, their limbs loose and eyes empty.

“Go! Now!” Desmond shouts in a raspy voice, his legs weak and shaking. He hears Ezio hurry the children along, and Desmond turns around to make sure no one gets a jump on them as they run across the piazza towards the gate. Ezio shouts and waves his hands to get the attention of the guards up on the ramparts. 

The massive gates open just enough to let them slip through. Desmond follows after the others, still clutching the Apple.

And finds at least ten swords pointed towards his chest when he makes it to the other side.

He blinks at the sight, trying to understand what is happening, while Ezio pushes his way back past the pale-faced and wide-eyed guards, elbowing them out of the way.

“Lower your weapons! He is on our side!” he yells and positions himself to stand between them and Desmond, his sword hand clenching. The guards hesitate, their wild gazes jumping between Ezio, Desmond and the still dimly glowing Apple in his black hand. 

“He is a demon! ”

“You saw what he did to those men out there!”

Ezio glares at the nervous soldiers, practically seething, while Desmond realizes to hide the Apple in one of the pouches on his belt. 

“You will lower those blades this instant unless you want to find out which one of us is really the demon,” Ezio growls, his chest heaving, but before the soldiers can decide what to do about his threat, the arrival of Caterina puts a stop to all of it.

She rushes towards them with her skirts flowing, not so gently nudging the guards out of the way to get to her children. She gathers them into her arms, quietly sobbing as she looks them over for injuries. When she has made sure that nothing worse than a dip in the moat and drenched clothes has befallen them, she looks up at Desmond from over her son’s shoulder. 

“Thank you,” she whispers, tears running down her face. Desmond nods back, suddenly feeling exhausted and cold in his soaked clothes and with the rain whipping against his face. Her words cause most of the guards to lower their swords and axes, and Ezio pushes one blade aside when a stubborn soldier refuses to stop pointing it towards Desmond. 

That is the extent of Desmond’s interactions with Caterina, as the head of her guard interrupts to suggest that the lady and her children should head back to safety inside. She leaves without another look back, worrying over the state of her children.

Ezio touches his shoulder.

“I did not realize it would be like that – I am sorry I asked you to use the Apple,” he stumbles over his words, his face pale. “Did it hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” Desmond mumbles, then shakes his head to get himself to focus. “Ezio, the Orsis will strike again. Soon. If they didn’t already know about the Apple being here, they certainly know now. They’ll probably try to cause a diversion while sending a smaller force in to take it and the map Caterina’s husband was putting together.” They are on uncharted waters now – both Orsis are still alive but missing their hostages. Desmond has no script to follow any longer. He will just have to trust that his ancestors’ instincts and his training are enough.

Ezio swears.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Then we have no time to waste,” Ezio sighs and leads him inside. 

Once they have alerted Caterina and Machiavelli, they head up on the battlements to look over the town the Orsi are camping in. Desmond drags his tired body up the stairs while watching Ezio’s tense shoulders. The rain continues to beat down on them as Desmond tells them what he saw of the Orsis’ forces back in the occupied town and what he remembers from the first time he lived through all this. In Ezio’s original memories, after Caterina managed to get the fortress back, the Orsis appeared to gloat and demand both the Apple and the map in exchange for Caterina's children. When Desmond now turns to look at the horizon, he sees no Orsis on horseback coming to make their demands. 

“The fortress will hold,” Caterina is in the middle of claiming, her chin held high, when Desmond remembers to focus on the conversation. “They lost their advantage when they allowed us to take back my children,” 

“Yes, it will hold and keep holding long after we have run out of food and supplies,” Machiavelli notes in his dry tone. “And yet we cannot face the Orsis head on. We lost a lot of men just retaking the citadel.”

Caterina squares her shoulders, clearly displeased with Machiavelli’s assessment, and turns to Ezio.

“And would the Assassins and Monteriggioni answer if we got a word to your uncle and his mercenaries?” 

“We do not need my uncle’s army to win this,” Ezio says, his gaze fixed on the occupied town behind the tall walls of the fortress. The next words are directed at Caterina, but Ezio’s eyes find Desmond. “Give Desmond and me a few hours and we will cut off the head of that beast before they can strike again.”

“And what will you do with the Apple in the meantime?” Machiavelli drawls. “You cannot positively be thinking of taking such an artifact with you.”

“The Orsis know we have it. They expect it to stay here,” Ezio says. “And Desmond says they will strike here again, send in a smaller group to steal it while the rest of the force serves as a distraction.”

“And how did Signor Miles come by this information?” Machiavelli hums. “He just happened to be so lucky that he managed to spy on the Orsi brothers the precise moment they decided to go over their plan?”

Ezio straightens to stand in all his height.

“What are you implying, Niccoló?”

“Oh, nothing. It is just a lucky coincidence that he was there to learn of it, and one we should be grateful for, if that is indeed the case. 

“I heard their men talking about it when I tailed them to find  the children,” Desmond says, keeping his voice even. “And a distraction is what I would use in a situation like this.”

Machiavelli harrumphs. 

“Then that is what we shall prepare for,” he says, holding Desmond’s gaze for a moment before turning back to Ezio. “But truly, would the Apple not be safer here, behind thick stone walls than in the hands of a lone Assassin?”

“They are after both the Apple and the map. Under no circumstances can we let them have both, so we must separate them.”

Machiavelli's stiff posture and the bull-headed expression on Ezio’s face can only spell trouble.

“The Apple comes with us. Desmond can wield it if things were to go wrong, just as he did to save Caterina’s children just now,” Ezio continues and turns to Caterina. “Guard the map. Hide it, keep it safe while we deal with the Orsis.”

Machiavelli frowns at the approaching army.

“You had better get going then if you want to save the day.”

The sun is starting to descend towards the horizon by the time Ezio and Desmond have made it across the citadel walls and back through the secret waterway to dry land, then to the town in which the Orsis’ men have settled. After some searching, they find the Orsis holed up in one of the houses. There are guards posted all around the building, but that has never stopped either of them before. They separate, Desmond circling around to the other end of the street so that when he steps out into the light of the guards’ lanterns, pulls his hood down to reveal his face and waves a hand at the guards, it is easy for Ezio to sneak upon them and take them down with his two hidden blades.

Ezio throws his final smoke bomb through the front door before entering, his eyes glowing gold. Desmond follows him into the room and activates his own Eagle vision while making sure to position himself so that Ezio won’t see his eyes. 

Heavy, dark smoke has filled the room. A table, piles of maps on it, stands in the middle of the space, while a bunch of weapons lay haphazardly in the corner in what used to be someone’s home still this morning. 

A faint beam of light cuts through the smoke when a back door on the other side of the room is thrown open. 

“The bastards ran!”

Ezio rushes across the room and through the open door after the Orsi brothers. Desmond runs after him, vaulting over the table and skidding on the mud in the garden he bursts into. Another jump over a fence, a turn around a corner – and he arrives just in time to see Ezio grab one of the brothers while the scumbag is trying to mount a horse. The animal almost rears when Ezio violently wrenches the man from its back and throws him on the ground. The few people that were on the street run out of the way – a monk almost trips on the hem of his robes in his haste to get away.

The other brother, the one whom Ezio isn’t currently wrestling with on the ground and who was supposed to die while holding Ottaviano hostage, has managed to get himself atop another, skittish horse which is refusing to stay still. 

“No, you don’t,” Desmond mutters and hurls a throwing knife at Ludovico. But the horse spins around, its eyes wide and head high, and the knife buries itself in Ludovico’s shoulder, not throat. It causes him to yell out anyway as blood spurts out, and he loses the little balance he had on the panicked horse’s back. He falls, hits the ground and stays still. 

The other brother is lying on the ground not far from Ludovico, with Ezio’s hidden blade buried deep in his throat. Ezio is crouched over the dying man, leaning in to hear the final gargled words, and a shiver runs down Desmond’s spine – 

“Ezio! He still has a knife – !“

Ezio staggers backwards from Checco Orsi’s corpse, clutching his side. Blood pours over his fingers as he stares at the knife buried deep into him.

Desmond doesn’t think he has ever run as fast as he does now. 

“Don’t pull it out, let it be – “

He catches Ezio by the shoulders just as he is about to fall over. With his arm wrapped around Ezio, Desmond lowers him on the ground, falling on his knees next to him. Ezio’s nails dig into his shoulders, but the grip is becoming looser and looser as he fades towards unconsciousness.

“Desmond, I – “

“I’m sorry – I forgot he had that, I should have warned you – but don’t worry, you’re gonna be alright, I swear, just stay with me,” Desmond rambles and tries to mind the knife still protruding from Ezio’s side. He tries to gauge if the wound is deeper, more serious than it was last time, but he can’t really tell. 

Ezio’s bloodied fingertips brush against his arm.

“Desmond – “

“Yeah, I know, just give me a minute to think of something – shit .” Desmond stares at the wound, at the blood drenching Ezio’s white robes, then glances up to see if there is anyone around to take Ezio back to the fortress or at least take word there that he is injured because the Gray will snatch Desmond away any second now. But there is no one he recognizes, no Caterina’s guards but he can’t just leave Ezio out here, if he could just do something  – 

His focus is pulled from the scared townspeople to the golden beams of light suddenly shooting out from the pouch tied to his belt. Desmond pulls out the glowing Apple, its light pulsing in sync with his rapid heartbeat. The people around him scream in panic, all of them staring at the Apple.

Desmond meets Ezio’s unfocused gaze over the gleaming Apple just before Ezio slips out of consciousness. His eyes close, his head lolls to the side, and the Gray crashes into Desmond like a freight train.

He is still covered in Ezio’s blood when he steps out of the Gray, holding the Apple which is hot enough to burn his fingers. The lines on the metal sphere glow almost red, and Desmond has to stop and focus on just calming the thing down before he can do anything else. 

He is inside a building, a rather elaborate one. His clothes drip water on the polished floors as he slowly turns around while trying to decide which direction he should head to. He should be in ForlÌ since that is where Ezio was brought, to Caterina and her doctors, a few days after the attack. Now Desmond has to just find Ezio and hope he is not any worse off than he was last time.

He picks a random hallway and keeps walking until he hears familiar voices through one of the expensive-looking doors.

“Calm yourself. You just woke up – you are in no condition to start running around yet. You will only injure yourself further if you continue to act like this.” Caterina. A very exasperated Caterina. 

Desmond walks up to the door and raises his hand to knock when the sound of Ezio’s voice, raspy and hoarse and tense, makes him stop.

“But what of Desmond? Where is he?”

Caterina is quiet for a moment, long enough that Desmond almost manages to gather his courage and knock. 

“Ezio, I am sorry,” she begins slowly. “Nobody has seen him or the Apple for three days.”

“What? What happened to him?”

“I do not know. He was not there when my men found you, nor have we seen any sign of him since. By now we must assume the worst.”

And that sounds like Desmond’s cue to knock and open the door.

Caterina is in the middle of getting up from a chair near Ezio’s bed when he walks in. Her delicately decorated dress and meticulously presented hairdo are in stark contrast with Ezio’s sorry state. The clearly borrowed shirt fits badly over the bandages on his torso as he sits on the bed, hunched over himself. His loose hair is a tangled mess, and the three days old stubble makes him look older than he is. Not that Desmond can see that much of his face when Ezio has covered his face with his hands, his shoulders up and tense.

Caterina is the first to notice Desmond. A smile spreads on her lips.

“Though it seems it is time to call off the search parties.” 

Ezio’s reaction is instant. He drops his hands, yanks his head up, raw anger flashing in his eyes and in the curve of his mouth, but then he notices Desmond at the door. A visible shudder runs through him.

“Desmond. You are alright – dio mio, I thought that.. . ” Ezio lets his voice die out as he takes a quivering breath and looks down, rubbing his temples. 

Caterina studies Ezio for a few seconds, a thoughtful look on her face, before she squares her shoulders and heads to the door. 

“I am sure you two have some Assassin business to discuss. I will let Machiavelli know you are both here,” she says and meets Desmond’s eyes before glancing over her shoulder. “Ezio, I will come to see you later.”

Once the door closes behind her, Desmond walks over to the bed, mindful of the blood and mud on his hands. He means to sit down on the chair Caterina just vacated, but Ezio reaches out his hand towards him, a demand, so Desmond goes and sits on the edge of the bed by Ezio’s knees.  

Ezio’s eyes are wide and worried when he looks at Desmond, barely blinking.

“What happened to you? I do not remember much but – Caterina told me it has been three days since the attack, and now you show up here looking like that – please tell me that is not your blood – “

The words pour out of him as if a dam had broken inside him. As he speaks, he reaches out and grabs Desmond’s wrist in a tight grip without seemingly realizing he is doing so. His hand is almost achingly hot against Desmond’s cold and still drenched skin. 

“I’m fine, really. Me and the Apple both. Nothing to worry about,” Desmond chuckles softly, not really answering the question because he refuses to come up with any more lies. So he distracts. “But how are you feeling? The wound looked nasty.”

“I will manage. But, Desmond, are you sure you are not injured? Where have you been?”

“I’m okay. I swear this is not my blood.” 

Ezio’s hold on his wrist tightens for a moment before he relaxes, lets go and slumps back to lean against the headboard. 

To avoid any more questions, Desmond lifts his cape and takes out the Apple. He gives it a twirl before offering it to Ezio.

“See, not a scratch on it,” he says with a chuckle, but Ezio refuses to take the artifact. 

“You should keep it.”

“Hey, what – no.” Desmond can’t be trusted with it. Not when it keeps whispering to him. He wants nothing to do with it. And even if the fucking thing trying to seduce him wasn’t an issue, the Gray will swoop in and take him and what happens to the Apple then? 

“You have been an Assassin far longer than me, you are a better fighter than me,” Ezio says in an exhausted tone. “The Apple listens to you – you can defend yourself with it. Out of the two of us, it will be safer with you.” 

“I don’t know about that,” Desmond mutters. He sighs and drops the Apple on the bed between them. 

They sit there, looking at the Apple, then each other, tired. 

They open their mouths to speak at the same time.

“About what I wanted to tell you before – “

“There is something that I – “

Desmond bites his lip while Ezio chuckles and shakes his head.

“Please,” Ezio says. “Let me speak first or I fear I might run out of courage.” 

And Desmond almost interrupts him anyway because he is pretty sure he is the one with the bigger news here, but something in Ezio’s eyes, in the softness in his expression that makes him shut up.

"Desmond, I – thank you for being here,” Ezio says and slowly sits up again, wincing when his injury reminds him of its existence. He lets out a nervous laugh. “And I do not mean just here in Forlì. You have been here for me ever since my father and brothers died. Through everything. You have been a true friend over the years, and I do not know how I would have managed any of this without you." 

Desmond tries not to get lost in his own rapid heartbeat.

"You would have been just fine, believe me."

"No, I truly mean it. Please, I do not know how to put it into words," Ezio says, now with a determined frown on his lips. He leans in closer, his dark brown eyes searching Desmond’s face. "You have become so important to me, and yet I never said anything to you when I should have. Three days ago I thought I was going to die without ever telling you, and now, when just for a moment I thought you were gone, I…" 

Slowly, hesitantly Ezio raises his hand to touch him. He stops the movement half-way, unsure, his hand hovering in the small space between them. His gaze flashes to Desmond’s eyes, then to his own hand, and back to Desmond again. He bites his lips, gathers his courage and lifts his calloused hand to cup Desmond’s cheek, the tips of his fingers brushing against the corner of his mouth.

For a moment, Desmond just stares at him like an idiot, frozen to place because it feels like his limbs are made of lead, they are lightweight, they are hollow all at once as blood rushes in his ears and his heart pounds against his ribcage – and then he covers Ezio's warm hand with his own and leans into the touch because oh God. 

A smile of relief blooms on Ezio's lips. His eyes grow soft, and he seems to remember to breathe for the first time in ages. Carefully, as if still expecting to be rejected, he rests his forehead against Desmond's before he tilts his head with the easiest, smoothest movement and kisses him. 

Desmond’s fingers feel numb and powerless as he tangles them in Ezio's shirt to pull him closer. He grips the thin fabric with his shaking hands, not daring to let go. Doesn’t remember to breathe when Ezio slips a hand into his hair. And the whole time his heart aches because no matter how reverently he kisses Ezio back, it doesn’t feel enough to convey how much Desmond loves him.

All of that is cut short by the shrill sound of the alarm bell being rung down in the courtyard.

"Merda, what now?" Ezio mumbles against Desmond’s lips, reluctant to pull away. 

"I should probably go to see what’s that about," Desmond whispers back and makes absolutely no effort to detangle his grip from Ezio’s shirt. It doesn’t matter that he has absolutely no idea what caused the alarm and that he should probably be more worried about the fact – none of it matters when Ezio growls in annoyance and pulls him into another kiss. 

“It is Caterina’s fortress,” he mutters in between fervent kisses which Desmond answers with just as much enthusiasm, now tangling his fingers into Ezio’s long hair. “She can handle whatever it is.”

The resounding rumble of a cannon shot hitting the outer wall would like to say otherwise. The whole citadel quakes with the shock, and shouted orders and yells for help echo from the hallways and courtyard right after. They pull back enough to look at each other with wide eyes, then Desmond hurries to the only window in the room. 

They are in the upper parts of the citadel, so he is given an excellent view of the mercenary army gathered around the fortress. Another cannon booms, and a part of the fortress wall crumbles to the ground.

“This isn’t what happened – what the hell?“ 

After another look at the mercenaries, he recognizes the emblems on their flags. A cold feeling of dread washes over him. He has screwed up. Somehow. Again.

He turns back to Ezio. 

“The Orsis are back. Or at least their army.”

“Did we not kill them both?”

“Apparently not – oh, shit. Ludovico. I didn’t make sure he was dead. He must have survived. Fuck.”

Ezio tries to get up from the bed.

“Well, then we will just have to kill him a second time.”

“Oh no, no, no. You’re not going anywhere,” Desmond says and marches over to Ezio to stop him from standing up. “You’re going to stay here and let that wound heal.”

“And just wait here while people die out there?”

“You’re not going to be any help with an injury like that. Stay here and out of harm’s way so I don’t have to worry about you while I go to take care of the fucking Orsi brother. Okay?” Desmond says while checking his remaining weapons  – he is running out of throwing knives and Ezio already used the final smoke bomb – and testing out his hidden blade.

The citadel echoes again with the thunder of the cannons. Ezio grimaces and slumps back down the bed.

“Fine. Fine, I will stay here, but only if you take the Apple with you. And promise to come back to me.”

Reluctantly, Desmond reaches past Ezio to take the damn thing. This is fine – he is just going to borrow it and bring it back when he comes to tell Ezio everything. He should still have time. 

He makes a show of pocketing the Apple and looks to Ezio to see if he is satisfied. The smile Ezio gives him is more vulnerable than he expected.

“So will you come back?”

Desmond pulls his hood over his head and leans to press one more kiss on Ezio’s lips.

“Yeah, I will.” 

“Stay safe.”

The mercenaries swarm beyond the city walls. Desmond tugs his hood down to cover more of his face and touches a hand to the pouch tied to his belt, making sure the Apple is still there, hidden by his cape. The low hum of power that makes his teeth ache is an obvious tell but he needs to be sure. Because it is the fucking Apple.

His lips still tingle with the echoes of Ezio’s kisses when he slips out of the city and into the town occupied for the second time in less than a week’s time. The mercenaries not currently busy shooting at the fortress have filled the streets – a particularly cruel looking man shouts orders at women and children, a bunch of street urchins flock to a baker's stall the moment the mercenaries drag the poor baker away, while a lost-looking monk in black robes tries to stay out of the mercenaries’ way. Desmond catches a few of Caterina’s men fighting back here and there, but most of them are alone or in pairs, not able to make a dent in the Orsi’s forces.

Desmond sneaks through the dusk of an early evening, trying to avoid the armed men patrolling the streets. He tries not to let himself worry about Ezio – the wound healed just fine last time, he was on his feet and hunting the Apple long before he should have, so he should be okay now. If he rests.

Okay, yeah, scratch that, there is no way Ezio is sitting on his ass right now, waiting for others to do the fighting for him. Not when there is a chance the attackers could reach the citadel. But Desmond just needs him to stay in one piece until he gets this done…

It takes a moment to find the leader of this enterprise since the Orsi bastard is not at the head of his army but lurking in the back, safely out of harm’s way.  But eventually Desmond locates the bastard. The only problem with that discovery is that the asshole knew to expect him. The remaining Orsi brother is in a small square, along with a squad of his mercenaries. They have hostages, at least a dozen of them. Desmond frowns – there are two many of the mercenaries for him to take out. Or to be precise, too many to take out without losing any of the hostages. It doesn’t help that he is running out of weapons.

Ludovico Orsi struts about, making a spectacle of himself.

“Assassin! I know you can hear me! Bring me the Apple and the map, and no harm will come to these people.”

Desmond sticks to the shadows and just observes for a while. It confirms what he suspected – Ludovico and his men really do not have any idea where he is. Ludovico even repeats his offer after about ten minutes, hoping that Desmond or Ezio might be there to hear it. 

His mind made up, Desmond makes sure his cape covers the pouch holding the Apple before walking into the square with his weapons sheathed. He needs to get in close to use the Apple on this many people.

“Ah, here we are,” Ludovico says with a satisfied grin. He waves to one of his men to grab one of the hostage’s and hold a knife to the poor man’s throat. “Now, Assassin. Hand me the Apple and the map and we can all part as friends.”

“Tell your men to leave the city first.”

Ludovico spreads his arms, slowly shaking his head.

“I cannot do that. I would lose all my leverage. Who is to say you would not kill me where I stand once my men have left?”

Desmond glances at the hostage, a man in a dark robe, who is clearly planning some kind of escape. Another glance to his surroundings, and Desmond notices one of Caterina’s men on the street to his left. The man turns on his heels and heads back towards the citadel, hopefully to get help.

“Who is to say I won’t kill you right now?”

“If you value the lives of these innocents as you Assassins claim to do, you will not threaten to do such things,” Ludovico says. “Now, do you have the Apple? Hand it over. Slowly.”

While keeping his eyes on Ludovico the whole time, Desmond pushes his cape over his shoulder and slowly unties the strings holding the pouch to his belt. The pouch is heavy in his hand as he presents it to Ludovico who apparently has no idea what Desmond can do with the Apple since he doesn’t look that concerned.

“Take it out,” Ludovico snarls, and Desmond tugs the pouch open and lets the Apple roll onto his palm. 

The Apple pulses with warmth in his hand, whispering promises of victory, and Desmond is about to raise it and command Ludovico and his men to kneel and submit when the hostage, the man in a monk’s black robe, tears himself free.

The hostage runs towards Desmond. Ludovico shouts, and one of his mercenaries shoots a crossbow arrow at the man. He misses. The arrow grazes Desmond’s wrist. The Apple falls. Ludovico dives after it. Desmond leaps and plunges the hidden blade, attached to his good arm, through Ludovico’s throat.

The Gray appears again as Desmond lays the dying man on the ground. 

“You were never supposed to live this long,” Desmond snarls as he yanks his blade out. “Why did you get to live when everyone I have tried to save has never gotten the chance?”

When the Gray pulls away, Ludovico’s mercenaries have surrounded Desmond. He reaches for the Apple, but it is not where it fell. Panicked, he looks around, trying to find it, and locks eyes with the monk. Who is holding the golden Apple in his hands. One of which is missing a finger.

Girolamo Savonarola looks Desmond in the eye, pockets the Apple, and runs away just as the mercenaries advance on Desmond.

Desmond tries to run after Savonarola, but one of the mercenaries blocks his path. He tries to push past the man, but another cuts him off, trying to take his head with a violent swing of his sword. 

When Desmond finally manages to slip past them away, covered in blood and sporting a few new cuts and scrapes, he has time to take a few stumbling steps, his breath wheezing, before the Gray returns and violently grabs him. 

“No! No, not yet!” he yells and tries to fight off the tendrils wrapping themselves around his limbs. “It is not the time yet, Ezio got days to run around the countryside to look for the Apple! Stop! I still haven’t told him the truth! No!”

The Gray doesn’t listen.

Chapter Text

The rising sun looms low in the east, partly hiding behind tall, white buildings of Firenze. Its red bloom dyes the cobbled street Desmond crashlands on as he stumbles out of the stormy Gray and collapses onto his hands and knees. The rough stone scrapes his palms and breaks the skin. A few lingering tendrils of the Gray still remain, slowly uncurling from their tight embrace around his arms and legs. 

Nine years. Gone just like that. Because the fucking loading screen toying with him won’t play fair. Shit. Utter fucking shit, that’s what this is.

He should have let the world burn. At least then he wouldn’t have to deal with this bullshit.

He slams his hand against the ground. Yells in frustration, though the curse words come out sounding like a sob. He scrunches his eyes closed, bites his lip and lets out a slow, quivering sigh. Blood from the fresh cuts smears his palms as he balls his hands into tight fists. 

All he wanted was to go back to Ezio.

After drawing in a long, wavering breath, Desmond slowly pushes himself up onto his feet. He brushes dust and dirt off his clothes and lets out a hiss when he takes a look at the jagged edges of the cuts on his hands, lined with sand and grovel. The dark stains of Ezio’s dried blood cover his sleeves all the way to his elbows. He hides his arms underneath his ragged cape before glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone has seen him – no, to see if the Gray might still be there to take him back to 1488.

It is not, he knew it was not, and yet his throat constricts at the sight of the empty street.

He should probably get going. Not sure where. 

Somewhere. Not here. 

Not that he knows why.

He is tired.

It doesn’t take much nudging from the part of his mind that is not entirely his own anymore for Desmond to just let go and let his feet carry him away as if they were moving on their own. He’d rather be anyone else but Desmond now, so he gladly allows himself to fade away and escape into being Ezio and make dragging his tired and bloodied body over to the nearby tavern someone else’s problem.

He is not sure which one of them realizes that he hasn’t eaten since… since Venice and the morning the Assassins stole back the Apple. That might be also the last time he got any sleep now that he thinks about it, yeah. The presence of Ezio in his mind, the old, exasperated mentor already so done with his shit, gently nudges him to let go of the metaphorical reins, and slides over to take the last few steps into the tavern, buy a warm meal and let Desmond’s body slump into an empty seat at a table hidden in the darkest corner of the room. 

Ezio mercifully doesn’t let him think and instead forces him into the backseat of his own mind – the only things Desmond knows are the salty taste of the stew on his tongue, the pleasant warmth radiating from the nearby fireplace and the comforting knowledge that a bed waits for him upstairs. 

He is – they are? – slumped over his meal, his elbows resting on the table, his hood up, when a familiar voice makes him blink and wrench back control from the ghost in his head. Subtly tugging his hood lower over his head and hiding his face behind his drink, Desmond glances to his right where La Volpe and Machiavelli are taking seats only a couple dozen feet from his table. That heart attack of a realization makes Desmond take another look at his surroundings – and shit, this is the last time he lets Ezio take over. Of course Ezio would bring him to the tavern he usually stayed in when he visited Firenze, the one run by the Thieves’ guild. This was a safe place for Ezio, somewhere he could let his guard down, but it is less so now for Desmond.

He glances to the stairs leading up to the second floor, wondering whether getting up is more likely to get him noticed than sitting on his ass and just hoping the Assassins don’t happen to look at his way and recognize him. Another panicked glance, this time at the tavern keeper – did the man recognize him? Has Desmond been here as himself? Does the man know who he is?

It is still early morning, and there are only a few other guests in the room, so getting up and slinking upstairs seems like the more risky move. He could just as well just announce that he is here. Better just stay where he is and not draw any attention.  

The place being nearly empty also means that La Volpe and Machiavelli don’t bother to lower their voices too much – as far as they know, the guests at the tavern owned and run by thieves should be either travelers, visitors to Firenze who don’t know what kind of establishment they have walked into, or their own people. No one who would understand what the Assassins are talking about or who would rat them out if they did.

“I am sure one of your spies has already told you that Ezio has just returned to the city,” Machiavelli drawls, just loudly enough that Desmond is forced to eavesdrop. Desmond leans his cheek on his hand, subtly hiding his face. “He came to see me not an hour ago.”

“I am aware,” La Volpe notes dryly, his voice quieter than Machiavelli’s. “Do tell me, how did you finally manage to persuade him to put his search on hold and come to save his city? 

“You know what he is like,” Machiavelli says and waves his hand dismissively. “I may have mentioned our suspicions that there is something… unnatural about the power this mad monk holds over the leaders of our city. The speed with which he has gained influence.”

La Volpe leans back in his chair and takes a sip of his drink.

“Ah, that would do it.” He mulls over it for a moment. “But judging by your tone, I would dare to guess you might have allowed yourself to exaggerate in your letters when it comes to the solidity of those suspicions.”

Machiavelli scrunches up his nose.

“I might have, yes.”

“He will not like it when he finds out.”

A harder tone seeps into Machiavelli’s voice.

“I have sent for him because we need him here, not because I enjoy tricking him. Ezio is an Assassin, and sometimes I think it would do him good to be reminded of that fact more often. The Apple is not our only goal, and finding it not our only responsibility – ours or his. God knows he has been traipsing around the continent for far too many years now, with nothing to show for it. I thought his failures in Spain would have made him see the futility of his efforts, but he has proven me wrong yet again.”

They are quiet for a long while, long enough that Desmond almost risks it and turns to fully look at them just to see what the hell is going on.

La Volpe clears his throat.

“So you still have doubts that it is the influence of the Apple at play here.”

“I do not know what I think. I admit that it would conveniently explain the ease of Savonarola’s rise to power, but I also find it hard to believe that Desmond would hand the Apple over to some lunatic of a monk. It makes no sense, when the man was fully capable of wielding the artifact himself. Why would he give it up?”

La Volpe hums.

“Perhaps something happened to Desmond and the Apple was passed onto different hands. Perhaps Savonarola stole the artifact from whomever it was given to. Perhaps he was simply at the right place at the right time.”

“Perhaps. Though I doubt Desmond would let himself get killed. You have seen him fight – he was better then than Ezio is now. And even if his fighting skills failed him, who could kill him when he commands the power of the Apple?”

“I do not know,” La Volpe sighs and shakes his head. “Or maybe we have got it all wrong. Maybe Ezio is right – maybe the poor boy died in Forlì the day he disappeared. Maybe his bones are lying in some nameless ditch at this very moment, or in a forgotten cell underneath some Templar’s palazzo, while some lucky bastard ran off with the Apple, not even knowing what it is that he stole. And we are none the wiser.”

“And that is a theory that I do doubt. In this, Ezio is a fool, and I have said as much to him,” Machiavelli scoffs. “You have heard my account of what happened. First Desmond disappeared with the Apple and left Ezio to bleed to death – who could have captured him when he had the Apple and one Orsi brother lay dead, the other injured? Then our Signor Miles appeared out of thin air three days later with the Apple in tow, just before Ludovico Orsi and his men attacked again. Coincidence? I am not so sure.” He barks out a humorless laugh and leans back in his chair. “And then Desmond takes the Apple and goes to meet them – Ezio tells us he was the one who pushed Desmond into taking the Apple with him, that Desmond did not want it, but who are we to say it was not Desmond manipulating Ezio into handing the artifact over? Despite his youthful face, Desmond is quite a bit older, and we both know Ezio has a bit of a soft spot when it comes to that man. Nay, a blind spot and a rather large one, at that. I fear Desmond might have used it to his advantage. And do not forget his encrypted notebook Ezio found in Monteriggioni in 95 – Desmond was keeping a record of something, and he did not want us to find out, whatever it was,” Machiavelli says and sighs. He gives La Volpe a look. “And so, what is the scene we arrived on in Forlì when the battle was over? Ludovico Orsi’s dead corpse, no Desmond either dead or alive, and no Apple.”

La Volpe merely raises a brow when Machiavelli finishes his speech.

“If we are rehashing this argument again, years later, I raise you this – you yourself told us that one of Caterina’s men saw Desmond challenge Ludovico. Desmond was holding the Apple, threatening him. Why would he have done that if he was truly working with them?”

If anything, Machiavelli seems pleased that La Volpe voiced the question.

“Maybe that was the moment our Desmond decided not to betray only us but the Templars and Ludovico Orsi as well.” He drums his fingers on the table and seems to think the matter over. “Or perhaps it is still Desmond who has the Apple and for some reason he is in league with Savonarola. Though I do not see what he would gain by helping that preacher.”

La Volpe’s deeply exasperated sigh almost makes Desmond feel sorry for him.

“I assume you want me to search the city for him?”

“Naturally. Thank you.”

Desmond, sitting only a couple dozen feet away from the Assassins looking for him, barely dares to breathe while La Volpe and Machiavelli move on to discuss their plans to cause chaos and unrest in the city to spur on the riots which will result in Savonarola’s death in… May? It was May, of 1498, he’s pretty sure. After Ezio has killed all the men working for the monk.

After Cristina has bled to death.

He has to warn Ezio.

He wants nothing more than to leap up from his chair and hurry into the streets to find Ezio because of the sheer fear pounding against the back of his skull, because Cristina, Cristina, Cristina – but he forces himself to get up like a sane, normal person and not to make a scene of himself. La Volpe’s sharp gaze moves onto him anyway, ever keeping watch. Desmond turns his back to him and starts walking because he is not being suspicious, not at all, don’t look at him, and okay yeah, shit, that wasn’t such a good idea. But there is no taking it back now.

Urged forward by the ghost of a mind that keeps borrowing his brain, Desmond marches on as if he had no idea that he is being watched. Because he is certain he is. Once he makes it to the stairs, he lets himself run because who is he trying to fool here? If La Volpe doesn’t have three people tailing him by the time he makes it out of the tavern, Desmond is going to tell Ezio to look for a new spymaster once they get to Rome. 

He throws open the door to his tiny room, yanks open the window and has nearly climbed through it to the roof of the neighboring building when La Volpe appears at the doorway. 

“It is you,” he says. Doesn’t shout, doesn’t frown, doesn’t do much of anything.

Desmond winces.

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Then he turns on his heels and starts running.

Half an hour later, Desmond allows himself to think he might have lost all the thieves La Volpe sent after him. 

Slightly out of breath, he blends into the crowds of a busy day, moving from one group to another to avoid any more spies. He keeps his head down and a hand on the hilt of his sword, and lets the Eagle vision bleed into his eyes. He is not entirely sure why he ran, why he keeps running – he knows that if he truly wanted to avoid the Assassins and their thieves, he should leave the streets and get into somewhere safe to hide and bide his time. But he needs to find Ezio. Before he does anything else, he has to speak to Ezio. Desmond owes it to him to tell him everything, before Ezio hears it from anyone else that Desmond has returned – 

Something grabs him by the shoulders. 

Desmond tries to slam his elbow into his assailant’s gut, but the bastard grabs his arm and twists. He attempts to wrench himself free, to attack with his free hand or to headbutt the other’s teeth in, but his attacks are parried with ease as his attacker keeps pushing him towards the narrow alleyway on his left.

It takes only seconds, all of it, then Desmond is slammed against a wall with enough force to knock the air out of his lungs.

The quiet click of the mechanism of the hidden blade echoes in the alleyway before the sharp edge is pressed against the soft skin on his neck.

Ezio breathes hard, his shoulders moving up and down, as he just stares at Desmond, a wild look in his eyes. He is nearly a decade older than he was a few hours ago – the stubble has turned into a neatly kept beard, and the first hints of crows’ feet have appeared at the corners of his eyes. The long black robes he wears with Altaïr’s armor make him blend into the shadows.

“Give me one reason not to kill you right now.”

Oh, and his voice has gotten deeper.

Air wheezes in Desmond’s lungs, and it takes a couple of false tries to get the words out.

“...I didn’t take the Apple.”

The hidden blade presses uncomfortably against Desmond’s throat as Ezio leans in closer.

“I do not believe you, caro mio,” Ezio hisses, spitting the quiet words out as if they tasted of poison. His breath is warm on Desmond’s lips. “For your face does not agree with your words. Have you taken a look in a mirror lately? It seems the Apple has been kind to you.”

“That’s not why – you have got it all wrong, just let me explain – “

“Do not lie to me!” Ezio grabs the front of Desmond’s shirt and pushes the blade further so that Desmond has to crane his head back. It hits against the wall behind him, and the tip of the blade draws blood. “And do not insult me by insinuating that I do not know what I am looking at when you are a living, breathing proof of your crime. Tell me, Desmond, how did you plan to explain the fact that you do not look a day older than when I last saw you almost a decade ago?”

Before Desmond can admit that the answer is fucking time travel, Ezio continues, his eyes narrowed to slits. 

“Back in Forlì, when we found no body after weeks’ worth of searching, I convinced myself you had pulled off one of your disappearing acts again and that you would eventually turn up somewhere, in a month or two. In a year, at most. Like you always do. Even when everyone else lost faith and told me you had betrayed us and run off with the Apple, I stood up for you. I was so certain that I knew you, the man you were, and this was not you. I defended you like the fool that I am, for nine years. Because I believed in you.”

“Ezio, please  – “

Ezio raises his voice, not letting Desmond speak. “Nine years, Desmond, nine years. Nine long years I have spent looking for you and that damned Apple. Nine years of hoping that one day I might glance over my shoulder and see you standing there.” His tone shifts, and he closes his eyes for just a second before continuing. “But now I see I have truly been played for a fool. And the only one I can blame is myself, when all the signs of your treachery have always been there. I saw them once, but I allowed you to convince me to close my own eyes to them. Now it is time to make up for that mistake, once and for all – ”

“Just fucking listen to me for a second – “ Desmond hisses and yanks on Ezio’s arm to get the hidden blade away from his neck. It gives him enough room to make a wild swing towards Ezio’s face and wrench himself free when Ezio goes to block the attack. 

They stand facing each other, breathing hard.

“I did not take the Apple!” Desmond growls in frustration, the need to scream like a pressure in his chest.

“Then why did you run when La Volpe found you?” 

“Because I panicked! I fucking panicked and I didn’t think!” he shouts, his voice breaking. “I wanted to find you – I needed to find you and tell you everything – and I didn’t know if I could trust them not to kill me on sight.”

“Then tell me!”

Desmond takes a deep breath. Lets his shoulders slump and his arms fall to his side. He meets Ezio’s enraged gaze and fights the constricting feeling in his throat.

“I haven’t aged since Forlí because to me, the attack on the fortress happened only a few hours ago. I killed Ludovico Orsi and lost the Apple, and then I was transported here. To 1497. I travel through time.”

Ezio stares at him.

“You travel through time,” he repeats flatly.

“I know it sounds crazy, believe me, I know, but I swear that’s the truth,” Desmond hurries to explain, the words flooding out of him now that the dam is finally gone. “I can’t control it. I just get tossed from one time to another, sometimes skipping days, sometimes months or years. Every time I have abruptly disappeared without a trace or appeared into a city without your spies knowing about it, it’s not because I’m a good Assassin, it’s because I stop existing in that time and place altogether and appear somewhere else. In a different time.”

Ezio just stares at him, his frown deepening, but Desmond can’t stop himself now.

“I’ve tried to tell you so many times now – I tried in Venice, in Leonardo’s workshop, but the Gray stopped me and threw me forwards – the Gray is this… I don’t know how to explain, but it’s this force that moves me forward in time and… You said to me yourself that I looked young for my age, your uncle commented on it. It’s not because I age well but because I haven’t aged. I was twenty-five when all of this started, and can’t be more than twenty-six by now. I don’t know how old exactly ‘cause I’m not sure how long I have been doing this. I know it’s been over twenty years for you since December 1476, but for me it has been, I don’t really know, six months maybe? I honestly have no idea – ”

“Why 1476?” Ezio snarls, now red in the face. Offended. “Why that year? Why does it matter to you?”

Desmond grimaces.

“Because when I first woke up here in the past, it was in 1476. Or I think that was the first time, I don’t know, it’s a bit hazy, I might have made a stop in 1459 first – “

“Cazzo, Desmond, stop rambling! What do you mean by the past?”

A deep sigh.

“I’m from the year 2012. Five hundred years after your time.”

Ezio gapes at him for a heartbeat before turning around and throwing his hands up. He runs his hands through his hair, his knuckles white, before whirling around to point a finger at Desmond.

“Do you expect me to believe this? This – this nonsense?”

“I don’t think you have ever believed anything I’ve told you, so probably no,” Desmond scoffs and shakes his head while trying to hide how much his legs are trembling. “But that’s the truth and now I’ve finally said it. Years too late.”

Ezio paces around the tiny alleyway, holding a hand to his forehead. Every so often he glances up to glare at Desmond who has slouched against the wall behind his back. Eventually Ezio comes to a violent stop and turns his murderous gaze to Desmond.

“If you do not have the Apple, then where is it?”

“The monk Savonarola has it. I know you know about him, you just talked with Machiavelli about him.”

“Were you spying on us as well?”

“I didn’t need to spy on you, I have seen – you know, what, nevermind, sure I was spying on you. Yeah.”

Ezio looks like he wants to stab him.

“You are laughing at me.”

“I swear I’m not. Jesus, Ezio, come on! Trust me a little. You know me – I might have lied about where I come from, but everything else was true. Well, most of it. I’m not good enough of a liar to pull off that kinda con. I genuinely wanted to be in your life… and well. What happened in Forlí –  I wasn’t faking.”

Ezio refuses to meet his gaze. He has started pacing again, a scowl marring his lips. 

“Why does this monk have the Apple? Why on earth would you give it to him?”

Okay, so they aren’t going to be talking about that. Yeah, okay, fine.

“He stole it from me in Forlí, in 1488. He managed to take it and before I could get it back, I was taken by the Gray and tossed here. But Ezio, I swear I’m not making this up. You have seen what the Apple can do, you know I have this – ” Desmond waves his arm but it only makes Ezio grab the hilt of his sword, ready to defend himself. 

Desmond drops his arm.

“The only reason I didn’t tell you about this before is because I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Do not put this on me,” Ezio hisses, his eyes blazing with the Eagle vision. “If there is any truth to your words, you will give me your weapons and come with me. You can explain this to Niccolò because I do not have patience for your lies. I do not have to listen to this.”

And so Desmond has no other choice. He slowly takes out the few weapons he still has and hands them to Ezio – unsheathing his sword and opening the buckles on the bracer of his hidden blade. Ezio watches him warily the whole time, his lips pressed tightly together.

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Ezio growls and lays his own hand heavily between Desmond’s shoulder blades to steer him – towards La Volpe’s safe house, is Desmond’s guess judging by the direction they are heading in. By positioning his hand so, Ezio also makes sure he can plunge his hidden blade into Desmond’s neck with the smallest amount of effort should he try to run or attack him. Which Desmond won’t. 

La Volpe has eyes and ears everywhere, because by the time the door of the safe house closes behind them, La Volpe is awaiting them with Machiavelli. He nods towards one of the rooms downstairs, and Ezio pushes Desmond inside none too gently.

It is La Volpe who marches over to Desmond and pats him down to check he has no hidden weapons – they are all Assassins, they know how this goes. Meanwhile, Ezio and Machiavelli hang back, their heads together as Ezio whispers into Machiavelli’s ear, most likely summarizing the wild tale Desmond told him. 

La Volpe grabs a chair, places it in the middle of the room and tells Desmond to sit down. Desmond does as he is told and allows La Volpe to tie his hands behind his back. The spymaster grabs another chair and spins it around, sitting on it so that he leans his arms on the backrest. Machiavelli comes to stand next to him, his arms crossed over his chest. Behind them, Ezio remains sulking in the background, the little Desmond can see of his face looking like a storm cloud. 

“Salute, Signor Miles,” Machiavelli says. “How kind of you to finally join us, after so many years.” 

Desmond leans his head back and sighs.

“Hello.”

A wry smile spreads on Machiavelli’s lips as he tilts his head to the side.

“You are a curious one. It has been a few years, and yet by looking at your face, one could hardly tell any time has passed.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Care to explain how that came to be? Ezio’s version of your explanation was something akin to a fairytale, so I would rather hear it straight from the source.”

Desmond rolls his eyes.

“I do not have the Apple, if that’s what you’re wondering. I would give it to you if I had. I am not your enemy.”

Machiavelli huffs a laugh.

“Then why not start from the beginning? Who are you?”

“You have no idea how much I have wanted to do that but someone just wouldn’t listen,” Desmond sighs and throws a glance towards the dark silhouette of Ezio lurking in the corner. “Okay, here goes. And I know this is going to sound crazy, but. I am. From the future,” Desmond says and suppresses the urge to wince at his own words. It does sound so cringy when it is said out loud. “The year 2012.”

Machiavelli raises an eyebrow.

“Is that so?”

“Hey, I know what you’re thinking. I’m half-convinced I’m crazy myself. Or in fact, I know I’m crazy. I was going crazy long before I started jumping through time. You’re all probably just figments of my imagination.” He knows he’s rambling, but by God, he doesn’t really care anymore.

La Volpe and Machiavelli share a look. La Volpe is quicker to school in his expression.

“And how is the claim that you hail from 2012 supposed to explain your absence of the last nine years?”

“Well, the problem is that when I first jumped here from the future, to 1476 – or wait, no, I’m starting to be pretty sure that I might have started in 1459 – anyway, it didn’t stick. I keep jumping forward in time. Forlì was hours ago for me. Look, I was wearing these clothes then. You saw me there. This is Ezio’s dried blood on my hands.”

Machiavelli looks from him to over his shoulder to Ezio.

“I told you,” Ezio mutters from his hiding place and crosses his arms over his chest. The muscles on his neck are as tense as a bowstring, his jaw clenched.

Mindful not to show any reaction, Machiavelli turns back to Desmond. He chooses his next words carefully, studying Desmond’s face. 

“Let us imagine a scenario in which I believe you. How would you explain the cause for your time travels? Because surely there has to be some reason, some purpose for it?”

Desmond breathes out through his nose.

“The short version is that I died.”

The room falls quiet. La Volpe straightens his back, while Ezio’s frown disappears, as does all the color from his face. Machiavelli blinks but otherwise keeps his composure.

“I see. And how does the longer version go?”

“Uh, you need a little bit of backstory to understand that. But okay, so, In my time, the Templars have invented this device, the Animus. It allows people to see memories stored in their DNA – no, shit, sorry, you guys have no idea what that means. You probably don’t know about genes either? Yeah, no. Okay. Trying again. The memories of our ancestors are stored in our… bodies. And the Animus can read them. You practically relive the memories as if you were your ancestor.”

“And that is relevant how?”

“I’m getting to that. I was captured by the Templars and forced into an Animus. They wanted to know the locations of the remaining Pieces Eden, and they knew that Altaïr came into contact with one. So they only needed one of his descendants to see what he discovered, and they found me.”

The room falls into an unimpressed silence. Machiavelli raises an eyebrow, while Ezio… doesn’t take it well.

Desmond’s only saving grace is La Volpe who merely shrugs. 

“He does look like the statue Mario has underneath the villa.”

Biting down on the urge to nervously laugh, Desmond continues.

“Anyway – I saw a couple of months of Altaïr’s life, up until the point when he got the Apple. After that I was busted out from the Templar base by a cell of Assassins. They wanted me to join them – well, rejoin. I left the Assassins when I was sixteen.” He looks past Machiavelli to Ezio who turns his gaze away. “Ezio, everything I told you about my father, where I grew up – that’s all true. I didn’t lie about that.”

Ezio’s snarl is vicious.

“That means little when it seems you have lied about everything else!”

“I didn’t have a choice – you didn’t believe me even about the Apple, how was I – 

Machiavelli clears his throat and gestures for Desmond to continue. Desmond bites his lip and breathes in through his nose.

“The Assassins had an Animus of their own and wanted to use it to train me. The Animus – it gives you the skill of your ancestors as well as their memories. I could watch a whole life’s worth of memories in a few weeks and learn everything they knew. Languages, horse riding, fighting, everything,” Desmond says and swallows nervously. “So they picked another ancestor for me. So I could watch him become an Assassin and learn all his skills through his memories.”

Machiavelli is quiet for a moment before he tilts his head to the side and looks at Desmond as if he was suddenly someone completely different.

“Italian is not your first language, is it?”

“No.”

It takes Ezio a bit longer to get it. When he does, he freezes, his mouth hanging slightly open. He stares at Desmond whose apologetic smile turns into wince when Ezio starts to shout.

“I am your ancestor?” he yells, his hands clenched into fists. His voice, now rough and raw, breaks. “Is that what you are saying? What mad fantasy is this? Out of all the excuses you could have chosen, why would you – !“ He cuts himself off, remembering their company, but he can’t hide the hurt in his eyes. He turns away with one harsh movement and starts once again pacing, making a few rounds around the room while hiding his face in his hand. Eventually he comes to an abrupt stop and drops his hands to stare at Desmond with a sneer on his lips. “Prove it. Tell me something only I would know. Something you can know only if what you say is true.”

There are a thousand things Desmond could tell him, and a thousand more thoughts he could reveal that Ezio hasn’t even thought of yet. 

“Did your mother ever tell you about how you were born? That Giovanni stayed late at the bank and didn’t make it there until you had been born? That you weren’t breathing and everyone thought you were dead? That was the first ever memory I saw of you, and let me tell you I didn’t want to eat anything for two days after that.” He doesn’t dare to look at Ezio to see his reaction so he just keeps going, dropping all the random details he can remember. “Back in Venice, in 1486, during the Carnevale, when you ran after Cristina – she said that you had had your second chance and told you to never find her again, didn’t she? Because a second chance was a thing for you two – because really, the first time you met, you just walked up to her and said nothing. Really, Ezio? And… and Petruccio never told you what the feathers were for. You kept collecting them anyway and felt so angry, so betrayed when Mario practically told you he didn’t think it was going to help your mother. On your 29th birthday you told Rosa that you still didn’t know what all of this was for. You paint those portraits of the enemies you have killed yourself, sitting in your room in the attic. And the scar the Orsi bastard gave you bothers you from time to time – it aches if you have been on horseback for too long.” 

Desmond takes a deep breath. 

“…You fought Vieri and his gang two days before your father and brothers were hanged. Vieri threw a rock at you and gave you that scar on your lips. Afterwards, you and Federico raced to the top of Santa Trinita – you won. And when you climbed to the top of the tower, he took your hand to help you up and said to you: It is a good life we lead, brother.”

Ezio’s eyes are wide as he stares at Desmond who continues with his heart pounding in his chest.

“And you said – “

“...the best. May it never change.”

“And may it never change us,” Desmond finishes.

Machiavelli looks from Ezio to Desmond and back again. Ezio’s face is ashen, and he grips  a nearby bookcase for support, his hands white. 

“I assume what he said suffices as proof?” Machiavelli asks while raising a brow. Next to him, La Volpe studies Desmond, his gaze even sharper than before.

“I do not know what it does,” Ezio breathes out, his chest heaving, and shakes his head. He closes his eyes and refuses to say anything else.

So Machiavelli distracts.  

“But you are not in 2012 right now, nor are you in the Holy Land during the Crusades. You are here, in Firenze, in 1497. At least for the time being. Until you jump. Why? And is there some reason for all this jumping?” 

“I don’t know why I’m here, in the past or in Firenze. I’m supposed to be dead, but I woke up here instead,” Desmond says. “And the jumps – I seem to be here only for the moments I have seen in the Animus. I didn’t see everything about Ezio’s life, only the… important parts. That’s why I disappear. When you found me injured in 1480, I hadn’t been taken by the Templars. I was wounded when we ambushed Rodrigo Borgio and Jacopo de’ Pazzi in San Gimignano, and then I was transported to Firenze six months later.”

“So you lied again.” Ezio, almost gloating.

Desmond doesn’t bother to hide the annoyance in his voice.

“I meant to tell the truth, but then you could barely handle the revelation that the Pieces of Eden were true. It’s a big leap from a glowing hand to time travel. You misunderstood and I didn’t correct you.”

Ezio opens his mouth to retort something back but Machiavelli cuts in again before he has the chance.

“And why Ezio’s memories? Why did the Assassins of your time pick him? How did they know about him?” 

Desmond chuckles.

“Because in the future, apparently when you ask any Assassin – that wasn’t raised like I was – about the famous Assassins of the past, the ones that every one of us knows of, the first one they’ll mention is Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, the second Ezio Auditore da Firenze. The Legends, the Mentors that changed and saved the Brotherhood.”

Machiavelli raises his eyebrows, while Ezio is starting to resemble the panther Desmond saw in the zoo he sneaked into once not long after first arriving in New York – a dangerous predator circling around its cage, looking for a way out.

“Ah. So what did our dear Ezio do to deserve such an honor?”

“More like, what didn’t he do?” Desmond sighs and leans back on the chair. “Took down the Borgias, rebuilt the Brotherhood, took over as the Mentor, strengthened the brotherhood of Constantinople, found Altaïr’s secret library. Take your pick.”

Now both Machiavelli and La Volpe turn to look at Ezio.

“What?” he snarls when his attention slips from his brooding long enough to notice that they are staring.

La Volpe is quick to bother Desmond again.

“And you saw him do all those things?”

“Yeah. Or it felt more like being him. Hearing his thoughts, feeling his emotions. All that shit. He still bleeds through a lot.”

“He does what?”

“Uh, we call it the Bleeding effect. Using the Animus isn’t… it isn’t good for you. The more time you spend in it, the more memories you have in your head, and eventually you start to lose grasp on which thought or memory is yours and which is theirs. First you just start seeing and hearing things, then later on, you start thinking you’re them,” Desmond explains as if it wasn’t a thing happening to him. It’s easier to talk about it that way. “So yeah, being here, it causes his memories, or consciousness by now, to come out. I look at Monteriggioni and think of home, I see Claudia and think of her as my sister, I miss Firenze when I’m not there…“

A calculating look flashes on Machiavelli’s face.

“And how long were you in this… Animus? How much of Ezio’s life have you seen, exactly?”

“Uh, it was pretty nonstop from September to the 21st of December, so about three and half months, give or take a little. But that wasn’t all for Ezio’s memories. Though I did see a lot of them. I saw him get born, then a lot of stuff from 1476 to 1488, then we skipped to this point. I’ll be jumping a bit around the next decade or so, but the final memory I saw was in 1512.”

Machiavelli and La Volpe look at each other again, seem to have a whole conversation with looks alone. Behind them, Ezio is trying to pretend he hasn’t been listening to Desmond.

“And how is your mind these days? How far in the process of losing yourself are you?” La Volpe asks when he is done scheming with Machiavelli.

“Ah – I don’t know. I think I have been in the Animus longer than the other test subjects, and they’re all dead, or at least I think they are. But I’m still here. Or you know. Actually. I’m dead and also hallucinating being here and talking to you so I’m not doing so great.”

La Volpe frowns.

“You still have not told us how you died.”

“Yeah, because it really hasn’t got anything to do with the Animus.” He sees the confused looks on the men’s faces. “I am trying to get to that but you keep distracting me with questions!”

Machiavelli proves his point.

“Do Altaïr’s memories come to the surface as well?”

“Sometimes. Less often. And they are fainter. As I said, I saw only a few months of his life, while I saw decades of Ezio’s so his presence is a lot stronger.”

Machiavelli touches a hand to his chin and narrows his eyes. He glances at La Volpe.

“So you have two other minds in your head. Strange.”

“Four, actually. There was a third Assassin and his father, after we were done with Ezio’s memories.”

“Four?”

“Yeah, it’s getting kinda crowded in here,” Desmond chuckles. It does sound bad when he puts it like that. The expressions on the three Assassins’ faces also say as much.

“What is it like when one of them, how did you say, bleeds through? Can you control it?”

“I can push them back sometimes, at least since I’ve got here. I’ve actually never properly tried to bring them to the surface and let them take over – but you know, if that’s needed to convince you, then…”

Desmond closes his eyes and breathes out. He searches for the other consciousness that sleeps somewhere in the deep, dark parts of his mind. He coats himself in the familiar feelings and thoughts, in confidence bordering on arrogance, in easy flirtation – superficial things. He reaches deeper, for the exhaustion and bitterness and regret he felt in his bones in Cappadocia, for the ever-aching loss of his family, for the love that lies in the heart of the Creed that carried him through all the way to Masyaf.

Ezio opens his eyes and shifts on the chair. He feels a little bit taller than he used to, and his body is less heavy and broad. His voice is not quite right either when he greets Machiavelli and La Volpe, but after clearing his throat, he starts to sound more like himself again. He sounds younger though than he has in years, much younger. 

“That is an eerily good imitation, at least,” La Volpe notes and turns to look at someone. Ezio follows his gaze to the man standing on the other side of the room – in his own robes? He blinks, trying to focus on the strange man and the feeling of wrongness, but a faint whisper in the back of his mind guides his thoughts back to the spymaster.

“You look younger than when we last met, my friend,” Ezio says and tilts his head to the side. “Retirement suits you, it seems.”

The man in black snarls.

“Enough. Stop that at once.”

Frowning, Ezio studies the angry man’s face. It’s a familiar face, so like his own as it was a decade or two ago, but how could that be – a headache splits his skull. He squeezes his eyes closed, presses his chin to his chest, his shoulders tensing. He is Ezio, but Ezio is standing there, on the other side of the room. Who is he, if not Ezio? Who is left in this head? He reaches for a name – Altaïr? No. Ratonhnhaké:ton? Connor? Haytham?

No.

“Desmond?”

He blinks his eyes open. Is he sure he is not Ezio?

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, just give me a moment,” he says and knows immediately he said it wrong. How would Desmond have said that?

He is still trying to gather pieces of himself together when Ezio steps forward. Desmond looks up to see Ezio’s fists shake and his chest rise and fall with harsh breaths.

“You are not me!” Ezio growls and sidesteps La Volpe who stands up to try to calm him down. “Claudia is my sister, Monteriggioni is my home, not yours! These are my thoughts, my memories – what right did you have to look at them? What right do you have to call them your own?” he snarls, his mouth twisted with disgust. “My life is not your entertainment! It was not yours to see! My suffering, my losses, my pain – how dare you spy on it and judge me!” His voice cracks. “How do you expect me to continue my life when I am haunted by the fact that every single thought I have had and will ever have will be known by someone! And I have no say in who that someone is! That nothing I do is private, that I will have no secrets! Do you understand what kind of torture that is?” 

And Desmond hadn’t thought of it that way. He had clinged like a child onto Ezio’s memories, onto the frail connection between them, onto the brush of a kind mind against his own – the only good thing that had come out of this mess. 

And now it has made Ezio hate him. 

“I’m sorry – “

“I do not want your apologies! I want you out of my head and out of my life!”

Ezio’s shouted words keep echoing in the room long after he has finished, his eyes rimmed with red and his breath wavering. He takes one last shaky breath before turning around and marching to the door.

“No, wait! Ezio, please. Cristina – she will die.” 

Ezio doesn’t turn around.

“When?”

“I don’t know the exact day. But it was in 98. Savonarola is supposed to die in May, she dies before that. Here, in Firenze. During the worst riots. Some men ransack her home.”

Desmond, La Volpe and Machiavelli stay in awkward silence long long after Ezio has left and slammed the door shut behind himself. Eventually Machiavelli straightens himself and sighs while La Volpe gets up to cut the ropes tied around Desmond’s wrists.

“It seems we might be inclined to believe you now, Desmond. Please continue.”

And so Desmond tells them about his time in the Animus, about Altaïr’s prophecy and the vault below the Vatican. About the Precursors, about Minerva and Juno and Lucy, and his coma and the solar flare and the Grand Temple. About the Precursor device that was designed to save the planet and take his life as its sacrifice.

When he finishes, something in his face tells the men to leave him alone. Once the door closes after them with a soft thud, Desmond buries his face in his hands and cries.

Chapter Text

“And what changes have you made so far?” Machiavelli asks in his usual dry tone and glances down at his notes while twirling his quill in his fingers. Rays of sunlight filter through the glass windows and paint the pages of his notebook. Birdsong fills the air outside while in an armchair next to Machiavelli’s desk, Mario leans his chin on his hand and frowns.

Desmond looks down at his hands which are resting on his lap and clears his throat.

“Uh, well. I haven’t managed to change much. I’ve tried, but it never really works out.”

“How so?”

Desmond sighs with enough force to make his shoulders slump and starts to explain the whole sorry business of trying to alter the timeline. It is not the first day he has spent here, sitting in Machiavelli’s office and recounting as much of world history or Ezio’s life as he can remember. It is also not the first day he finds himself painfully aware of the fact that he was raised in a cult and homeschooled and that he hasn’t had any education since he was sixteen. His ancestors’ memories help a little, but even Ratonhnhaké:ton’s oldest memories – not the ones Desmond saw in the Animus but the ones that have been appearing on their own as the Bleeding effect takes over more and more of his brain – reach only as far as the early 19th century. 

Desmond doesn’t know how to explain how electricity works, or planes or computers or the fucking Animus either, and he has no answer to even half of the questions Machiavelli asks him about the industrial revolution or the World Wars or the moon landing. That doesn’t stop Machiavelli from trying to pry the information out of him. And when Desmond isn’t trying to describe the most important historical events of the last – next? – five hundred years, he is asked to explain everything about the Animus and the solar flare and the Precursors all over again. 

It has occurred to him that maybe he should be more concerned about what he reveals and to whom – considering what Machiavelli was still remembered for in the twenty-first century – but he is so tired of keeping secrets and holding things back that he just. Doesn’t care. And it’s not like they can change history no matter what they do, he has already proven that, so what does it matter anyway?

“ – so it seems the only thing I can do is make things worse,” he breathes out and shakes his head. His right hand aches – he forces it to relax, letting it fall away from the armrest which he has apparently been clutching like his life depends on it.

Machiavelli narrows his eyes to slits.

“But that is not entirely true, is it? You said it yourself that you were able to kill a few Templars before they were supposed to die.”

“Yeah, but I think the point is that they died. Because they were supposed to. But everyone I’ve tried to keep alive has died, just in some other way. A worse way. Even that Orsi bastard died eventually. I’m just sorry he got to live a few extra days when no one I actually wanted to save did.”

Machiavelli’s chair groans against the floor as he stands up.

“It cannot be as simple as that,” he mutters and glares at Desmond. “It seems absurd that we should be tied to this one chain of events. Do our choices affect nothing? Should we not be able to carve out our own path? Can it truly be that we are doomed to repeat the same mistakes as in the timeline you saw, and follow a predetermined path to its inevitable end?”

Desmond shrugs.

“You tell me.”

“Is there truly a reason why we should not storm the Vatican the moment we regain control of the Apple, and rid the Templar order of its Grandmaster and his lunatic of a son before they can gain any more power? Yes, this Gray you speak of will most probably try to stop you – but will it affect anyone else? You have said nothing of its effect on others. If Ezio infiltrated the Vatican right now, could he kill Rodrigo and spare us all a lot of suffering?”

Before Desmond can mumble out his answer which is that he doesn’t really know, Mario pushes himself up from his chair. He walks up to the window and crosses his arms behind his back. 

“Niccolò, are you certain it is wise to play with fire like this? We are dealing with forces we do not understand. If Ezio is fated to enter that vault in December 1499, who are we to send him there early? Perhaps the message waiting for him will not play before that predestined date – or perhaps the vault will not open at all.”

“And perhaps the Pope will just simply keel over and die if we wait long enough,” Machiavelli hisses. “This is an opportunity! Desmond has given us an advantage over the Templars – for once we could be one step ahead of them instead of having to just react to their plans and schemes.”

Mario turns to face him.

“And what if something happens to Ezio – or to Desmond because of it? If this Gray could physically stop him when he tried to kill Rodrigo before, what stops it from harming him now? These are massive changes we are talking about. They cannot be without consequences. What if he gets hurt or – I am not sure – ceases to exist once we have derailed the timeline?”

Every muscle in Machiavelli’s face is taut.

“He has already proved to us that he is willing to sacrifice himself for the good of humanity.”

“Niccolò!” Mario’s roar is as sharp as a slap to the face. Naked fury and astonishment take turns as he stares at Machiavelli with his hands clenched into shaking fists. “We will not ask that of him, not when we now know we will be rid of the Borgias in a few years’ time anyway.”

“And where is this loyalty to him coming from?” Machiavelli asks and glances at Desmond before facing Mario again. “Can we truly be certain he is on our side? Yes, we are giving him the benefit of doubt when it comes to his story of traveling through time, and I find myself interested in what he can tell us about the future, but can we trust him to tell us the truth about the events that will happen during our lifetime? When he himself has admitted to lying to us, to you for years – he could be steering us in the direction he wants, fabricating the truth for his own gain. Not to mention this Bleeding effect. How can we be sure that it is really Desmond sitting in that chair right now?”

Desmond leans his head back and covers his eyes with his hand.

“Why would I try to fuck you over?” he mumbles. “Like seriously – all I’ve tried to do is save people. Jesus fucking Christ.”

“I am simply pointing out the fact that it is a possibility and one we should consider before we throw out the best chance to defeat the Borgias for his sake.”

“Desmond has given us an explanation, and until he gives us cause to doubt it, we will consider him our ally,” Mario states in a tone that was clearly meant to leave no room for arguments but which Machiavelli ignores entirely.

“Ah, yes, an ally we do not let leave our sight,” he chuckles darkly. 

Mario frowns for another moment before shaking his head and huffing out a laugh.

“Is that not how we deal with all of our allies?”

The two men share a look over Machiavelli’s desk while Desmond watches in silence, biting his lip. It’s not a secret that while he hasn’t exactly been forbidden from leaving, he has been and still is being watched. Because, yeah, like Machiavelli said, the Assassins might believe him about his time travel, or at least they believe that Ezio believes him, but they aren’t naive either.

And really, Desmond hasn’t minded staying in one of the cramped rooms of the thieves’ hideout, even if it means that there is always someone nearby to keep an eye on him. It’s not like he has anywhere else to be. And these last couple of days have given him the chance to feel like a real human being once again. A human being who wakes up in the morning, sees the noon and the soft dusk of an approaching evening, and lays down to rest when the night swallows the world. A human being who has to eat and sleep and who gets bored like everyone else. Because there are way too many hours in a day. Have days always been this long?

The first time Machiavelli summoned him here to be interviewed – interrogated – Desmond made the journey escorted by La Volpe. Now, after a few days, Desmond is allowed to walk from the thieves’ safehouse to Machiavelli’s house seemingly on his own. He has of course spotted the thieves following him but hasn’t tried to lose them. He has no reason to. 

Desmond massages his temples.

“Uh, about getting into the vault early. Ezio needs the papal staff to get inside – the Apple by itself isn’t enough,” he mutters and refuses to look at either Mario or Machiavelli. “And I think the reason why Ezio managed to get in last time was that Rodrigo, and the whole Vatican really, were preoccupied with the jubilee year festivities – something about a ceremony, I don’t know. Like, it was only a few days before New Year’s Eve, a new century was starting. The whole place was filled with people and resembled a circus even before Ezio had a fistfight with the Pope.”

“Then I suggest we wait. We will have to get the Apple back first in any case – we should not get ahead of ourselves,” Mario says and sighs at the frown that immediately appears on Machiavelli’s face. “But I will talk to Ezio and ask what he thinks about all of this. It is his destiny, after all.” 

“I still think waiting is a mistake,” Machiavelli says and drums his fingers against the surface of the desk. “But if you will not allow me to send Ezio there once the Apple has been returned to us, I hope you can at least agree that Desmond has given us a chance to prepare for what is to come. If there is a chance we can put a stop to any of the Templars’ plans before they can come to fruition, I say we seize that opportunity.”

“And I am still not certain that you should be asking Desmond all these questions about the future. Perhaps we should not know.”

Machiavelli raises an eyebrow as he sits back down at his desk.

“On the contrary, I think we should endeavor to learn as much from him as we can. Mario, they have flying machines in the future, and devices which allow people to communicate across the globe in a matter of seconds! If applied properly, we could save countless lives with the medical knowledge of the future. And if we play our cards right, we could leave warnings to future generations to guide them towards more favorable outcomes.”

Okay, yeah, Desmond might have created a monster.

 “Mario, my friend, do not pretend you were not as interested to hear what he knows as I was. Few things have managed to lure you away from your beloved Monteriggioni, and yet here you are.”

“What has lured me to Firenze is my concern for my nephew,” Mario corrects, his tone harsh. “As the leader of the Assassins, it is my duty to be interested in Desmond’s revelations, but first and foremost my niece and I came here to make sure that Ezio is well.” He  lowers his voice and steps closer to Machiavelli to direct his words to only him. “If you had seen the letter he sent to me, Niccolò…” 

They both glance at Desmond who pretends not to have heard and keeps picking at a loose thread from his shirt. Mario clears his throat.

“That being said, I still do not think it is a good idea to ask too many questions. It is not for us to know what will become of generations born centuries after our time.”

“But certainly you will not object to learning about what we can do to stop the Templars fighting against us today? Or to hearing how we might help your nephew fulfill his destiny which both Altaïr and Desmond have foreseen? And I doubt you regret the fact you have been given a warning about the fate of Monteriggioni when you still have time to prepare for the inevitable.”

Mario wrinkles up his nose before leaning over to squint at Machiavelli’s notes over his shoulder.

“I have voiced my concerns, and so I will be there to tell you ‘I told you so’ when your overzealous meddling eventually results in a catastrophic failure. But let it not be said that I am an ungrateful man – I shall have my men begin fortifying Monteriggioni’s defenses as soon as I return home. We shall be prepared for the siege, should that Borgia brat still be alive in three year’s time to try this foolishness,” he scoffs and taps his finger against the notebook page. “To invade my fortress, who does he think he is…”

Desmond’s mouth dries.

“Signore, has Machiavelli told you – During the attack, Cesare – “

Mario’s eyes are kind when he lifts his gaze from the notebook to Desmond.

“Oh, hush, boy. My eyes might not be what they used to be, but I can see well enough what our Niccolò has written down here. I know what you told him about my fate, do not worry. I will not die that day – despite my earlier protests, I am not against changing a few things to save my own skin.”

But Desmond worries, and that worry is like a lump in his throat, making it hard to breathe. Mario doesn’t deserve the death that is waiting for him. And Ezio is too young to lose another father, no matter whether it’s the Ezio who bleeds into his thoughts and heart, or the one who feels slightly more real but who is now just as much out of Desmond’s reach.

“We have ample time to prevent the siege from happening and thus to prevent the loss of our leader,” Machiavelli states as if by just saying the words he could make them reality. He leans back on his chair and clasps his hands together. “Just as we will stop whatever this nonsense about Ezio sparing Rodrigo Borgia is. What on earth was he thinking?”

Ezio’s exhaustion blends into Desmond’s own as the ghost of a consciousness awakes and easily slips into place, to become a pressure behind Desmond’s eyes, making his head ache.

“He was tired of fighting, for the sake of revenge. It had been twenty years,” he says in a raspy voice. “He thought that a beaten enemy he knew would be better than whatever would take its place.”

Machiavelli studies him for a moment with a disbelieving look on his face, then he huffs a dry laugh and subtly shakes his head.

“You think he was right to spare the Grandmaster of the Templar Order. The man that took everything from him.”

Desmond scowls.

“Don’t lecture me. I know what that decision cost him far better than you do.”

“So now we are both waiting until 1499 before we send Ezio to the vault and allowing Rodrigo to continue to live until 1503? Just because he lived that long in another lifetime?”

“No – well, I don’t know – I tried to kill him already but… ” Desmond lets his voice die out. He is just so tired. He doesn’t want to be here, making these decisions. None of this is what he wanted – 

It takes effort to push back Ezio’s mind when it tries to take over and answer for him – like he has let it do so many times now. He shakes his head as if it would drive the ghost out, then pushes himself up on his feet. 

“It doesn’t really matter what I think. You’re going to do what you want anyway, and I can already tell you it is not going to work. He’s not going to die until 1503. So I honestly don’t really care. Are we done here?”

Machiavelli studies him in silence for a moment. 

“Before you go – Ezio asked for more details about the death of that woman. Cristina.”

The inevitable death of Cristina looms in the distance, taunting Desmond. He doesn’t even know the date she died – the memory in a memory glitch just threw him right into the action, never telling exactly when or where he was. And even if he knew exactly when her death was supposed to take place, why would Cristina be any different to all the other times he has tried to save someone? 

“I’ve told you everything I know, I swear. I would tell you if I knew anything else. I wouldn’t keep that from him.” A pause. An intake of breath. “Does Ezio know about – you have been speaking to him about what I told you of the future, right? About his future?”

“I have kept him updated, yes, if that is what you are wondering.”

“And he hasn’t – he still doesn’t want to see me, right?”

“He does not.”

He is fine with this, he is fine with this, he is fine with this – 

“Okay.” He is fine with this. “Can I go now?”

He is fine with this.

His steps echo in the hall of Machiavelli’s home as Desmond leaves the office and makes his way through the house towards the front door. And he would have slipped out of the door and headed back to the safehouse to ignore his feelings – he is fine with this – if it weren’t for Claudia and Paola who take this exact moment to appear from the sitting room. 

Desmond freezes in place. Claudia stops as well, cutting herself off in the middle of a sentence.

Bracing for the inevitable shouting and screaming, Desmond bites his lip, his gaze shying away from hers. He knows her and her temper, and if she is anything like her brother – which she is – she will have quite a few words for him about lying and not telling her he is her great-great-great-great-grandnephew or something. Probably missed a dozen greats there but anyway.

But she merely frowns.

“Desmond,” she says after a pause. She considers him with a displeased curve to her lips, looking him up and down. “I see Ezio did not exaggerate.”

“No, he didn’t,” Desmond says, uttering each word carefully as he fears any one of them might be the one to set her off. “Sorry.”

She tilts her chin up and presses her lips together. 

“When you told me you had been lying to my brother, years ago, I did not quite imagine this was the secret you were hiding,” she says and narrows her eyes. It is an adult woman in her mid-thirties staring him down, not that bullheaded teenager who was so eager to hear any hint of gossip from the outside world. Desmond doesn’t know where that girl has gone. “What disappoints me the most about this is that I think I might have believed you, had you trusted us then.”

Claudia touches Paola’s arm to get her attention before addressing him again.

“Twenty years ago, I asked you whether the lies would hurt Ezio. You said they would and now they have. There is nothing else to be said.” 

They walk past him with Claudia holding her head high and Paola throwing a sympathetic glance at Desmond, then disappear towards Machiavelli’s office. He forgets himself into staring after them, his broken heart somehow managing to shatter into even smaller pieces.

Because he is not her brother. 

Desmond had seen her through Ezio’s eyes, but it is not her brother Claudia sees when she looks at him. She sees someone who spent a few weeks in Monteriggioni twenty years ago and over the years turned into only a name mentioned in her brother’s letters. He is a nobody – a strange, time traveling nobody but nobody all the same. Claudia doesn’t care about him enough to get angry, to cry and scream and shout. 

It’s another hurt on top of all the others and there is nothing he can do about it, Desmond tells himself and slips out of the door. 

The sea of red-tiled roofs shines in the bright sunlight under a cobalt blue sky. Massive clouds slowly sail over the city like ships arriving in a harbor.

Ezio, lying on his back on one of the sienna-colored rooftops with his feet dangling over the edge, breathes out and just takes in the sounds and smells of his home. It has been many years since he was last in Firenze. Far too many years. The homesickness is like hunger, gnawing away at his guts.

Another cloud glides overhead. He raises a hand towards it, slowly curling it into a fist as if trying to grab the cloud. 

The heartache remains. 

He purses his lips. There it is, the uneasy feeling that keeps making him tense up and clench his jaw until his head hurts. The one he does not understand and does not want. He only wishes to rest and enjoy being back home, he does not wish to keep picking at this festering wound of longing and grief he does not understand. He does not want the tears it brings to his eyes nor the tightness at his throat. 

Growling, he sits up and violently pushes those feelings aside, to be examined later. A slight breeze kisses his face as he leans over to glance down to the street far below.  

He squints his eyes at the familiar figure he spots heading down the street towards him. What is his uncle doing here? Should Mario not be in Tuscany, looking after Claudia and Mother?

As if he felt Ezio’s heavy gaze, Mario stops and cranes his neck to look up to the rooftops. He shields his eyes with his hand and looks straight to Ezio. A smile sneaks on his weathered lips and he waves a hand in greeting.

“Ah, there you are, Desmond. I have been looking for you. Do you have a moment?”

Again with this Desmond nonsense. He still does not know whom they mean when they keep calling him that. La Volpe keeps doing it, Machiavelli too. It is aggravating. 

“Would you mind getting down from there? My knees are not what they used to be so I do not fancy a climb, especially in this heat…”

Ezio is just about to yell at his uncle because of this childish, nonsensical prank when something stirs in the back of his mind, hitting him with a wave of nausea and the worst headache he has in his life. Suddenly, it is very crowded in his head – it is as if he was suddenly forced into a tiny room with a dozen people who all keep pushing against him, crowding him against a wall, not giving room to breathe. 

Whatever that thing in his head is, it is very reluctant to wake up. Neither of them wants it to come to the surface, when Ezio is happy to have the reins and the thing wants nothing more than to keep slumbering because then it does not have to have thoughts and feelings and memories – 

But it does wake up. 

“Is everything alright?” Mario calls from the street, now with his brows furrowed. It takes Desmond a few seconds of blinking stupidly to realize Mario is talking to him, then another couple of seconds of scrambling around in his head to remember how the Italian language works.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. I was miles away,” he blurts out and winces immediately at how weird his own voice sounds. “Just a second, I’m coming down.”

Mario gives him another smile once he reaches the street level.   

“Would you mind walking with me to Niccolò’s?”

It’s a pretty day, sunny and warm, and the streets are lively. Mario settles on a calm, leisured pace and studies the city with an entertained amusement on his lined face, his hands clasped together behind his back. Desmond falls into step with him while trying and failing to pick his own thoughts from the remnants of Ezio’s still floating around in his head. When he isn’t trying to keep his mind from drowning, he steals glances at Mario from the corner of his eye, while an uncomfortable feeling grows in the pit of his stomach.

“Claudia and I are leaving for Tuscany tomorrow,” Mario explains in a conversational tone. “I hoped I might have a chance to see how you were doing before that. Away from Niccolò’s office, that is.” He turns to look at Desmond and furrows his brows in concern. “So, how are you feeling?” 

Desmond meets his gaze almost on accident, then looks away and shrugs. 

“I don’t really know.”

How could he explain to Mario that for the last few days, he has been living as Ezio when Desmond’s presence isn’t needed? That it is easier to carry someone else’s worries and heartbreaks than his own? That he is still flickering between being Mario’s nephew and himself right now?

“I cannot imagine this has been easy for you.” Mario doesn’t elaborate whether he means the whole being thrust into the past and jumping through decades while being busy lying through his teeth, or just dealing with the fallout of him being finally caught red-handed. “I just wish you could have trusted us with this earlier.”

Desmond makes a noncommittal sound in his throat which makes Mario tut with his tongue like an exasperated parent. 

“Ah, well, what is done is done. We know now, and that is what matters,” he sighs and shakes his head. He remains silent for a moment, considering Desmond from the corner of his eye, before taking a deep breath. “Niccolò told me what Ezio said to you. I hope you will forgive him in time. I am sure he did not truly mean it.”

Desmond kicks a pebble into flying across the street. 

“No, I’m pretty sure he did. I know him better than anyone, remember?” he says with a dark chuckle and points to his head. “He knows how to be angry and can keep being angry for years. So if he says he wants nothing to do with me, he wants nothing to do with me. It’s that simple.”

They turn around a corner and sidestep to make a wagon pass before Mario speaks again.

“I do not claim to know the inner workings of your relationship with my nephew, but I do know one thing and it is that you mean a lot to him,” he says, his gaze glued to something ahead of them. The next words he speaks are uttered in a low, breathy voice. “I saw what he was like when he returned from Forlì in 88, and I never want to see him in that state again.”

Desmond stares at him. 

“It was like I had that grieving seventeen-year old boy suddenly on my doorstep again, wanting to run away from everyone and everything.” Mario lets out a sad chuckle. “Oh, he did not want to let me see how miserable he was, he barely said two words about what had happened, but I knew. His short response in itself told me more than anything I could get out of him for the next few weeks.”

Mario looks down to his hands, then glances at Desmond. He doesn’t know what Mario can read from his face.

“Claudia was better at getting him to talk. She has always been. And so, there it was, the reason why he had not been himself. He had lost you.” He takes a breath. “I will never forget the look on Claudia’s face when she told me Ezio had spent days searching for you, treading through ditches and trenches of the marshland, turning over every dead body he happened upon. I suspect he would have kept on doing so until he ran out of corpses if Niccolò had not sent him home.”

Desmond can’t decide whether Mario is merciful or cruel when he allows Desmond to have a moment to let it all sink in. He is not certain he wanted to know this.

Mario clears his throat and squares his shoulders. 

“Later, Niccolò wrote to me. He had already come to the conclusion we would all – discounting Ezio – come to eventually. All the evidence indicated that you had taken the Apple and betrayed us. Once Ezio found out that we were all in agreement, he was furious. But he had little to defend you with, and when he was so clearly devastated by your disappearance, we thought him biased. Manipulated. I have to admit, I did not think kindly of you when I watched Ezio grieve over someone I thought so unworthy of it. I am sure you understand.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” Desmond mumbles, not knowing where to look. 

“Ezio had quite a few fights about you with Niccoló over the years. Some with me, some with his sister. But I was worried for him. He was certain that you would appear someday – during the first year he was hopeful. During the second he still kept looking. Not that I saw much of him, as he was never home. But after that, he slowly resigned himself to the thought that you had died instead of accepting what we thought was the truth. Then you appeared here and ran from Niccolò and La Volpe. And by doing so you yourself made him think that he had been wrong this entire time.”

The look Mario gives him is not unsympathetic, if a little exasperated. 

“And when his entire world had already been shaken, you shattered it again in less than an hour’s time with your revelation about your origins and the future, about this Animus. When I find the whole thing horrifying and hard to accept, I cannot blame Ezio if he feels it is painful to even look at you.”

Desmond bites his lip.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

The weight of Mario’s hand on his shoulder is unexpected but not unwelcome.

“I think you know what I am trying to say with this. My nephew cares about you, and he will remember it in time. Be patient with him, please.”

Desmond hides whatever it is he is feeling right now with a dry chuckle.

“You know, I waited twenty years for him to find out the truth about me. I’m very patient.”

“I am sure you are,” Mario sighs with a shake of his head.

Desmond is saved from trying to continue the conversation by the wisps of the Gray floating just above the cobblestones, as if someone had left a fog machine on. 

“Ezio’s found the first target,” he announces as the tendrils swirl towards him and curl around his feet. 

“How do you know?”

Desmond gives Mario a wry smile. 

“The Gray’s here. I’m gonna jump.”

“Truly? I cannot see anything.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Desmond chuckles while standing knee deep in the smoke-like Gray that churns around him. “Just don’t look away until I’m gone so Machiavelli can’t say I ran off while you were not watching. And please tell the others how I disappeared so that you can all finally believe me.”

“I shall not even blink,” Mario states grandly, his eyes full of both amusement and genuine interest. Desmond has time to see them turn into full-blown shock before the Gray envelopes him and carries him away.

After that first jump, which hoisted him two weeks forward in time, Desmond stays put for three days. During those three days he sees neither hide nor hair of Ezio, and he tells himself it is better that way. He has almost managed to convince himself of that when the Gray, like the bastard it is, decides that he has had enough peace.

One moment Desmond is walking down the stairs in Machiavelli’s home after having spent yet another couple of hours of his life recounting Ezio’s, the next he is suddenly on a rooftop in the middle of a dark night, slamming into Ezio’s back when the Gray literally drops him on top of him. Ezio, who was crouching behind a chimney, falls on one knee, curses and swirls around to plunge his hidden blade towards Desmond. His eyes widen with recognition at the last moment, and the blade misses by the width of a hair.

“What – are you trying to get yourself killed?” Ezio hisses while he retracts the blade and shoves Desmond away from him. “What on earth are you doing? Why are you here?”

Not missing the hint, Desmond hurries to back away from him. He crouches to stay out of the view of any guards and whoever Ezio is tailing.

“I jumped,” he says after an awkward pause. “I’m sorry, I can’t control where I land.”

Ezio’s lips curl into a snarl. The enraged look in his eyes reveals that his first thought is that Desmond was climbing here and tripped on his own feet or something. 

“You jumped – “ 

Ezio cuts himself off when he puts the pieces together. His rage doesn’t really lessen, but it turns into irritation as he is forced to accept the fact that Desmond literally appeared out of thin air. It results in him opening his mouth to say something cutting, but his target down on the street level moves and catches his attention, so Desmond is spared his ire this time.

Ezio leans on his hand to peer over the edge of the roof, and Desmond hesitantly follows suit. The darkness of the late hour makes it hard to see anything, so he activates his Eagle vision to see the golden glow of Savonarola’s man who is skulking around in the shadows, as if expecting to be attacked.

“Hey, I know you don’t want to see me right now but I – “

“I see you lied about my gift as well.” Ezio’s smile is ugly, malicious thing when Desmond blinks the Eagle vision away. “I do not know why I bother to be surprised.” 

“I had to, you know that,” Desmond mutters and turns away, trying to see where the target is heading. 

“You did not have to, you chose not to. It is not the same.” Ezio’s voice overflows with self-righteousness. “You had over ten years to tell me the truth, and yet you chose to keep lying.”

Desmond clenches his teeth together and throws a glance at Ezio to see him stare right back at him, everything about his demeanor a challenge.

“You don’t have to be such an asshole about it,” Desmond mutters and wrinkles up his nose.

“Oh, so now I should let it be just because you do not want to talk about your lies. How convenient. I shall stay silent like you then, maybe for the next decade or so.”

Desmond turns to glare at him, his voice rising.

“Hey, I didn’t have a choice, okay? Like in theory, sure, I could have told you the moment we met, but you would have thought I was some crazy person, Jesus, you barely trusted me even without all this shit. Or have you forgotten how you tried to kill me after I told you about the Assassins and the Pieces of Eden? I didn’t really feel like mentioning time travel after that. And I still tried. I fucking tried, I had a plan and everything – the moment you got the Apple, I would tell you – but I didn’t have time. Because I have no say in when I jump! I have no say in anything anymore!”

Desmond breathes hard, his chest heaving, and glares at Ezio who grimaces and looks away. Clearing his throat, Desmond points to the empty street below them. 

“Anyway, shouldn’t we be going after that guy?”

Ezio sneers but gets up to his feet. 

“If I caught him by myself in those… Animus visions, there is no reason why I should not be able to do it without you now. So you can go. I do not need your help.”

Desmond blinks and slowly pushes himself up to his feet as well.

“Okay, rude. Probably deserved, but rude.”

“I have managed without you for a decade. I do not see why I would suddenly need you again.”

“Jesus, I was just saying that he’s getting away.”

Ezio’s frown grows harsher, his gaze darker. And Desmond has. Just. Had enough.

“Can we just – not do this? Not like this?” he pleads, his voice raspy and quiet. He lets his posture slump and looks at Ezio, biting on his chapped lower lip. “I know I hurt you. Just tell me what I can do to fix it. Please.”

Ezio stares at him for a painfully long moment, clenching and unclenching his hand. He whips his head to the side to look to the dark horizon, away from Desmond. 

“How much did you… How much do you know? About me,” he begins in a quiet, fragile voice and lowers his head. “I know you have seen decades of my life, Niccoló told me, but that is not what – do you really know everything? Are you in my head right now?”

“No. I know only the thoughts you had in that other… timeline. Life. I don’t know what to call it. I haven’t been in your head. And I haven’t seen everything. There are decades of your life I have never seen. Never will, considering how the Gray’s been throwing me around. But the parts I have seen… Yeah, sorry. I know everything. Your thoughts, feelings, fears, random passing thoughts, everything. I’m sorry.”

Ezio’s sharp intake of breath feels like a punch to the gut. For a moment, Ezio buries his face in his hands, with his shoulders so tight and tense it hurts to look at him.

“That is so…” Ezio makes a vague gesture with his hand when he can’t come up with a word that would convey his revulsion properly.

“Yeah. I guess we never thought about it that way. Assumed dead people wouldn’t mind, or something. You were never supposed to find out about it. ”

Ezio swirls around to glare at him.

“That does not make it any less of a breach of privacy! It makes it worse!”

Shame warms Desmond’s cheeks. 

“Yeah, I suppose it kinda does. Sorry.”

Ezio throws another dirty look at him before he starts pacing around on the roof. 

“How can I be sure that you have not been influencing me, manipulating me and guiding my decisions when you know where they are going to lead? That is what you have been doing, is it not? Leading me? Herding me towards the outcome you want? How can I ever trust myself ever again? How much of what I have done is your doing? How much have you changed?”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. 

“I haven’t done anything. I haven’t managed to change anything – I wanted to save your father and brothers, I tried to save Lorenzo de’ Medici’s brother and the Doge, we killed a few of the Templars a little bit earlier than you did the first time and – and okay, I did encourage you when you wanted to take your family and leave for Spain because I thought you could escape this life and be spared from all of this bullshit, but it was you who made the decision to stay. I wouldn’t change you, even if I could. You have to know that.”

“I do not know anything about you anymore.”

“I didn’t want to – You’re –” Desmond covers his face with his hands, turns away before swirling back around to face Ezio, his hands rising up to grab fistfuls of hair. “You’re so fucking important to me, okay? I’ve been in your head, I have known you for over thirty years – I’ve never known anyone as well as I know you. I know that’s horrifying to hear and you hate it and I’m really sorry about it but… But you were the one good thing I had when all the shit was going down. You are still. Back in the future, the other Assassins – they weren’t really my friends. I was almost as much of a prisoner when I was with them as I was at Abstergo. I couldn’t leave ‘cause where could I have gone? Abstergo would just have found me and dragged me back. But you were there – or at least your memories were. And I knew it was stupid to get attached because you weren’t… real. But I did. And – and in the end you knew about me. You left me a message.” He sniffs and rubs his eyes, chuckling. “I don’t think I’ve ever cried as much as I did that day when I woke up from my coma and got a moment to myself. The last thing I ever saw of you in the Animus was you saying my name and speaking to me.”

Ezio turns away, closing his eyes. And Desmond knows he is rambling but he can’t just help himself.

“When I woke up here, once I got over the fact that I would have to deal with this time traveling bullshit, I… I was happy I was here with you, and not with Altaïr or Ratonhnhaké:ton. Like, don’t get me wrong, I would be ecstatic to meet either of them, but they're not you.”

The muscles in Ezio’s neck tense.

“…Did I care about you because you made sure I would?”

“What – no. No,” Desmond breathes out and takes a step towards him. “No.”

“And I am just supposed to take you at your word? After everything?” Ezio snarls over his shoulder, his eyes full of grief. “After what you just admitted?”

“No. Fuck, Ezio, no,” Desmond pleads and takes another step towards Ezio without really meaning to. “I was ready to walk away and leave you in peace back in 78. All you had to do was to say the word. I’ll still do it – I can’t help the Gray, but I’ll keep going away for the rest of your life if that’s what you want.”

He half-expects Ezio to tell him to leave that very moment. He is readying himself for it, already wincing when Ezio opens his mouth to speak. 

“Was anything you ever told me true?”

His feet almost give out under him, and it takes a few false tries to get his voice to work.

“I was raised in a cult. My father is our leader, we don’t get along. I did run away when I was sixteen. The whole Templars and Assassins part is also true. The mentor I had – that was you. Everything I said about him is true. I know what I know because I learned it from you.” He takes a breath. “I’m from the… new world? The continent to the west, not the Levant. My mom’s family is from there though. A few of my ancestors are from England. You are the Prophet, but not because of your gift but because you’re meant to go to the vault and hear Minerva’s message so I can hear it through you in 2012 and go to save the world.” Desmond bites his lip. “And what we had – almost had, that wasn’t a lie or a scheme or anything. I love you. I have been in love with you ever since I saw your memories, long before I ended up here in the past.”

He doesn't know how to describe the expression that flashes on Ezio's face. It's like something breaks in him. 

“Is that somehow supposed to make this better? Do you think that just by saying that you are going to make me forgive you? When you have been lying to me my entire life!” Ezio growls, his chin up, his back pin-straight. “And then there is the small matter of you being my descendant. You could have mentioned that before I kissed you! You could have stopped me at any point.”

“I did not want you to stop.”

“Why? Do you mean to tell me it does not bother you? Because I think I would have liked to know!”

“There is a 500 year gap between us. That’s like, I don’t know, twenty generations or something. You’re one of the thousands of ancestors I have. It’s – listen, I know only the name of my great-grandparents. Beyond that, any direct ancestors are strangers, names on a family tree. I don’t really think of you as my ancestor, more a… friend, I guess. The guy I saw in the weird machine I was forced to use.”

“I specifically asked you – we were sitting in Leonardo’s workshop, getting my blade repaired. And I asked you – “

“You asked me if we were brothers. Which we are not. And I said we might be distantly related or something.” Desmond lets out a sigh and covers his eyes with his hand. “What the fuck is my life and what the fuck is this conversation?”

“We look alike!”

“Yeah, and we both look like Altaïr and I’m not even sure he was your ancestor. Shit, it’s probably more likely it’s the Precursor genes making us look like this – Jesus, I don’t know. I don’t really want to think about this. Also, hey, you’re a noble, from the fourteen hundreds. Are you seriously saying you don’t know anyone who married their cousin or something like that – you know what, can we just stop talking about this? Like seriously. I don’t know what the fuck I’m saying anymore. Christ.”

As if to emphasize that point, an arrow thuds against the roof in the empty space between them.

Desmond whirls around to see a group of archers – city guards or Savonarola’s men? – on the roof across the street, all of them aiming at them. They have, after all, been screaming their lungs out somewhere they shouldn’t be, and not paying any attention to their surroundings.

Sometimes it is just easier to flee than to fight to the death.

“Run!”

Ezio has had the same idea. He pushes Desmond’s shoulder to urge him to go already, then they are nearly flying over the rooftops in the darkness, slipping and sliding and trying their best not to fall to the ground several dozen feet below them. Once, Desmond yanks Ezio to a stop just before he would have stepped onto nothing and plummeted to his death, and once they have made it to street level, Ezio grabs his arm to pull him towards a shortcut.

Eventually, they lose the men chasing them.

"Jesus, can't anything go right even once?" Desmond growls in his familiar, comfortable English and leans against the nearest wall, his chest heaving. Ezio leans his hands on his knees and wheezes, trying to breathe. "Like, I'm so tired of this shit. Could we have a fucking second to talk without anyone interrupting us for once!" 

He notices Ezio glancing at him, puzzled and annoyed at the words he can't understand, and that just pisses off Desmond even more.

"And you! You're just a figment of my imagination, you don't get to be angry at me! I can't even do fucking hallucinating right! You would think that since I'm the one making this up, I could decide what I get to see, but no! I’ve got no fucking say in any of this shit, and it’s getting so fucking annoying." 

“In italiano, Desmond,” Ezio mutters, and Desmond almost yells at him because of it. He forces himself to take a deep breath, then another because the first one did absolutely nothing to calm him down. He gestures vaguely at the air between them and switches the fucking language.

“Look, I know this is beyond fucked up. You’re my ancestor, and half the time I have your consciousness voicing its opinions in my head – shit, if someone called your name on the streets, I would probably turn around. And still I think of you as a separate person who I can have fucking feelings for, and that's so fucked up on so many different levels I can't even count them. And hell, yes, we even look kinda the same. This has to be some narcissistic episode or something, I dunno. So yeah, this is weird and fucked up and all sorts of wrong and I probably should go to see some professional about this if I do wake up. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m in love with you. I made my peace with that a long time ago. I just never thought I would get to say it to you. I am sorry about this whole mess. If I could do it all over again, I would do so many things differently, but I can’t. So you’re stuck with me and this shitshow.”

Ezio looks at him, his lips pressed together, his fists clenched at his sides.

Desmond rubs his temples.

“Ah – you know what, never mind. Don’t worry about it, I’ll go now. Sorry about making you lose your target and ruining your night,” he says and turns around, waving his hand in a goodbye. “You know where to find me if you need something.”

Ezio doesn't stop him.

Chapter Text

If there is one upside to this whole time jumping business, it is the fact that Desmond manages to scare the everloving shit out of La Volpe – a feat which he doubts anyone has ever pulled off before.

He catches the spymaster in what seems to be the privacy of his own home – Desmond lands in a comfortable room in a house that doesn’t resemble the safehouse in which he has been staying. The windows are dark and reflect his own image back at him, softly and blurry in candlelight. Settling down for the night then, Desmond notes as the last wisps of the Gray fade away and La Volpe, who is holding a drink in one hand and about to sit down in one of the two plushy armchairs in the room, finally notices him.

“Hello.” Desmond grins, then immediately has to take a step back when La Volpe bolts out of his chair as if his life depended on it, and by doing so ends up spilling half of his drink on the floor. 

“Good God,” he swears loudly and presses a hand to his chest while trying to hold his goblet and the remaining drink upright in the other, slightly shaking hand. But his surprise quickly turns to amusement, and he is chuckling at his own reaction by the time Desmond starts searching for something to help with cleaning up the mess. “Niccolò told me what Mario said about you disappearing but seeing it with my own eyes…”

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Desmond says with an apologetic smile. He steps out of the way when La Volpe shoos him away from the mess and takes over the cleaning duty. “Well, okay, maybe a little. But I didn’t plan to come here.”

La Volpe, now crouched over the spilled drink, glances at Desmond over his shoulder. Since he is in his nightclothes and for once not hiding underneath his hood, his sympathetic expression is slightly easier to read than usual. 

“That must be unpleasant, not knowing where you will end up.”

Desmond breathes out, massaging his neck.

“Yeah. It kinda sucks.”

“I can only imagine.”

Wrangling a smile onto his face, Desmond shrugs.

“Makes for some funny stories though. Hey, are you sure you don’t need any help with that?”

Once they have cleared up the mess, La Volpe gestures towards the second armchair in the room. Desmond sits down gladly, taking the chance to rest his feet for a second. Before the Gray snatched him up, he had been scouting around the city, trying to remember who and where the remaining Savonarola’s men were so he could send a word to the Assassins who in turn could let Ezio know where to find them. He had been making some progress when he ran straight into a group of guards who took one look at his face, mistook him for Ezio and started chasing him around the city. For once, the Gray had been his savior.

La Volpe walks over to a cabinet and brings out a bottle of wine and another goblet.

“You look like you need a drink.”

“Well, I’m not gonna say no if you’re offering.”

La Volpe pours the wine, and for a while they just sit there in silence, both pondering over their own worries. 

“I used to be a bartender, you know,” Desmond hears himself say out of the blue. La Volpe turns his head slightly to look at him and raises a brow in a cue to continue. “In the future, I mean. I liked it. Was kinda good at it.”

“Do you miss it?”

Now it’s Desmond’s turn to glance at him. 

“Being a bartender? Or the future?”

La Volpe shrugs.

Desmond leans back in the armchair so much that he is almost swallowed by it, cradling his drink in his hands. He wants to say he doesn’t know, or that his life was kinda shit even before he got abducted by Abstergo. That there isn’t much to go back to in the future, even if he could go back. That being here, even only for small moments at a time, is beyond his wildest dreams.

His voice turns quiet. Small.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

He stares at his own hands. They have grown tanner, rougher, more calloused than they used to be. The new tiny scars and scrapes he has gotten from all the climbing blend into the old ones, the mementos of Bill’s harsh training regimen. He runs his tongue against the scar tissue on the inside of his mouth. The involuntary wince that it causes, the memory of blood filling his mouth, the smell of it – those are his own. Not much is these days.

He downs the rest of his drink. La Volpe leans over to pour him more.

“My life was utter shit in my time.” The wine does nothing to smooth out the raspiness of his voice. “But sometimes being here is worse. Shitty. Like really shitty.”

There is something akin to pity in La Volpe’s eyes. 

“But it has to get better at some point, right?” Desmond continues, twirling his cup in his hands. “At least that’s what people always say.”

“I shall drink to that.”

Desmond chuckles.

“You know, I never thought I could miss New York this much. Or Bad Weather, that’s the bar I worked at. My tiny apartment. Electricity. Running water. My phone – oh, you guys would lose your mind over phones.”

“And what is that? A phone?”

For a moment, Desmond just sits there, a dumb smile on his face as he tries to once more come up with a way to explain to a renaissance man what a cell phone is. The first time was with Machiavelli, and just as painful as he had imagined it would be.

“Uh, it is this small device we use to speak to people who are somewhere else, like on the other side of the country. Or the continent. And to use the internet – it’s this… you know, I don’t even know how to explain it. It’s like… this thing where all our information is. Like, imagine if you could access pretty much every book ever written in one place. And pictures and videos and – “

La Volpe seems more amused by his struggle than anything else.

“And what is a video?”

The bastard is doing this on purpose.

“Er… a moving picture? Oh shit, you guys don’t even have cameras yet, right? So with a camera, I could take a picture of you. And it would show you and this place exactly as they are, better than a painting. Like literally how they are, how you see them. ”

La Volpe considers this for a moment.

“Niccolò has been hounding you with questions about the future, vero? And you have told him about these inventions?”

“Yeah, some things. Not that much though, since I don’t really understand how most of them work.”

Somehow, the complete lack of any Assassin-esque clothing doesn’t make La Volpe look any less shrewd or intimidating when he leans his chin on his hand and looks Desmond in the eye.

“Perhaps it would be for the best if your grasp on the inventions of the future grew even weaker. Niccolò is ambitious, very much so in fact, and sometimes that is more a fault than a virtue in a man.”

“So you don’t think I should tell you guys about the future? Or just not to Machiavelli?”

La Volpe twirls his empty goblet in his fingers.

“He is not always right, despite what he thinks. In this, he is wrong. And he is not our leader, even if he likes to think otherwise. He is not mine, at least,” he drawls and meets Desmond’s eyes. 

Ah, so the rift between them had been brewing long before they reached Rome.

“We have to be sensible when it comes to the knowledge of the future. Knowing too much is just as sure a way to fail than knowing nothing. That being said, Niccoló has mentioned nothing about what you might know of his fate. Is it because there is nothing to tell… or because he has something to hide?”

“He’s not a traitor. I know that’s what you’re asking,” Desmond sighs and leans his head back. “You had a whole thing about it and almost got him killed.”

La Volpe harrumphs.

“Are you certain?”

“Yeah, pretty sure. Though last time he didn't have a guy from the twenty-first century telling him all about the Precursors and skyscrapers and satellites and, I don’t know, central heating. Who knows what he is planning now.”

“If you say so.” La Volpe sounds anything but convinced, but Desmond chooses not to make that his problem right now. 

“Changing the subject now – not to be weird, but what month is it? Ezio has killed four – no, five of Savonarola’s men by now, right?”

“It is late September. And yes, five are down. He said he was closing in on the next one when I spoke with him yesterday.”

“September, huh.” Desmond tilts his goblet in his hands, making the drink swirl around at the bottom. ”You know, for me it’s been only a few weeks since I crashlanded in 97. For you, about half a year, right?” He sighs. “It would be so much easier if I could just stay in one place. Time. Whatever, you know what I mean. Or have my head to myself, since I’m now apparently whining about all my problems.”

“What is it like? Having someone else’s… thoughts in your head?”

“Weird,” Desmond blurts out, then laughs at his own answer. “Just weird. It’s – like this is weird, me opening up to you. We haven’t met that many times during my stay here, you don’t know me. But I’ve known you for decades, worked with you, talked about my worries with you over a pint a thousand times. Well, Ezio did all those things, but it’s hard to tell the difference sometimes.”

He breathes out and drops the goblet on the small table between them. 

"I don't even know who I am anymore. I'm not just Desmond anymore, haven’t been for a long while. As if I didn’t have enough bullshit to deal with already.”

“That is not a fate I would wish upon anyone. I am sorry.”

Desmond just nods.

They sit in silence for a moment. La Volpe fills both of their cups again. 

“Do you think there is a way for you to go back to your own time?”

“I had kinda hoped that the Apple would take me back. Wake me up. Something. It didn’t. Not that I really tried to use it like that, was kinda busy helping Ezio. I don’t know – I guess that my only option is to wait until I reach the final memory. If anything’s gonna happen, if I’m ever going to get back to my time, that seems like the obvious moment for it.”

“You do not sound very certain of that.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m not. I don’t know, something’s gonna have to happen then,” Desmond mutters and rubs his forehead with both hands. “Maybe I’ll wake up from this – ‘cause this has to be some kind of a coma, right? It wouldn’t be the first time. It’s a fucking thing now. I touch Precursor shit and pass out, and the guys waste no time before putting me back into the Animus so my brain can work its way through all the memories in my head and try to pick out which ones belong to me. This time the Precursor machine was just bigger and crazier, and there were two more people in my head causing mayhem, so the visions are even more fucked up.” He draws in a breath. “Yeah, that sounds a lot more reasonable than me being dead. Or actually being in the past, because that would require time travel. No, no, the coma is reasonable. Plausible. Almost makes sense. I failed to properly activate the fucking world saving device, so it didn’t kill me, and here I am. Rewatching the episodes of my favorite season.”

“Before you were certain you were dead.”

“I’m not fucking sure of anything. Look, I don’t know. I’ve just finally had some time to think about it. I was jumping around so wildly before that I barely had time to sleep or eat. Now the only thing I have to do is avoid Ezio, so I’ve had way too much time to think about stuff.”

“I do not know what to think of the fact that you do not consider me to be real. I am quite convinced myself I am not a hallucination.”

“And that’s precisely what you would say if you were a hallucination and trying to convince me you’re not,” Desmond chuckles and grabs his drink to raise it in a salute. 

La Volpe rolls his eyes. 

“You must have at least entertained the possibility you could truly be here, five centuries before your time.”

“And in this reality of yours, I just keep jumping forward in time like some comic book superhero? Sorry, ignore the superhero part, you don’t know what it is. But – no. Because you forget that I have seen the past. Literally seen it. And last time I checked, there was no me running around Italy during the Renaissance. I think I would have noticed.”

Humming, La Volpe gets up from his chair and walks over to his desk to pick up some ink, paper and a quill. He returns to Desmond and lays the things on the small table, then starts drawing some kind of diagram of lines.

“Perhaps you have altered the timeline, or created a parallel version of it,” he says while drawing a long straight line on the paper. “Maybe the future you lived through is not the future you will return to – if you used the Animus again and watched us through Ezio’s eyes, you could see yourself there. Like this.”

He presents a drawing of two parallel, horizontal lines, which both have two dots on them – “the 15th century” and “2012”. From the upper 2012, on the line La Volpe has named “The Original timeline”, there is an arrow pointing to the lower 15th century, then another arrow showing a jump from there to the lower 2012. Underneath that he has scribbled “The New timeline”. And then there is an attempt to show the two parallel lines – merging? – after the two 2012 dots.

“Oh no, just thinking about that gives me a headache.” Desmond takes a sip of his drink and shakes his head, though he deigns to give the diagram another look when La Volpe pushes the paper into his hands. 

“Me actually being here would have to cause some paradox that would make the world end – like, on top of it already trying to do that – and yeah, no. Besides, the Precursors knew how to predict the future, see all of the timelines. They would have left me some kind of hint about time traveling and paradoxes and alternative universes if they had seen even a glimpse of it, right? Or a warning sign on the fucking ‘Save the World' device – you know, Caution: Might occasionally throw you back in time.”

“I cannot say what your Precursors were thinking,” La Volpe says before reaching over and tapping the merging lines with his quill. “But I just find it suspicious that you cannot change anything. Maybe it is because the timeline is correcting itself so that history stays the same despite the fact that you are now here. A new, parallel timeline.” 

“Nope, it is just my brain being incapable of coming up with consequences to all the changes I make. We have this theory in the future, the butterfly effect – a tiny change can cause massive changes to seemingly unrelated things somewhere else. This is that. If I had managed to save Giovanni, Ezio might not have become an Assassin, he might have not fought the Borgia, he might have not gone into the vault and then I would have not gotten the warning in 2012. The changes would eventually snowball out of proportion and I do not have the imagination to rewrite history, so things forcefully swerving back to how they were before conveniently fixes everything. So yeah, a coma and a hallucination.”

He doesn’t like the look of the grin slowly spreading on La Volpe’s lips.

“You say you do not have the imagination for all of this, that my theory makes your head ache – but if this is truly your hallucination, then it is you who came up with this theory and not I. And yet you refuse to believe it so adamantly.”

“Stop that,” Desmond groans but it only makes La Volpe’s smirk even more infuriating.

“Fine, I shall humor you – what happens when you reach the end and wake up from this hallucination? Will you shrug it off and move on with your life? Return to the Assassins?”

“That’s an option. Though my brain will probably be so mushy by that point that I could just as well get stuck here. Or just, you know, stop existing. Die like the other subjects. Lie in the Animus braindead, until the guys decide to pull the plug.”

La Volpe glances at him.

“Surely not?”

Desmond shrugs. 

“I’m already worse than I was when I first woke up here. The Bleeding, I mean. It’s a lot worse. So the brain’s not doing so okay,” he admits, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Maybe this time it’s not my brain trying to figure out which part is me, maybe it’s rewriting my consciousness over with Ezio’s, who knows.”

La Volpe downs the rest of his drink in one go, not-quite-slams the cup on the table and stares at the opposite wall for a moment, his mouth pressed into a line.

“And there is nothing we can do?”

“Don’t think so.”

“That is unfortunate.”

“Yeah.”

In his current predicament, it has been easy to give Ezio time. 

When Desmond was first dropped in 1497, the moment he landed in was approximately a year before Savonarola was fated to die. Ezio had nine men to kill before May of 1498, and since Desmond would be there to see each death, he was in for frequent but short jumps. That of course has translated into him not even being there most of the time, which means Ezio literally cannot run into him by accident. And when Desmond is there, he sticks to helping La Volpe and Paola in their efforts to rouse the city and create unrest to help dethrone Savonarola, and so stays out of Ezio’s way. 

Now, after quite a few jumps, Desmond has made it to the late fall of 1497, though not entirely without seeing Ezio. There have been occasional collisions – of Ezio abruptly stopping by the thieves’ guild to speak to La Volpe and finding Desmond there instead, and of them nearly stumbling into each other when they find themselves tailing the same target. Not much has been said during those meetings, only empty greetings accompanied by tense nods, and each time one of them has soon come up with an idiotic excuse and given them both a chance to flee.

So when Desmond, sitting at the table in the cramped kitchen of the thieves’ safehouse and teaching some of the tricks Ezio picked up in Constantinople to a few of the younger thieves, looks up and sees Ezio at the door, he expects him to disappear just as quickly as he appeared.

For a moment, Ezio just stands there, armed to the teeth and blending into the shadows of the narrow hallway in his long black robes. Then he sighs, squares his shoulders and lowers his hood before stepping into the room, all the while not really meeting Desmond’s gaze.

“Can we talk?”

Desmond blinks.

“Yeah, sure.”

The thieves take the hint when Ezio throws a glare their way, and they scatter out of the room, one of them even climbing through the window. Ezio stares at the empty kitchen for a moment after they have left, hesitant now that he has got Desmond to himself.

Desmond makes a vague gesture towards one of the now free chairs, and after a moment of visible hesitation Ezio sits down, heavily resting his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together. Desmond doesn’t know what to do with his own hands.

“What’s up?” he asks and immediately after has to push down the urge to cringe at how out of place both the question and his tone sound.

Ezio glances at him, then looks away.

“I do not have much time. My target will be moving soon.”

“Okay.”

The kitchen falls silent apart from the soft murmur of conversations floating in from upstairs. The creaks and sighs of an old building, which Desmond had barely noticed before, suddenly seem as loud as cannons. 

He has to stop himself from drumming his fingers against the table. 

“If you want to know something about the future or this mess I’m in, just ask. I can’t promise that my explanation is going to be good, but I’ll try my best,” he says, grabbing the fingers of his right hand with his left. “Or if this is about what I said when we last really talked, I… Nothing has changed. I haven’t changed my mind about any of it, in case that’s what you’re wondering – “

“No.” The abruptness of the response surprises even Ezio himself who clamps his mouth shut and frowns. He shakes his head, closing his eyes, then softens his tone a little. “I came to ask – Is there anything else you can tell me about Cristina’s de– about her?” He wrings his hands together while he tries not to mention her fate as if that would somehow spare her. “The year 1498 is fast approaching, and I…”

Desmond bites his cheek.

“I’ve told Machiavelli all I remember.”

“But it cannot be all you know! You must know more! How am I supposed to save her when I do not know when it happens? I have – I have tried to warn her. I have written to her, several times, but I do not know if she reads any of my letters. I have tried to visit her but she either is not at home or does not want to see me, and…” Ezio presses a hand to his mouth. His frown pronounces the faint lines that have appeared on his forehead over the years. 

Not really meaning to do so, Desmond leans towards him.

“Have you talked to Manfredo?” he asks in a quiet voice.

“He thinks I am a fool who has got himself worked up over nothing, that there is no reason to worry. He laughed at my face and told me that I am an idiot for believing in the superstitions of… that friend of yours, that is what he said.” He frowns before looking at Desmond. “Did he mean you?”

“Yeah. After you almost drowned him in 78, I told him to take Cristina away once the riots started, twenty years from that moment. A fat lot of good that did.”

The muscles at the corner of Ezio’s mouth tighten.

“She will not listen to me. Her husband will not help me. That is why I need to know when she… when it happens. I cannot keep shadowing her until May, but I fear the moment I turn my back to go after one of Savonarola’s men, she will be gone.”

“I’m pretty sure La Volpe would lend you his people to watch her.”

“Of course I have them watching her! They are keeping an eye on her right now, but I cannot afford to trust them to keep her safe. I need to be there myself, I need to be sure, but I cannot do that when I do not know the exact date. I cannot be in two places at once – this is impossible!” Ezio scrunches his eyes closed and runs both of his hands through his hair, making a mess of it. His chest heaves as he curls on himself and covers his eyes with his hands, elbows resting on the table. His voice breaks. “Desmond, I do not know what to do.”

Not breathing, Desmond reaches over the table towards him. His fingertips brush against Ezio’s sleeve, and slowly Ezio unfurls himself to look at Desmond.

“Please just tell me when she dies,” he whispers. “Please.”

“I can’t.”

All the softness and vulnerability that had seeped back into Ezio’s face and mannerisms vanish in that instant. Desmond withdraws his hand.

“Why?”

“I’ve told you, I don’t know the exact date. I’m sorry.”

“How can you not know when she died? You have to know!” Ezio snarls as he slams his hands on the table and leans towards Desmond. “How can you have seen my life and have my memories in your head and not remember that?”

“You buried any memories of her so deep that to access them, I had to get my synchronization with you so high that I started to lose myself. Like, so synced up that a day after I saw her death I was in a coma because my brain couldn't handle it anymore,” Desmond says and waits until Ezio calms down enough to listen. “I didn’t – everything else was in chronological order, but not her. I saw her only once in the very beginning, in 1476 when you were both just kids. After that, she was not there at all, like you had erased her from your memories. Before I got my sync levels high enough and finally got to the hidden memories with her, I thought that she was just another pretty girl to you.”

That assumption upsets Ezio so much he is clearly about to open his mouth and say something, but Desmond shushes him before he can get started.

“It wasn’t until you were in your forties that I could access those memories, and when I did, the Animus, the whole interface, it didn't look like it was supposed to – it was like I wasn't supposed to see those memories, to be there. The loading screen was weird, the colors were weird, and the Animus didn’t even bother to try to give me exact dates when it dumped me into the memories. The first time it happened, I thought I had broken the damn machine.” 

Ezio rubs his temple, then runs the hand through his hair again. Desmond forgets himself into watching the movement, both enchanted and weirded out because that was a young man’s hand not two months ago. The veins weren’t so visible before, nor the dark hair on his wrist, disappearing underneath Ezio’s sleeve. He is becoming more and more like the version Desmond remembers from the Animus, and yet Desmond can’t help but regret the loss of the young man he got to know as himself. 

“But what about the memories in your head? Surely if there is another me in your head, it should know the date despite what you saw and did not see in the Animus.”

“You’d rather not think about her, that’s all. So it’s not something I just know because you knew it. The Bleeding effect gives me fragments of your thoughts with no rhyme or reason to it.” Desmond sighs and leans back in his chair. He looks at Ezio, taking in the stiff posture, the wide eyes, the slight tremor in his voice. “But I guess I… could try to dive into your memories and dig out the exact date.” 

Ezio practically radiates how much he wants Desmond to try it, but to his credit, he stops himself from demanding it. He takes a moment to force himself to relax his shoulders before finding Desmond’s gaze again.

“Would that put you in danger somehow?”

“Ah, well, it’s gonna give me a massive headache and probably speed up the process of me going insane, but the whole Bleeding effect thing has made me a lost cause anyway, so…” As if he would have said no to Ezio in any case. “Can’t promise that it will work though.”

Ezio pales.

“I cannot ask you to do that.”

“Maybe, but I’m offering anyway. I know how important she is to you,” Desmond says and gives Ezio no chance to say no. “But just a heads up, you might resurface. As in the fake construct of your memories living in my head. Things might get awkward.”

“I can take it,” Ezio says, his mouth tight and tense. “If you truly are willing to try it, that is.”

“Yeah, sure.” Desmond lays his hands on the table, takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “You do know I want her to live as well.”

The other times he has reached for Ezio’s mind tangled around his own have been different. Before he only wanted the construct of memories to take over – it didn’t matter if it was the Mentor heading towards Masyaf he found, or the young noble from Firenze. But now it is a specific memory he is after, a memory the ghost does not want to hand over because it hurts, it hurts so much and what good is he if after all these years of training and fighting and killing he cannot save her – 

Desmond grabs onto that feeling, follows it, pushing his way through the barriers Ezio is currently trying to slam between him and the heartbreak which broke his ability to love, which only proved that everyone he loves will leave him – because he does not want to see this, does not want to feel this again, why is he made to remember losing her, did he not bury this gaping wound so deep that he would never have to bear the pain of losing her ever again – 

The next thing he knows he is lying on the floor, blinking at the ceiling and at Ezio – who is crouching next to him, an alarmed expression on his face. 

“What happened?” Desmond tries to ask, but his dry throat turns the words into incomprehensible mumbling. Ezio seems to get his meaning anyway.

“I just had a discussion with myself,” he explains in a tone that would sound almost amused if it weren’t for the wild, deeply shaken look in his eyes. “Put into words like that, it does not sound half as fantastical as it felt.”

Desmond blinks again and tries to get his dizzy brain to work.

“You took over?” 

“Yes, I – he took over your body. Either that, or you are a phenomenal actor and just gave yourself a concussion to sell the act,” Ezio says and leans closer, touching a hand to Desmond’s head to get him to tilt it slightly to the side. “There is no blood, at least. You could have warned me that you were going to black out once he gave you back control.”

“Never happened before,” Desmond mutters, still trying to process the feeling of Ezio’s fingers against the back of his head. He’s not going to read anything into it. It doesn’t mean anything. “Though I’ve never forced my way into your – his memories like that either.” 

Ezio makes a disapproving sound in his throat.

“It was foolish.”

“Mmh. How long was I out? Or you know, not in control.”

“Only for a few minutes. Do you feel like sitting up yet?”

“Won’t know until I try,” Desmond huffs though his head still feels like it's full of lead. And now that he thinks about it, does he feel like throwing up? The hand Ezio offers to pull him up has to be conjured up by his bruised brain at least, right? 

“Did you find out the date?” Desmond mutters once Ezio has helped him to sit up and lean against one of the table legs. He draws his knees close to his chest and focuses on trying to stop the world from swaying, while Ezio crouches down next to him, the long black tails of his robes pooling on the floor.

“Yes.”

“Good. That’s good.” Desmond covers his eyes with his hands and leans forward. Yeah, he isn’t feeling so great. “Hey, if I throw up on you, it’s nothing personal.” Could be a little personal. “So was I standing when I passed out? Because judging by the bump I already have on my head, it must have been quite a hit.”

“Yes. The… construct seemed to think you would take over immediately once it gave over the reins, and I was on the other side of the room. He withdrew, your eyes rolled back and that was it,” Ezio says and suddenly finds the floor very interesting to look at. 

“Okay. Wasn’t your fault. Let’s just never do this again.”

“Agreed.”

Gingerly, Desmond lifts his hand to feel out the back of his head again. Could have gone without this, yeah. At least Ezio looks apologetic enough, that’s an upside – and the fact that this is an almost civilized conversation they’re having.

“What are you going to do now that you know what day it is?” he asks, glances at Ezio and hisses out when his fingers find a particularly sore spot.

“Try to write to her again, perhaps go to see her in person. I have a few months to get through to her, and well… I will still have time to make new plans if I cannot get her to leave the city. No matter what happens, I will not leave her side that day – she will not die.”

Desmond lets his hand drop and looks up at Ezio.

“Hey, just – I hate to say this, but you have to prepare yourself for the possibility that she still might not make it. So far I haven’t managed to save anyone. Anyone, okay?”

“No. I will save her.” Ezio raises his walls and buries himself in aggressive, protective denial with such ferocity that Desmond isn’t sure which one of them he is trying to convince. “You must be here for a reason. Why would you be sent here if not for this? Because something good has to come out of all of this. It has to.”

“I just – I don’t know.” Desmond turns away. His shoulders have climbed almost up to his ears, and even though he tries to stay still, the world keeps turning. 

“Thank you for this.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Not before we know she’s safe.”

“She will be.”

No, she won’t.

He clears his throat.

“Um, so, what did he say? You know, you.” He finds the energy for a half of a grin while gesturing at his own head.

“So you do not know?”

“No. I asked you about the date too, didn’t I? I have no idea what he said.”

“What I tell myself is really not anyone else’s business but mine.” The words would hurt if it weren’t for the hint of a smirk that flashes on Ezio’s lips. But it vanishes just as quickly as it arrived, and his brows furrow in confusion. Doubt. Worry? “But it was unnerving, I have to admit that.”

“Really? I got knocked out for this, and you’re still not going to tell me anything he said?” Desmond mutters and starts pushing himself up on his unsteady feet. 

“I will not,” Ezio quips back like the damn asshole he is. He tilts his head to the side as he considers Desmond’s attempts to get up. “Are you sure that is wise?”

“Nope,” Desmond says and grabs onto the edge of the table to keep himself upright. He can do this, right? If he waits for a while, maybe his legs will start to cooperate. 

He has time to hear the muttered “Idiot” before Ezio grabs his arm, moves it to rest on his shoulders, and wraps his own arm around Desmond’s waist.

“Now, in which room are you staying?”

Ezio drags him upstairs and unceremoniously helps him to get on the bed, all of this without any snide comments, and that would make Desmond get his hopes up if he wasn’t busy trying not to throw up or pass out. 

“I will tell La Volpe to send for a doctor and to have someone here to keep an eye on you. Do not fall asleep before someone comes here. I cannot stay – I am already late as it is,” Ezio declares and makes to leave just as Desmond is about to mumble something embarrassing about being sorry and in love with him and could he please just stay and keep talking to him. 

But Ezio stops at the door to look over his shoulder at Desmond anyway. He is quiet for a while, long enough to almost make Desmond ask what is wrong.

“Niccolò said – “ A pause as he presses his lips together, frowning. Open his mouth. Closes it again. “Were you truly willing to sacrifice yourself? To save the world? You were ready to die?”

Oh. 

“Yeah. Apparently I was.” Desmond sighs and rubs his forehead. “And yeah, the whole thing was supposed to kill me, but as you can see, that didn’t really work out.”

When he lowers his arm, Ezio is still there, staring at him. 

“What?”

“Why?”

Desmond huffs a breath.

“Well, it was between saving my skin and everyone else's. I don’t know if I could have lived with all those lives on my conscience. Thought it was better if only I died. It was a small price to pay.”

“It was not a small price.”

Suddenly Desmond doesn’t know where to look or what to do with his hands.

“Well, what’s done is done.” 

“What about… Should we be worried about the sun now? Is there something we could do to prevent the solar flare from ever happening?”

“I guess we could try to get me back to the States – the new continent – once we get the Apple back. I’m pretty sure I could get the door open and get inside the Grand Temple – oh shit, I don’t know where Haytham’s amulet is yet, so I don’t know if we could activate the device again – “

“No, that is not what I meant at all,” Ezio interrupts him, stepping towards him. “I would not ask you to sacrifice yourself a second time. Do not entertain that thought for even a second.”

Desmond slumps back into the mattress, his breath fucking wavering – it is stupid to be so relieved, what the fuck – 

“No more sacrifices. No, I was thinking along the lines of leaving a warning, a message. Something that does not require you or anyone else to use that Animus.” Ezio spits out the last word in a tone which is not unlike the one he uses when he utters the name Borgia. “Or something else, I do not know yet. We will think about it once we get the Apple back. Once Cristina is safe.”

“Okay.” That’s all Desmond has energy for right now.

Ezio glances at him once more, something in his body language betraying the fact he might have something else to say, but whatever it is, he changes his mind, pulls his hood up and leaves.

Chapter Text

He starts running the second the Gray spits him out.

The streets he dashes through have already been lost to chaos. Pillars of pitch black smoke rise towards the sky all around the city as flames devour buildings, books and artworks alike. Savonarola’s thugs ravage Firenze like the plague, breaking into houses and stealing everything they can get their hands on. The citizens unfortunate enough to still be inside the city walls either hide in their homes behind bolted doors or risk a mad dash to the city gates, their hoarse screams painting a backdrop for it all. 

Desmond can’t afford to care about any of it – he vaults over a wagon missing one of its wheels, sidesteps to avoid slamming into a woman who is frantically fleeing to the opposite direction, and forces himself to run faster and faster until his legs burn and lungs wheeze with every step. 

A swarm of crazed men fills the courtyard of Cristina’s home. One of them is trying to climb into the house through a broken window while two others are giving him a push. Another one amuses himself by taking a piss in the meticulously kept flower pots. The rest circle their prey, cheering and yelling lewd things, their eyes hungry despite and maybe because of the dagger in Cristina’s shaky, white hand. Her other hand steadies her wounded husband. The front of Manfredo’s expensive doublet has turned red with the blood that has seeped into the fabric from a gash on his shoulder. 

Ezio fights as a hurricane against Savonarola’s men. 

Desmond rushes in. He plunges his hidden blade through the throat of the closest thug and throws the man to the ground, then ducks to avoid an ax swung towards his face. He grabs the axeman's ankle, yanks on it, and takes his chance when the man loses his balance and falls on his back. 

When Desmond has time to glance at Ezio, it is to see him pierce the chest of a man with his sword, then twirl around to bury a throwing knife into the face of yet another, a number of dead bodies already scattered around him. 

“Are you guys okay?” Desmond asks when the last of Savonarola’s lackeys falls to the ground and they have a moment of relative peace. His eyes fly to Cristina, searching her for any sign of injury. In the original timeline she was bleeding out by this point, but now he can only see a small cut on her forearm and another scrape on her brow, barely visible.

Ezio too turns towards her, worried about the answer, but Cristina is staring back at Desmond, her eyes wide with recognition.

“Cristina?” Ezio sheathes his sword and steps closer.

“I am fine.” Shaking her head, she directs her attention to Ezio and by doing so gives Desmond the chance to pull up his hood and hide his face. “Thank you, Ezio. You saved Manfredo’s life.” 

Said husband doesn’t look quite as happy about that fact as he clutches his left shoulder while tiny streams of blood run between his fingers. 

“Should we not be getting inside and barricading the doors? Who knows when more of those hooligans will turn up – ”

“You cannot stay here. It is not safe,” Ezio interrupts. “We need to get you out of the city, as soon as possible.”

“What? Leave Firenze? Are you mad? We will never make it to the gates with those mobs out there,” Manfredo bristles, held back only by his wife’s hand on his arm. 

“Manfredo, those men got into our house once already. Nothing is going to stop them if they decide to try again, especially since you are wounded. If Ezio says we cannot stay here, perhaps the wisest course of action would be to leave.”

“But how are we to leave the city? We cannot simply walk – “

“I have arranged a wagon,” Ezio says in a tone that leaves no room for arguments. “It will be here any second now. I will get you out of here, you have my word.” 

The next few minutes pass slowly and painfully as they wait for the wagon to arrive. Desmond hangs by the courtyard gate so he can watch the streets and stay out of Cristina’s sight. Nervously tugging on his hood, he wishes he had a scarf or something to cover his face. The last thing they need now is someone making a scene out of his weirdly young looks. 

He glances back at Ezio and the couple. The tall, scarred assassin with his black hood and countless blades seems so out of place there in the middle of the courtyard garden, standing next to the gambler of a nobleman and his wife. Cristina is worrying over the wound on Manfredo’s shoulder, and the more she frets, the more Manfredo panics. Ezio’s face betrays his tired annoyance – had he been the one injured, he would have pushed aside the pain and kept going, refusing to let such a small injury slow him down. 

Finally, finally, the wagon arrives, driven by two of La Volpe’s thieves, and stops in front of the house. The echoes of screams and shouted curses and the smell of smoke make the horses stomp nervously and chew on their bits, their reins tight. Desmond keeps watch while Ezio ushers Cristina and Manfredo towards the wagon. He lifts her up like she weighs nothing, then Desmond and Ezio help Manfredo up together, mindful of his injury.

At Ezio’s barked order, the wagon pulls away from the house and into the streets, towards the city gates.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any bandages with you, would you?” Desmond calls over to the thieves. Pietro, one of the young recruits Desmond has seen a couple of times at the safehouse, reaches into his satchel and throws a package into his waiting arms. Desmond looks at Cristina, reconsiders and passes the package on to Ezio. He gestures at his own face as an explanation. “I think she remembers me. Shit, he might remember me.”

So, after some shuffling around, Ezio kneels down next to Manfredo and starts patching him up while Desmond keeps an eye out, scanning the groups of people they drive past, expecting each and every one of them to try to climb up to the wagon. 

Cristina’s voice pulls his attention from the chaos of the streets.

“Ezio. I am sorry. I should have believed you. I did receive your letters, and I read them, but I thought that they were just some ploy to… After Venice, I… I do not know what I thought.”

Ezio does not look up from the bandage he is wrapping around Manfredo’s shoulder.  

“It does not matter anymore. What does matter is getting you out of here.”

“No, Ezio. I have hurt you, I can see that.”

All Desmond can see from this angle are Ezio’s tense shoulders as he very deliberately does not answer and focuses on the bandages instead, tying up the last knot. “Is it too tight?” His voice is flat as he addresses Cristina’s husband, pulling away from him.

“I will live,” Manfredo declares in a burst of newfound bravery, holding his chin high as he meets the gaze of his wife’s first love. But Ezio is indifferent to Manfredo’s feelings and insecurity. He scans their surroundings – they have turned to a narrow alleyway to circle around a mob blocking the wider streets – meets Desmond’s eyes for a second, then turns back to Cristina, his gaze landing somewhere around her shoulder instead of her face. 

“Did they hurt you?”

“I have only this gash here,” she says and presents her right forearm. The wide cut in the expensive fabric of her sleeve grins wider than the actual wound on her skin. It is maybe three inches long, but the blade seems to have pierced only skin – a shallow cut, not deep enough to ruin any muscles. All the splotches of blood on her skin make it look far worse than it is.

“And this one,” Ezio notes, nodding towards another injury on her forehead and pointing at his own head to show the placement. Cristina instinctively raises her hand to feel out the spot, her fingers grazing the cut that has bled an ugly red blotch just above her eye. She hisses out in pain.

“Do not touch it,” Ezio huffs before reaching for her wounded arm and starting to bandage it.

Slowly and not so certainly, they make their way towards the city gates. The route the thieves have decided on takes them close to the district where the fires are raging more wildly. The horses trot nervously, their heads high and eyes round and wide as their nostrils. 

Once Ezio is finished tending to the couple, he leaves the front of the wagon and scoots over to Desmond at the back, eyeing the nervous horses and the streets around them. Ahead of them, at a small piazza, a group is gathering. He narrows his eyes at the sight, then turns to Desmond. 

“Yeah, I see them.”

“Keep your blades close,” Ezio sighs as he settles down next to Desmond. His quick glance over his shoulder reveals his concern. 

“They were both supposed to die because of the injuries they got from that initial attack,” Desmond says in a low voice before Ezio can ask. “That gash Manfredo has now is nothing compared to last time.”

The expression that flashes on Ezio’s face tells Desmond that was a wrong thing to say this early on.

“Don’t get too cocky yet. That’s how it will get you. There’s still time for something to massively fuck this up.” 

“With that attitude, certainly.”

Desmond takes a deep breath to keep himself from blurting out how many times he has already tried to do this, to change things. Then another, though he freezes in the middle of it when he notices Cristina staring at him. Crap. 

The way Desmond tries to hide behind Ezio can’t in any way, shape or form be called casual, which in turn makes Ezio give him a funny look, but this really isn’t the time or place to explain Desmond’s whole situation again. Especially to Cristina.

“Do I know you?” she asks anyway, because of course she does. 

“No, Signora,” he mumbles and elbows Ezio to get him to distract her. Not missing a beat, Ezio turns to Cristina and by doing so hides Desmond behind himself.

“Is there anywhere we could take you once we get out of the city? Do your parents still have that villa in… Where was it again?”

“No, they had to sell it years ago. I do not know, perhaps we could go to my uncle’s…” She glances back at her husband hesitantly, suddenly aware of the fact that he has gone quiet. And when Desmond can’t resist the temptation to peek over Ezio’s shoulder to see what’s going on, it is to witness Manfredo slipping back into panicking about his wound and the danger they are in. His face has turned pale, and his wild gaze jumps from the wagon to their drivers and again from them to Ezio until it finally lands on Desmond. He keeps staring at him, even when Desmond realizes to turn away, cursing. 

Manfredo’s voice shakes as he grabs his wife’s arm.

“Cristina, I know that man,” he breathes out, his knuckles white as his fingers dig into Cristina’s forearm with enough force to make her wince. “He was with Auditore on that day on the bridge – I remember that face! How could I not when he looks exactly the same as he did twenty years ago! He predicted this day would come! How is this possible? What are you? ”

Shit. 

“Demon! Was that mad monk right? Have the demons come here on earth to punish us?”

“Hush, Manfredo, we do not need to attract any attention,” Cristina says, trying to hold Manfredo down. But her face has paled as well and she can’t stop herself from stealing glances at Desmond.

Ezio moves over to grab Manfredo’s good shoulder before the man can decide to do something drastic.

“Calm yourself before we are noticed,” he hisses and pushes Manfredo back to sitting down. “You have been injured and driven away from your own home – your mind has been shaken, and you do not know what you are saying right now.”

“A demon! ”

“He is not, now quiet  – ”

“Cristina, stay away from that man!” Manfredo bellows, trying his best to push Ezio off him. “You! Let go of me! Are you in league with him?”

“For fuck’s sake, just knock him unconscious or something – ” Desmond mutters to Ezio over his shoulder but has to cut himself off when he realizes the group they noticed earlier is moving. Towards them. Lured in by Manfredo’s yells. “Oh shit. Heads up, we’ve got company!”

Ezio looks up from, swears and turns to their drivers. 

“We need to get out of here! Now!”

The thieves usher the horses forward, yelling and clicking their tongues, and the wagon jolts forward with enough force to almost knock Desmond out of balance. But almost immediately after he has managed to steady himself, the thieves pull on the reins to bring the horses to a stop. 

“They have blocked the street!”

By then it is too late to back out of the alleyway they have driven into. The mob follows them like a swarm, the eyes of the men gleaming with the unrelenting conviction Desmond has seen only in those brainwashed by the Apple. 

“Abandon the wagon! We need to get out of here!” Ezio shouts, letting go of Manfredo and standing up on top of the wagon to meet Savonarola’s fanatics, just barely managing to keep them at bay by swinging his sword wildly at them. Desmond is busy defending the other flank of the wagon when one of the two thieves throws a smoke bomb into the ground and by doing so gives Desmond the chance to jump down from the wagon and clear some space. 

Ezio’s voice carries over the clashes of metal against metal.

“Desmond! Get her out of here!” 

“What about Manfredo?” Desmond shouts back while offering a hand to Cristina to help her down.

“I will take care of him. Just go! Now!”

Flanked on both sides by their thief drivers, Desmond lifts Cristina down from the wagon, then takes her arm again in the fear of losing her into the crowd. He doesn’t give her a chance to protest before he pulls her along, towards the makeshift barricade blocking the street. The thieves follow, trying to slow down anyone trying to come after them. 

They reach the barricade. Desmond pushes Cristina towards it, telling her to climb over it before he turns around to stand between her and Savonarola’s men. She struggles with her long dress – he can hear her swearing – but Desmond doesn’t dare to look away from the men still surrounding the wagon. The mob cuts them completely off from Manfredo and Ezio who have gotten down from the wagon, and judging by the yells and the flashes of a sword, are heading in the opposite direction from Desmond and Cristina. 

The barricade isn’t very stable, as it’s made out of pieces of furniture and planks and anything the thugs have managed to get their hands on, so by the time Cristina has crawled to the top, some things have come loose and the upside down turned chair she is leaning on looks to be seconds away from toppling over. 

“Keep going!” Desmond shouts and starts climbing after her once he has sent the thieves to go to help Ezio – most of the crazed men have turned their attention to the Assassin now that Cristina seems to have slipped their grasp. 

The short journey back to ground level consists more of sliding than clambering down. Desmond doesn’t give Cristina a chance to catch her breath but insteads bursts into a run again, tugging her along. He wants her as far away from that mob as possible. 

“Are they not following us?” Cristina asks and pulls on Desmond’s hand, trying to bring him to a halt. “No, stop! We cannot just leave them!”

“Yes, we can. They’ll be fine – Ezio can handle it. And he’s going to have a better chance of keeping them both safe now that you’re not there to distract him.” Where’s the damn city gate? “The only thing you need to worry about right now is how we are going to get you away from here in one piece.”

He knows her well enough that he can practically feel how much she wants to yank herself free and demand to be taken back to her husband and to Ezio. Her eyes darken, she juts her chin out and yeah, there’s that temper he remembers. But the stubbornness in her falters when the stench of smoke and the echoes of screams of pain assault them again once Desmond manages to drag her closer to the main streets. She stays quiet, focusing on trying to keep up with his longer strides, her breath wheezing. 

“Ezio called you Desmond,” Cristina points out maybe ten minutes later, when Desmond takes pity on her and stops to allow her to catch her breath. He has been guiding them through the labyrinth of narrow back alleys to avoid any more altercations with Savonarola’s men, but now he finds himself wondering if they should have risked the main streets. Bringing a noble woman in all her finery here might not have been one of his brightest ideas. Not all thieves in the city answer to La Volpe after all. 

He doesn’t answer, just glances at her from the corner of his eye. She hesitates for a second, knowing full well how insane her question will sound.

“Was it truly you, twenty years ago?”

“I’m not sure you honestly want me to answer that question.”

“Was it you?”

Desmond sighs. Nods. Doesn’t look at her. 

“But you look like you have not even seen your thirtieth summer yet. How can that be, when you were so clearly older than us when we first met?”

“What if I just said that I age really, really well? Then you wouldn’t have to have nightmares about all this,” he says with a tired, lopsided grin and meets her stern glare. “No, it’s… complicated. Would take ages to explain. It’s better you don’t know.” 

The small step she takes away from him makes him soften his grin into a defeated smile. By this point he is so saturated with heartbreak that this hurt only stings. It is a bruise among many darker ones.

“All you really need to know is that I’m on Ezio’s side, and so on yours,” he says, not moving, focusing on staying as non-threatening as possible. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Does Ezio know what you are?”

“Yes.”

“And he trusts you?”

“With you, yeah.” At least.

The muscles around her mouth tighten.

“Just get me out of here.”

It takes them maybe half an hour to reach the gate. Most of it is spent in silence, as Desmond tries to be as inoffensive and unobtrusive as possible while still staying close enough to keep her out of harm’s way. 

The gate and the stables next to it are already in view when Cristina speaks all of the sudden, not looking at him.

“How is he? Is he… happy?”

A desperate laugh swells in his throat. She doesn’t know what she asks, who she is asking – the fact that she would ask that today, out of all the days in Ezio’s life makes this all the more absurd. How is he supposed to answer? Is Ezio happy in this lifetime? Was he ever happy during the first?

“He has… a purpose for his life. A cause he fights for. I’d like to think he is content.”

“And does he have – did he ever marry?”

Ah.

“No, he’s not married.” Ezio waited for her for over twenty years, then mourned her for another decade before allowing himself to love again. If it wasn’t for the memory of his intent to ask Sofia to marry him in the end, as sure and certain as his heartbeat, Desmond would almost wish Ezio had never fallen in love with Cristina in the first place just so that his life could have taken a different path. 

Desmond keeps his back to Cristina when he says the next words, unsure of why he is saying them.

“He still loves you, you know.” It is his own voice, as strange as it sounds right now. “Never stopped.”

Cristina covers whatever her reaction is with a laugh.

“Did he ask you to say that?”

“No.” 

“Then why did you tell me that?”

“I want him to be happy.”

Anger seeps into her voice.

“And I am still a married woman. That fact renders this entire conversation irrelevant.”

A shout saves Desmond from having to come up with an answer.

“Desmond!”

Ezio appears, dragging a freshly injured Manfredo towards them. 

“Manfredo!” Cristina cries when she sees the new, deep wound oozing blood on her husband’s thigh. “What happened?”

“He was adamant to prove his bravery by fighting off a bandit I was fully prepared to take on. Apparently your Manfredo has not held a sword in his life,” Ezio explains with thinly veiled annoyance when Desmond and Cristina rush over to meet them. Desmond grabs Manfredo’s free arm and guides it to his shoulders so that he and Ezio now share the man’s weight. Cristina takes Manfredo’s pale face into both of her hands, frantically trying to get him to look at her, but the blood loss and pain have turned the man into a husk of his former self. Enraged and worried beyond measure, she turns to Ezio.

“You were supposed to keep him safe!” 

“I cannot protect the man from himself,” Ezio growls back. “Move, we need to set him down somewhere.”

Her eyes blazing, Cristina takes a step back to allow them to pass, and together, Desmond and Ezio drag the poor fool to the nearby stables. They lower him down to slump against a wall. Desmond crouches next to him and takes a look at the new wound. 

“We have to bind this,” he states, looking at Manfredo’s pale face and the large dark stain on his thigh, slowly spreading. His lips are tainted with blue and his gaze doesn’t quite focus on him even when Desmond waves a hand in front of his face. 

“What we need to do is to get him out of the city,” Ezio snarls back as he marches through the empty stable. “Cazzo, have they stolen all the horses as well?”

“There has to be some doctors in the city still, someone we can take him to – “

“Any doctor worth a damn has fled the city or is drowning in patients right now. Getting him out of Firenze is easier than dragging him through those streets with no destination in mind. We do not have a choice.”

“He’s going to die if we move him,” Desmond says in a low voice and glances at Cristina to see if she heard. 

She has. She stops ripping one of her underskirts into makeshift bandages and launches herself at Ezio, seething.

“How could you let this happen?” she screams and gets right into his face. He grabs her wrist when she raises her hand to slap him. “He is going to die because of you!”

“Nothing would have happened if he had not picked up the sword and tried to play the hero.”

“Did you plan this? Did you think I would take you back once you had  conveniently gotten rid of my husband?”

That one hurts, Desmond can tell.

“No,” Ezio says quietly. “My plan was always to get both of you safely out of Firenze. I am sorry it cannot be so.” He lets go of her hand to step past her and towards Desmond. “He might die if we take him with us, but he will die if we stay here. A large group of Savonarola’s men is heading this way. We cannot stay.”

“What do they want with us?” Cristina asks, marching after Ezio. “Why would they try to kill us?”

Desmond meets Ezio’s gaze. They come to a silent agreement not to tell her about the influence of the Apple and how it is turning men into mindless murderers. 

“They will kill us, that is what matters,” Ezio states and watches as Desmond wraps the torn off pieces of Cristina’s skirt around Manfredo’s thigh. “We need horses.” 

Desmond doesn’t look up.

“Go.” 

Ezio doesn’t waste any more time. He disappears through the door, while Cristina throws her hands up and stomps off to brood on the other side of the stable, done with both of them. 

After ten minutes, Ezio returns with two horses in tow. Desmond doesn’t ask where he got them. Together, they hoist Manfredo on the first horse’s back. Desmond gets in the saddle in front of him, while Ezio and Cristina take the other horse. 

And so they flee Firenze.

The sun is already low in the sky when they leave the city behind them. With no other safe harbor in the vicinity, Ezio guides them towards Tuscany and Monteriggioni, though they will not see the town for a couple of days yet. Not with this slow pace they keep to spare Manfredo from the worst hardships of the journey.

The further they travel, the more Desmond has to keep steadying Manfredo to stop him from falling off the horse. It won’t take long now, he knows. He glances to the sky – each time a cloud has sailed past them and covered the low-hanging sun, he has expected it to be the Gray coming from him. But Cristina and Manfredo are still alive, even if only barely – the memory is not over, and Desmond remains here.

When the evening has turned dark and they are still on the road, Desmond starts to worry Ezio will keep driving them onwards through the night in the fear that someone might have followed them. But Manfredo hasn’t made a sound in the last hour, and Cristina looks exhausted behind Ezio, clinging onto his back. The horses are tired too, after carrying the weight of two riders for such a long time. And really, the last thing they need now is one of the horses breaking its leg by stepping into a hole or something in the dark.

So when they eventually come across a little house by the road, the light of candles twinkling in the windows, Desmond guides his horse closer to Ezio’s.  

“They need to rest,” he says in a quiet voice and nods towards Manfredo, whose arms, circled around Desmond’s waist, have no strength to them.

Ezio looks at Manfredo and frowns before soundlessly slipping down from the saddle. He hands Cristina his dagger. 

“Do not follow me until I have made sure it is safe.”

He meets Desmond’s eyes before walking over to the house. He knocks, then waits, subtly flexing the muscles of his left hand, his hidden blade ready.

An old woman opens the door. Her wrinkly face pales when she sees the armed man at her door and completely misses the fact that Ezio lets his hand relax and drop to his side. Drawing his hood back and plastering a polite smile on his face, he explains what they need, gesturing towards Manfredo. The old woman is obviously hesitant, but the sight of Manfredo, at death’s door, and his wife, a proper lady, seem to convince her.

Ezio jogs back to help Cristina down – her legs almost give out under her after so many hours on horseback – then he and Desmond wrangle the weak and nearly unconscious Manfredo down. They share a look over the wet, deep red bandage, then silently carry him inside and lay him down on a hurriedly put together makeshift-bed of blankets near a lit fireplace. Cristina follows them inside and pushes her way past Ezio back to her husband’s side. She kneels down next to him and touches a hand to Manfredo’s forehead. The old woman appears again, to ask Ezio what else they might need.

“I’ll go to take care of the horses,” Desmond hears himself say, though the words sound more like a question. Ezio nods, eyeing the few supplies the old woman has brought out for them to use. “Boil everything before you put it anywhere near the wound. And wash your hands.” He waits until Ezio repeats it back to him, to make sure he understood. 

The poor horses stare at him from the darkness when he returns outside. He leads them into the small stable behind the house, though the name seems too grand for the building. A shed, more like. He takes off the saddles and bridles and goes to find the animals water and some hay before he returns back to the house.

What greets him inside is both Cristina and Ezio kneeling on the floor by Manfredo’s side, trying to clean and stitch the wound. Ezio’s hands are sure as he works the needle through skin, Cristina’s less so as she prepares bandages and generally tries to be useful while not really knowing what to do.

“Let me,” Desmond says and gently shoos her off, towards the old woman who takes her by the arm and says something about going to find her something to eat. 

After making sure that she is out of earshot and Manfredo is still unconscious, Ezio glances quickly at Desmond before returning his attention back to the wound, his hands bloody.

“I do not know if this will be any help at all by this point or if I am just torturing the poor fool for nothing,” he says and ties a neat knot on the stitch. “Is there anything else we can do? Something doctors from your time would have done to save him?”

“He has lost a lot of blood. There’s not much we can do about that, not without proper doctors and hospitals and… What I know is to keep it clean, keep pressure on it so he doesn’t bleed out but… it seems a little late for that.” Desmond sighs, then starts wrapping the bandage around Manfredo’s leg when Ezio pulls away, having finished his work. “He was always supposed to die today. We just changed where and when.”

Ezio remains silent, his jaw clenched as he starts washing his hands. 

Desmond watches Manfredo’s ashy face. He knows he should feel more strongly about the situation, about watching an already dead man breathe, knowing that history has doomed this man to die on this day and just because of that they are here now, watching it happen right before their eyes. But guess you can get used to the unearthly horrors buried underneath it all when you have been through this enough times.

Cristina returns. A thick, coarse blanket rests on her shoulders, and she holds a bowl of steaming soup in her hands. She hasn’t touched a drop of it, though its warmth has made her cheeks flush. Her hair, once braided and styled so elegantly, is now a mess, tangled locks curled by dried sweat framing her face. She comes to sit by her dying husband’s side, balancing the bowl in her hands. 

Desmond gets up to give her the little privacy he can in such a small house. Ezio means to do the same, but he is stopped by Cristina who catches his wrist in her hand, so delicate and frail around his. 

It takes another two hours before Manfredo finally passes away. It is a slow and arduous wait for the three of them, but mercifully not for Manfredo himself, who does not wake up at all before slipping away. Cristina doesn’t cry until Ezio pulls one of the blankets over Manfredo’s head, and even then Desmond wouldn’t have noticed if the tears hadn’t glimmered in the candlelight.

They let Cristina have the old loveseat for the night – Ezio keeps talking to her in a low voice until she lies down, and tugs a blanket around her. She is lost to the world soon after. 

Desmond takes one look at Ezio’s face and pulls him outside into the darkness. 

“Are you alright?” 

Ezio blinks, then frowns. He brushes unruly locks of hair from his face, though a cool breeze blows them right back.

“Yes. Yes, why would I not be alright?”

“Because he died. Because we couldn’t stop it from happening.”

“The same will not happen to Cristina. We got her this far, and she is fine – tomorrow we will take her to Monteriggioni. She will be safe there until she knows where she wants to go.” A pause. “If she wants to go.”

Ah. 

Ezio must have read something on his face, because his own cheeks flash red with shame and for once he struggles with words.

“I – “ He clears his throat, massaging the wrist of his sword arm, his eyes downcast, then promptly decides to change the subject. “You obviously think something bad will still happen to her. Why?” 

“I dunno, that’s how these things go. We might have saved her now, but I don’t know if there even is some kind of a threshold of how long we have to keep her alive past her original deathdate to get it to… stick. Look, in the Animus, I saw less than half an hour of this day. Or of yesterday – but the point is that I’m still here. The memory hasn’t ended. The Gray is waiting for something, and I don’t like it.”

“Then we keep protecting her until that threshold, until your Gray arrives,” Ezio says, resolute. “Besides, what could threaten her now? Firenze is far behind us, no one knows we are here, and should that old woman turn out to be an unlikely villain, the two of us can easily take her down.”

“I just… I hope you’re right. I really do.”

“Do not worry, I am.”

Desmond wakes up to Ezio shaking him and calling his name.

He blinks his eyes open, his back aching from sleeping in an old armchair, but the sheer panic in Ezio’s eyes makes him stand up before he is even properly awake.

“It is Cristina, she is not well. She – “

Ezio drags him over to Cristina, who is lying on the loveseat in faint candlelight, trembling and covered in sweat. Her eyes are open, but she doesn’t respond when Ezio lays a hand on her shoulder and calls for her. Her forehead feels burning hot to the touch when Desmond reaches over.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

“What is happening to her?” Ezio asks, pleads, and turns to Desmond, his eyes wide and wet. “We saved her – we got her out of Firenze, this should not be happening – “

Desmond brushes Cristina’s hair back from covering the gash on her forehead, then tugs open the bandages on her arm to reveal the swollen, angry red wound there.

“We cleaned that – I sat her down and cleaned that the best I could – “

“I know you did,” Desmond says quietly and glances at Cristina’s flushed face. “The wound’s infected, that’s for sure, and now she’s probably got… sepsis or something. Bacteria got into her system through this.”

“What is that, bacteria – no, I do not care. Is there something we can do about it? There must be. You must know something – you have a cure for this in the future, vero? You can save her.”

Ezio’s eyes are frantic and wild and desperate.

“It’s not something we can cure just like that. If we were in the future, we would be hurrying her to a hospital, where doctors would give her antibiotics and… if it came to it, put her into machines that would keep her alive. None of those won’t be invented for another 400 years.” He shakes his head slowly. “There’s nothing I can do. I’m really sorry, Ezio.”

Ezio falls onto his knees onto the floor, weakly holding onto Cristina’s hand.

“So she will die?”

“I’m sorry.”

Ezio reaches over to brush curls of dark hair from Cristina’s eyes. 

“This is not what… I was supposed to keep her safe,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “I promised I would get her out of the city and to safety. I would have gladly taken her and her husband anywhere she wanted and wished them a happy life together if I had just known she was going to be alive and well.”

Desmond looks up at the sound of a door opening. The old woman appears in the room, holding a candle. Desmond leaves Ezio to explain to her what is going on. She listens solemnly before offering suggestions on how to make Cristina’s final hours a little easier.

The rest of the night and the early morning is spent by Cristina’s bedside. They take turns holding her hand, talking to her and trying to cool her down with wet pieces of cloth. She flits in and out of consciousness, occasionally asking for her mother and father like a little girl. Sometimes she wails after a him, and Desmond doesn’t dare to guess whether she wants her husband or Ezio during those moments. 

Ezio spends hours sitting on the floor next to the loveseat, holding Cristina’s hand and talking about all the things they got up to when they were young, about their walks around Firenze, hand in hand, about all the times he had to sneak into her room without her father knowing about it, about just being teenagers and in love. 

The sun is a red blink in the horizon when Desmond returns from the well outside, carrying a bucket of cold water, and finds Ezio recounting how he and Cristina first met, as stupid and immature as the whole thing was. Desmond stops in the doorway and just listens to Ezio’s voice which by now has turned raspy and dry.

Sighing, he walks over and lowers the bucket on the floor near the hatch to the cold cellar where they carried Manfredo’s body earlier.

“You should try to get some rest. I can take over for a while.”

“I cannot. She needs me.”

Desmond sighs and rubs his eyes.

“Yeah, I know. But you’re not going to help anyone if you’re exhausted.” He approaches Ezio and stops behind him. He almost lays a hand on his tense shoulder, his fingers inches away, but thinks better of it in the end. “At least drink something. Go outside for a moment. Or sit in that chair and close your eyes for ten minutes. Please. I’ll wake you up if anything happens.”

Ezio protests, because there is not a world in which he wouldn’t, but after some more coaxing and bullying Desmond gets him up from the floor and into the uncomfortable armchair.

He has just slipped into sleep when Cristina wakes up.

“Ezio…” she calls out in a panicked but strengthless voice, and though Desmond tries to shush her, she manages to rouse Ezio who jumps up from his seat and rushes to her, taking her hand.

But she shakes her hand free from his and reaches for something around her neck. The old woman helped her out of her outer dress earlier, leaving her only in her chemise, and Desmond knows what she is trying to do even before he can see the chain around her bare neck. The necklace. 

Realizing what she wants, Ezio reaches over to help her, slipping a hand behind her head to help to lift it, then untangles the chain from her hair. He tries to give the pendant to her, but she pushes it back to him, the effort making her arms tremble. He looks at it, the chain loosely hanging from his fingers. 

“You kept it,” he whispers and looks into her feverish eyes. 

She did, despite all the years. Despite the stupid shit he must have pulled in this timeline as well to get close to her during the Carnevale and which got her to rightfully reject him – despite her having been married to someone else for two decades. 

Desmond closes the door behind himself as quietly as he can when he steps outside.

The worst part about it all is that she doesn’t die yet. No, she suffers through the next day, barely there but still present enough to feel pain. 

The sun is setting once more when Desmond wakes up, having accidentally fallen asleep in the chair again. Massaging his aching neck, he looks around the room. The old woman is sitting by Cristina’s side, telling her of her children and grandchildren while trying to get her to eat at least some of the warm broth she has made. Desmond rubs his blurry eyes and looks around but doesn’t see Ezio anywhere.

The woman nods towards the stable.

The evening is dim, and the small stable, now empty after Desmond led their horses to the paddock behind it in the morning, even darker. By the back wall, between the pens, Ezio has slumped on the floor. He has covered his eyes with his hands, and the wet tear marks running down his cheeks and into his beard catch the little light that has found its way through the cracks in the wooden walls. His hair has escaped from the red tie and is now a mess, covering his face and spilling onto his shoulders. 

Sighing to himself, Desmond walks over to Ezio and lowers his aching body down to sit next to him. He leans his back against the wall, breathing in deep through his nose before glancing at Ezio who is wiping tears from his face. Outside, a bird calls. A shadow moves on the other side of the badly-constructed wall as one of the horses moves in the paddock, grazing.

“In that other life, was it quick?” Ezio’s raspy voice breaks the calmness of the dark evening. He stares at his own scar-filled palm and audibly swallows a sob. “Was her death mercifully quick, or did she have to suffer for hours like she does now? Is this a fate I alone have forced her into?”

Desmond’s silence breaks the dam. There is a sharp, wet intake of breath before Ezio’s shoulders start to tremble and he hides his face in his hands. His chest heaves with violent sobs and every muscle in his body tenses, but when Desmond reaches over and wraps an arm around him, the gentlest pull is enough to get Ezio to lean into him and bury his face in the space between Desmond’s neck and shoulder. 

Desmond leans his chin on top of Ezio’s head and just holds him tight, drawing circles into Ezio’s stiff shoulders and smoothing out his long and tangled hair. 

“You love her. You wanted to keep her safe. No one can blame you for that,” he whispers and hushes the sobs that make the fingers digging into his back tremble. “You couldn’t have known it was going to be like this.”

“I should have listened to you – if I had not intervened, at least she would have died without all of this – she did not deserve any of this, and it is all my fault – ”

“Hey, shhh.” He rests his hand on Ezio’s neck. The rapidfire pulse there beats against the tips of his fingers. “You didn’t mean for this to happen. And if we are now looking for people to blame, you knew about her death only because I told you. If anything, this is my fault.”

“No, I brought her here. If we had stayed in Firenze, she might have – “

“The wound would have gotten infected anyway. No renaissance doctor could have done anything about it.” Desmond sighs. “You would have had to let her bleed to death to avoid this. But can you honestly say you could have stood idly by and let her be killed? You would have hated yourself every second of the rest of your life if you hadn’t tried everything you could to save her.”

Ezio is quiet for a while, apart from the sniffling. From this angle Desmond can’t see his face, but he can feel the pull on the back of his shirt as Ezio grips onto the fabric.

“Is it not selfish of me to prolong her suffering just to spare myself from the guilt of doing nothing?”

Desmond closes his eyes and rests more heavily against the wall behind his back. 

“That’s what I’ve been asking myself ever since the Doge fell to his death because of me.” He feels Ezio tensing in his arms, listening. “I don’t know what the right answer is. If there even is one. I don’t know what to do any better than you. I don’t even have any idea what all of this is for. For a moment I thought that maybe it might be different when it was you changing things, that there was hope, but now…”

Slowly, Ezio pulls back from him just enough to look Desmond in the eye. His own are bloodshot and still glistening. Desmond can’t stop himself from reaching over and brushing some of the disheveled hair from Ezio’s face.

“If you’re selfish for wanting to save her, what does it make me when I told you about her death because I was scared that I was going to lose you for good if I didn’t?”

Letting out a shuddering breath, Ezio shakes his head slowly before leaning in to rest his forehead against Desmond’s and closing his eyes.

They listen to the sounds of night for a while – the breeze brushing against the shed-turned-stable, the rustle of something moving the small hayloft above them – mice? – Ezio’s breathing as it slowly calms down. 

Cristina’s pendant, now around Ezio’s neck, has slipped out from the open front of his robes. It taps Desmond in the arm when Ezio shifts and pulls slightly away from him, but not far – they end up sitting side by side, Ezio’s head on Desmond’s shoulder, his right arm and Desmond’s left touching all the way from their shoulders to their little fingers.

Desmond curls his hand into a loose fist.

“I don’t know what she said to you last night, but just in case –  In that other life, she loved you until the moment she died. Hoped that you two could have had a second chance.”

Ezio breathes in very deliberately but still doesn’t quite manage to keep his breath steady. He clutches the pendant in his left hand, pulling the chain tight against his neck. 

“Thank you.” He is quiet for a moment before letting the pendant slip from his fingers. “I am sorry about all of this. I am sorry that you had to be here and tell me that.” Sighing, Ezio shifts his head a little against Desmond's shoulder, leaning more heavily against him. “ I know what you feel for me, and it is not that I do not…” Their hands brush against each other. “I do not want to be angry with you.”

Desmond rests his head against Ezio’s and closes his eyes.

“Then don’t be.”

A few hours later, when it is all over, Ezio leans down to kiss Cristina’s still warm forehead and bids her the last goodbye.

Chapter Text

“Is there anything I could do?” 

The whispered question breaks the almost reverent silence that smells of sickness and sweat. Ezio doesn’t look up from the dead woman lying between them, just shakes his head, his lips white. His hand trembles with exhaustion as he pulls a sheet over Cristina’s face to hide the lines of tears on her cheeks.

“Do you need a minute? I can go outside if…”

“Please.”

Just hearing the sound of Ezio’s hoarse voice makes Desmond’s throat hurt. He nods, even though Ezio won’t see it, and casts yet another worried glance at him before slipping out of the house. He presses the front door closed behind himself and rests his back against it, just breathing in the chilly, fresh air outside for a moment.

Biting his chapped lips, Desmond drags his tired body to the well. He rubs his eyes, can’t hold back a yawn, doesn’t really want to think about when he last got any sleep. 

A bird calls somewhere in the distance when he lowers the heavy bucket filled with water on the ground and brushes curls of his hair from his forehead. Nothing moves in the calm darkness apart from the silhouettes of the horses grazing in the paddock. Nothing in the darkness hints of the fact that the Gray just got what it wanted. 

He presses a hand to his chest, as if it was hurting. He knows what he feels is an imitation, but God, it is hard to keep himself separate from the memories that are not his but should be, could be, and why aren’t they, they are in his head after all, they must be his – fuck. There is a part of him that knows he loved that girl once, and now she’s dead, and no matter what he tells himself, his eyes still burn with tears.

Grinding his teeth together, he pushes the feeling away, slamming all the walls he can around his mind and heart. The thought of giving into the Bleeding effect and feeling Ezio’s pain as his own now feels grotesque. Insulting. 

He glances back towards the house. There is a lot to be done before all of this is truly over. Cristina’s body has to be carried down to the cold cellar where they already took Manfredo, to wait until both of them can be transported to their relatives and be given proper burial. Said relatives have to be informed. The good woman on whose hospitality they have been leeching off has to be compensated and thanked for all she has done.

And apparently those responsibilities will now be waiting for Ezio and Ezio alone, once the sun rises hours from now. Sighing, Desmond looks at the tendrils of Gray climbing out of the well and thinks of the dark circles under Ezio’s eyes. He wishes it wouldn’t be like this – for fuck’s sake, it hasn’t been even ten minutes since she died.

Fuck this shit. 

He tries to run back to the house, to tell Ezio that he is going, but he doesn’t make it even half-way there.

The bright sunlight blinds him once the Gray throws him out. Shielding his eyes with his arm, Desmond takes in the scene. The Firenze he arrives at is not much different from the one they fled from a couple of days ago. Signs of unrest stare him in the face from all around him – overturned wagons, flaming piles of books and paintings, the eyes of scared people hiding in their homes and peering through broken windows. Desmond walks by the very wagon they had to abandon – this cannot be more than a week after they left Firenze.

But there, in front of the Palazzo Pitti, Savonarola’s hiding place, most of the people either brave or unfortunate enough to still be in the city have gathered together. They are like a dark sea as they fill the square, chanting demands for Savonarola’s head. Desmond watches the lone figure in a monk’s robes with bitter satisfaction. There are no lieutenants left, no more jumps before the main event – no, today is the day Savonarola dies. Oh, if only Cristina had managed to avoid the thugs for just a few more days…

Mario, La Volpe, Paola and Machiavelli, all blue, shine brightly next to Ezio’s gold among the angry citizens. Desmond slips through the crowd towards them, gently pushing people out of the way, not really in any hurry. With tired interest, he watches as Savonarola pulls out the Apple and screams demands of obedience at the people surrounding him. 

Everything plays out like it did last time. Ezio flings the throwing knife. The Apple falls from Savonarola’s hand and rolls away innocently, while the swarm of people swallows up the mad monk, drowning him under the rage of the whole city. 

Now, where is that light-fingered guard?

There.

Desmond draws his hand back, a throwing knife ready, and – shit. Can’t get him from this angle. 

He elbows people out of the way, rushing forwards to get into a better position. The black figure of Ezio flashes in his peripheral vision, then his focus is back on the guard – who has just reached down and grabbed the Apple.

Ezio rushes after him, and Desmond lets his own steps slow down. This happened last time, Ezio will catch the guy. Sighing, he looks back to see La Volpe coming to meet him. The others are following the crowd, going to see what will become of Savonarola.

“We thought you might appear,” is the spymaster’s greeting. 

“I won’t be here for long.”

La Volpe rests a hand on Desmond’s shoulder and leads him towards the others. 

The bloodthirsty procession drags Savonarola across the bridge and to the other side of the river Arno, to the Piazza della Signoria. By the time Desmond takes his place between La Mario and Paola, Savonarola has already been tied up, the bonfire lit. Desmond glances up at him – he remembers the monk’s frightened eyes, looking to him for help when Ludovico Orsi’s mercenary was holding Savonarola hostage. He remembers how Savonarola didn’t look back once when he ran away with the Apple only moments later.

“No one deserves to die in such pain.”

It is Ezio, staring at the burning bonfire and the monk on top of it. That is what he said last time too – the Bleed is strong enough to make Desmond sway on his feet as he hears both the past and present speak at the same time, as one. When he had lived through this moment in the Animus, he hadn’t had any context for the gut-wrenching feelings that had washed over him out of the blue and nearly dropped his synchronization to zero. He hadn’t known about Cristina. But now Desmond recognises the thinly-veiled rage and deep tones of loss in Ezio’s voice for what they are.

And despite it all, Ezio still finds it in himself to grant Savonarola a quick death. His voice, rough with grief and disuse, carries over the piazza when he addresses the people afterwards, and the dark circles under his eyes seem to only strengthen his message. Desmond has never loved him as much as he does right now. 

The crowd parts to give way to Ezio when he hops down from the platform and heads back towards the Assassins. Mario is the first to greet him, patting him on the back and steering him away from all the prying eyes, while Machiavelli gives him his usual wry smile. Ezio exchanges a few quiet words with him, then nods to La Volpe and Paola before meeting Desmond’s gaze. 

“I’m here just for this. Jumping any second now,” Desmond explains sheepishly when Ezio leaves the others and comes to him. He takes another look at Ezio and lowers his voice. “Sorry for disappearing on you. Did you get… everything taken care of alright?”

“It is over now, that is what matters.”

Desmond’s brows furrow. He steps closer and lets his gaze roam over the lines on Ezio’s face.

“Are you doing okay?”

“I suspect that out of the two of us, you are the one who knows how long it will take for me to be alright.” Ezio’s expression is tired. Just that. “When will we see you again?”

“Er, probably in 1499. December. Unless you have plans to fuck up the timeline and storm the Vatican before that.”

Ezio’s sigh is deep. He rubs his forehead, still looking just as absolutely awful as he did last night – no, a few days ago – when he lost Cristina.

“Uncle Mario thinks it is best to wait. And I do not think it would be wise to try our luck after what happened to…” He looks at the dispersing crowd with empty eyes before glancing back to Desmond. “A year and a half is a long time.”

“Yeah, it is. But at least it’s not nine years.” Desmond’s attempt at a chuckle comes out weak and feels out of place, and it fails to earn him the smile he was hoping for. “I’ll be there, I swear.”

Ezio doesn’t object when Desmond crosses the remaining distance between them and pulls him into an embrace. No, he relaxes into it, practically falls into Desmond’s arms, wrapping his arm so tightly around him it is almost hard to breathe. And he keeps holding him just as tightly until the moment the Gray finally comes for Desmond.

“What is that?” Ezio hisses and pulls back slightly, his fingers digging into Desmond’s shoulder as he positions himself between them and him. His eyes glow golden as he stares at the wisps of the Gray – not through them or somewhere near them, but at them.

“That’s the Gray coming for me,” Desmond explains and lightly taps on Ezio’s hand which is still gripping his shoulder so hard his knuckles have turned white. Glancing back over his shoulder, he can see Mario heading towards them with a worried expression on his face, alerted by Ezio’s reaction.

Desmond waves a hand at Mario to get him to stand down, then gently wraps his hand around Ezio’s wrist when Ezio refuses to let go of him and has just slightly loosened his grip on his shoulder. 

“Yes, but what is it?”

“Hell if I know,” Desmond mutters. “But it means it’s time for me to go.”

The world around him starts to lose its colors. The crowd still leering at Savonarola’s body turns into faceless shapes and the cobblestones under his feet into a shining symmetrical grid before it dissolves into nothing. The smell of smoke vanishes, as do the sounds of burning wood. 

The last thing of 1498 to disappear is the weight of Ezio’s hand on his shoulder.

The second jump in less than an hour brings Desmond into a sleepy Monteriggioni that is getting ready for the night. He finds himself standing in the courtyard of the villa and looking up at the lights in the windows, feeling in his bones all the hours he stayed up trying to help Cristina.

The door to the villa opens.

“I thought it was you,” Mario calls and waves a hand. “Come, come inside. You look exhausted.”

While amusedly complaining about the weather they have been having lately, Mario herds him towards the room that once upon a time was Desmond’s. After a quick wash and a change of clothes Desmond climbs into the familiar bed and sleeps like the dead well into the next day. 

It’s long past noon by the time he wakes up, forces himself to get dressed and drags himself towards the kitchens in the hopes of finding something to eat. On the way, he is intercepted by Mario whose face lights up at the sight of him. Despite Desmond’s protests, he takes him by the shoulder and steers him towards the dining room.

Maria and Claudia look up when Mario presents him with a cheerful “Look who is here!”. The women are seated at the long table, sitting opposite of each other. An open book rests on the table in front of Maria, while Claudia, who by the look of her outfit has just returned from a riding trip, seems to also be having a very late breakfast. Or perhaps just lunch. Her brother is nowhere to be seen.

Desmond stops awkwardly at the door. He can’t decipher the look that flashes on Claudia’s face, but before he can get himself too worried about her, Maria stands up. 

Silver colors her long hair, and lines decorate her face, but now in her late sixties she has regained the sharpness to her gaze she last possessed decades ago. Almost transfixed, she walks around the table and approaches Desmond, studying him with eyes so similar to Ezio’s. She comes to a stop right in front of him and raises a delicate hand to brush curls of hair from his eyes, then rests it on his cheek. The skin on her palm is soft, un-calloused. A lady’s hand.

“Five centuries between us, and yet when I look at your face… If I did not know better, I could easily think you were my son,” Maria says softly and runs her gaze all over his face once more. “Oh, I swear you have Giovanni’s smile.” 

His throat constricts. Furiously blinking unruly tears away, he manages to croak out something that resembles words.

“I’m glad you are feeling better, Signora.”

“And I am glad I had the chance to meet you, Desmond. My descendant. What a blessing it is to see you.” She smiles and tilts her head to the side as she considers him. “My children have not yet given me any grandchildren, but now I know there will be some one day. And hush, please, you must call me Maria.”

Claudia stands up.

“Mother, give him some space. Or at least let him sit down before you bring up the nonexistent grandchildren,” she sighs and rolls her eyes. This is clearly not the first time this topic has come up in this household. 

Hesitantly, Desmond meets Claudia’s gaze over Maria’s shoulder, but she keeps her reaction mild. She just exasperatedly shakes her head before gesturing towards a chair next to her. So Desmond walks over and sits down while Maria returns to her seat. Mario has taken his place at the head of the long table and is already in the middle of devouring his meal. 

Desmond grabs himself something to eat and pretends he doesn’t notice that both of the women are staring at him. For different reasons, he assumes, but it’s unnerving all the same. 

“So were any of your tales about your great adventures true? Or are you just a good storyteller?” Claudia asks, one eyebrow raised, her gaze so sharp he fears he might cut himself on it. 

“They were Ezio’s adventures. Some of Altaïr’s. And Ratonhnhaké:ton’s,” Desmond answers, his mouth full of food. “Not mine. Just borrowed them.”

“Ah. So just a thief then. And a liar.”

“Oh, don’t you start that as well. Ezio didn’t speak to me for a year after he found out. That’s enough of a punishment, don’t you think?”

She manages to keep up the façade of being displeased with him for a few seconds more, then doesn’t bother anymore. She leans in closer, her eyes shining. 

“What is the future like? Are there still horses? Are women still forced to stay home while men decide everything for them? Do people have the ability to fly?”

And so Desmond is roped into telling her all he knows about modern gender equality and feminism. And horses, or the lack thereof. Then he blows her mind by mentioning space ships. Confuses her when he tries to explain what satellites are. 

This goes on at least for half an hour before Maria tells her daughter to give Desmond a minute to breathe. Claudia, who has gotten increasingly both excited and agitated, doesn’t seem to mind as she stands up, mutters something about finally proving her stupid brother wrong after all this time and leaves the room. Desmond half-expects her to rub her hands together and crackle like a cartoon villain. 

Desmond smiles awkwardly when he notices that Maria is watching him again, a smile of her own on her lips. He knows what is coming before she can open her mouth.

“You have seen my son’s life. Have you seen his children? His wife?”

He has to push down his chuckle – didn’t she just tell Claudia to stop asking him so many questions? 

But he gives in, because this is Maria, and that is how he ends up explaining that no, he has not seen Ezio’s kids and doesn’t know how many there will be, but he has seen Sofia and she’s wonderful. That of course is not enough, and he has to tell her everything he remembers about Maria’s future daughter-in-law.

It is this interrogation Ezio walks in on when he finally deigns to appear. He is dressed for a day at home, forgoing the Assassin getup, and doesn’t seem surprised to see Desmond there. A slightly alarmed expression flashes on his face as he hears what kind of questions are coming out of his mother’s mouth.

Desmond takes his chance when it is given to him. He stands up, makes a half-assed attempt at an apology and a thank you at the same time, then practically pushes Ezio out of the room and into the hallway. He starts walking in a random direction just to get out of there, but he doesn’t get far before Ezio touches his elbow and steers him towards Mario’s office. 

“Hi,” he chuckles sheepishly when Ezio falls in step with him. 

“Hello.” 

Another year has come and gone, and though Desmond can’t pinpoint exactly what has changed in Ezio, the passing of time is clear. Maybe he has styled his beard a little differently, maybe his smile pronounces the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes more than before, maybe it is the first hints of gray in his hair that seem to catch the light so – or no, that might have been just his imagination.

Funny how it works, time. 

A small smile curves Ezio’s lips, though it disappears almost as soon as it appears. He keeps a steady pace at an arm’s length from Desmond, and Desmond has to admit that okay, yeah, maybe he was expecting a little warmer welcome, if he is being totally honest. After Cristina, after Firenze. But okay, they’re taking it slow, right, no problem. 

He realizes he has been staring at Ezio who in turn has been looking at him. He turns away – and hey, would you look at that, the floors in the villa are way more interesting than he remembered. Fascinating, almost. Intriguing.

“The others will arrive tomorrow,” Ezio says to break the silence. “To prepare Monteriggioni for Cesare’s attack while Uncle and I go to Rome. But there is something I wish to talk to you about before that.”

Desmond nods at this, risking a glance at the other. The meaning of Ezio’s words really sink in only after a few more steps, and it nearly makes Desmond spin around and jog back to Mario. The old man was so much like his usual self that it didn’t really register how little time he has left. If the journey to Rome takes four days and the Assassins are sending Ezio there tomorrow or the day after, the siege will ravage Monteriggioni in less than two weeks. 

“Are you – what are you going to do about your uncle?” Desmond asks while Ezio opens the door to the office and holds it open for him. 

“I do not know. I truly do not. Uncle thinks he can avoid his fate if he is just smart and clever enough, but after what happened to Cristina I am hesitant to let him try anything drastic. I could not bear it if something like that happened to him… But how can I just let him be killed?”

Mario’s office has remained the same despite all the years that have passed. The codex pages, all of them, hang on the wall, revealing the hidden map, but the Apple does not rest on the pedestal. 

“Maybe it should be his decision and not ours.” Altaïr’s influence, perhaps, that thought. Desmond looks to the familiar curves of the handwriting on the codex pages and seeks comfort in them. “It is his decision. He’s a grown man, and he knows the risks of meddling with the timeline. It’s probably not our business to tell him how his life should end.”

Ezio sighs from where he stands near the bookcases, opening the secret door.

“Sometimes I wish I did not know all of this – I almost envy that man you saw in the Animus.” His eyes find Desmond, then return to study the mechanism of the door. “But then I think of you and your situation and feel so selfish for thinking so.”

The air gets colder the deeper below the earth they go. The sound of their shoes on the stone steps echo in the tunnel.

“Hey, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to but… How are you feeling? About Cristina?”

"I…“ Ezio frowns. “When was that for you?"

"Yesterday."

Ezio’s step falters. 

“Ah. I did not realize – I knew in my mind that you experience time differently, but I did not fully understand what it would mean. Have you been able to get any sleep since?”

After Desmond reassures him that he has, they continue down the stairs in silence as Ezio tries to find the right words. 

“I feel guilt, mostly. I am not sure if I am allowed to feel much else, considering what I put her through.”

“Hey…”

Ezio shakes his head.

“Do not pity me. I have had a year, almost two years, to come to terms with her loss and my part in it. But you…“ The dimness of the tunnel darkens Ezio’s eyes. “Is that… thing in your head making you feel what I felt for her? Do my memories force you to grieve for her?

Desmond didn’t think it was possible to see a man drown under his own guilt, but somehow he has just now become a witness to such a thing. It almost makes him lie.

“A little bit. But only sometimes. And I don’t mind.”

“You should.”

“Getting upset about it is not going to fix it, so why bother? This is who I am now. And hey, really, I don’t mind the Cristina thing. I’ve known from the get-go that you love her, it wasn’t a surprise. And she’s really not the only one I have awkward feelings for – I have a weird crush on Caterina Sforza because of you. I love your wife. And Altaïr’s wife. And Ziio, because Haytham – that’s Ratonhnhaké:ton’s father – loved her. Like, the list goes on and on.”

Instead of matching his half-smile like Desmond expected and hoped, Ezio presses his lips tightly together. As if what Desmond said just made it worse. 

After hurrying down the last few steps into the Sanctuary, Ezio heads off… somewhere. Desmond takes it slower, running his fingers over the railing, then leaning his head back to ogle the sky that peaks through the grate in the ceiling, before coming to a stop in the middle of the room. He looks up at Altaïr, hoping that his stony gaze would somehow help Desmond understand what the hell is going on with Ezio.

Speak of the devil. Ezio appears from behind one of the statues, holding the Apple which glows softly in his hand.

“Whatcha doing with that?”

Ezio flicks his gaze to Desmond, then returns it to the Apple.

“I will tell you soon. But first, I was wondering if you could use it to show me your time.”

Letting his smile fall, Desmond walks over to him and reaches out his hand. The Apple gives out a small, warm pulse when Ezio drops it on his palm.

“Tell me the whole story, if you have not grown tired of it yet. I have heard much from Niccolò, but it is not the same as hearing it from your lips. And I promise I will listen all the way through this time. I want to hear everything, Desmond. Everything.”

Desmond lets the Apple roll from one hand to the other. 

“I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Show me the Animus.”

Closing his eyes, Desmond focuses. As he asks things of it, the Apple starts to radiate heat, and he can see its glow through his closed eyelids. 

When Desmond blinks his eyes open, he is greeted by the Apple’s creation – a life size hologram of the Abstergo lab has settled into the room, see-through and glittering, tinted with blue. The incorporeal Animus rests in the middle of the Sanctuary. 

Ezio makes a slow spin as he takes it all in, frowning at the cold, clinical architecture and all the blinking lights of the machines. The blue rays of light wash over him, dancing over his skin. His fingers brush against the image of the Animus, and for a moment time seems to bend – it really looks like he is there, in 2012.

“Is this it?”

“Yeah. Well, the first one.” Desmond can’t look away from Ezio and the tiny shifts of his facial muscles that betray what he is thinking. A twitch at the corner of his mouth, the shadow that appears between his brows when he frowns.

“Is this the one that showed you my memories?”

“Nah, that one came later, after the Assassins got me out. This one was for Altaïr – and okay, I lied, I did see your birth in this one.”

Ezio makes a face at that.

“It does not look very comfortable.”

“Yeah, ‘cause it wasn’t.” This time Desmond’s chuckle draws out a half of a smile from Ezio. “But the one the Assassins had was a lot more comfy, had padding and everything, Rebecca’s good like that.” 

“So how does it work exactly?”

“Now you're asking the wrong person. No, I just lay there and either Lucy or Rebecca did her magic and boom, I was in your head.”

After giving the Animus another dirty look, Ezio takes a few steps back and considers the hologram of the Abstergo lab again. He stops to stare at the windows and the faceless, modern buildings he doesn’t recognize as Rome, before frowning at a ghost of a surveillance camera pointing at him. There is no way for him to know what it is, but he seems to sense it is a means of control.

“Are all the buildings in the future like this? This does not look particularly… inviting.”

“Yeah, no. The people at Abstergo just got a weird taste.”

“The Templars of your time, sì?”

“Yeah.”

Since the question about the architecture of the twenty-first century has now been brought up, Desmond gives in and shows Ezio his home. It is wild, seeing a fifteenth century man standing in the middle of his one bedroom apartment and staring at his TV like it’s going to bite him. Then Desmond just has to show him the Bad Weather bar. Ezio’s reaction to that makes Desmond grin and raise the Apple again – Ezio is going to get a VIP pass to all the tourist attractions of New York. 

They end up sitting by Altaïr, leaning their back against the base of the statue and watching as the Apple projects images of Desmond’s old life on the tall walls of the Sanctuary. His parents, the Farm. Lucy, Rebecca and Shaun. His motorbike and the plant he could barely keep alive. Ratonhnhaké:ton, Kaniehtí:io, Haytham. Altaïr, Maria and Malik. 

Ezio squints his eyes at the image of a phone, still does not understand how cars work even after Desmond shows him an engine, and considers himself quite a critic when it comes to twenty-first century planes because of his vast experience of flying with Leonardo’s flying machine.

“And you jumped off one?” Ezio asks as he stares at a hologram of the skyscrapers against New York’s night sky, his eyes wide as his gaze jumps from tower to tower, looking for a route up, a handhold, something to use to climb the glassy surface. 

Desmond doesn’t bother to hide his chuckle.

“I did have a parachute.”

“That makes you only marginally less insane.”

Rolling his eyes at Ezio, Desmond considers the Apple resting on the floor between them. He has been avoiding the heavier topics, the parts that hurt, and has yet to touch on how he came to be here in the first place. But there’s no time like the present, huh?

He reaches for the Apple and the hologram changes, turning back into the Abstergo lab.

“So, back to this place. This is where it all began.” His voice quietens, and Ezio tense up next to him as he picks up on the change. 

Desmond tells him about his abduction, about waking in this lab and finding himself face to face with Vidic. Wracks his brain for the ugliest image of the asshole he can find to show Ezio.

“I was Subject 17, you know. Not the first or the second, but the seventeenth unlucky bastard to be forced into that thing. Makes you feel special, doesn’t it?”

From the corner of his eye, he can see Ezio glance at him.

“Do you know what became of the others? Did you ever meet them?”

“No. Or well, kinda. Sixteen left me messages in the Animus – Clay, his name was Clay – but he died before I was brought in. I sort of met him during my coma, but that is a whole thing and I’m not going to even try to explain it.”

“How so?”

“Uh, so as I said, he died. Killed himself. The Bleeding effect got to him – You really are making me explain this, huh? – but before that, he loaded a copy of his consciousness into the Animus. So it was not really him I met, but a copy, I guess.”

Ezio blinks at this revelation. Apparently decides that his life has become so crazy by this point that he might just as well shrug and accept it.  

“And, um. Now that he’s been mentioned…” Desmond begins, not having the slightest idea how to end the sentence. It dawns on him that this is something he probably should have told Ezio earlier. But Clay has been the farthest thing from his mind lately. “He was your descendant as well.”

The hologram changes so that soon he has an image of Clay standing there, looking at Ezio who in turn doesn’t react much at all, which in itself tells more about his feelings than anything else. 

“Clay was an Assassin. My dad sent him as an undercover agent to Abstergo. They had him go through your memories, in search of the Apple. But apparently he couldn't see as far into your memories as I did because his ancestor was… conceived at an earlier point in your life."

Desmond keeps his gaze off Ezio who in turn stays silent for a long while.

“Is that child – do you know if that child exists already?”

“I have no idea. I’m not sure if you ever came to know about that kid in the other timeline. Didn’t see it in the Animus.” They have the most wonderful conversations, don’t they? “But if I had to guess, I’d say that the kid is already out there somewhere. You know what you were like twenty years ago.”

The sound Ezio makes is some kind of a cross between a chuckle and a groan of embarrassment.

“You sound like my mother.”

“Yeah, that’s because we’re related.” Desmond grins. The grin grows wider when Ezio punches his shoulder and tells him to shut up. 

“So did you really have no idea?” Desmond asks a moment later when he has stopped laughing and Ezio has had time to collect his thoughts.

“I… I knew there was a possibility. But no one ever reached out to me. I guess I thought that if such a child existed, the mother would appear behind my door to ask for money or for me to take the child and raise it as part of my family. But not one has made any such claims. Not to my knowledge. And Claudia would not keep such matters from me, had the mother appeared when I was away.”

“Will you look for the kid?”

“No. My presence would only endanger the child. This life I have – I am an Assassin. I have enemies. The less ties that child has to me, the less danger there is. And if I did not know about the child in that other life, it means I should keep my distance in this one as well.”

“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No, it is alright. I am glad you told me.” Ezio waves his hand. “Now, enough of this distraction. What happened once the Assassins saved you from the Templars?”

Desmond spends a lot more time than is strictly necessary on describing the horrors of traveling in the trunk of Lucy’s car, just to get Ezio’s mind off the child. Then he shows him Rebecca’s Baby, because without that Animus Desmond wouldn’t be here. But then, almost without him thinking about it, the first hideout morphs into Monteriggioni’s Sanctuary of the twenty-first century, the image lining up perfectly with reality. 

Ezio’s breath hitches.

“You stayed here.”

Desmond hums in answer.

“Yeah. Abstergo’s lab was in Rome, so it was only a couple of hours’ drive here. Made my Bleeds a lot worse, but at least the Templars didn’t find us.” 

“How much of it was left?”

“Enough. You would still recognize it.”

Minerva’s unearthly voice echoes in the Sanctuary when Desmond lets her message play out. Juno’s words from the vault beneath the Colosseum make his hair stand on end – the Apple whispers them without him asking it to when he tries to explain how they found out where Ezio hid the Apple and followed his path back to Rome.

When the time comes to describe what happened during his coma, Desmond finds himself hesitating. Already back when Machiavelli was the one asking him questions, Desmond kept the details about Ezio’s Constantinople days sparse. The contents of Altaïr’s library, the decision Ezio made there – those he kept from Machiavelli, and now he makes the choice to keep them from Ezio.

But Ezio listens to his very brief summary about his Constantinople adventures and has questions.

“Desmond, how old was I in the last memory you saw?”

“You turned fifty-three that year.”

“So the child I will have, whose line will eventually lead to you…”

“Yeah, it’s not going to be born for at least thirteen years.”

Ezio furrows his brows and looks away from Desmond.

“I assume a woman is involved. You mentioned a wife.”

“Yeah, Sofia. She's really nice, you're gonna love her." Then Desmond realizes what he just said. "Or well, you are, because she’s amazing. Or I’m like 99 percent sure it is Sofia you have the kid with. Kids, I don’t know. At least you were very certain about going to ask her to marry you."

Desmond expects a barrage of questions about when and where Ezio will meet Sofia, about how to find her, what she is like. But Ezio just straightens his back, still not fully looking at Desmond.

"Do you know how long I live?" 

Desmond swallows, then answers. 

"I do."

On the way to Turin and the Grand Temple, Desmond had scoured Shaun's database for Ezio's death date. It might have been five centuries since his death, but someone had to know something. His grave had to be somewhere. And even if the gravestone had been eroded by time and made illegible, surely someone in the Italian Brotherhood had marked down when and where their greatest mentor had passed away. 

And someone had. There it was, the innocent-looking date, 30th of November, 1524, staring at him from the laptop screen. He had almost told the others to stop the van so he could go throw up in a bush by the road.

Sixty-five was so young. Ezio had got only twelve years to live after leaving Masyaf, and none of it was fair. 

Desmond glances up from his hands which he has clenched into fists without meaning to. Finds Ezio studying him. Looking away when their gazes meet.

“How long do I – no. No, do not tell me. I do not want to know.” The muscles at Ezio’s neck tense up. He lets out a dark chuckle. “It seems you are right – only Uncle Mario can make the decision on how he wants to face the death he knows is approaching. Who am I to say what he should do when I am too much of a coward to hear when my own end will come.”

Desmond had had to know for only a few minutes beforehand. Regrets that he has now made Mario endure the same horror for over two years. Mario, who is now sixty-five, the same age his nephew will be when he dies. Desmond tries to picture Mario’s gray streaks on Ezio, his wrinkles and lines, the way Mario walks like his knees aren’t what they once used to be. What is it about Auditore men and dying before the world is ready for it?

“You would have to live with the knowledge a whole lot longer than him,” he mutters and gives the Apple a little push so that it rolls a few inches towards Ezio. “You do not want to know, and there is nothing wrong with that. Trust me, I have been there.” 

That declaration leaves Desmond no choice but take the Apple and bring the Grand Temple into the Sanctuary. He repeats Juno and Minerva’s words. A chill runs down his spine when the Temple morphs into the Device. The thing. His right arm burns all over again.

When the holograms fade away, the Sanctuary seems to have been submerged into darkness. Outside, behind the grate leading to the world above, the sky has turned ink-blue. They have been here for hours. 

Ezio gets up on his feet. 

Not sure what is going on, Desmond follows suit. Ezio reaches out a hand in a silent request. Desmond gives him the Apple and watches as Ezio turns it around in his hands over and over again. 

“I wish you could have trusted me with this before,” is what Ezio ends up starting with. But he shakes his head immediately after and corrects himself. “No, I wish I had been someone you could have trusted with this. I accused you of lying to me, of keeping all of this from me. I only thought of myself, not stopping to wonder even for a minute if you might have had cause to lie. Because now I have to admit that I am not sure myself if I had believed you, had you revealed your secret earlier.”

He looks to Desmond, his eyes almost black in the dim light.

“But I have never been one you could trust, have I? I have suspected and accused you of many things over the years, and when I was not hostile towards you, I took your help for granted. Have I ever helped you? Truly tried to listen to you? No. You have always helped me with my worries, but how many times have I tried to ease yours?” He presses his lips together. The Apple glows softly in his hands, pulsing in the rhythm of his heartbeat. “And as if that was not enough, I cast you aside the moment there was a chance I could have Cristina in my life again. I clung to the memory of what I once had with her because it was easier than facing the fact that it was I who was wrong and not you. I should not have – thank you for being there for me when she died. But you should not have had to. You did not deserve that.”

The smile Ezio gives him when Desmond steps closer is sad, defeated.

“I am a fool, Desmond, and I am sorry. Perdonami.”

“Hey, it’s alright – ”

He forgets what he was about to say when Ezio reaches over to take his hand and gently presses the Apple into it. Then he takes Desmond’s other hand and places it over the Apple, holding his own hands over Desmond’s to keep them in place.

“I know you think that the Apple might be able to take you home. So I am giving it to you. If there is a possibility that it could send you back to your own time, you have to give it a chance. Now, before it is lost to the Borgias.” His voice lowers as he meets Desmond’s gaze. “You do not deserve this half-life, this half-existence. You deserve to go back home and live your life to the fullest. Go back there and find a way to heal yourself. Get rid of the memories that plague your mind before it is too late. There is no cure here, but if your time has buildings tall enough to pierce the sky and inventions that allow men to travel through the stars, surely someone there will find a cure for you.”

“Don’t I get any say in this?” Desmond’s dry throat turns his words raspy, sharp.

“You are just as free to leave as you are to stay here. I would love nothing more than to have you here for the rest of my life. But please, for once, choose yourself. Go home and live your own life and not anyone else’s. And know that no matter what you decide, I will go to the Vatican and receive the message of this Minerva and make sure that you will hear her warning in the future. I will follow the path you have set out for me and see all of this through, but...” 

He raises a hand to cup Desmond’s cheek.

“But, caro mio, you do not have to be here for it.”

Ezio kisses him. Gently, softly, desperately. His beard brushes against Desmond’s chin, and the fingers resting against his cheek tremble. Then Ezio pulls away, just as gently, and meets Desmond’s eyes before walking away. 

Desmond is left to stand alone in the dark Sanctuary, with the golden glow of the Apple as his only light.

Chapter Text

“It probably won’t even work.”

Altaïr, the uncooperative bastard, has nothing to say to that. 

Desmond glares at the statue from where he is sitting on the floor in the middle of the room. Squints his eyes to see the familiar face staring back at him from the darkness. His English feels weird in his mouth after so long, and just as out of place here as it did 500 years into the future. Above him, moonlight pours in through the grate in the ceiling and paints a grid of light on the stone floor. A good few feet away from him and his private spotlight, at a safe distance, the Apple twinkles innocently as if this wasn’t all its fault. 

“Like, if it could send me back to the future, why didn’t it do it when I first touched it back in… 88?” The mild expression on Altaïr’s stony face makes him scoff. “Okay, yeah, sure, we both know that thing has a mind of its own, but to this extent? Why would it wait for me to ask it to send me back? That makes no sense. And there’s gotta be some limit to what it can do, there’s no way it can just do everything. It just can’t. It’s not magic. Well, could as well be considering how much we understand them but – no, the Apple can’t do shit, I’m stuck here, and Ezio just got it into his head to be infuriatingly selfless when he doesn’t need to be.”

Stars blink back at him from the sky when he leans his head back and sighs so loudly that the sound echoes in the vast empty space.

“Why did he decide to do this now? I mean, I know why but – ” He lets out a growl and buries his head in his hands. “Fucking kissed me and then just walked away. Like, seriously, what the fuck was that? That’s not – that’s not fair. How the fuck does he have the nerve to do that? Don’t answer that, it’s a stupid question. He has the nerve because he’s Ezio Auditore da fucking Firenze and he does whatever the hell he wants without ever asking anyone else what they might think!”

The echo of his own voice yells the words back at him, over and over again. His chest heaves with harsh breaths as he lets his hands drop to his lap and balls them into fists.

“I know he means well but this wasn’t – going back wasn’t supposed to be an option. Like yeah, sure, I thought about it before, but I wasn’t in a very good place back then, I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking, so it doesn’t count. But now I’m here and the Apple is right there and he told me to go.” 

As if having lost all strength in his body, he slumps down on his back on the floor. The cold seeps into his bones from the stone, but he doesn’t really care. 

“I hope it’s the zen version of you listening and not the one who would just tell me to stab the problem. I wouldn’t know what to fucking stab. The Apple, probably.”

Both the statue and the memories of Altaïr in his head remain silent, despite the ample time he gives them to answer. Desmond grunts in annoyance, then reaches his right arm up towards the starry sky. The metal-like material on the geometrical lines on his skin catches the moonlight. 

“He’s finally speaking to me again, and that’s the first thing he tells me. To go. And then kisses me. And that’s... He’s… I wasn’t supposed to – we weren’t supposed to be a thing. This wasn’t supposed to be possible. If it wasn’t for all this impossible Precursor shit, there wouldn’t have been a way for him to know I even existed. For fuck’s sake, he had been dead for five centuries by the time I was born, and yet I’m here, and he kissed me. Again.” He rests his arm over his eyes, clenching the hand into a fist. “And now he wants me to give it up.” He sighs and rubs his eyes. “This would all be so much easier if he was still angry with me. Shit, I wouldn’t have to sit here and talk to myself if he hated me and told me to get the fuck out of his life. Again.”

Desmond sits back up, massaging his neck, then considers the Apple and its soft glow in the darkness. 

“He could still be in love with her. You know, with Cristina. God knows he couldn’t let her go last time.” He breathes out and glances at Altaïr before returning his gaze to the Apple. “That kiss – he thinks I’m going to leave, isn’t he? He was sure he’ll never see me again, and so it cost him nothing to kiss me and then go back to mourning her.” 

He hears how utterly idiotic his own words are the second they leave his lips. He knows he means something to Ezio, but Jesus Christ, it is hard to drown out the little voice in the back of his head that keeps repeating the line Ezio wrote in one of his letters to Claudia – After the death of Cristina, something withered in me. His capacity to love, that’s how he put it. And that hadn’t returned until well over a decade later, until Sofia. 

He runs a hand through his hair, then rests it against his neck and tilts his head to the side.

“Just, let me be completely honest for a minute here – I want to be selfish. I want to go back to what we had in Forlì, I want to go upstairs and kiss him senseless for being an self-sacrificing idiot who I love so, so fucking much but… But if I decide to stay and wait for him to get over Cristina, will it be only to see him meet Sofia and fall in love with her? Don’t get me wrong, of course I want them to be utterly, nauseously happy. I love them both so much it’s not even funny anymore, but… the thought of that just hurts more now.” 

He lets his voice die out as he stares somewhere past Altaïr’s statue. His shoulders sag. 

“And that’s just the thing. Ezio has to fall in love with Sofia, for all of this to happen. For me to exist. And die. And end up here. If this is actually real and not some hallucination.” He turns away, pressing one hand over his mouth. “No, it doesn’t even fucking matter if this is real or not. He’s going to fall in love with Sofia because that’s what he did the first time around, and that’s the only thing that matters here, isn’t it? Just like Cristina was always meant to die, and the Doge, and Mario. And Giovanni and Federico and… little Petruccio.” So what if his voice breaks? So what? “That little kid was only thirteen – thirteen – and there is not a reality in which he ever gets to be older than thirteen. Because apparently nothing is more important than all the pieces falling back to their places, even if parts have to be cut off in the process.”

God, he hates this. Hates this warped, nightmarish version of the very thing he always wished for, how it maims and mangles the memories that used to be his safe place to return to when the weight of the world got too heavy. How insignificant being here makes him feel when he sees how little his presence affects and changes things. He is as good as a ghost – it is like he was never here. And now, as he sits there and watches as his potential way out of here glows in the darkness, he can’t help but wonder if being here is really worth all of this.

Years are like days to him – he sometimes falls asleep to notice months have passed. Time slips through his fingers like fine sand. And he doesn’t even know how long he has been like this. How terrifying is that? And while time floats by him and leaves him untouched, all around him, people grow old and die, breathing their last breaths exactly when they are supposed to. 

All of that should make this decision easy, right? He shouldn’t even have to think about it. He should take the Apple and go, return to his own time, like Ezio told him. Live his own life.

But there is no such left. He had known it already back at the Grand Temple, when he had been looking at the thing that was going to kill him. When his heart had threatened to burst through his chest and he had raised his sweaty, cold hand towards the device, his one small comfort had been the thought that at least he would die while he still knew who he was.  

Now he can’t say the same. 

“I’m scared, okay?” he whispers. “Been fucking scared since the moment I realized the question was not if but when I would be the next one to start drawing stick figures on the walls with my blood. And it’s happening already, oh, it’s happening alright. I’m talking to you right now, aren’t I? I’m sitting here, I think I’m sitting here – isn’t this proof enough? And when I’m not busy talking to dead people or hallucinating being in the past, I have another Ezio voicing his opinions in my head. If my picture is not on Abstergo’s ‘The Dangers of Excessive Animus Use’ brochure, I’m going to, I don’t know, kiss Shaun or something.” He wraps his left hand around his right to keep it from shaking. “It’s probably too late by now. It has to be. I was in the Animus way too long, way too much. They guys knew it, I knew it, everyone fucking knew it, but we had no choice. And now it’s catching up to me. So even if I got back, or woke up or whatever, I wouldn’t have that much time left. Not enough to find a way to fix me.” He looks up at the grate in the ceiling and past it, to the stars beyond it. To the stars he loves more than the ones in his own time.  “I guess I could… go home, if I went back. To the Farm, I mean. Home is not… I miss Mom. And even though Dad is a dick, I… I don’t know. There might still be time to…” 

He turns to face Altaïr.

“Because Ezio’s wrong. There’s no cure in the future – in the present – who the fuck cares? Why would the people at Abstergo bother to waste resources and manpower on inventing a cure when they can just put the difficult test subjects into a coma when they start talking to invisible people and drawing on walls? Makes for a nicer workplace environment when there’s no people complaining about being held captive against their will, I would imagine.” He spits the words out. “That’s what Vidic threatened me with – keeping me awake was just the faster way, and that’s the only reason I’m still here. And honestly, how to fuck could this be cured? By seeing a shrink? Yeah, right. There’s no cure, and there will never be one. There can’t be that many people that have been in an Animus, and they’re all dead already, or held by Abstergo… There’s no one else trying to fix this. The Assassins have no resources for this. No one else knows this is even a problem. I wouldn’t be even fucking surprised if I failed to activate the thing and the world burned and there was no one left to care about one guy losing his mind.”

And that’s the scary part, isn’t it? He’s doomed if he stays, he is doomed if he leaves. There’s no way to know how much time he has left – are they talking about weeks, months or years before he starts forgetting who Desmond is? He thinks of Sixteen, of his desperate, incomprehensible messages, and shivers. 

His days were numbered the second the second Vidic had him put into the Animus. 

But that’s not really true. They were already numbered 75,000 years ago. He was never even given a chance.

One day, the memories of his ancestors are going to take over for good, and he’ll disappear. And Desmond can’t help but wonder how many people would care or even notice that it wasn’t him in there, but someone else. Ezio, most likely, considering how often he has been Bleeding through.

And that’s just the story of his life, isn’t it?

Despite all the fancy prophecies and talk of destiny, he has never mattered. Yeah, he’s the Saviour, the fucking Chosen one, but he could have been replaced by anyone who had the right ancestors and happened to be in the right place at the right time. Anything else, anything that makes him Desmond, has only been considered a hindrance – it was the same when his father was training him years and years ago, it was the same when Vidic forced him into the Animus and demanded results, and it was the same with the Assassins who always wished he could sync with his ancestors’ memories a little bit faster, a little bit better, a little bit sooner. And none of them hesitated even for a moment before pushing him into the Animus and happily letting it overwrite those parts of him with someone else’s memories.

And now it’s too late.

In a flash of anger he does something he hasn’t tried since he woke up with a concussion on the floor in the kitchen of the thieves’ hideout. 

He scrunches his eyes closed and reaches for the Ezio in his head, mentally panging all the pans and pots together to bring him out, challenging the Bleeding Effect to work just a bit faster. Who else to ask for advice but the man himself – who to demand apologies from but the thing devouring his mind?

He yells about Cristina, throws accusations about sparing Rodrigo, pokes and prods into the long-buried memories of Giovanni and the boys, with no care or discretion. Anything to catch the attention of the construct he knows lives somewhere in the back of his brain.

But despite Desmond’s violent demands for attention, no pressure blooms in the back of his skull, no stray thoughts he can’t claim as his own cross his mind. There is no one in his head but him.

He stares at the opposite wall as he tries to understand, his mouth hanging slightly open. Nothing.

“Fuck you then.”

Slowly, he gets up onto his feet. He drags his cold and stiff body across the stone floor, feeling Altaïr’s heavy gaze on his back, and picks up the Apple.

He is going to freeze his ass off here. 

While grumbling about his own stupidity, Desmond pulls himself up onto the roof of the villa. He should have stopped to put on more clothes, but no. He could still turn back and go fetch his cloak if he wanted – the only thing stopping him is his own damn stubbornness, but that’s usually the hardest obstacle to overcome, he has noticed.

While trying to catch his breath, he looks to the horizon, taking in the dimness of a December morning just before sunrise. He feels stupid for not having remembered that it was December and not May, but in his defense, May was two days ago. Literally. 

It’s too early for this. Jesus, he doesn’t want to count how little sleep he got after he dragged himself up the stairs from the Sanctuary last night. It was way past midnight by the time he got to bed. And now he just woke up. Before sunrise. For absolutely no reason. And couldn’t fall asleep again.

So he is here. Climbing to go sit on top of the villa. 

And it turns out that he is not the only one having trouble sleeping. Ezio’s already there, sitting by the edge of the roof, hugging one knee to his chest and watching the earliest hints of sunrise blooming in the distance. He’s just as unsuitably dressed for the cool winter morning as Desmond.

What does it tell Desmond that he manages to walk over to him before Ezio notices him? That Ezio startles at the sight of him, then just stares at him for a good ten seconds, his eyes wide? 

“Does it not work?” Ezio’s voice lacks any strength.

“I don't know,” Desmond says as he settles down next to him. “I didn't try.”

So many emotions try to take over Ezio's face all at once. Alarm. Elation. Worry. What ends up winning is some kind of hopeful concern. Hopeful concern – what the fuck is his brain on about? It is way too early for this.

“You did not try,” Ezio parrots, his voice rising in pitch with every word. It turns desperate as he scrambles for an explanation. “As in you are waiting for the right moment, perhaps?”

“No. Well, okay, it kinda depends, but for now – no,” Desmond says and drops the Apple on Ezio’s lap. That has Ezio busy trying to keep the thing from rolling away and over the edge of the roof for a few seconds, then he is back to trying and failing to understand the words coming out of Desmond’s mouth.

“What do you mean by no? You cannot mean that, Desmond – No. What about the Bleeding Effect? You cannot stay here – you have to go back and cure yourself!” He is frantic now, clutching the Apple like he doesn’t know whether to hurl it at Desmond or off the roof. “You cannot throw your life away like that!”

“Wasn’t it only a few hours ago when you said I was welcome to stay here if I wanted?” Desmond asks, one amused eyebrow raised. Ezio does not appreciate his attitude.

“I want you to live, Desmond!” Anger brings color to his tired face, and his chest rises and falls with his harsh breaths. “Yes, I want you to stay here, but I need you to go home so you can have a life!” He shoves the Apple into Desmond’s hands, then grips his wrists. “Please, Desmond, I – I cannot be the reason why you lose yourself to the ghost in your head – my own ghost. I could not bear it. I – You do not know what it is like to hear you speak of it sometimes, I cannot stand the thought of seeing you get worse – please do not do this to me, I beg of you, I could not live with myself.” His voice cracks and his breath hitches audibly in his throat. “Please just forget about me and go home.”

Desmond lowers his gaze from the dark, dark eyes to the Apple glowing in his hands, then looks up at him again. 

“There's no cure in the future, Ezio.”

“But there must be! Or one could be invented! If the future is anything like you have described, there must be a way to help you. You must not lose hope like this.” 

Desmond finds it in himself to chuckle.

“We do not have magic in the future, you know. It’s not like that. And even if someone bothered to study this and came up with a cure, I doubt it would be ready in time. I can’t have that much left.”

“Do not say that – “

“I am gonna disappear into the Bleeding Effect eventually, and that’s just how it’s going to be. I have already survived far longer than the others expected me to, and I was in the Animus way more than I should have. No, the point is that I have only so much time left and I want to spend the little I have here. With you.” 

Ezio’s tense shoulders rise up. He hangs his head to hide his face from Desmond, furrowing his brows and furiously blinking. The hands holding Desmond’s wrists tremble, and so it is easy for him to wiggle one of his arms free, set the Apple aside, and then bring his hand up to cradle Ezio’s cheek. His voice turns soft as he huffs a wry laugh. 

“And besides, there’s a good chance that the Apple can’t even take me back. Like, think about it, you might be giving me these fancy speeches for nothing. Not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment, but it would honestly be kinda funny.”

“I fail to see how any of this can be amusing to you. What you are living through is a nightmare, and you… you cannot give up like this.” Ezio’s voice has deepened with anger, turned hoarse because of the tears he is holding back, but in the same moment he gently cups Desmond’s hand with his own and turns it so that he can press a kiss on the inner side of the wrist. “Please, Desmond. You will be the death of me.”

Suppressing the shiver that threatens to run down his spine, Desmond leans in closer. He lowers his voice, meets Ezio’s gaze.

“Do you know what would really be a nightmare? If I used the Apple and it worked. And I got back to 2012 only to realize that this had all been a dream. Like, out of all this shit, the Bleeding Effect and everything, what I’m most afraid of is waking up in the Animus again and realizing nothing has changed. That this, you and us, were all in my head. That I was never here, that you never knew me. Because the thing is – if I have to choose between losing my mind here, and going back to 2012 only to lose you and go insane anyway, I know what my answer is going to be.”

Ezio loses the battle against his tears.

“You cannot know for certain that this would turn out to be a dream – “

“Yeah, I can’t. That’s the whole point.” Desmond closes his eyes and focuses on the feeling of Ezio drawing circles on his wrist with his thumb. “I know I’m asking a lot. This can’t be easy for you, and it’s only going to get worse from here. But just… please let me stay here.” 

The gentle touch of Ezio’s hand on his neck makes him open his eyes. 

“I meant what I said, Desmond. You will always have a home here. It is the least I can do to repay you for everything you have done for me,” Ezio says in a low voice, though the look in his eyes betrays how scared he is. He brushes his thumb against Desmond’s cheek before leaning in to rest his forehead against his. “We will think of something, we will find a way to cure you. Even here, in this time. There has to be a way – I will not lose you to this.”

They both know he is lying, but in that moment they’re willing to believe it, just for a while. 

In the distance, the rising sun paints the thick mist hanging over the faraway fields with shades of red and orange. 

Desmond lets out a shaky breath.

“What is it?”

Ezio’s question is as gentle as his gaze, just as warm, and God, does it make Desmond feel stupid for even thinking about this now. Childish. But Jesus fucking Christ, he is so tired of lying and keeping things to himself. And Ezio asked.

“In that other life, you couldn’t let go of Cristina’s memory for over a decade after her death. I guess I’m just scared that you’re not ready to… And you will fall in love with Sofia – ” 

Ezio hushes him.

“First of all, when it comes to my future wife-to-be, I do not know whether I should be offended or not that you think my feelings are dictated by fate and nothing else. I myself am quite certain that I will have some say in that matter, when the time comes. And it will not be that time for yet another decade. Do not worry about her. Because no matter how dear and precious she might have been to me in that other life, right now she is a stranger. And she is not here.”

His loose ponytail cascades over his shoulder when he turns to look at the sky. 

“As for Cristina – I do miss her. Terribly. I will not lie to you about that. And I understand how in that other life I might have felt that everything that is good in this world died with her. But I am not the man you saw in the Animus. My life has followed a path similar to his – similar, but not the same, and as a result, I am not the person I could have been. Not all of his heartbreaks are mine.”

He takes a moment to consider his words, furrowing his brows.

 "Cristina was the last connection to my old life. A remnant of it. A young boy's love which was robbed of its chance to fully bloom, and yet it was never allowed to wither either. Because I refused to let go of it, in the vain hope that we could somehow, someday return to what we once were. That love remained the same all these years, frozen in time, while she and I both grew up and apart. I can see that now – you saw her, the kind of life she had, the world she lived in, so far removed from my own. She was no longer the girl I knew, just as I am no longer the boy who used to throw pebbles at her window to ask her to sneak out. Year and half ago, it was not her I truly wanted but the memory of what it used to be like, to be in love with her, how easy it was. And then she died.”

If Desmond was expecting to see a flash of grief in Ezio’s eyes or for him to hesitate before mentioning her death, he is left disappointed. No, Ezio’s voice remains strong, and his gaze is steady when he meets Desmond’s eyes.

“Had I been as lonely now as I must have been in that other life – if there truly was no one else I loved until my later years – I could have easily felt I was not capable of love any longer. And some ways it is true, as I will not love like a boy of seventeen summers ever again in my life. And I am quite certain I would not want to.” He chuckles at the last part, but his expression grows more serious fast. “A part of my heart will always be Cristina’s, but the past year and half have allowed me to admit something that has been true for far longer. That it is not her who owns my heart. As you must know by now.” 

And then, while sitting there on the roof of the villa, slightly shivering because of the cold and with the sunrise glowing at his back, Ezio just says it.

“I am in love with you.”

For a moment, all sounds but the rush of Desmond’s heartbeat and the wind rattling some loose roof tiles cease to exist. Then Desmond breaks that silence by cursing in all the languages he knows before nearly knocking Ezio out of balance by practically climbing onto his lap to kiss him. Ezio lets out a sound as he tries to keep them upright, while Desmond doesn’t have the patience to properly figure out how they might fit together – his teeth scrape Ezio’s lips by accident, but his mumbled, hasty apology only makes Ezio pull him closer. It is not the gentlest kiss they have shared, but neither of them seem to mind, as it is followed by another, then a third, a fourth.

They end up leaning against each other, trying to catch their breaths. Ezio curls a finger under Desmond’s chin and tilts his head so that he's looking straight into his eyes. 

“I swear, if you disappear for another nine years after this, I will never forgive you.”

Not currently possessing the brain capacity to produce coherent sentences, Desmond shakes his head before stealing another kiss. His plan to take yet one more is stunted by Ezio pushing him away gently.

“Desmond, before this goes any further, I must know. Are you truly certain about this? Because I…” He doesn’t seem to know how to put whatever it is bothering him into words, because what he ends up with is a blunt and slightly awkward “How old are you now?”

And maybe Desmond has to physically detangle himself from Ezio and sit back down on the roof next to him before he can answer.

“Uh, that question is not as easy to answer as it should be. Physically, twenty-six at least by this point, maybe twenty-seven? Twenty-seven-ish? But don’t ask me how old I feel. I have seen four lives on top of my own, I don’t have any idea anymore.”

That doesn’t seem to calm down Ezio at all. A deathly serious expression settles on his face.

“Desmond. I am forty years old. And I will only keep getting older,” he states and waits until Desmond looks him in the eye. “I will be over fifty by the time this is over, while you will still be… like this.”

“This might come as a surprise, but I know,” Desmond scoffs and rolls his eyes. “If you haven’t noticed, I was here trying to keep you from getting yourself killed already twenty years ago – well, twenty years to you. Hell, I was there when you were born, and in any other circumstances that would be so beyond fucked up. But this is the situation we’re in, and it’s not like there’s anything we can do to change it. This is weird, but so is everything else about this. So, yeah, I’m sure.”

He takes Ezio’s hand and holds it, just because he can.

“Also, to make this even weirder and more confusing, I might be in my twenties, but I also remember what it is like being 92. And usually when you Bleed through, it is the you from 1511 or later. So maybe it is you who might be a little bit too young for me and not the other way around.”

That makes Ezio chuckle under his breath.

“You are more right than you realize. For half of my life, I thought you were older than me by a decade. You have no idea what kind of crisis I had when I admitted to myself that yes, I wanted you to be more than just my friend.”

Desmond stares at him with his mouth hanging open, then completely loses it. 

“Are you saying you were nervous? You?” he asks and tries not to die of laughter. “I made Ezio Auditore da Firenze himself nervous. This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Oh my God, the guys will never believe me.”

“Ah, yes, on the day I confess my love to him, he considers my embarrassment to be his greatest victory. How kind of you, Desmond.”

Still laughing, Desmond winks at him.

“I aim to please.”

Ezio scoffs but doesn’t bother to hide his amusement for long. He shakes his head, smiling, then considers Desmond again.

“I suppose I am just afraid that one morning you will wake up and realize you have tied yourself down to a gray old man with no way out.”

“Nah, I won’t.”

“You cannot know that.”

“I know I will still love you when you are wrinkly and balding and have no teeth left anymore. Not that I have seen you that old, but anyway. That doesn’t matter, it’s not the point. The point is that it will still be you.” 

Ezio blinks, swallows, and blinks again before leaning in to kiss him. And so that’s settled.

“And hey, you forget that I have seen you in your fifties,” Desmond whispers against Ezio’s lips. “Trust me, you have nothing to worry about. Like okay yeah, a receding hairline waits for us all, but it could be worse. Much worse.”

And God, Desmond wants to kiss him so badly when Ezio raises a hand to his own forehead in vain worry, a scandalized expression flashing on his face.

“You are having me on.”

“Maybe I am, maybe I am not.” Desmond grins and gives Ezio’s hand a squeeze. 

With relief comes exhaustion. He slumps against Ezio, tangling his fingers in the loose fabric of Ezio’s shirt and enjoying the weight of an arm resting on his shoulders.

“Why the fuck are we up so early?” he mumbles into Ezio’s neck, his words barely comprehensible.

“I came here to see if the world would still be the same without you in it.”

Desmond bumps his fist against Ezio’s forearm, trying not to cry because, seriously, there have been way too many tears already this morning. The sun has barely risen, for fuck’s sake.

“That’s so corny, oh my God. I love you.”

Ezio presses an airy kiss into his hair.

“And what is your excuse?”

“Someone was climbing on the fucking roof.”

Ezio bursts out laughing. It’s a rich, full sound, just as warm as the arm he has wrapped around Desmond.

“Let us go back to bed then. It is early, after all.”

They climb down and then through the open window into Ezio’s room. The cold outer layers of their clothes get tossed on the floor, on the one lonely armchair standing in a shadowy corner, on whenever they happen to land. The last Desmond saw, the Apple was rolling off somewhere under the bed to join Ezio’s boots he kicked off his feet. 

Once they have made it to under the covers, Desmond grumbles something about certain someone’s cold hands and feet. That does absolutely nothing to stop Ezio from snaking an arm around him and burying his face in the crook of Desmond’s neck. And yeah, maybe Desmond takes his hand and laces their fingers together. Maybe.

Sleep comes easily.

A few hours later, when sunlight pours in through the large windows of Ezio’s room and pools on the wooden floor, Desmond wakes up. He has to spend a good few moments orienting himself, trying to remember where and who he is and whether he is here as the owner of the room or as a guest. The weight of an arm resting on his waist helps to anchor him somewhat. 

A quick look over his shoulder reveals that Ezio is not awake yet. Rubbing his bleary eyes and hiding a yawn behind his hand, Desmond rolls around to lie on his back. Immediately, Ezio’s hold on him tightens, even though the man himself doesn’t seem any closer to the waking world. 

And really, Desmond doesn’t mind just lying there and taking in the sight of him, even though he is quite warm with his own personal heater clinging to him and even though he kinda needs to go to the bathroom. Well, the renaissance version of it. 

But still, there are worse places he could be right now.

He really needs to go, though. 

Carefully, not to wake the other, he untangles himself from both Ezio and the blankets wrapped around their feet. The floorboards radiate cold under his bare feet – he can’t see his boots anywhere and is not awake enough to look for them.

He returns only a couple minutes later, still walking on his toes because the floors are freezing, and dives back under the warm covers. He hasn’t even settled down yet when Ezio slips an arm around him and leans against him, hiding his face in the space between Desmond’s neck and shoulder. His warm breath tickles the skin there, his lips and teeth brushing against Desmond’s neck.

“Do not go.”

And Desmond was about to open his mouth and say that he was just right over there, he wasn’t leaving, and he won’t be going anywhere, at least not until the Assassins have had their meeting later today, and even then he is skipping over only four days. But he doesn’t say that. 

No, he turns around in Ezio’s arms and kisses him. He kisses Ezio in a way he didn’t think he was quite awake enough for, and those surprises continue when he finds himself snaking a hand to Ezio’s waist, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him closer. Ezio answers just as hungrily, hooking one leg behind Desmond’s knee, his hands in Desmond’s hair, on the scar that mars the skin on Desmond’s hip. From there it is easy for Desmond to roll to sit on top of him, one knee on each side of Ezio’s waist. He pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it on the floor, then they are both busy trying to get Ezio out of his. 

That morning, they have all the time in the world.

Chapter Text

Fingertips brush against his skin. They draw small, lazy circles just below his ribs, then the featherlight touch moves downwards. It dances over the whole length of the large scar there, slowly, meanderingly as it studies and familiarizes itself with every inch, until the hand finally comes to rest on his hip, the long fingers spread out, the palm flat over his hip bone. 

Ezio’s gaze flicks up to his, then returns to mapping out all the freckles and moles and small scars on Desmond’s skin. The hand stays where it is, invitingly warm and brazen in its newly found familiarity as it applies just the slightest pressure against his hip. For a moment, the touch turns heavier, then Ezio purses his lips and turns so that his loose hair slips away from his bare shoulders.

“How long until you jump again?”

Lying on his back with one knee up, the other leg tangled in the sheets, Desmond tilts his head to the side and considers him. 

“Well, that depends on how much you’re going to drag out the meeting with the others.”

The fingers traveling over his right thigh stop.

“Today? Already?”

Desmond hums. 

“But it’s only to the Vatican. I’ll be gone for just a few days.” 

What is the worth of a goddess’s message sent across millenia when weighed against the happiness of the man he loves? Not much, Desmond notes darkly. Not this, for sure – the harsh lines of Ezio’s suddenly tense shoulders just seem too steep a price when only a moment ago the man was the very picture of languid contentment and relaxed muscles, lazy smiles and sloppy kisses. Hell, if it was up to Desmond, he’d show the Precursors the finger right about now and let Minerva wait. The damned message has been sitting there for tens of thousands of years already, it could wait for a few days more. 

But it’s not up to him, is it?

“Hey, I swear you’ll barely notice I’m not there.”

The look Ezio shoots him reveals exactly what he thinks about Desmond’s attempt at humor. 

“I will notice.”

He wraps his hand loosely around Desmond’s wrist, then changes his mind and lets go to lace their fingers together instead. He gives Desmond’s hand a gentle squeeze before guiding it to rest over his heart. 

The burned black fingers, the unnaturally symmetrical lines of gold on them seem so alien when held against his chest. It’s weird – Desmond can feel the warmth of Ezio’s skin, the brush of the hairs on his chest against the back of his hand, and still, somehow, he feels detached from the arm. As if it wasn’t really his. That is part of him. Attached to him.

“So I shall make the journey to Rome without you. Because I must. This I can bear, even when I suspect that I will have to return here by myself as well.” Ezio bows his head to press a kiss on each of Desmond’s knuckles. “You will be here for the siege, this much I have gathered, but what happens afterwards? How long does it take before you are returned to us after that? Months? A year?”

“What? No,” Desmond rushes to answer, suddenly understanding the resigned look in Ezio’s eyes for what it is. “No, I promise, once we get our asses to Rome after the siege, I’m going to be around pretty much the whole time for the next… three, no, three and a half years. Like, I saw a lot of those years in the Animus. And yeah, okay, of course I’m gonna be skipping a few days or weeks here and there because that’s just what I do, but, really, up until late 1503, you’ll have me. I’m going to be here. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Underneath his hand, Ezio’s chest rises with a rushed intake of breath, then falls with a deep sigh of relief. Desmond lets that hand slide to Ezio’s shoulder when Ezio moves – rolling onto his stomach, propping himself up onto his elbows and then leaning in to kiss him again. 

Affection, so overwhelming in its warmth that he can barely breathe, blooms in Desmond’s chest when he cradles Ezio’s face with both hands and looks up at him.

“Were you worried about that? I thought I already told you that I saw almost everything of this part of your life?”

“How could I not worry, when it has been like that for as long as I have known you? You appear with no warning once, maybe twice a year if I am lucky, then vanish with no trace, leaving no way to reach you. Yes, you told me of my time in Rome, but I did not dare to dream that… I did not dare to hope.”

Desmond blinks, then blinks again as he counts his past jumps in his head.

“Okay, yeah, I guess it has been like that, now that you mention it… Oh, shit, yeah. Sorry about that. But it’s going to be different from now on, okay? At least for a few years.” He considers Ezio’s expression for a moment, then pokes him in the chest. “But also, hey, you’re wrong. I was here a lot during 97, but you were just being a dick and avoiding me.”

Ezio chuckles.

“That I was. I am sorry, my love.”

The apology is followed by another kiss, sweet and easy. Afterwards, they are happy to lie side by side, listening to each other breathe, and bathing in the sunlight that pours through the windows and in vain tries to warm the otherwise cold room. Ezio pulls the blankets over them after Desmond presses his cold toes against his legs. Stupid cold and stupid winter. 

“What happens after 1503?” Ezio asks in a quiet voice, his fingers in Desmond’s hair. The deep sigh Desmond lets out makes him frown.

“Well, then it’s back to the usual bullshit again, so yeah, you were kinda right after all. But let’s just… not think about that now, okay? Not today. Like come on, please? Can’t we pretend to be normal for a few hours?”

“Desmond, there is nothing normal about us.” 

“You know what I mean.” He rolls his eyes and turns his head to look at Ezio who meets his gaze with a deadpan expression. “Come on, let me have this morning at least. The day. The whatever, I don’t know what time it is.”

Ezio breathes out through his nose, then shakes his head.

“Then you shall have it. And as many mornings and days as are mine to give besides. All my hours are yours.” 

If Desmond was back home, in his own time, those words would cause every single alarm to go off in his head. Almost a decade as a bartender in New York has taught him much about people, and by now he has seen enough of the way twenty-first people love, or pretend to, to know not to expect sincerity. No, sarcasm, manipulation or drunken foolishness would seem far more likely suspects than genuine love, if he were to hear those words uttered under the neon-lights of a nightclub. 

But here, in the safety of an old and quiet countryside villa, Ezio’s centuries old Florentine accent makes them sound gentle and genuine. 

Desmond reaches over, to brush his fingers against the other’s cheek as a silent thank you, because despite the time traveling bullshit and the Bleeding Effect, he is still very much from the year 2012 and has absolutely no idea what to say to such a heartfelt declaration.

Ezio smiles at him, then sits up on the bed with a sigh and cranes his neck so that he can peer through one of the windows into the gardens behind the villa. 

“Unfortunately it seems your morning will be cut short. Some of our guests are already here.”

Desmond lets his knee bump against Ezio’s.

“I guess that means we should get up. Get this show on the road.”

The hum Ezio offers as his answer indicates no enthusiasm to do so. He keeps his gaze on the gardens outside – where Mario is parading Paola and Machiavelli out, Desmond notes as he gets up to take a look as well. 

Ezio squints his eyes.

“Say, on what day will I receive Minerva’s message?”

Desmond tries not to make it obvious when he glances at him. 

“I think it was the 28th.”

The wisp of a smile that passes on Ezio’s lips is anything but happy. 

“The day my father and brothers were taken, twenty-three years ago. Of course there would be some poetic timing to this,” he whispers and rubs his wrist. ”And after all this time, I shall let the man responsible for it walk away.”

“You don't get why you chose to spare him?” 

Ezio looks exhausted, all of the sudden. Years older than he is. 

“No, I think I do understand. I am tired of this, of fighting for the sake of fighting. My father is dead, has been for two decades, and it does not matter how many men I kill in his name – his rest will not be made any easier by it. This far into my years, I can finally see that. So yes, I can picture myself walking away from it all. And like my past self, I would wish for a life of my own now, if I did not know it was not in the cards for me yet.” He looks at Desmond with a wry grin. “But you already know all of this. Does it not get tiresome, hearing me blabber on about things that must be as familiar to you as your own thoughts?”

“No. I want to know what you’re thinking.”

Tilting his head, Ezio considers him before reaching over to lay his hand on Desmond’s knee and give it a light squeeze. He sighs and closes his eyes. 

“The decision I made in that other life regarding Rodrigo’s life… I do understand it. But now I find myself in a situation where I already know what that decision will cost me. And I will not be afforded the luxury of a choice – because in one life I chose myself over the justice my father and brothers deserved, I am now doomed to repeat that choice and so to lose more of my family.”

Desmond isn’t sure what Ezio feels more guilty about – letting go of the hurt that accompanies the memory of his late family, or causing the inevitable death of Mario. But Desmond has the advantage of hindsight Ezio isn’t able to have yet, and unlike Ezio, he remembers the howling of the cutting winds high up on the top of the Masyaf castle, the creaking of the centuries’ old planks underneath his teeth, and the tired, almost relieved realization that time and the hangman’s noose he had once escaped decades ago had finally caught up with him. One last Auditore boy would finally join the rest of the men of his family, as he was always supposed to.

“Letting go of your anger doesn’t mean forgetting them. And before you protest – you said it, my thoughts, your thoughts. You won’t forget them, ever. And you know what I think? I think Cesare would have attacked anyway. Hell, if you had killed his dad, it would have given him even more reason to attack than he had before. So don’t blame yourself for this.”

Ezio makes a sound deep in his throat, but his furrowed brows reveal he hasn’t been quite convinced yet. He stretches his arms over his head, then, while massaging his lower back, he gets up from the bed. 

“I guess we cannot keep putting this off any longer than we already have. Let us go meet the others.”

After some half-assed attempts to get themselves somewhat presentable, they head downstairs. They make a detour to the kitchen for some very, very late breakfast, then wander towards Mario’s office to wait for the others. 

An empty room greets them – maybe Mario has decided to abandon the gardens in favor of giving his guests a tour of the town? Not pondering over the absence of the others for too long, they decide to get comfortable. Ezio tests the weight of the Apple – they almost didn’t remember to dig out the artifact from under the bed – then once again pushes it into Desmond’s hands.

“Let us see it then,” he says and nods towards the pedestal. Desmond gives the Apple an experimental twirl before sighing. He walks over to the stand while studying the pages with his Eagle vision. Like he noticed the day before, they are in correct order – Ezio has figured out the map at some point during the year and a half Desmond skipped over. 

A bright, warm white light fills the room when Desmond presses the Apple into place. The world map, drawn in Altaïr’s steady hand into the by now frail parchment, begins to glow. Perhaps for nothing, because they already know very well that the vault is in Rome. But this was done the first time around, and for once it feels good to do something just because it happened before.

“Is this the world of your time?” Ezio asks, his eyes glued to the brightly shining pages and the shapes of the continents drawn on them.

“It’s your world too. You Europeans just haven’t realized yet how much there is out there,” Desmond says and glances to the Americas. “Though it would save the world a lot of suffering if you never did.”

Ezio walks closer to the codex wall. He touches a hand to the map, brushing his fingers against a page that has been cut in two by the eastern coastline of Brazil. 

“And you are from here somewhere?” he asks and glances over his shoulder back at Desmond.

“Fom a lot farther to the north, but yeah.”

Desmond wanders over to Ezio whose hand is hovering somewhere over Tennessee. Shaking his head and smiling, Desmond takes Ezio’s arm and gently guides it to point out a spot on the map.

“New York is here. Or will be.” He lets go of Ezio’s hand to show him the approximate locations of South Dakota. “And here’s where I was born. Near the Black Hills – it’s a mountain range.”

Ezio takes a step back to consider the distance between those two places, then another step to take in the size of the ocean between the continents – the size of Italy compared to the vastness of the Americas. 

“You said you were here in your own time. In Monteriggioni and in Rome. How long did it take you to cross the sea?”

“Er, I think the flight is about ten hours?”

The look Ezio gives him is priceless.

“Hours?”

“Yeah, crazy, right? Don’t ask me how planes work.” Desmond chuckles, then squints his eyes as he tries to remember. “Okay, to properly answer – I think it took Haytham like a little over two months to sail from England to Boston here in the 1700s.”

Ezio’s gaze jumps between him and the map. 

“Is the scale correct? Because surely…” His attention returns to the shape of Italy. “Because that is not exactly how these lands are drawn in our maps. The coastline is different.”

“Oh, it is accurate. We have satellites.”

“Do I even dare to ask what those are?”

Desmond grins.

“We can see the Earth with them. From space.”

Ezio clearly can’t tell if he is joking or not.

“That is… The more you talk about the future, the less I am certain why you would want to stay here. From space, truly?”

“Yeah, really. We’ve been to the Moon, remember?” 

Before Ezio can lose his mind over that, Mario takes his moment to arrive and lead the rest of the Assassins into the room. 

“There you are,” he says and gives Ezio something Desmond can only describe as a look. Maybe Ezio would have had some other duties this morning, if he hadn’t been so distracted. Oops.

“Uncle,” Ezio turns to greet him without batting an eye, the very picture of innocence. Mario can only shake his head at his nephew’s antics before waving his hand at the others to invite them in. 

They are all here. A carriage must have brought Machiavelli and Paola here from Firenze, probably shadowed by La Volpe on horseback. Antonio and Teodora were most likely knocking on the door of the villa soon after the Florentines’ arrival. And if Desmond was to guess, he would say the last to show up was Bartolomeo, who left Venice years ago to go to Rome and join the Orsini family in their fight against the Borgia. 

Mario has dined and wined them in the absence of his nephew, and now the older Auditore considers the group of Assassins he has brought together. Antonio and Bartolomeo are sharing fond stories of Venice, and Paola and Teodora are explaining something to Machiavelli. By Mario’s desk stands La Volpe – and if Desmond didn’t know him as well as he does, he would think nothing of the expression on their spymaster’s face. But he does know him, and so he notices the sour look La Volpe throws in Niccolò’s direction when the latter off-handedly mentions some tactic the Borgia family used to gain more power.

It’s awkward to realize that some of the Assassins don’t seem to be able to make up their minds about whether they want to ogle the glowing map of the world or Desmond. His presence here can’t be a surprise to any of them, he is sure, but it is the first time he has seen some of them since… 88? It is one thing to hear he is a time traveler, and wholly another to see the proof of it in person.

In either case, Desmond is very aware of the gazes on him. He meets Teodora’s eyes and awkwardly smiles at her, then is saved from further weirdness by the sound of the door opening just one more time. They all look to see the last of them arrive. 

Claudia marches in with a determined gleam in her eyes and takes her place next to her uncle. Her glare, aimed at Ezio’s direction, only grows more furious when his reaction to seeing her there is to furrow his brow and glance at Desmond.

When Desmond only stares right back at him like he is an idiot, Ezio has no choice but let the matter be. And so he steps forward to address their guests. He thanks them all for coming, then draws their attention to the map and the bright spot on it that marks the Vatican and the Vault underneath. 

“Desmond, could you tell us one more time what happened in that lifetime you saw? What should we expect during the coming days?”

Desmond clears his throat, then has to stop himself from massaging his neck. 

“Well, last time, all of you went to Rome to help Ezio. You kept the guards around the city busy while he snuck into the Vatican and fought Rodrigo,” he begins slowly, not really looking at anyone in particular. “Ezio won, but he allowed Rodrigo to live. He took the papal staff, opened the vault and heard Minerva’s message.” 

He turns to Mario. “You followed him to the Sistine Chapel to make sure he got out safely. You two and Machiavelli returned to Monteriggioni with the Apple, and I think the rest of you went home as well. Or stayed in Rome. I didn’t see Antonio, Teodora or Paola in the Animus after this.” 

Mario crosses his arms and shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“And when exactly does Cesare attack?”

“The morning of… it’s gotta be the second of January. Yeah, because it was Claudia’s birthday. There was supposed to be a big party that day – the day before, everyone was so busy with preparations for it, or already drunk, that we didn’t spot the army amassing in the east. They started firing the cannons at dawn.” Pressing a hand to his forehead, Desmond tries to remember exactly how the siege went on, tries to recall the few defense tactics they hurriedly came up with. 

“I was hurrying to get my things when Caterina said to me that – um, she was here because the Papal armies were threatening Forlì as well and she needed our help. She was… with me – Ezio, when the attack began, and she said to him that…” He scrunches up his eyes as he tries to remember. “That her men were in the courtyard. She was planning to go around the back so that she could flank them. That didn’t work – the Borgias captured her. And Mario. You tried to lead an attack against them but… That’s how they got the Apple. You had it.”

Mario’s expression betrays nothing as he considers this. Ezio’s face is easier to read, and Claudia’s even more so. 

“The Contessa has contacted us,” is what Mario ends up saying in the end, his gaze steady as he meets Desmond’s eyes. “I have agreed to let her come here – I thought we could use her men in the battle to come. But I have not mentioned anything about… this.”

That makes Desmond stop and think.

“Should we?” The question is directed just as much at himself as at the others. “The Borgias are going to capture her. We won’t manage to get her out 1501 – she won’t be brought to Rome until that, and I don’t know where she was held before that. She’s going to have to endure that for over a year and… I don’t know, our histories say that Cesare and Rodrigo might have… violated her during that time. She did say to me – to Ezio – that she wasn’t, but I’m not sure if she was trying to… I don’t know.”

Mario tilts his head to the side. 

“You do not think we should tell her what her fate will be?”

“I don’t know, that’s the point. All I know is that I was fucking terrifed when I was told what was going to happen to me. That’s all I have to go off of, so I’m honestly asking you guys because I don’t know. Would it make it easier or harder for her to know what’s waiting for her? And would she even believe us?”

“She most likely remembers you from Forlì,” Machiavelli notes from his spot in one of the armchairs Mario has brought here for this occasion. “She might not believe us, even after seeing you, but she would have a reason to at least entertain the possibility that you might be telling her the truth. Should you decide to tell her, that is.”

Desmond doesn’t even bother to glance at Ezio to see what he thinks. He remembers the protective streak from Rome, the bullheadedness with which Ezio disregarded everyone else’s advice when it came to her. In much the same vein, Mario’s gaze has landed on Claudia and a certain vulnerability has found its way into his eyes. 

But it is Teodora who speaks up.

“Knowing the day she will be freed will give her strength. Rotting in the Borgias’ cell with no certainty of when or if she will ever see the sun again will eat away at her soul. If you can give her the will to keep fighting, you should do so.”

Another voice chimes in, the words short and clipped, almost harsh. Paola.

“She deserves to know. Tell her.” 

Breathing out, Desmond nods.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”  

Once that has been settled, Desmond tells them about the cannons Mario had ordered to be installed up on the ramparts – which Mario now confirms are in the plans – and their desperate attempts to get most of the people out of the town. 

“Just, prepare yourselves for the fact that there is not going to be much left of this place afterwards. The attack, it’s… It’s going to be brutal. We tried to fight back, get as many people out as we could, but the ugly truth is that last time we were taken completely by surprise.” He has to stretch his fingers –  he has apparently been clenching his hand so hard that his nails have pressed red, angry crescents into his palm. “Claudia and Mot – Signora Maria made it out with Ezio through the tunnel below the Sanctuary. Machiavelli had left the night before. Caterina was captured, but Mario…”

He looks to the old man standing opposite of him and doesn’t even bother to lie to himself about how deeply terrified of his death he is. Doesn’t bother to pick apart how much of that fear is Ezio’s and how much his own.

“Just stop me if you don’t want me to tell you how it happens.”

Mario’s nonchalant wave of his hand is not quite as convincing as he probably intended it to be. 

“Oh, hush. I have been told all the other gory details, what is one more? So let us hear it.” 

Taking in a deep breath, Desmond closes his eyes again and digs deeper into the uncomfortable memory. Without him realizing it, his hand has come to rest on his right side, above his hip, where a bullet left a mark right as his uncle was shot right in front of him.

“I don’t know when exactly they captured you. But Cesare himself drags you to the main gate and throws you to the ground. Then he shoots you. With a gun. It will be quick, at least – Oh, fuck. How could I have forgotten – !“ Desmond turns around, his gaze jumping from Ezio to Machiavelli, then to Paola and Antonio. “Does anyone know where Leonardo is? Has anyone seen him in the past few weeks?”

Ezio lays a hand on his shoulder to get his attention.

“The last I heard, he was set on returning to Milan. Why?”

“The guns Cesare and his men use, Leonardo designed them. Not because he wants to, but because Cesare is forcing him to work for them.”

Ezio’s expression grows cold.

“Do they have him now? Could we save him when we go to Rome?”

“I don’t know where he is right now. What I saw of him in the Animus proved wrong so many of Shaun’s history books and hell, his Wikipedia page, that I’m flying blind here. All I know is that Cesare wasn’t stupid enough to bring him here. And Leonardo didn’t manage to contact you until… 1502?”

“It will not take that long this time around. We must do something to help him.”

“Yeah, of course. But we’ll have to survive this first.”

Machiavelli clears his throat. 

“So what happens after Mario is killed?” 

Sighing, Desmond turns towards the others again, taking in their varying expressions of concern and anger.

“They shoot Ezio. Twice.” Pain flares up in his left shoulder, even though he knows his shoulder was never pierced by another shot. The shoulder was never the same afterwards – that he found out in the cold of Masyaf. Just thinking about the climb makes it ache even more. “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure how he survived. Rodrigo stabbed him in the Vatican, and then this happens only a few days later.”

“If I survived once, I should be able to do so again. And I do not intend to give Cesare’s men the chance to shoot me,” Ezio scoffs, the corner of his mouth pulled down by a disgusted grimace, “let alone allow Rodrigo Borgia of all people to wound me.”

Desmond glances at him, then points to the secret passage leading to the Sanctuary. 

“We fled through the tunnel. I – he, Jesus fucking Christ – told his mother and Claudia to go to Firenze, then grabbed a horse and left straight for Rome like an idiot. Didn’t make it very far before he passed out.” He looks at Machiavelli. “You found him and brought him to Rome.”

“Yes, well, that is not going to happen this time around,” Ezio states, completely oblivious to La Volpe rolling his eyes behind his back. Instead, he finally addresses his sister who is sitting behind Mario’s desk, her face now a few shades paler than at the beginning of this meeting. “Claudia, you heard him. I want you and Mother as far away from here as possible. You must leave before Cesare gets here. Go to Firenze and stay out of trouble.”

She jumps up from the chair and slams her hands on the desk.

“What? No! You cannot keep me out of this – this is my home as well! I refuse to simply abandon it and Uncle just because you say so!” she hisses, then waves down Mario who looks almost as concerned as Ezio. “What are we supposed to do in Firenze, sit and wait for the news that something has gone horribly wrong here? When we know what is going to happen? ”

“I need you to be safe while we deal with the Borgias – Desmond, tell her.” Ezio turns to him and gestures at Claudia, looking so certain that he is in the right here. “If I sent them to Firenze last time, there must be something they need to do there, vero?”

“Well, you tried to get them to go there. Emphasis on the word tried, because it went just as well then as it is going now. No, they followed you to Rome. And we’re going to need Claudia there, Ezio. We can’t take the city back without the Rosa in Fiore, and she’s the one we want running that place, trust me.”

“She does what ?” Ezio screeches, his gaze jumping from Desmond to Claudia, then to Mario for support, then it flies back to Desmond again. He points a finger at him. “Do not tell me that place is what I think it is.”

Desmond meets Claudia’s eyes before throwing a half-apologetic look at Ezio. 

“Your sister is going to run the best brothel in the whole city of Rome, and she’s going to do it well. And you will have to learn to know when you’ve been defeated.”

“Ha! See, brother?” Claudia yells out, practically oozing with glee, while on the other side of the room Paola nods approvingly. Mario has to sit down. 

Claudia leans forward, her eyes like hawk’s as she challenges Ezio. 

“You are not always in the right, even if you like to think so.”

A scowl mars Ezio’s face, his posture rigid and angry, but behind it all there is something frail, almost helpless in his eyes. It makes Desmond take a step towards him, and it is as if that movement causes Ezio’s next words to spill out without him meaning to release them. 

“But would it not be safer for you to stay out of harm’s way? Going there will be asking for trouble, what if something happens – ?“

Desmond can see the proud set of Claudia’s chin, the way she crosses her arms over her chest, and knows that right now she doesn’t want to see Ezio’s reaction for what it really is. No, she’s far more likely to press on and make this worse, so Desmond steps between them, trying to block them from each other’s view, and lays a hand on Ezio’s arm. 

“Yeah, going to Rome is asking for trouble. The Borgias will find out about her and they will try to kill her, but she’s going to be fine. Look at me, she’s going to be fine. She fought them off by herself, and there was not a scratch on her afterwards. And she was still around and kicking in 1511, so you don’t have to worry now.”

When Ezio looks at him with his dark eyes so wide and betrayed that Desmond might just as well have told him that his baby sister was about to drop dead right in front of him this very second, Desmond decides to give him space and turns to Claudia. 

“But hey, I do agree that you should get out of here before the attack. In fact, you and Signora Maria could go to Rome together with everyone and get us started there. We need our base – it’s a warehouse in Isola Tiberina. Bartolomeo’s cousin let us stay there.” He looks to the Assassins gathered in the room, then considers Claudia’s clenched jaw again. “Last time we had to start from nothing, but if you could go there and get that sorted out, we would have a proper headquarters by the time we got there. If something does happen to Ezio, or anyone else here, we need a safehouse.”

She holds his gaze for a long, breathless moment, then nods to everyone but Ezio’s relief. 

“I shall make introductions for you ladies,” Bartolomeo offers with a cheerful smile. 

Ezio still looks uncertain about all of this, but Desmond doesn’t get the chance to do anything about that because Mario takes his moment to cut in.

“As concerned I am about this development, I think I shall need to interrupt this to ask – what shall we do about the trip to Rome, considering the siege is only days away now? I think it would be wise to have some of us stay here to prepare Monteriggioni, but can Ezio spare anyone? Will he need us all in Rome?”

“I think I can get us inside even if there are less distractions for the guards. By now I have sneaked into the Vatican so many times that I’ve lost count. I know some ways to get in that we had no idea existed by this point.” 

“Good. That leaves us with some options.”

They consider who should stay. In the end, they decide on at least Bartolomeo and La Volpe going to Rome with Ezio, since they were going to stay there afterwards anyway, as well as Paola, who will also help Claudia to get started with the Rosa in Fiore. Getting rid of the lazy Madonna Solari should not be a problem. Antonio and Teodora will stay in Monteriggioni, to help with the evacuation efforts. From here they will have a shorter journey back to Venice than from Rome. But that leaves the question of what Machiavelli and Mario will do. 

Mario scratches his chin.

“If you do not mind, I would like to stay here and make sure my fortress is ready for that Borgia whelp. I have some cannons to see to.”

Desmond looks up from the map of Rome Mario found from one of the drawers of his desk.

“Yeah, I think that should be fine, as long as we can have someone else as backup in the Vatican. If Ezio gets stabbed, he could use someone there – I’ll be jumping again as soon as we reach the Tiber.”

“I will come with you,” Machiavelli offers. “Cesare should not yet have any reason to consider me anything but a friend, so I think I should be able to talk myself into the Vatican without too much fuss. And I would very much like to see how this Gray can keep you from taking Rodrigo’s life.”

“No, wait, what – you still hung out with Cesare when you knew this was coming?”

“Yes, of course. Only a fool would turn down the opportunity to spend time in the court of his future enemy before the said enemy is even aware of the coming animosity. For the past year, I have been able to spend time in Cesare Borgia’s presence and learn much about him and his family. And since I did so in the past life as well, I thought that at least in this particular instance it would be only right to follow the path of fate.”

“That matter is resolved, then. Good,” Mario says and brings his hands together. “While you are gone, I shall evacuate the town and get as many people out as possible before Cesare’s army nears. It will be an endeavor to do so without drawing too much attention to ourselves, so let us just hope that the rumors about a mysteriously empty town will not reach the Papal armies before we are ready for them. Desmond, you said they amass to the east?”

“Yeah.” A nagging fear that any townspeople that might be saved by Mario’s efforts now probably won’t survive for longer than a few days turns into a lump in his throat, but somehow he feels it would be cruel to voice that concern.

Ezio taps his fingers against another map they have spread over the desk, this one of Monteriggioni.

“Will Cesare be expecting to see lights in the village, hear music and cheering? Is he going to expect us to be celebrating?”

“Not necessarily, but he for sure used that as a distraction last time. I don’t know how else he could have gotten his men and siege towers so close without you noticing, but yeah, I’m really not sure if he planned for that or if he was just lucky. The attack didn’t come until early morning, and we certainly didn’t see them anywhere the evening before. What are you thinking?”

“I am wondering if this time we could be the ones using a distraction. Perhaps we could lead them to believe that we are in fact celebrating. If we tell the townsfolk to leave any and all lanterns they might have by their doors, we can light them later to sell our ruse. We could even have Uncle Mario’s men play music and make noise on the ramparts while we sneak to Cesare’s camp.”

“And what exactly is our plan here?” Machiavelli chimes in. “To sneak into an enemy camp sitting right outside our doorstep when, according to our time-traveling companion here, we physically cannot kill their leader yet? What purpose does this venture serve?”

It is Ezio he is challenging, but Mario is the one to answer.

“We could sabotage their cannons. Or the siege towers. Spare the town from the worst battering. Surely this Gray does not want my home to be reduced to rubble just for the sake of it? Let me try to preserve something, in the last days of my life, as foolish as it might be.”

But that’s exactly what the Gray wants, isn’t it? Biting his lip, Desmond considers Machiavelli’s raised eyebrow, then Mario and the vulnerability in his eyes.

“We can’t break them all. Trust me, there is going to be a lot of them. Like, so many it’s bordering on being ridiculous. We wouldn’t have time to get to all of them, and the risk of getting caught increases with each one.”

“And perhaps that is something we do not need to worry about. Not if we burn their siege towers and cannons,” Ezio muses, holding a hand to his chin. “Then we would not have to stay hidden for long – just long enough to set fire to so many of them that Cesare’s men cannot put all the fires out. The flames will spread and throw the camp into chaos, allowing us to flee.” 

Yeah, because that’s going to end well.

“That could be worth a try.” Mario says. “At least it will be better than sitting idly on our behinds and waiting for them to shoot my villa full of holes.”

Ezio glances at Desmond.

“Thoughts?”

“We’re gone so fully off the rails here that I have no idea what’s going to happen. As far as plans go in general, this is a risky one. But it is a plan, though, and that’s more than any of you had last time when this shit went down.” He blinks. “And also – wait, wait, wait. Oh, fuck, I just remembered – there is this thief, one of our own. He betrayed you. He saw you using the secret tunnel and immediately scurried off to tell Cesare about it. And then he kept feeding the Borgias information about us in Rome.”

“Who is he? What does he look like? We have to find him.”

“Uh, middle-aged, bald, wears an eye-patch?”

Mario’s voice grows dark.

“He will not be a problem for you this time, this I swear.”

After that, they go over some more details before eventually deciding that their next move can only be getting ready for the journey to Rome. Their group disperses – some leave to pack or to check on their horses, some to get some fresh air in the gardens. In the end, the door closes after Teodora and leaves Desmond and Ezio alone in the office. 

Desmond walks over to the Apple and gently taps it to bring the lightshow to a stop. When he turns around, it is to see Ezio leaning his hip against the desk, his gaze forgotten on the floor as he mulls over something in his head. Desmond walks over and hops to sit on the desk right next to Ezio. He brushes his hand against Ezio’s, then gently pries open the clenched fist and intertwines their fingers.

“I can hear you thinking,” he says softly. “And not because I hear voices in my head.”

Ezio looks up at him, a lost look on his face. 

“I just… I thought I had prepared myself for Uncle’s death, but when I heard you describe it, I…” His voice drifts off as he looks at the back wall with empty eyes. His lips curve into a painful smile as he chuckles at his own fear. “It seems I am not quite as ready for it as I thought.”

“I think it would be weirder if you were,” Desmond says in a quiet voice. He brushes his thumb against the back of Ezio’s hand.  

Ezio blinks, then shakes his head before leaning against Desmond and taking another look at the room they are in with clearer eyes.

“And Monteriggioni… I did not even like this place at first. At the time, all I saw was an empty, run-down villa which belonged to an eccentric uncle I did not know – Father had mentioned Mario only in passing, if at all.” He pauses for a moment, trying to make sense of his thoughts. “And suddenly here I was, in the middle of nowhere, with only my mother and sister for company. Oh, Mother, how she was back then… Sometimes it was easier to stay away from home for just one more day than to return here to face what was left of her.”

Ezio slips his hand away from Desmond’s.

“I fear I have always been more a visitor here than Claudia. This is her home, where she took care of Mother while I was too much of a coward to stay for more than a few weeks at a time. And still, despite this, I find myself petrified at the thought that in less than a fortnight this place will be only rubble and ruins. That I might not see this place again.” He turns to look at Desmond. “Will I?”

“I – I guess? It wasn't in the Animus, so that's why I'm not sure. But I saw you – I was Bleeding, when we first got into the Sanctuary. You were older than you are now, though not as old as you were in Constantinople. It was just a short flash of you standing there, looking at something. Altaïr, probably." He can’t resist the urge to reach over and brush a strand of hair from Ezio’s face. “But hey, if it’s any comfort, I’ve been here in the future. I’ve stood in this exact spot, or maybe a few feet to the left if this is where the cave-in was – and you didn’t need to hear that, sorry. But this isn’t the end for this place, even if it feels like it now.”

With great effort, Ezio manages to give him a smile, before turning away and breathing out.

“But it is an end. For twenty-three years I have been able to fight for the memory of my father and brothers because I knew Claudia and Mother would be safe here. But now the Borgias will come to our home, kill people we love and drive us out, just as they did in Firenze two decades ago.” Ezio pushes himself up on his feet and starts pacing around the room. “I took on this burden so Mother and Claudia would never have to – I would let myself become drenched in blood if it meant that all they would have to worry about was running a villa in the Tuscany countryside. And now I will be forced to break that promise. I will have to bring my little sister and my mother, as frail as she is, to Rome of all places. How can I keep them safe there, especially when Claudia is dead set on doing the exact opposite of what I tell her?” Ezio’s gaze is sharp when it lands on him next. “Why did you encourage her like that? You said it yourself that she will be in danger!”

Desmond leans forwards to rest his elbows on his knees and frowns at Ezio.

“They’ll be fine. You’re just going to have to trust them, both of them. Especially Claudia – she’s an adult woman, Ezio, been for years. Hell, she’s only two years younger than you, she’s not a child. She has been looking after herself and your mother just as long as you have been out there, hunting the Templars. And she’s much more of an Assassin now than she was by this point last time.” He lets his voice grow serious. “You’re going to lose her if you keep her from having a life of her own. Even if it is only because of your fear for her. And I know you only want what’s best for them both – I know because I have lived through that panic as you – and that you don’t want to hear it, but that’s the truth. Last time, this escalated to the point that you two weren’t on speaking terms for years. You don’t want that.”

“But a brothel? What does she know of running a brothel?” 

“It is a business, just as managing a villa or a whole town. Claudia knows her math and numbers, she has been running this place for the last twenty years. Or did you think your Uncle suddenly got better at managing his money? I hope you still remember what this place looked like when you first arrived.”

Ezio buries his face in his hands. 

“She is my only sister, Desmond. My only surviving sibling, when there once were four of us, Now only the two of us are left, and I – I cannot lose her. She is all I have. And once Uncle passes, I will be the only thing standing between her and the world.” He lets his hands drop. He looks down at his palms before curling his hands into fists. “I know what my decision to keep her here has cost her. She does not have a husband, she does not have children. I am not certain if she even has any true friends here. It is not the life I wanted for her. But what is the alternative?”

Desmond reaches out a hand.

“Trusting in her. You’ll have to.”

Slow, tired steps bring Ezio to him after a moment of visible hesitation. The curve of his mouth tells Desmond Ezio would like to protest still, but he also seems to realize the futility of arguing further. 

The fact that Desmond is still sitting on top of the desk means that when Ezio comes to a stop right in front of him, Desmond’s knees brushing against him, Ezio has to tilt his chin up a little to meet Desmond’s gaze. It also means that when Ezio slumps forward to rest his forehead against Desmond’s shoulder, he fits into his arms so easily.

“Sometimes I wonder how things might have turned out if it had been Federico who survived instead of me.”

Desmond lays a hand on Ezio’s neck and gently guides him to look up so that he can kiss his temple, his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth, his lips.

“Don’t. You did fine.”

“I am not so sure.”

“I am.”

Glancing behind Ezio and noticing the Gray pouring in from under the closed door is not the way he wanted this conversation to come to an end, but that is out of his hands now. 

“The Gray’s here,” he sighs and meets Ezio’s eyes. They’re deep dark brown and so very defeated.

“Four days.”

“Four days. If you don’t get lost on the way to Rome,” Desmond chuckles and lets Ezio pull him into another kiss.

Chapter Text

A dull sky and a thick mist looming drowsily over the Tiber welcome Desmond to Rome. His boots slip on the dark, glistening wet stones of a familiar, unwelcoming rampart. That and the threatening silhouette rising towards the sky behind him give him a hint about his location – he is up on the battlements of Castel Sant’Angelo.

After a quick look around to make sure no guard is about to sneak up on him, Desmond leans against the parapet in an effort to figure out which part of the fortress he is in, and to see where Ezio might be. But instead of Ezio, he spots a boat on the river, a faint shadow in the mist, heading away from the castello. It is probably one of the others, heading back to the city after having dropped Ezio off. 

Somewhere in the distance, an explosion goes off. Below, in the courtyard, soldiers awake from their stupor with nearly as much noise and chaos, rushing through the few puddles the early morning rain has left on cobblestones. While someone shouts orders, Desmond squints his eyes at the murky skyline of the city and tries to pinpoint where the sound might have come from, wondering if it’s La Volpe or Bartolomeo causing chaos. 

The sounds of boots scraping against stone make him smile. 

“Ciao, bello,” he says with a grin and leans further over the parapet to see Ezio climbing up the wall. “Do you need a hand?”

Ezio almost manages to hide his startled flinch – it must have been a whole lot more aggressive greeting he was expecting to get, considering, you know, the number of Borgia guards hanging about. But Ezio takes his arm and lets Desmond pull him up to the battlements. 

Once he gets his feet on solid ground, Ezio spends a moment wheezing and rubbing his back, trying to catch his breath. He checks for guards much in the same way as Desmond did a minute ago, while massaging his wrists after the hard climb, then clicks his tongue in annoyance when he notices a slightly bleeding scrape on one of his knuckles.

“Hello, my love. What lovely weather you have picked out for us,” he says with a hint of a smile and meets Desmond’s eyes. 

“You’re welcome. Not that I had anything to do with it,” Desmond chuckles. He hugs himself as the damp cold starts to seep through his clothes. “But it’s going to clear up soon, so we’d better get moving if you want to do this without drawing too much attention.” Then he learns something about himself, and that something is that he is not above inserting himself in Ezio’s personal space to leech his enticing warmth.

“You are lucky I remembered that this is all you were wearing when you disappeared,” Ezio huffs and tugs on the collar of Desmond’s shirt. It might or might not be a shirt Desmond borrowed from Ezio’s closet after they finally got up this morning – four days ago for Ezio, but who's counting? And okay, yeah, Desmond could freak out about what the others might have read into the fact during the meeting, but like a half of his wardrobe here in the past have been old hand-me-downs from the Auditore men anyway, so it’s not like this is anything new.

And Ezio only proves that point further when he reaches into the satchel he has brought with him and presents Desmond with a cape. 

“Here. Something with a hood – one should at least try to cover his identity when he attempts to steal from the Pope right in the middle of the Vatican city.”

“Thanks,” Desmond chuckles and throws the cape over his shoulders. Ezio reaches over to pull the hood over his head before Desmond has time to do so, then he gently brushes the back of his hand against Desmond’s cheek. 

The touch coaxes another silly smile out of him and wakes a bubbly, bright warmth somewhere inside him – a feeling he can’t and doesn’t want to fight against. 

So yeah, it’s going to take some getting used to, this thing of theirs. Not that Desmond minds in the slightest.

“Did you have any problems getting here?”

“No, the directions you gave me were easy to follow,” Ezio says. “I do not think anyone spotted me on the way here. But we should probably move before that changes.”

“This way.”

They’re gotta be breaking some record on how fast you can sneak into the Pope’s apartments, Desmond chuckles to himself as he guides Ezio towards the upper floors of the castello. It is certainly not his first or even second time navigating through this place, and he would like to think it shows. Hell, by now he is so familiar with the layout of Castel Sant’Angelo that he could slip by the remaining guards and find all the shortcuts with his eyes closed. 

So, the reason for this detour. They need the papal staff to get into the vault, there’s no way around it. If they want to reach Minerva and make sure the 2012-version of Desmond will receive her message, they have to get their hands on the Piece of Eden. The only problem is that last time Ezio had to literally fistfight the fucking Pope for it. Not that Desmond has anything against Ezio beating the shit out of Rodrigo Borgia, but since the Gray’s meddling will ensure that the Templar Grandmaster lives through this day no matter what they do, Desmond sees no point in wasting any time on the man at all. It is enough that one of them has to deal with the phantom pain of every stab and bullet wound the Ezio of the original timeline picked up on the way – Desmond aggressively wishes to spare this Ezio from Rodrigo’s blade.

Hence their little Mission Impossible shenanigans here.

Luckily, picking the lock on the door that leads to the private rooms of the Pope ends up being less of a hurdle than Desmond feared. He pushes the door open as quietly as he can, while behind him, the gentle hiss of Ezio’s hidden blade sliding out reveals something about the Assassin’s thoughts about letting Rodrigo live.

Disappointment practically oozes out of Ezio when they find the apartment empty and quiet.

They separate to cover more ground – it is a challenge to search through a lavish residence of this size, but on the other hand, the papal staff is huge. There just can’t be that many places to hide it, right?

It does occur to Desmond that there probably might be some official place to store the papal staff somewhere, but considering what he knows of Pope Alexander VI, he is pretty sure it might just be here. The thing is a literal Piece of Eden, Rodrigo probably doesn’t want to let it out of his sight.

It is also during this moment, when he is going through the chests and wardrobes in the Pope’s bedroom, that it really sinks in that he is in fact about to go to receive a message from a Precursor goddess who could predict the future. Yeah, no new information there, but Minerva could see the future. Could she have somehow known that he was going to end up here? Could whatever caused Desmond to… become like this also disrupt her calculations and change which of the possible futures would turn out to be the most likely? 

Could the message be different? Or if the original message has remained the same, maybe Minerva could still have sent him another one? Just one more, after she witnessed him choose to save the world and free Juno – and end up here?

“Have you found anything?”

Ezio’s voice startles him out of his thoughts. Desmond blinks at the wall he has apparently been staring at, then turns to look at Ezio who has appeared at the door.

“No. I don’t think it’s here. Shit.”

Ezio frowns before crossing the room in a few strides to look through the window.

“We know Rodrigo will bring the staff to the chapel today. It is early – we still have time to get there and ambush him before the mass.”

They leave the same way they came, and not long after Desmond leads Ezio to the Passetto di Borgo, the elevated pathway that leads straight from Castel Sant’Angelo to the Vatican. Last time Ezio crossed it on horseback with a bunch of soldiers chasing after him, but now, with the Borgias’ forces divided between protecting the fortress and investigating the explosions just on the other side of the Tiber, the two of them manage to make it almost all the way to the Sistine Chapel before anyone notices them. And even then it doesn’t take long to dispose of the few guards on their way.

They follow Ezio’s path from last time and eventually end up blending into the shadows on the beams and scaffoldings in the back of the chapel. Just like Ezio said, they are early – the chapel which in the future is so often bursting at the seams with tourists now stands empty and quiet. Only one busy-looking clergyman hangs about, looking for something or other several dozen feet below them. Perhaps the Assassin-created chaos outside has also disturbed the going-ons of the church.

“So,” Desmong whispers in an overly conversational tone while they wait for the man to leave, “how are things with you and Claudia? Did she really come to Rome?”

“Yes.” The word is clipped, tense. “She and Mother both made the journey – they were discussing using the warehouse with Bartolomeo’s cousin when I left.”

Desmond glances over his shoulder at Ezio, almost once again tells him that she is going to be fine, but then changes his mind. 

With a hard look in his eyes, Ezio leans forward and peers down into the chapel, calculating the distance between them and the lone priest who has finished his business and is heading towards one of the exits. 

“Where is the vault? I cannot see an entrance anywhere.” 

“It’s behind the altar. You can see it with your gift. That door we can get open now, but we need the staff for what’s further in.” 

The expression on Ezio’s face makes him pause. 

“What?”

“Let us head inside then. Perhaps we can lure Rodrigo into following us and take the staff from him there – you said that he managed to fight me off here in the chapel last time, no? So it is of no use trying that again. But if we go about this completely differently, perhaps the outcome will also change?”

“Or then he sends a whole squad of guards after us while we’re stuck there with no other way out, did you think about that?”

“I did, and that is why I brought you and the Apple along, caro.” 

Desmond scoffs at the lop-sided smirk he is given and rolls his eyes. Ezio drops the smile just as quickly as it appeared. He shakes his head and narrows his eyes as he takes another look at the altar on the other side of the chapel. 

“Desmond, know this – if and when we cross paths with Rodrigo Borgia today, I will not shy away from trying to take his life. I will not go easy on him, even when you say I will not be able to kill him on this day. I must try, on the off-chance that the Gray will not stop me like it did you – perhaps you could not do it because you are not of this time. But I am, and I owe it to my family, and the people of Rome, to try.”

“I thought that… Even after Cristina?”

“This is different. I am not trying to save him. I am not trying to change the future, I am trying to bring it forth a little bit earlier.”

“I’m just not sure that’s a good idea…” Desmond starts to mumble, then bites his lower lip and sighs. “Just be careful, alright? The staff has powers similar to the Apple, it lets him control people and make himself invisible, so just…” 

“I am always careful,” Ezio says and flashes Desmond a toothy grin that belongs to the twenty-year old version of him. Somewhere below them, one of the heavy doors closes after the lone priest. “But first, let us go see this hidden vault of yours.”

“This isn't going to end well,” Desmond sighs before giving in and letting Ezio kiss him in a way that is entirely inappropriate for the time and place, in more ways than one – but what does a little indiscretion matter when Ezio is soon going to get excommunicated for punching the Pope in the face anyway?

They make their way down from the scaffoldings and head towards the altar, the sounds of the heels of their boots tapping against the floor gently echoing in the open space. Eagle vision reveals the hidden mechanism, and after one last look over his shoulder Desmond presses the button to reveal the staircase that leads down into the dark depths of the building.

Ezio’s steps slow down behind him as they walk through the dim, alien-looking hallway which is illuminated only by an eerie blue glow. When Desmond turns around to check on him, his wide eyes reflect the unnatural light, and despite the blue tint, Desmond can tell Ezio’s face has grown pale.

“This is… I have seen the power the Apple lets you wield, I have seen glimpses of your time, centuries after mine, but being here… It is as if by walking down those stairs we have suddenly left our world behind and descended to somewhere else.”

“Yeah,” Desmond agrees and breathes out. “Though the vault under the Colosseum is even weirder. And the Grand Temple. I know you think the stuff we have in my time is magic, but we’ve got nothing on these guys.”

The large, round room where Ezio once defeated Rodrigo looks just the same as it did a lifetime ago – crosses made of light look threateningly down upon them from the dark walls. The platform is still in the upper position, a couple of dozen feet below them, and not in the depths of the earth.

Desmond hops down onto it. It is quite a drop, but he feels there is something more to it when his feet hit the floor – he swears that for a moment the vault comes alive. A low hum fills the air and resonates in his lungs and teeth, making the hairs at the back of his neck stand up. But just as he gets himself back on his feet, it is gone.   

“Did you feel that?” He glances up at Ezio who has not yet followed him down.

“What was I supposed to feel?” 

“I’m not sure, just this… presence, I guess. I don’t know what it was.” 

“Are you certain it is safe for you to be down there?”

“Yeah – you stay there, we don’t want both of us to be here if Rodrigo and his merry little band decide to join us.”

He walks to the center where the staff is meant to go and stands there for a while, trying to remember which part of the wall would move to reveal Minerva’s vault if they just had the staff with them.

“I think it’s behind that one,” he says as an answer to Ezio’s look and points to the wall in front of him.

“Ah.” 

“Not much we can do without the staff.”

“Then we had better lay our trap.”

While Ezio heads back towards the chapel, planning to go to see if Machiavelli might have already made an appearance, Desmond finds himself still staring at the vault door. And there is it again, the barely detectable surge of power that gives him goosebumps. Coming from behind the vault door. 

He has walked over and reached a hand to touch the wall before he really has realized what he is doing. His right hand rests gently against the metal wall, and for once it does not look out of place. The metal lines on it catch the cold, blue light – the hum returns – and for a moment it doesn’t seem to be just the reflection that makes his arm glow.

The wall sinks into the floor with a quiet hiss.

“Ezio!”

It doesn’t take long before Ezio returns, running and breathless. 

“What is it – Oh. Well done, amore.” 

He jumps down and hurries over to Desmond, touching a hand to his shoulder before focusing on trying to see what’s inside.

“I guess this is some use after all,” Desmond mumbles and massages his right wrist, glancing down at the hand. “You didn’t see anyone coming to inspect the mysterious staircase, did you?”

“No, we are still alone. And it seems we do not need old Rodrigo after all. So, shall we then?” Ezio makes a theatrical gesture towards the dark vault. His voice doesn’t have quite the strength it usually does though. 

“Let’s.”

The low hum accompanies them as they venture into the darkness. With each step they take, one of the Precursor structures in the vault awakens, lighting their way towards the empty back of the room. And with each step, the thrum gets more overwhelming, making Desmond’s teeth ache. It is almost more of a pressure than sound by now – he has never been inside a power plant, but he’d imagine being near one would be something like this.

“What is this?” Ezio asks in a low whisper, alarmed by the lights reacting to their presence. 

“Don’t worry, this happened last time too.” Desmond glances at him from the corner of his eye. “Hey, so, I don’t know if she will know I’m here. If she says the same things she did last time. I don’t know how this works.”

Ezio only nods, stiffly, while keeping his eyes focused on the spot where the hologram of Minerva is supposed to appear. 

The lights dim, and for a moment they stand in total darkness.

Then, as gloriously as the sun takes to the sky every morning, a golden light fills the room. Minerva comes to life in front of them, brought out by the Apple which Ezio now takes out from his satchel. Its quiet thrum joins the thunder of the vault – Desmond can barely hear himself think.

“Greetings, prophet ,” calls out Minerva’s haunting voice. “It is good you have come. Let us see it. To give thanks.” She reaches out her hand, towards the Apple. After a worried glance at Desmond, Ezio pulls his hood down to reveal his face, then slowly approaches the apparition and lets Minerva… bless – update – reconfigure the artifact?

Then slowly, deliberately, her golden gaze moves. It lands on Desmond, who is standing on Ezio’s left. She looks right into his eyes.

“We must speak.”

His heart beating in his ears, Desmond doesn’t really mean to stumble towards her, but he does. 

“Do you know why I’m here? Am I really here or is this a hal – ”

She cuts him off.

“Many names. When I died, it was Minerva,” she says, answering a question which has not been asked. She is following the script Ezio is no longer adhering to. “Before that Merva and Mera. And on and on.”

“It’s the same message,” he blurts out, his voice thin and weak as if someone had hit him in the chest hard enough to empty his lungs. He takes a step to the side, just to see if her gaze might follow, but no. She keeps looking past Ezio, at nothing, just like in the Animus memories. “She didn’t know that I was going to be here.”

“What does that mean?” Ezio asks. A worried look takes control of his face, just as Minerva gestures to her left to introduce Jupiter – Tinia, whatever his name is – and Juno. Her uncanny voice keeps going on in the background while Desmond turns to look at Ezio.

“I don’t know,” he breathes out and gladly lets Ezio take his hand. He clings onto it as he returns his attention to the apparition of the ancient goddess. “I honestly don’t know. I thought she would have answers but… I thought that surely, if she could leave this message for me, through you, she could also see me now and tell me what all of this is for but…”

Minerva laughs then, darkly, because once Ezio named the Precursors gods. 

“ No. Not gods. We simply came… before. Even when we – “

“It does not change anything,” Ezio says, now completely turning his back to the hologram. He raises his voice to be heard over Minerva’s explanation. “You are still here, you are still real, just as I am.”

“ – advanced in time. Your minds were not yet ready – “

“But that’s not how it works.” He lets go of Ezio’s hand, then approaches Minerva, furrowing his brows as he listens with half an ear to her warning. He raises his hand, the black one, to the hologram. It passes through easily – she is made only of light. “It’s not your fault – you haven’t seen any sci-fi movies, you don’t know how these things always end.”

Minerva turns – to look at nothing, because Ezio has followed Desmond and so is not where he is supposed to be.

“Our words are not meant for you,” she hisses.

“You’re supposed to interrupt her,” Desmond notes tiredly, which makes Ezio shrug and wave his arms.

“I do not know what I am supposed to say.”

Then Ezio makes a sound. 

It is ugly, somewhere between a whine and a gurgle. Something dark, wet and glistening runs down his neck, over his collarbones and onto the white fabric of the collar of his robes. The Apple makes a metallic sound as it hits the floor before rolling slowly towards Desmond’s feet. Ezio opens his mouth again but no sound comes out. His hand shoots to his throat. 

Not understanding what he is seeing, Desmond rushes towards him.

“What’s – ?”

The air next to Ezio flickers. The first thing to become visible is the golden papal staff, closely followed by its wielder. Rodrigo Borgia’s hand is still holding the dagger he has jammed into Ezio’s neck, though only the handle can be seen, so deep it has been plunged into Ezio’s flesh.

“No!”

Despite Desmond's loud protests Rodrigo pulls the blade out with one, violent yank. Blood cascades down Ezio’s neck and shoulder. His legs give out under him. Desmond can’t breathe.

“Kick the Apple towards me and back away,” Rodrigo hisses while standing over Ezio, then calls on the power of the staff to strengthen his words. He slams the end of the staff against the floor, and a wave of golden light shoots out. The power ripples through Desmond, brushing against his mind, but it is a light pressure his anger throws easily aside. 

Rodrigo’s face grows red.

“How is it that you resist?”

“Get away from him!”

The end of the staff hits the floor again. This time the intent is not to control but to hurt, but Desmond barely feels the energy crackling against his skin as he reaches down and snatches the Apple. 

That move also allows him a better view of Ezio's slumped form on the floor, the gaping wound on his neck. Deep dark red gushes out of the wound with each beat of his heart. But Ezio can't die here – he was supposed to survive this, Rodrigo was supposed to stab him to his side, where the armor would blunt the hit. Rodrigo was never meant to reach this chamber – if they had only waited and stayed in the chapel, this wouldn’t have happened. If Desmond hadn’t been here to distract him, Ezio would have noticed Rodrigo – 

Rodrigo slams the papal staff into his face.

Desmond flies on his back. The back of his head hits the floor with enough force to make the world disappear for a few seconds. 

When he comes to, he’s flying on his side, facing Rodrigo and Ezio. Blood drips from his nose into his mouth. He can already feel how his right brow and eyelid are starting to swell. Coughing out only blood and spit and fortunately no teeth, he struggles to push himself up onto his elbows.

Rodrigo steps over Ezio’s unconscious body, careful not to slip on the glistening blood that pools around him, and picks up the Apple from where it flew. A maniacal grin lights up his eyes, and it is almost with religious reverence that he takes the sphere and combines it with the staff. He raises it high, then approaches Minerva who has indifferently moved on to describe how the Precursors created the human race. 

“You, explain this apparition to me.”

But Desmond has stopped caring about Rodrigo. With his head spinning, because of both the hit and the loud hum of the vault, he crawls over to Ezio. Kneeling in the puddle of blood, he turns Ezio to his side and brushes the long, wet, sticky hair away from his neck. He grabs his cape and presses the bundled up cloth against the wound which is so, so much worse than it was last time, wide and deep and gaping – 

"You can't die now, do you hear me? It’s not your fucking time yet – you’ve got twenty-five years to live and kids to make first, you asshole," he hisses under his breath, sniffling, no, fucking sobbing as he tries to get any reaction out of Ezio. But he doesn’t get any, no matter how many times or how desperately Desmond calls his name.

This can’t be happening. Ezio can’t die, not now. He’s supposed to live for another two decades yet, he has to save Rome and sail to Constantinople and find Altaïr. He needs to meet Sofia and fall in love and have children – not this. He can’t bleed to death here, and how can the Gray let this happen?

“Please – just, please don’t do this – “

Somewhere behind him, Rodrigo attempts to get Minerva’s attention grow louder. He demands her to listen to him, to explain what she meant when she said her people created the human race, or the sun will scorch the earth. His voice turns harsh and impatient, and it doesn’t take long before he is waving the staff threateningly in the air around her, through her. Desmond doesn’t bother to be surprised when Rodrigo makes it shoot out lightning at her.

But she ignores the Pope, in favor of staring past him.

“The rest is up to you, Desmond.”

The message ends. She disappears, taking her light with her – there is a moment of darkness before the structures scattered around the chamber pick up the pace and start to glow again. 

“No, wait! Come back! I am not done with you!” Rodrigo yells and rushes forward as if trying to grab her. “What does all of this mean? Who is Desmond? I was supposed to be the Prophet – I am the Prophet! This cannot be all there is!”

The sound of his harsh, wheezing breaths echo in the chamber. Desmond wants to tell him to be quiet. But what he gets is Rodrigo swirling around and marching over to him.

“You! What did she mean – was she speaking to you?” He grabs Desmond by the chin – Desmond could stop him but that would mean letting go of Ezio. “Who are you – wait, I know you. I have seen your face before.” Rodrigo’s gaze flies from Desmond to Ezio, then back to Desmond again. “What are you? Why did she address you when she would not answer a single one of my questions? I am the Prophet!”

“She didn’t listen to you because none of this was ever meant for you,” Desmond hisses and yanks his head back to get free of Rodrigo’s grip. He turns his back to the Pope and – is Ezio breathing anymore? Desmond scrambles to find a pulse, his own thundering in his ears. This can’t be it – 

“Did you do something to the Apple – or this place? Has your tampering ruined everything?” Rodrigo shouts and clutches his shoulder – Desmond releases his hidden blade and slashes wildly at him.

“Get the fuck away from me!”

Rodrigo snarls something vicious Desmond doesn't bother to listen to, then seems to stomp back to where Minerva was to scream and shout at her some more. The staff responds to his anger – the hum of the artifact gets louder as it concentrates energy. 

Desmond gathers Ezio into his arms and cradles him to his chest, his knuckles white as he grips on to the back of his robes.

“This does not matter,” Rodrgio mutters, slightly out of breath. “I have the staff, and now the Apple. I have all I need.” He lifts the staff which glows with the combined power of the artifacts, and aims it at Desmond. 

Nothing happens. 

The presence of the Apple whispers in the back of Desmond’s mind, like it always does, like a low tremor resonating in his teeth and bones. When Rodrigo calls on its power, Desmond feels the stone-hard refusal of the Apple – the artifact stays cold and gray and unresponsive.

The Apple refuses to attack him. 

"What have you done?" Rodrigo screeches, his face so fiery red that Desmond half expects him to throw the staff at his face. 

"It doesn't belong to you. And believe me, you don't want it to," Desmond says in a quiet, angry voice. He raises his right arm and calls for the Apple. 

Rodrigo's scream echoes in the empty chamber. Golden lightning bolts illuminate the dark chamber like a harsh sun. The heat emanating from the staff washes against Desmond, several feet away.

The staff drops on the floor along with the pope's unconscious body. 

The hit discolates the Apple. It comes loose and slowly, meanderingly rolls across the slick-wet floor to finally gently bump against Desmond’s leg. 

He stares at it with empty eyes.

Then he grabs it.

"Save him!" he demands, pleads, begs through gritted teeth and breaths that get stuck in his throat. The chamber throws his words back to him, harsh and barely human. 

But the Apple only hums, as if not knowing what to do. It glows, in the beat of his own heart, but it doesn’t do anything. It can kill and it can turn people mad, but it cannot do this one thing Desmond needs from it. 

His last remaining strength sapped from, Desmond lets his gaze drop to Ezio. His breath wavers as he places his bloodied hand on Ezio's unnaturally pale cheek. It looks even more ghoulish when contrasted by his marked, black arm. 

His arm.

Desmond remembers the light, the small surge of power he managed to summon when he tried to heal Rosa. The blinding light when he last held Ezio like this, stabbed and bleeding in Forlì.

He lays Ezio down on the floor, then places his right hand over the wound while holding the Apple in his left.

Then he wants.

The chamber drowns under warm white light. A current of aggressive, almost electrical power rushes through him as he opens his mind to the Apple and forces it to amplify whatever power his changed arm has. He grinds his teeth together and gives it no other option but to obey and heal. There is no room for subtlety in anything he is doing, so the staff, lying on the floor next to the unconscious Rodrigo, also answers to his call. Hell, even the vault hums in response. 

And then, right in front of his eyes, the gaping wound on Ezio’s neck closes. It leaves no scar, just a patch of new, soft skin. Just the tiniest hint of color returns to his face. Underneath Desmond’s hand which is glowing so blindingly brightly that the afterimage might just well be tattooed on his eyelids, Ezio heals. 

The sudden, raspy gasp for breath nearly makes him drop the Apple.

“Ezio!” He cups Ezio's cheek, then sets down the Apple so he can brush long wet strands of hair out of his face with his other hand. Each flutter of Ezio's eyelids makes him want to burst into tears.

And slowly, groggily, Ezio opens his eyes. Just barely. His gaze wanders, hazy and unfocused, and when he opens his mouth to say something, all he manages is a tired moan of pain. 

"Hey, it's alright, just relax. You're gonna be alright," Desmond sobs – he's fucking ugly-crying but who gives a fuck – and leans down to wrap his arm around Ezio. "You're gonna be fine."

With a sound that vaguely resembles a plane taking off, the vault comes to life one more time. The lights dim to reveal the return of the golden image of Minerva, perhaps activated by whatever it is Desmond just did. He pulls back from Ezio to look up at her, meeting her gaze, because maybe, just maybe, she left something for him after all –

“Greetings, prophet. It is good you have come. Let us see it. To give thanks.” 

Her prophet is currently lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood, barely aware of what’s going on, and weakly clutching onto Desmond’s hand. And that is how Ezio finally receives Minerva’s message – he stays awake for maybe half of it, drifting in and out of consciousness in Desmond's arms. The only sign of him being alive at all is his tired blinking as he tries to keep his eyes open. 

The chamber falls into an oppressively silent darkness for a few seconds once Minerva disappears. Then the dim, artificial blue lights return and make Ezio’s skin look even more sickly. Desmond has no idea how he is going to get him out of here. Who knows when Rodrigo will wake up.

“Ezio? Desmond? Are you there?”

Machiavelli’s voice has never sounded as sweet as it does now.

“We’re here!” Desmond shouts back, his throat raw and hurting. 

He isn’t sure what exactly Machiavelli sees when he appears at the entrance of the vault and takes a look at them, but it is enough to drain all color from his face.

“Is he…?”

“He's alive,” Desmond manages to say. Croak. He brushes tears from his face and in the process manages to smear blood on it. “At least for now. Help me get him out of here before I jump. We have maybe ten, fifteen minutes."

"Where's Rodrigo?" 

"He's right over there – " Except he is not. The chamber is empty apart from the three of them. He must have woken up at some point and sneaked away, like last time. There has to be a hidden passage or something only the Pope knows about – Desmond can’t imagine him making the climb back up. "Shit. Well, he ran off last time as well."

“Did Rodrigo take the staff?” Machiavelli asks as walks over and kneels next to Ezio. He answers his own question after a quick look around. “Ah. There it is. Strange.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to touch that thing again either if I was him,” Desmond mutters before grabbing one of Ezio’s arms. “You take that side.”

Between the two of them, they manage to drag Ezio out of the vault and onto the platform. Before they can start to wonder how the hell they are supposed to get him out of here, the Apple starts to glow in the satchel Desmond took from Ezio. He pulls it out, and as he does, the platform rises.

They’re already at the entrance of the hallway when Desmond stops. He takes the staff from Machiavelli and jogs back to the center of the platform. He places it in the hole designed for it and hurries back before the platform starts to sink.

“Why did you do that? We could have used the staff – “

“It’s supposed to be left there.”

“But – “

“It’s either that or giving it to the Borgias. Think about it – if they could take the Apple from us last time during the siege, what would stop them from stealing both now? We don’t want that.”

Machiavelli throws one last look behind them before nodding and tugging on Ezio’s limp arm to get it into a better position on his shoulders. 

"Just a heads up, if this goes anything like last time, we probably won't be alone for much longer," Desmond says when they’re nearing the chapel.

"I will carry him, you put that Apple to use.”

The Apple pulsates with light right then, as if in response to Machiavelli’s words, the soft glow visible even through the thick fabric of the satchel. He would rather not use the Apple again, at all, but the shock and exhaustion are finally catching up to him. He has stumbled already a couple times on the way here, and he has to keep adjusting his hold on Ezio. He's not going to be much of a fighter right now. 

"Just keep on walking," he mutters and reaches into the satchel to take the Apple out.

When the first guard rounds the corner, the poor guy doesn't even have time to realize what hits him. 

"You use it well," Machiavelli notes once they are out of the chapel and back in sunlight. 

Desmond grunts something unintelligible, not wanting to get any deeper into that particular topic right now. He looks up to the rooftops, remembering how Mario and Ezio got out of here last time. That’s not going to work this time.

“One of the others should be awaiting us by the Tiber. We will manage,” Machiavelli says as if reading his mind. 

With the help of the Apple, and by taking a completely different route than last time, they just about manage to make it to the river and their rendezvous point. La Volpe is waiting for them there with a boat. 

“What on earth happened in there?” he asks as he helps them lower Ezio onto the boat. 

“There is time for that later,” Machiavelli says and glances behind them to see if they have been followed. “We need to go. Now.”

“Hey guys, heads up, I’m apparently jumping now,” Desmond notes from where he is crouching next to Ezio, trying to get him to wake up. The Vatican’s side of the river has started to turn into vague outlines and grids. On the other side of the Tiber, Rome has already disappeared. 

He offers the Apple to Machiavelli.

“Here. You’d better take this before I disappear and accidentally drop it in the river.”

 “No, I think you need to hold onto it this time – you can take it with you when you jump, yes?” Machiavelli says and pushes the artifact back towards Desmond. “I cannot guarantee I will be able to keep both it and Ezio safe when he is like this. It is a long way home from Rome.”

Desmond stares at Machiavelli, then at the Apple before sighing and grabbing the damn thing. He throws one last look at the unconscious Ezio before the Gray comes for him.

Chapter Text

A splotch of red on the well-polished handrail of the grand stairway reveals where the Gray spit him out. Not yet daring to let go, Desmond leans against the railing and watches as blood drips from his clothes onto the marble. The Apple, radiating angry heat and glowing as if he had plucked it straight from molten lava, lets out a metallic thud every time it hits a step on its way down towards the floor. The sounds echo in the open space and send a twinge of pain behind his eyes.

“Desmond?”

He tears his gaze away from the Apple and looks up to see Mario – and Caterina Sforza out of all people – coming down the stairs. The leader of the Assassins suddenly wears all his years on his lined face when he rushes down to meet him, while Caterina stays where she is, near the top of the stairs. Desmond spends a moment trying to figure out what is so wrong with the picture of her standing there – but it’s not her, but the bare wall behind her. The paintings are gone. Sent to Rome, with Claudia and Maria, probably.

“Desmond! What happened?” Mario’s hand lands heavily on his shoulder. The other grips his arm, seemingly both to steady him and to shake him for answers. “Where are you hurt? I will send for the doctor – ”

“It's not my blood. It’s – Ezio, he – “

Mario’s fingers dig into his shoulder like claws.

“What happened to him? Desmond, you must tell me what happened.” His frantic gaze runs over Desmond again, this time fueled by the knowledge that all of that ugly half-dried blood he is covered in once belonged to his nephew. “Is he – is he still alive?”

“I don’t – “ A part of Desmond is still in that boat, shaking Ezio’s limp shoulder. The rest of him is wrestling with the fact that it has already been days since their escape. Anything could have happened in that time. What if closing the wound wasn’t enough – how much blood was there on the floor? How much can you lose before it’s too late anyway? “He was when I jumped but the wound was bad – Rodrigo stabbed him in the neck and – ” 

Suddenly it is almost as if it was Mario who had lost all that blood. His face turns white, and Desmond has to grab his arm to keep him upright. 

“How could this happen? You said he was supposed to survive – Oh, Ezio. He was so young, my poor nephew…” 

Desmond throws a helpless look up at Caterina, then returns his attention to trying to get Mario to listen.

“No, hey, wait – “

“ – it is good that I will not get the chance to stand before Maria again, now that I have sent her last son to his death – “

“I healed him,” Desmond blurts out and finally manages to get Mario to shut up and just stare at him. “With the Apple. Or with my arm, I don’t know. I don’t know how any of this works – “

Mario’s voice has turned breathless.

“He is alive then?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if my magical healing bullshit matters when he had already lost a swimming pool’s worth of blood, I… You haven't heard anything yet?”

“No, we agreed on sending no messengers so we would not draw any attention to ourselves. But I assume that since you are now here, he and Machiavelli cannot be far behind.” Mario descends a few steps, then climbs the same steps back up again, unsure whether to rush outside or to stay to make sure Desmond is alright. 

“Yeah,” Desmond sighs and glances down at the Apple which is slowly rolling across the foyer floor, still glowing rust-red. There’s a smear on it. His arms are covered in the same dark, dried blood – there’s no saving this shirt. His head hurts. He doesn’t quite trust his shaking legs. “You two were riding up to the main gates when the memory started.” 

“Could someone explain what on earth is happening here?” 

Caterina still stands at the top of the stairs. A hint of anger sharpens her gaze as she lays one hand on the handrail and raises the other to point at Desmond.  

“That man. Where did he come from? What are you talking about?”

“Signora, I swear everything will be made clear in time, but please give us a moment first.” Mario’s plea is made hastily and with little attention paid towards her, so it comes as no surprise that it does not succeed in calming Caterina down even a bit. That, however, doesn’t stop Mario from ignoring her completely in favor of questioning Desmond some more. “What happened in the Vatican? Did you accomplish what you set out to do? Did you see this… apparition you spoke of?”

Desmond nods, looking away. 

“Yeah, we saw her. Got the message. Though I don’t know if Ezio even heard all of it, he was… you know.”

Mario’s worried frown ages him by at least a decade.

“Are you certain you are alright? Should you perhaps sit down?”

Caterina interrupts again. The soft rustle of her skirt brushing against the steps alerts them of her approach, and when Desmond looks up at her, it is to see her staring at him. She wears the same expression everyone does when they look at Desmond and have to spend a moment trying to understand why he seems so familiar – because he looks enough like Ezio from ten years ago that it makes them think Desmond is him for a few seconds.

“You are the man who disappeared from Forlì a decade ago, are you not? The one we wasted days searching for. Desmond. Ezio’s Desmond.” Face to face with something she cannot understand, her response is to let that annoyed confusion turn into rage. “What manner of witchcraft is this?”

But before she can make any more frantic demands for explanations, the front door of the villa opens with a heavy sigh. 

Machiavelli’s clothes are not quite as immaculate after days of travel as he probably would like, and there is a sense of exasperation about him when he looks up and notices the impromptu welcoming committee on the stairs. That exasperation turns into a tired disbelief once the blood-stained Apple lying on the floor in the middle of the room catches his attention.

“Does anyone care to explain what you three are up to?”

His unimpressed glare stays on them even when he takes one step to the side and holds the door open for someone else. 

Ezio walks in. 

He is still pale, almost gray-ishly so, which brings out the dark circles under his eyes. His stiff movements and slumped posture hint that something still hurts, and he does not look like himself at all in the plain, dusty clothes he’s wearing – his robes must have been far beyond salvaging – but he's alive.

Mario moves to catch his elbow when Desmond’s body finally has had enough. His chest constricts, as if someone was sitting on it, and his legs give out under him. Despite Mario’s support, he almost hits his back when he slumps down on one of the steps. The whole world seems to spin when he hides his face in his hands and trembles. 

Mario’s warm, large hand comes to rest on his shoulder.

“Oh, son. Let it all out,” he says in a low voice, his own relief evident in every word. “Everything is fine.”

Desmond struggles to draw in a breath, sniffling and fucking hiccuping. He wipes blood, snot and tears from his face, but his hands, hell, all of him shakes so much that it is a little bit hard at the moment. It is embarrassing to admit how much he leans against Mario’s touch to stay upright – and he misses the support immediately when Mario leaves him to go to hug his nephew. The couple of affectionate words they exchange blur into background noise as Desmond tries to get a hold himself, though that is made all the more difficult by the fact that just hearing Ezio speak at all almost makes him start bawling all over again.

The Apple’s ever-present hum quiets down when Machiavelli picks it up and berates them about something – the Italian language as a concept is far too much for Desmond’s bruised brain at this point. He hears the words and Mario’s answer, but doesn’t bother to try to understand. He doesn’t even notice that Ezio has moved until he glances up and sees him crouched right in front of him. 

Desmond coughs and shakes his head, trying to get a hold of himself. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he mumbles and presses a hand to his forehead.

Gentle fingers wrap around his wrist and pull the hand away so that Ezio, now on one knee and even closer, can take a look at his face. The longer he studies him, the tighter he presses his lips together. It makes Desmond wonder if his nose might be broken after all. Could be, considering the dull pain that seems to pulsate through his entire skull.

“I will kill him,” Ezio breathes out and brushes a fingertip against Desmond’s swollen, tender brow. The touch makes Desmond wince, and Ezio immediately overflows with apologies.

“You get fucking stabbed in the neck but it's my bruises you’re worried about?” Desmond hiccups, his laugh just a tiny bit hysterical. “I thought you died, you know. Right there in front of me, and there was nothing I could do about it, and I – no, no, don’t you dare, you’ll get blood on your clothes – “

But Ezio pulls him into his arms and holds him tightly anyway, despite the blood and despite their audience. The coarse fabric of his cape scrapes against Desmond’s neck, the sudden added weight means that Desmond is leaning more heavily against the step behind him and it now digs into his back, and Ezio positively reeks of sweat and dust and horses, but none of that matters. None of that matters, because when Desmond buries his face in Ezio's hair and grips the back of his shirt, he is warm and solid and there and not bleeding out on the floor of the Vatican.

“Is the – how’s your – are you alright?” Desmond croaks, his voice so rough he can barely understand his own words himself. 

“I am fine, just a little tired. Do not worry yourself.” 

“You sure? Because I don’t think I can handle any more surprises – “

“I am well.” Ezio pulls back just enough to look him in the eye, resting his hands on Desmond’s shoulders. “As well as I can be, given the circumstances.”

Caterina clears her throat. 

“I was promised an explanation. And I would like to have one. Now.”

Her stare demands answers, and with a sigh Ezio gives in. He squeezes Desmond’s shoulder one more time as if to say “Let me take care of this” before getting onto his feet. He straightens his back and gestures towards Mario’s office, then nods at his uncle to get him to follow as well.

“This way.”

As Ezio’s touch leaves him, so does Desmond’s strength. Still slumped on the stairs, he watches the last two Auditore men guide Caterina towards the study and just lets himself be exhausted. Being tired is a blanket underneath which he hides everything else he feels – the easiest of them to deal with the relief that he doesn’t have to be the one to explain his whole time travelling bullshit once more. Yeah, he would actually rather die than go over it again. Especially with Caterina. Because how do you get someone who has no connection to any of it to believe it when the whole thing sounds batshit insane even to him, and he’s the one living through it? He does not envy Ezio right now – hell, knowing Caterina, she might very well slap him or something for this. 

Shit, especially when she hears what is going to happen in less than twenty-four hours, and realizes that they let her come here regardless. Invited her here. Fuck.

“We screwed up. With her. Screwed her over,” he blurts out when it dawns on him what exactly they have done. 

Machiavelli turns to look at him over his shoulder.

“Do elaborate.”

Desmond presses a hand to his mouth.

“Even if Ezio gets her to believe that I’m from the future, she’s not going to accept the fact that staying in Forlì wouldn’t have kept her safe from Cesare. At best, she’s going to think we took advantage of her and her men, at worst she thinks we laid out a trap for her and sold her to the Borgias.”

Machiavelli meets his gaze calmly. Raises an eyebrow.

“You – shit.” Desmond breathes in through his nose. “And you still let her come here.”

“If she believes us, we will have her men defending the town. If she curses us to the deepest pits of hell and marches out, she will still serve as a distraction.”

“Fucking hell…” Desmond rubs his brow, then winces when his fingers hit the injured skin. “Does Mario – ?”

“I do not think he has yet realized how the Contessa will interpret his invitation to join her forces to those of Monteriggioni. Considering what will happen by tomorrow morning, we cannot exactly fault him for being distracted.”

“Still. Fuck.”

Muffled sounds of an aggravated conversation seep through the wooden door of Mario’s office. Machiavelli stands with his hands behind his back and considers the snippets with his head tilted to the side. Desmond closes his eyes and doesn’t know how guilty to feel. Hell, he doesn’t know how to feel about the fact that in the future, history books teach that Cesare Borgia took Caterina Sforza captive in Forlì. Has he just accidentally changed history to fit whatever he read on Wikipedia?

Machiavelli has to clear his throat quite pronouncedly before Desmond realizes to pay attention to him.

“Do you know where Antonio and Teodora are?”

“No. I arrived only a couple of minutes before you guys did.”

Machiavelli lets out an annoyed hum.

The conversation on the other side of the door erupts again. They both listen in silence when Caterina raises her voice so much that they can make out the exact words when she calls Ezio crazy and a lunatic.

“How’s he?” Desmond croaks when the foyer has fallen quiet again. “Is he… Did I heal him right? Is he only pretending to be better than he really is?”

He doesn’t like how knowing Machiavelli’s smirk is.

“He is fine. Paola had the chance to examine him in Rome once he woke up, and she is of the opinion that nothing is wrong, as is his sister. Whatever you did, it seems to have worked.” Machiavelli pauses before huffing a dry laugh. “Though I am not certain Signora Maria will ever forgive me – she did not think kindly of me and my plans for the brotherhood after she saw La Volpe and me dragging in her unconscious son drenched in his own blood.”

“I can imagine.” Desmond massages his neck and keeps his gaze on the floor. Doesn’t say that he doesn’t want to think what she might think of him now. “So he just looks tired, is that it?”

“Whatever you did to heal him seems to have been exhausting for his body. He is still recovering, but he is much, much better than he was in the beginning. And you have to consider the four days of travel on top of all that. I know that I myself am not currently the most presentable I have ever been.” Machiavelli finds it in himself to give Desmond a somewhat sympathetic glance. “Perhaps you could take this chance to go change out of those clothes. I shall go to see if I can find Antonio.”

“Yeah.” It takes Desmond a few seconds to realize that agreeing means that he’s going to have to move. Grabbing the handrail for support, he pushes himself up on his feet, then considers where to go. Ezio’s room is where his heart is, but the thought of dragging himself up all those stairs almost makes him sit back down. So his own room it is. 

The need to get out of these clothes and burn them so he never has to see or smell them ever again has turned into an all-consuming urge by the time the door to his room closes behind him.

He tries to pull his shirt off, but the fabric, now ugly, deep brown-red, has latched onto his arms and torso. The half-dried blood sits there like a second skin, and when he literally peels the thing off, it tears off with an awful sound, tugging on each small hair on his forearms. He needs a shower, now.

He stands there, holding his ruined shirt in his hand and with goose-bumps on his skin, when he remembers where he is. When he is. There’s no indoor plumbing in the Renaissance, no warm water just waiting for him – and fuck, he doesn’t want to go fetch water and then heat it up and then drag it all the way here. But there’s no one to do it for him either because the servants have left, sent away before Cesare and his men arrive. Desmond doesn’t like asking them for help but fuck, today he might just have because, God, he is tired. 

He just stands there for a full minute, the shirt balled up in his hand, his hair sticking up – dried and crunchy where he ran a hand through it earlier and got Ezio’s blood on it. Not knowing what to do. Not having the energy to make any sense of his jumbled thoughts.

He falls to sit on the bed. Drops the shirt. Realizes that he might accidentally stain the bedcovers only after he has sat down. Keeps shivering while exhaustion and relief fight over his body.

He isn’t sure for how long he just sits there, staring at his own hands – hey, look, there’s dried blood underneath his fingernails too – until he lifts his head and sees that the door is open. Because Ezio has appeared to stand at the doorway.

“I did knock,” he announces with a half of a smile on his lips before walking in. He has changed out of his traveling clothes, though at least his shirt looks like it was thrown on in a hurry, as it hasn’t been properly tucked in, and the pieces of hair framing his face are damp from washing his face. 

With no active participation of his brain, Desmond reaches out a hand towards him. He grabs the front of Ezio’s shirt once he’s within reach, and pulls him even closer, refusing to let go even when Ezio stands snuggly between his legs, his thighs warm against Desmond’s own. 

Ezio lays a hand on Desmond’s neck and gently tilts his head back so that he can lean down and kiss him. He tries to be careful and mind the gash on Desmond’s lip, but Desmond, spurred on by the adrenaline still lingering in his veins, has no patience for such things. His hand travels to Ezio’s neck, where a strong, fast pulse beats against his fingertips – and gets faster still when Desmond slips his other hand underneath Ezio’s shirt to feel the warm skin there. Because Ezio is here and he is alive and he is real, and maybe if Desmond touches him enough times, tastes him, feels his body against his own, he might finally allow himself to believe it.

“I will not lay with you when you are still covered in my own blood, darling,” Ezio chuckles against his lips. He gives him another kiss before pulling back and crouching in front of Desmond who forcibly swallows the whine the loss of contact tries to bring out of him. He grumbles something incomprehensible, because switching his brain back on also means that his exhaustion and headache return with vengeance. But he reaches for Ezio again, this time to brush his ponytail away from his neck – Ezio tilts his head so that he can see the smooth skin better. There is a patch of new skin, pinker than the rest, where there should be a ugly scar.

“Does it hurt?”

Ezio makes a noncommittal sound in his throat and shrugs, though he keeps the movement small. Careful. As if to distract, he takes Desmond’s hand into his own.

“Niccolò told me what happened in the vault,” he says in a quiet voice and meets his eyes. “I know what you did for me. So thank you. For saving my life. I would not be here if it was not for you.”

“I couldn’t let you die.” It feels stupid to say that he feels naked admitting that, considering his state of undress, but it’s the truth. 

“Did it harm you?” There is something fragile in the way Ezio asks that, something that is mirrored in how he holds onto Desmond’s right hand like it might break if he applies too much pressure. “Healing me, I mean. You used this, did you not? Did it sap your strength like the Apple does?”

“Nah, I don’t think so. Had the Apple and the staff to pull energy from. And kinda the whole vault.”

A faint crease appears between Ezio’s eyebrows.

“Are you certain?”

“Yeah.” The unconvinced expression Ezio gives him makes him scoff and roll his eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine, really. I’m not the one who kinda died.”

Grunting, Ezio stands up – a little bit more slowly than he would have in his twenties, but the glare he throws at Desmond tells it’s better not to mention that. Desmond refuses to let go of him though, and tugs on his hand to pull him closer.

“I am sorry that this Minerva did not speak to you,” Ezio sighs. “I had hoped you would finally get some answers.”

“Yeah, well. Nothing has ever worked out for me before, so I don’t know why I expected this to now.” He brushes his thumb against the back of Ezio’s hand, trying to distract himself from the pounding headache. “Hey, I’m just really glad you’re alright. Seriously.”

Ezio leans in to press a lightweight kiss on his lips before stopping to take another look at him. The face he makes then is somehow both exasperated and mischievous in a way Desmond usually associates with a younger version of him. 

“What?”

“I did not want to say it at first, caro mio, but you do look like a wild animal. The resemblance is uncanny.” 

“Oh, wow. Thanks a lot.”

Chuckling, Ezio tugs on his hand and pulls him up to his feet.

It feels like they are the only people in the villa when Ezio leads him down the quiet hallway, this one just as devoid of artworks as the main hall. Just as Desmond is about to start complaining about having to wander around a drafty two hundred years old villa half-naked, Ezio pushes open a door and ushers him into a room with a fireplace and, most importantly, a bathtub filled with steaming water.

“Antonio owed me a favor,” Ezio grins. 

Desmond doesn’t need much convincing after that. Ezio helps him out of the rest of his clothes and holds out a hand for support when he climbs in. The water is still a bit too hot to be comfortable but Desmond could not care less right now.

“I literally love you,” he sighs before closing his eyes and letting himself sink under the surface. After he comes back up again, he spends a good while ruffling his hair and just scratching his scalp – the need to get the blood out is almost an itch. “Hey, so how did Caterina take the news? Did she leave?” he asks when he reaches over the edge of the tub for a bar of soap.

“Yes, and slammed every door on her way out.” Ezio turns to look at him, rolling up his sleeves, then frowns. “Did you know?”

“Guessed. So she believed you?”

“Well, she did see you appear out of nothing right before her eyes. And she recognized you. I do not think there was much she could do after that but to believe me. Not that it did us any good.”

Desmond closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath. 

“I didn’t think,” he admits just as Ezio crouches next to the tub. “I’m so used to this timeline bullshit, and now you’re getting the hang of how all of this works, so I didn’t bother to think how she would see this – “

“I did not realize it either, nor did Uncle. I do not hear you blaming me, so I do not see why you alone should carry the burden of that mistake. She is not your responsibility. None of us here are.”

Desmond presses his lips together, bites his teeth into his still slightly bleeding lower lip. 

Ezio has found a small towel. He dips it in a basin nearby, also full of warm water, before resting one knee on the floor and reaching over to wipe the dried blood off Desmond’s face.

“I can do that.”

“I know.”

Slowly, meticulously Ezio cleans the blood from his swollen brows and cheeks, being as gentle as he can when he goes over the tender nose and wipes the clotted blood from a gash on his lip. He spends a moment trying in vain to get it off from Desmond’s wild stubble – it has been a while since he last had time to sit down and shave.

“So,” Desmond begins, then has to shut up when Ezio frowns, grabs Desmond’s chin and tilts his head back to get a better look at something. His brown eyes flick to meet Desmond’s when the pause starts getting awkwardly long, then the focused stare returns to scrutinizing the injury that has made him look so upset. “You’re weirdly calm for someone who just nearly died. Want to talk about it?”

Ezio huffs a breath.

“I assure you, when I woke up in that half-empty warehouse Niccolò had dragged me to four days ago, I was not quite this composed. I barely understood half the things Claudia said when started to berate me for scaring Mother half to death.” He dips the towel in the warm water again and finds another blotch of red to wipe away. “Niccolò described what he saw in the vault in great detail. He said that the amount of blood was… He was certain I was dead. I do not remember much but I do know that I thought so myself, during what I thought were my final moments.” He is quiet for a heartbeat, then chuckles. “But time heals most wounds, does it not?”

“I don’t think four days is enough to get over that.”

“Mmh. And how long has it been for you? An hour?”

Desmond tries to avoid Ezio’s eyes then, but the expectant silence makes him breathe out an answer.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

He misses the warmth touch immediately when it leaves – Ezio rests his hands on the edge of the tub and just… looks at him. With soft pity and exhaustion that make him look his age.

“Yeah, it’s been one of those days,” Desmond laughs. “It’s been only a couple of hours since we were upstairs, you know, and now we have to deal with this. Cesare and his gang will be here soon and then it’s go time again. I’m speedrunning the hell out of your life.”

Ezio frowns at the phrase he doesn’t quite understand. Or maybe the whole thing.

“I am sorry it has to be like this.”

Desmond grunts, shrugs and focuses on scrubbing the blood from underneath his nails. 

The faint shadows of an early evening have already sneaked into the room. Behind the glass of the only window the sun has started to dive towards the horizon, bleeding shades of orange and red over the fields and hills beyond the town walls. 

“Hey, I’m sorry too.” 

“Whatever for?”

The knot on the ribbon Ezio has tied around his ponytail has loosened up. Desmond snatches the ribbon away before it falls into the water, and in the process manages to drip water all over Ezio’s shirt. 

“For almost getting you killed.”

“Desmond – ” 

“I thought – I guess I thought that the Gray would protect you, like when it stopped me from killing Rodrigo. I don't know how that would have worked but – I thought you were safe. That just because you lived past that day in one lifetime, you were going to survive through it now. But this… I don’t know if the rules changed or what, but you would have died if I hadn’t been there. If it wasn't for this.” Under the surface of the water, he clenches his right hand into a tight fist, then relaxes it when Ezio slips his fingers between his, intertwining them. “Or you know what, scratch that. If I hadn't been there, Rodrigo would never have snuck upon you, but I was there. I caused this – I changed things and you almost died because of it.”

“Amore, you cannot blame yourself for – “

“Yes, I fucking can! I knew what happened to the Doge, to Manfredo and to Cristina, and still I tried to do things differently. I should have learned my lesson by now. It always, always comes back to bite me in the ass somehow! I could understand the universe fucking with me if I had come here on purpose to fix something! But I didn’t! I didn’t ask to be here!” He lets his posture slump before swallowing and searching for Ezio’s gaze. “Look, I’m not saying I don’t want to be here. Because I do. I want to be here, with you. I love you – hell, so much that I can barely handle it most of the time. And this is still, despite everything I just said, the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You are. But – ”

“Just as you are to me.” Ezio rushes to interrupt him, his hold on Desmond’s hand tightening into an intense grip. “The thought of a lifetime in which I did not know you seems so impossible when you are entwined into every aspect of my being in this one. And I would not change this life for anything.”

“No, don’t do that – Can you not be so – ,” Desmond hisses, then wipes the corner of his eye, sniffling. “I’m trying to do the fucking right thing here and you’re actively making this so much harder than it has to be.” 

“Yes, dearest, I am.” The steady, unflinching way Ezio meets his gaze forces Desmond to turn away, snarling curses under his breath.

“Don’t pretend that you don’t know as well as I do that I’m not supposed to be here. You getting hurt just proved it again. I fuck things up, I get people killed, I get people killed in worse ways than before. A fucking Precursor with the ability to see the future didn’t know I was going to be here – there can’t be much clearer a sign that I’m not meant to be here, can there? So wouldn’t it be better for everyone if I just stopped being selfish and used the Apple to go back to my own time where I’m supposed to be before I can cause any more damage? Before I get you hurt again?”

The headache hammers his skull – half of his face seems to pulsate in response. He scrunches his eyes closed, breathing out audibly through his nose. 

“No. It would not.”

Desmond lets out a wet chuckle.

“You just saying that doesn’t make it true. And I think I remember you telling me to go, not that long ago.”

A silence. Fingers on his jaw, turning his head so that Ezio can lean in and press a hard kiss on his lips. And fuck, Desmond doesn’t have it in him not to kiss him back.

“Only because I thought it was your sole chance of finding a cure.” Ezio’s eyelids flutter as he slowly blinks his eyes open. “But do not leave because of this. Not for my sake.” 

“But – “

“I will beg if I have to, Desmond. I have lost you twice already, do not make me go through it a third time. I would not come out of it the same man.”

He kisses Desmond again, and Desmond doesn’t really care how blatantly obvious of a distraction attempt it is. He grabs the front of Ezio’s shirt and pulls on it so that Ezio has to get up on one knee and grab the edges of the tub so that he can lean over Desmond and kiss him properly, with his loose hair cascading over his shoulders. 

It does take Desmond embarrassingly long to remember that he’s supposed to protest. He presses a hand to Ezio’s chest to get him to stop, then just looks at him, his own chest heaving. 

“I’m changing things,” he states, his voice hoarse, “just by being here. And someday that’s going to get you killed.”

Bullheaded anger flashes in Ezio’s eyes.

“I refuse to believe it could possibly be that simple – “

“Just listen for once, okay?” He grips onto Ezio’s shirt, his knuckles white. “Think about it – you got injured once already because of me. What happens if I stay here and cause something else to change and you get killed? You’ll never meet Sofia, you’ll never have your kids, and that means I won’t get born. I couldn’t give less of a shit about what happens to me, but the fact is that if I’m not there, there will be no one to activate the Precursor device and stop the world from burning. Millions will die. Because you died. Because of me.”

Ezio loses the rigid posture. He covers Desmond’s hand with his own, and his voice drops to a low, raspy whisper.

“Desmond, I say this in the kindest, most loving way possible – you are exhausted, shaken, and seeing patterns where there are none.” He draws in a quick breath and deliberately runs his thumb over Desmond’s knuckles. “Rest, think this over one more time. Do not make a decision like this in haste.”

“No, you’re not – you’re doing it again. Fuck, Ezio, come on! We don’t have time for me to get my shit together! The Apple will be gone by tomorrow morning, and once it’s gone, it’s gone for years!” Desmond yanks his hand away, splashing water on both of them. “I’m not willing to take the chance that something could happen. What if you get hurt again – what if during the siege, a bullet goes wide and hits you and that's it? I can't fix you if your skull has exploded, there's not going to be anything to fix!” He runs a violent hand through his hair, rapidly blinking. “I watched you bleed to death once already, I can’t – I can’t go through that again. Please don’t ask me to do that.”

The villa, more abandoned than it has been for decades, sighs as only a centuries old building can. The slowly cooling, red-tinted water sloshes gently against the sides of the tub and almost hides the sound of Ezio breathing as he sits down on his knees on the floor.

“I will not allow you to hold yourself responsible for what happens to me.” He waits until Desmond looks at him. “Not realizing Rodrigo was there was my mistake. You might be the reason we were there, but I refuse to be reduced to a simple puppet the strings of fate tug along as they wish. I had my blades and my skills, all the decades of experience, and I could have used them. I should have. It was my failure and no one else’s, and claiming otherwise is just an insult.”

He runs his fingers along the edge of the tub, seemingly without even realizing he’s doing it.

“Should a Templar’s bullet find me tomorrow, should a horse throw me, should my hand slip while climbing, the blame will be mine and mine alone. Not yours. The discovery that this Gray of yours does not protect me has not changed that, and I have not expected it to.” He chuckles under his breath. “I have lived forty years on this earth, most of it very aware of the fact that, in my profession, any moment could be my last. I am set in my ways – that did not stop just because you told me I should have at least yet another decade to live.”

“That’s – no. No. As long as I am here, this will never be like it was in the Animus and – “

“It does not matter that these events did not play out the same way they did in the memories the Animus showed you.” Ezio leans in closer, close enough that his warm breath brushes against Desmond’s bare skin. A tiny hint of a smile softens his whole face. “This life of mine here is just as true as that one you saw. It is not the lesser one of the two – I do not think of that other life as a set of guidelines I have to follow, or a standard I have to reach. The only life I care about is this one right here, because it gave me you.”

And fuck, Desmond’s not going to cry again, he’s done enough of it for today. He covers his mouth with his hand and shakes his head, just as Ezio wraps his arms around him, not caring that his sleeves dip into the water and that Desmond gets the rest of the shirt soaking wet when he hugs him back.

“My love, you have already changed everything there is to change about my life. You could not undo that by simply removing yourself from it. So do not go. Please.”

Desmond hides his face in the crook of Ezio’s neck and holds him tighter.

Chapter Text

A sea of stars has devoured the sky by the time Desmond steps outside. A breeze ruffles his  still damp hair, and he has to hug himself to stay warm in his borrowed clothes as he crosses the courtyard. The taste of a hastily put-together meal still lingers in his mouth, but he doubts he’s going to get the nap he could use just as much as he did the food.

He finds Mario near the training ring, watching the quiet town. His hair shines silver in the faint moonlight, and so does the old armor he now wears – it has seen battle, Desmond notes, and perhaps doesn’t fit quite as well as when it was made for Mario decades ago, but there’s no need to mention that.

The leader of the Assassins smiles when Desmond comes to a stop next to him.

“Feeling better?” 

“Yeah.”

Desmond brushes a stubborn curl of hair from his face, then spends a moment wishing he still had his hoodie so he could hide his hands in its pockets. 

The wrinkles at the corners of Mario’s eyes become more pronounced when his genuine smile brightens. 

“Where did you leave Ezio?”

Desmond nods back towards the villa.

“He needed to go over something with Macchiavelli.”

“I see. Ah, that reminds me – we found the man you warned us about, the one you said will sell our secrets to the Borgia. And yes, I am sure I have the right man – he even had letters from some Borgia agents in his belongings. My first instinct was to kill him – it would rid us of the problem, but considering what you have learned about trying to change the flow of time…”

“It could backfire, yeah. So what did you do with him?”

“We have him at the barracks now, so that he cannot scurry off to the Borgia whelp and tell him that we know to expect him.” Mario lets out a laugh. “Truth to be told, I was considering just leaving him there. Perhaps we get lucky and Cesare’s men will aim their cannons well.”

They share a look. Mario huffs and rolls his eyes.

“Well, in either case, that little weasel now knows we know about him. He will not be able to feed inside information about us to the Borgias even if he lives through tonight.”

“Let’s hope so,” Desmond says as they watch a lone mercenary jog through the abandoned streets and towards the stairs leading up to the ramparts. “Where are the others?”

“Teodora I sent away earlier with the townsfolk. She will see to it that our old and sick have somewhere to go. And Antonio went to make sure that our escape plan goes off without a hitch and that the horses are alright.”

Oh, yeah, the escape plan. No matter how the battle goes, Ezio, Machiavelli and the rest will need to leave Monteriggioni behind at some point. It is a long walk to Rome from here, so they have made preparations. And so by now the family’s horses, along with an unassuming wagon, should have been brought to a small farm not far from the town. The farmers were to be warned about the threat and evacuated, but the horses would do fine by themselves in the paddocks for one night. 

“He went through the tunnel?”

“Yes. They are watching the main gate – my men already spotted one of their scouts.”

“Will he make it back in time?”

“I told him to stay there and to keep out of trouble. If something happens to Ezio or Niccolò or you, you need someone to drag you out of this mess. Or do you object?”

“No, it’s better this way. He wasn’t here last time, so I was worried what could happen to him now.” 

“Ah.” With that, Mario returns his attention to watching the town. Desmond follows his gaze and tries to see what the old condottiero sees – quiet, empty streets, barricaded doors, abandoned homes. Only darkness in each and every window as far as the eye can see. Countless lives uprooted, forced to leave their homes behind for the unlikely chance to survive. The only signs of life left are the mercenaries preparing for the battle and the lanterns they have lit up and carried to the battlements to serve as decoy. 

Mario rests his hands on his hips and leans his head back to look up at the sky. His shoulders rise and fall with his deep sigh. 

“It is strange to know these are the last stars I will ever see. I am lucky that such beauties decided to come to bid me goodbye.”

Something cold settles into Desmond’s stomach and makes a nest there.

“I thought – Ezio said that you had a plan – “

“We all do foolish things in the name of trying to save those we love from unnecessary pain. I could not look my nephew in the eye and tell him I had already given up when I know that deep down he still has hope that there might be a way for me to survive through this night.”

Desmond runs his tongue over the scrape on his lower lip.

“You could still try. You could leave, walk away from all this before the attack begins.”

“It is kind of you to try to give an old man an out, but we both know that I cannot. I have heard enough of your tales to know that my time has come and that resisting will only cause more pain. No, this is it. I have had a good life, and a longer one than I can say most of my friends had.” Mario massages the shoulder of his sword arm, grunting. “Thanks to you, I have been able to say goodbye to those dear to me. Settle any unfinished business. Now I can die knowing that Ezio will survive whatever happens tonight and that Claudia, sweet, sweet Claudia is far away from all of this. There are worse ways to leave this world.”

Desmond has to spend a moment looking at the stars, blinking and fighting the constricting feeling in his throat. 

“I’m really sorry.”

“Do not be. I am an old man – it is only right that I go so that you youngsters can live to see another day.”

“Still.”

Mario tilts his head to the side and considers him again. There is something in the way he does it that makes Desmond think of Giovanni, as Ezio remembers him from his childhood. And once he sees the glimpses of Giovanni, it is easy to notice the resemblance to Ezio himself. 

“You are a good man, Desmond. A kind one. Do not let the world take that away from you.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. So he just nods, but it feels too little, so he makes the effort to look Mario in the eye and nod again.

Mario gives him a tired smile and a way out.

“My men will be ready soon. You only have to tell me when you want to leave.”

Desmond nods once more – it feels like that’s all he ever does – then breathes out a quiet “Yeah”. He crosses his arms over his chest and pretends to study the dark buildings and empty streets even though his head has just become such a mess of jumbled thoughts and feelings he couldn’t tell what he is looking at even if someone pointed a gun at his head. 

But rather than sort through them, it is easier not to think much at all and steal a glance at Mario and commit the image of him to memory, as he is now, standing there with his hands behind his back and a calm expression on his weathered face. The armor helps with his proud posture, and his good eye, of the same warm shade as Ezio’s, gazes at the town.

And yeah, there is no Mario without Monteriggioni, and no Monteriggioni without Mario. It doesn’t feel right to separate the two, so Desmond spends a moment trying to imprint as many details of the town into his memories as he can when it is still like this. Intact. Whole. Like it is supposed to be. It is home, much more than anything he had back in the future. Even more than Masyaf or the Homestead, more than the safehouse in Isola Tiberina. 

But this is still not enough. 

Desmond sneaks a glance at Mario again, struggling with the need to say something and not knowing how to put the feeling into words. And still trying anyway because he… He isn’t Ezio, he’s not losing an uncle tonight, but he might just as well be.

“Hey, um, I know this is probably going to be awkward, because this is mostly Ezio’s memories talking, so I’m not blaming you if you feel weirded out, and sorry in advance, but… You are the closest thing he has had to a father since Giovanni died, and um, well, my dad’s a real piece of work, so I guess I didn’t really mind that his feelings kinda Bled through… I dunno, it just felt nice to have someone I could trust, no questions asked. And – shit, and even if it wasn’t for all this Bleeding, you have always been so nice to me here. On my side. Like, you stood up for me and it wasn’t just the Bleeding Effect when it so often is, and that’s…” His voice gets small. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say. Thank you, I guess. it’s just that I didn’t get to say all I wanted last time… Fuck, Ezio didn’t, and – ”

He clamps his mouth shut the second Mario’s heavy, warm hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes it. When Mario speaks, there’s a whole new timbre in his voice.

“Oh, son. Desmond. The honor has been entirely mine. As short as our time together here might have been, with you blinking in and out of our lives for the past twenty years, I am glad I have had the chance to know you.” Then Mario stops resisting and pulls him into a bear hug, patting his back in a way that makes Desmond think of Bartolomeo, and fuck, Desmond didn’t know he needed that as much as he did. “Now doubly so if I have truly unknowingly managed to make even a part of your journey easier. You are most welcome.”

Mario takes a step back, but his hand returns to Desmond’s shoulder.

“Furthermore, I am grateful that you will be there for my nephew once I am gone. Please take care of him. He is far lonelier than he lets on, and today he will lose much. He needs someone who loves him as much as I know he loves you.”

For a moment Desmond thinks of running.

“I – “

“My boy, I am blind in only one eye, and you two are not half as discreet as you would like to think,” Mario laughs and gives his arm another friendly pat before sighing. “I will not lie, I cannot say I entirely understand it. On the contrary, if I wanted to protest, I would have many reasons to do so – the most prominent one being your lineage. I know there is half a millennium between you and him, but it is still strange. I am the one who has had to sit at the same dinner table with Ezio and his mother – Maria, once she returned to herself, learned to think of you first and foremost as her descendant, because the tale of the Animus is one of the first things she heard about you. But to Ezio, who has known you since he was a boy, you are defined by everything else. I do not know which of them is right.”

Mario clasps his hands behind his back and gazes to the distance.

“I imagine the church has some objections as well, though worry not, I have not cared to listen to the words of priests that attentively for decades. Bah, if their God was to strike a man down for kissing another, I would not have lived to be this old and gray myself.” He chuckles and moves on from that revelation as if Desmond’s entire world had not just shifted slightly to the left. “Nay, the fact I am the most concerned about is the impermanence of your existence here. You already vanished for a decade once. I have understood that you will not be here for the entirety of this new one. And if my memory serves me right, after the year 1512 you will be gone. What is he to do then? Is he to find a wife and miss you in secret for the rest of his life, however long that might be? You must understand that this is far from what I had hoped for him.”

Mario turns to him.

“And you are so very young.”

Desmond presses his lips together, at the same time trying to formulate a defence and writing his break-up speech to Ezio, which is going as well as you can imagine, but Mario cuts him off.

“Ah, cazzo, but now I have made it sound far worse than I intended. No, what I meant to say is – your situation is a peculiar one, yes, but in the end, all I want is Ezio’s happiness. If you can give that to him, even if only for a few years – and I know you want to – who am I to object? The loss of you changed him once already, and I do not wish to put him through that again. I only hope he will have the strength to bear the far worse loss alone when you eventually return to your time, a decade from now.”

That doesn’t really help, at all, thank you – you know, considering that as far as Desmond is concerned, they got together this fucking morning, but hey, it’s fine. It’s fine. He could just have used a little more time before having to think about 1512 and Masyaf and feeling guilty about it all, but it is. Fine. 

“That was not any better, now was it?” Mario chuckles and scratches the back of his head. “Merda, Ezio will have my head once he hears of this… I am happy for you. Both of you. And I trust you to look after him once I am gone.”

And shit, before this Desmond hadn’t even had time to fear how Mario and the others would react to this whole thing – hell, being with Ezio had been so far outside the realm of possibility for so long that it hadn’t felt necessary to worry about it. But now the anxiety has been lifted off his shoulders anyway, mostly, and the sudden absence of such a weight almost makes his legs wobble.

“I –  thanks. Thank you.” He swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. “That means a lot. Seriously.”

Mario just smiles again, though there is something sad about it. Pitying almost. He takes Desmond by both shoulders and studies his face for a moment before shaking his head and shooing him off.

“Go, do not waste your time with an old fool like me. Go find him. I will be there to send you off in a minute.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, yes. Off you go now.”

Desmond reaches out to briefly touch Mario’s arm before heading inside. He turns to look at him once more from the door and answers Mario’s wave with his own.

He tracks Ezio down to the weapons room, though the name doesn’t feel fitting anymore, when most of the more valuable blades and axes have already been sent out of harm’s way to Rome. When Desmond walks in, Ezio is trying to pick between a pair of swords, testing the weight and feel of them. His hair has been tied back in a practical braid, and he has changed out of the soaked shirt into some of his old training clothes – dark colors, to keep him hidden when they sneak into Cesare’s war camp.

“Hi,” Desmond mutters as he walks up to him and hugs him from behind, resting his chin on Ezio’s shoulder. That doesn’t stop Ezio from twirling one of the light, beautiful blades with a twist of his wrist. He lifts the blade to eye-level, then considers it with a critical, focused frown on his face.

“This one? Or the other?”

“You’re more used to the other one,” Desmond says after only a quick glance at the blades. He tightens his hold on Ezio’s waist. “And there was something funky about that one’s grip, you never really liked it.”

“Mmh.” Ezio glances at him from the corner of his eye, then lowers the sword and leans against Desmond. “What did Uncle have to say?”

“That we’re good to go. Where’s Machiavelli?”

“Taking yet another look at the maps.”

Desmond slumps more heavily against him, tilting his head a little so that he can rest it against Ezio’s.

“You’re warm.”

“And you are tired.”

“Mmh.” 

They listen to the silence of an old building for a minute, though Desmond focuses more on the steady rise and fall of Ezio’s chest, the comforting lull of it. For a little while he lets his heavy eyelids fall closed because, Jesus, he needs a nap.

“Your uncle knows about us,” he mumbles next to Ezio’s ear and immediately regrets it when he feels him tense up in his arms.

“I see.”

“Relax. He just wanted to… give his blessing, I think.”

“Truly?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a little bit of nervous laughter mixed in with the relieved sigh Ezio lets out. 

“Well then… That is good.” 

Ezio turns his head just enough to look at him from the corner of his eye, then touches a hand to Desmond’s chin. The focused look returns to his eyes and he wiggles himself free of Desmond’s hold to put the sword he scrutinized down back on the stand before slipping the other into the sheath on his belt. While massaging his neck – the side Rodrigo stabbed – he grabs Desmond’s sleeve with his free hand and gently tugs him along towards the armory.

Contrary to what Desmond expected, the armory has not been entirely emptied. No, some of the armor sets Ezio collected over the past twenty years are still there. But the models of Leonardo’s inventions have been taken away, and on one of their stands sits a pile of pieces of armor and what seems to be a neatly folded cape or two. Desmond recognises the armor – it’s Altaïr’s, the one he made. Ezio must have brought it back from Rome with him, even if the robes he used to wear with them were ruined. 

“Here. Take it,” Ezio says as he takes the chest piece and presents it to Desmond.

Desmond grabs the piece of armor on instinct and only then remembers to protest.

“Hey, no. I don’t – What are you going to wear if – ”

And okay, yeah, it was a stupid question, and Ezio’s face tells him as much.

“Just take it,” Ezio huffs and walks over to the intricate armor he used to wear before he got his hands on the one Altaïr left for future generations. He lifts the chest piece off the stand, slips it over his head and starts strapping it on. He can’t quite hide his wince when he has to crane his neck to see what he is doing. 

Sighing, Desmond abandons Altaïr’s armor on the stand and walks over, brushing Ezio’s hands away from the clasps.

“I could have worn this one,” he mutters as he fastens one of the straps with a decisive tug, the buckles and fastenings familiar under his fingers after all the hours in the Animus. 

“Ah, but according to you, my story will not end yet for at least another decade. You have no such protection, hence the better armor.”

Desmond scrunches up his nose and swats Ezio’s hand away when he tries to reach around Desmond and grab the matching pauldron.

“Yeah, well, tell that to Rodrigo who tried to cut that story short and almost fucking succeeded,” he grumbles and spends a minute attaching the pauldron. Once he's done, he takes a step backwards to consider his handiwork while Ezio starts putting on the bracers.

“But I still live, do I not? Besides, I think you would have mentioned it if Altaïr’s armor was the reason I made it through tonight.”

It is annoying to be in love with a smug bastard. 

“You weren’t wearing any last time,” Desmond mutters under his breath and decidedly does not meet Ezio’s eyes.

“My point exactly,” Ezio quips, then stops to consider it some more. “No armor at all, truly? Why?”

“You were kinda busy then they started firing. Had no time to get properly dressed.”

“Busy?”

“Uh-huh. With Caterina.”

Ezio Auditore da fucking Firenze needs a few seconds to get it. 

“Ah.” 

“Yeah.”

Ezio leans against the stand and ponders over that for a while with a funny, almost amused expression on his face, furrowing his brows as he stares off into the distance. He scratches his beard and chuckles. 

“Well, she just left while cursing my name, so there is nothing for you to be worried about.”

Desmond rolls his eyes.

“Wasn’t worried.”

“Good.”

With that, Ezio marches over to Altaïr’s armor and the couple of capes. He picks one of them and throws it over his shoulders with one smooth movement, then grabs the silverish chest piece and hands it to Desmond who sighs, gives in and slips the thing on. While he holds the piece in place, Ezio repeats the process of fastening the buckles and straps. 

“You had to leave this behind last time,” Desmond notes in a quiet voice and obediently lifts his arm when Ezio needs to take another look at one of the straps. “Would be kinda nice if it made it to Rome now.”

“That is the plan – for both the armor and the man it is protecting to arrive safely in Rome.”

When Ezio stands up straight again, Desmond cups his face with his free hand and kisses him. As he pulls away, he brushes a lock of Ezio’s hair behind his ear.

“Hey, I know tonight can go to shit in so many ways, but just – promise me you’ll try to make it out in one piece. No matter what happens. I know you’re doing this for your uncle, but… just. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“When do I ever?” Ezio laughs, but the sound dies quickly and his smile drops when Desmond refuses to match his flippant attitude. “Desmond – “

“Just promise me.”

Ezio furrows his brows and his gaze sharpens, his voice now barely more than a whisper.

“Know this – what I want the most is to be there to greet you in Rome. Never doubt that.” 

His hand comes to cradle Desmond’s neck and their cheeks brush together when Ezio leans in to kiss him, but the faint sounds of footsteps and the whispers of the Apple both put a premature end to that and announce Machiavelli’s arrival. They don't really step away from each other – Ezio just straightens his back and lets his hand fall to his side while Desmond breathes out and looks anywhere but at either Machiavelli or Ezio.

Mercifully, Machiavelli’s tone doesn’t really differ from the usual dry comments he aims their way.

“Let us stop wasting time. It is dark outside – we need to act.”

He spins around and heads towards Mario’s study before either of them can answer. They look at each other, then finish the rest of Desmond’s armor before wandering after Machiavelli.

Mario has returned inside by the time they step into the study. Together, they walk down to the Sanctuary, all four of them, and come to a stop in front of Altaïr’s statue and the passage behind it. 

Machiavelli holds up the Apple.

“We have yet to decide what to do about this.” 

“I cannot take it, or it will certainly be lost,” Mario notes, his head tilted back to look up at Altaïr. 

“A lone man could still slip past the army and take it to Rome.”

Mario considers that. 

“Niccolò, you do not know how to use it. The safest it can be is in the hands of someone who knows how to wield it.”

Machiavelli’s expression stays the same but Desmond can’t help but notice how his fingers curl around the Apple to grip it harder. Shaking his head, Desmond steps forwards.

“If we actually believed we could keep it from the Borgias, you wouldn’t have let me take it with me when we escaped from the Vatican. You would have left it in Rome – and probably risked something catastrophic happening to our new hideout when the Borgias came to take it from there,” he points out. “We have to be realistic about this. The Borgias had it for years last time – we’re not going to get to keep it this time around either. It would be too big of a change. There’s just no way. So our plan should be less about securing the Apple and more about making sure you get safely out of here once the shit hits the fan.”

A few interesting expressions after that modern phrase.

“Could you not take it with you?” Mario asks and completely misses the way his nephew freezes up when he hears the question. “You had it with you when you appeared here, so it should be possible.”

“Well, I can try, but it doesn’t like jumping with me. The Gray’s probably gonna have some objections too. So we probably shouldn’t count it as an option.”

“Then we use the Apple while we still have it and make Cesare pay for all the blood he spills here.” Ezio’s voice is low when he finally joins the conversation. “We will make it hurt, and once it is clear we cannot fight back anymore, we will retreat.”

“We should have stayed in Rome,” Machiavelli sighs and glances at the ceiling. “This is madness.”

“You are welcome to leave if you so wish, but I will not abandon my home when she needs me,” Mario states and makes Machiavelli scoff.

“I will not do such a thing when I promised you I would help.” He walks over to Desmond with the Apple in hand. He sighs before grabbing Desmond’s hand and pressing the Apple into it. “Do your worst before they steal it from you.” With that, Machiavelli turns his back to them and marches up the stairs. “I will go to see if there is anything else we could learn from our dear traitor.”

The Apple wakes up in Desmond’s palm. It hums as it recognizes him, and a dim glow peeks through the small gaps between his fingers. And for a moment Desmond wonders if… He reaches out the smallest, quietest thought towards the artifact, brushing against the – consciousness is not the right word, this is more artificial, mechanical almost, but it is a presence – and it responds immediately, hungrily, urgently. Promising him a lot of things. Promising that it could take him wherever he wanted, whenever, and make everything right, and maybe it would only be the right thing to do –

A stilted breath and a glance at the uncertain, fragile look in Ezio’s eyes force Desmond to brush aside the Apple’s tendrils poking into his mind. 

The only problem is that his arm has now started to glow in response. Shit.

He yanks his sleeve down, as much it can move with the bracer over it, but it is not much use as the golden light shines even through the fabric. 

“I’m not doing anything weird with the Apple. It’s doing this on its own,” he hisses as soon as he notices the expression on Ezio’s face. Muttering curses under his breath, he shoves the Apple into the pouch at his belt.

Whatever it is Ezio might have wanted to say to that, it is stopped by Mario who turns to his nephew and lays a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“It is time for you two to go, boys.” He lets out a wet laugh. “You know I do not like to say goodbye, but I think this time it is only right to do so.”

“Uncle – “

“Just let me say this, Ezio, because it needs to be said.” He takes a deep breath. “For the longest time, I thought I would pass on from this world without ever having any children of my own – that the only family I would leave behind was my estranged younger brother who barely answered my letters the few times I bothered to write to him. Then you and your sister came into my life – not under circumstances I would have ever wished for, but now, decades later, I cannot say I am not in some way grateful for that chain of events that led you here. No, I would not exchange the last twenty-three years for anything, for they have been the best years of my life. In truth, you and your sister have given my life a whole new meaning, and I am glad I have had the chance to watch you both grow up and become who you were meant to me. I am so proud of you, Ezio, and I could not have asked for a better nephew – no, a better son.”

With a hard expression on his face, Ezio takes a step towards his uncle and pulls him into a hug. They hold each other tightly, and Desmond is glad he can’t see Ezio’s face from where he is standing. Ezio whispers something back, but Desmond doesn’t try to make out the words – he knows what he would have said, had he been there in Ezio’s place. 

Mario’s voice has turned raspy.

“Please tell your sister she was the light of an old man’s life. I know living in a decrepit countryside villa with only her eccentric uncle for company is not what young women long for, but our sweet, strong Claudia made a life here regardless, thrived and took on her duties like a true Auditore.”

Ezio nods, still clenching his jaw like his life depended on it, and touches a hand to the corner of his eye when Mario finally pulls away.

“And give your dear mother my fondest regards. I wish her all the best.”

Briefly, Mario brings his hand to Ezio’s cheek, then pats him on the shoulder.

“Ah, but you did not come here to listen to an old fool ramble. Go now and be safe, both of you.”

In that moment, when Mario lets go of Ezio and ushers them towards the secret passage, Desmond, the Ezio in his head and the one standing by his side all become one. He wants nothing more than to persuade his uncle to come with him and run as far as they can – if he does not let Mario climb up those stairs, if he grabs his arm and never lets go, maybe, just maybe, Uncle won’t walk to his death and leave him here to navigate the world all alone.

But Mario leaves, and the taste of iron fills Desmond’s mouth. The scrape on his lip has started to bleed again.

Ezio pushes past him towards the statue of Altaïr. When Desmond realizes to go after him and touches Ezio’s shoulder, his hand still glows faintly. The golden light is reflected in Ezio’s dark eyes when he glances at him. 

“Do not listen to it.” There’s no strength in Ezio’s raspy words. The brief brush of his hand against Desmond’s is all he gives him before he continues heading down the dark pathway.

They make their way through the tunnel complex in silence. A weird sense of déjà vu hangs in the air – the last memory Desmond has of this place is from 2012 when he came here with Lucy. He didn’t even see Ezio’s memories of the tunnel in the Animus, just Bled glimpses of him in the future. He remembers the tunnel as it was in 2012, half collapsed, all the structures and bridges rotten and mouldy. And oh, the smell. It is still there now, but not quite as disgusting yet. Not far off, though. 

The Apple keeps pestering him the whole journey. It has given up on trying to make him a human glow stick, but an annoying buzz has settled down somewhere in the back of his skull – it’s like being forced to eavesdrop on someone whispering in the seat behind yours in a jam-packed train. It’s exhausting, that’s what it is, Desmond curses as he stumbles on something, fuck, he wouldn’t be surprised if the thing was trying to drain his energy or something. He’s this close to chucking the fucker into the toxic waste masquerading as water he once had to swim through.

When they emerge from the tunnel and step back into the outside world and fresh air, the night has reached its darkest point. That means it takes them a good while to cross what is at least a mile’s journey in the quiet, still darkness. And then they stumble upon the war camp.

Cesare’s men have kept their fires to the minimum to make sure nobody in Monteriggioni spots them, but that doesn’t erase the fact that there is an army there, nested behind a hill. Hundreds of men, no, easily thousands, sleeping and drinking by the fire, maintaining their weapons and keeping watch. These are the Papal armies Cesare used to conquer the cities of Romagna, the armies that drove Caterina from Forlì, and now they are here. The worst part is that this cannot be all of them – and yeah no, fuck, more of the soldiers keep appearing from the darkness as a company after company reaches the main army. 

A little bit farther off, the tall, looming figures of the siege towers rise towards the sky and by doing so hide stars behind them. On the fields before them, faint moonlight sheens on the metal barrels of the countless cannons laid side by side in multiple rows, and suddenly every hair on Desmond’s body stands on end. Sweat runs down his neck as he hears the echoes of cannonballs tearing their way through the structures of the villa. His heart races against something it cannot beat as more and more cannons seem to appear out of the darkness. And fuck, there are so fucking many of them – last time, shit, last time he hadn’t gotten that good of a look at them from all the chaos, but now that he sees them like this, alongside the thousands of men preparing for battle, he can’t help but – 

“We will never win,” one of them breathes out. The words feel like they could be his own, but it is Ezio who spoke, while scanning the faceless mass of men and machines that spreads and spills into the woods and over the fields like a flood. “I thought we might have a chance but I did not realize… As formidable as she is, Monteriggioni was not made to withstand an assault of this magnitude.” He takes a few steps closer towards the war camp, and a tone that hasn’t been there since he was seventeen slips into his voice. “There are so many of them, Desmond. We might just be able to sneak into the camp unseen, but – my love, I do not doubt your skills nor mine, but I am still not certain we would both make it out of there alive, even with the help of the Apple.” 

They look at each other then, both thinking of the same.

They could still head back and drag Mario away from here, the old man’s pride be damned. They could flee to Rome and let Cesare waste his rage on empty buildings, stone and glass – because that’s all they’re trying to protect here. 

They could do that if they weren’t frightened of what trying to save Mario could do to him. Because despite all Ezio’s pretty words, this timeline is very much bound to the first. It does matter what happened in the life Desmond saw in the Animus. Mario will die tonight, because that was his fate the first time around, and any attempt to change that, according to everything Desmond has learned so far, would only make everything worse. Hell, Desmond hasn’t dared to say it out loud but he fears the townspeople they send away will still come to harm – the massive army of angry, violent men in front of them will eventually wander into nearby towns to rage, rob and rape, and Mario’s efforts to save his people will be for nothing. 

But now, when he looks into the dark, empty mouths of the cannons as the rush of his own blood drowns out any other sounds and his mouth runs dry, he finds himself doubting his own courage. Facing all of this again, it’s… It had been bad enough when it was a simulation – a simulation he could have paused at any given moment if his thoughts hadn’t been so merged with Ezio’s that he hadn’t even remembered the existence of a fucking pause menu, and, fuck, wouldn’t have known how to operate it with his fifteenth century brain.

Because the thing is, the thunder of those cannons had burned Ezio so severely that centuries later, the ghost of those memories had made Desmond wake up in cold sweat and screaming so many times that Lucy and the others had noticed it. 

And now he has found himself here again, facing the one battle Ezio could not win. But this time there is no waking up from this nightmare.

“No.”

Confused, Desmond turns to look over his shoulder at Ezio. A reflection of the light from the campfires gleams in his eyes as he glares at the flags of the army swaying in the soft breeze, the bulls embroidered in them staring back. 

“I will not play this game. I refuse to.”

With that, Ezio spins around and heads back into the darkness where they came from.

“Where are you going?” Desmond splutters and throws one last glance at the army before running after Ezio.

“I am going to get my uncle. And then we will flee to Rome. Cesare can have Monteriggioni if he wants it so badly – it is only stone and brick. I can buy more.”

“But what about the Gray – “

“I do not care.”

After a few minutes of stumbling in the dark, Desmond has to activate his fucking Eagle vision so he can see where he is going, and more importantly, where the hell Ezio is heading with breakneck speed.

“Hey, it’s not that I’m against the idea – “ he huffs when he catches up with Ezio again, “ –  it’s just that I’m not sure you’ve really thought this through – “

“I have to try.” They reach the top of another hill. Monteriggioni comes into view, standing tall in the distance, the golden glow of the lanterns softening her features. “I cannot let him face that. I cannot.”

“But it could make it worse – “

“I know!” The echo repeats the words over and over again, somehow more harshly each time. Ezio’s chest heaves. There’s a wild look in his eyes, but his voice breaks when he glances towards his home. “I know. I have known for the last two and a half years. I swore to myself I would not intervene this time, that I would let him go when the time came. But now that time is here and I find that I am not strong enough after all. Caro mio, I am sorry that I did not turn out to be the man you thought I was, but I cannot watch from the sidelines again as they kill my family. I have to do this.”

Half-expecting Ezio to yank his arm away, Desmond reaches out to touch his elbow.

“It’s okay.” And he gets it, fuck, he gets it. “Let’s try.”

From where they are, it is a shorter journey to the main entrance than to the tunnel.  By the time they jog up the gates, Ezio couldn’t give less of a shit about Cesare’s scouts and starts pounding on one of the massive doors.

A mercenary looks down from the ramparts and aims a crossbow at Desmond – he apparently didn’t spot Ezio in the dark.

“State your business!”

Desmond takes a step backwards, trying to see the man’s face, but considering how young the guy looks, this must be a more recent recruit, taken on during the last few years. That means he doesn’t know Desmond. 

Ezio has no patience for this. He steps out of the deepest shadow.

“Aurelio! Stop fooling around and let us in!” he barks.

“Ser Ezio! I am sorry, I did not see you there! Please wait just a moment, I will open the gate for you.”

The man disappears. Soon after the gates open just a sliver, enough to let them slip inside. 

“Where is my uncle?”

“Last I heard, he was up on the ramparts with the men, Signore.”

“Good. Now, Aurelio, listen. Gather your belongings and leave this place. Flee as far as you can – “

“But Ser Ezio – “

“That is an order. Do you understand? Get yourself out of here.”

Ezio doesn’t give the poor boy time to get his thoughts together before he storms towards the closest way up to the battlements. Desmond throws Aurelio a sympathetic smile, then hurries after Ezio.

They find Mario and his mercenaries by the cannons which the men are preparing for firing, which is an undertaking in itself – Mario has bought a lot more than the modest two he had last time. The man himself is tending to Machiavelli who is sitting on a stool, holding his bloody head.

“What happened?” 

Mario looks up from the bandage he is wrapping around Machiavelli’s head.

“Why are you here? Did something happen – you were supposed to – “

“We are leaving, Uncle, and you are coming with us,” Ezio states, nearly growling, and starts shooing the men away from the cannons. “All of you. Staying here is madness.”

“Ezio – “

“We are leaving, and that is final. Now, what happened to Niccolò?”

“It turns out our guest had had enough of our hospitality,” Machiavelli remarks and hisses in pain when Mario happens to tug on the bandage a little too harshly. “The bastard ambushed me.”

“We have not seen him since,” Mario adds. “One can only assume he has scurried off to his master to tell him we knew to expect him.”

“All the more reason to leave immediately.” Ezio turns to address the mercenaries again. “Gentlemen, stop whatever it is you are doing and make yourself scarce. This is not a fight we will be able to win, so there is no shame in retreating.”

“Ezio, what is it that you are trying to do? We both know it is my time today and there is no changing it. Let me die defending my home – “

“No! I will not allow you to die for some foolish idea of chivalry, not when there is still a chance of running!” Ezio is shouting now. “We still need you! Claudia needs you, I need you!” His breath hitches in his throat. “Uncle, please.”

Mario’s face falls. He turns to look at Desmond as if to ask what he thinks of this when the whole world shakes.

A deafening peal washes over them and seems to push air out of their lungs. Desmond loses his footing as the stone wall underneath their feet trembles and whines. Pieces of stone fly and fall like rain all around them, and somewhere above their heads another cannonball flies through the smoke.

“Ezio! Are you alive?” Mario’s voice, shouting from somewhere to his left. Desmond pushes himself up on his knees, then tries to see through the dust still floating in the air. A dozen little cuts on his hands and thighs sting and his ears keep ringing, but despite it he can make out the sound of Ezio calling back somewhere behind him, then yelling Desmond’s name.

“I’m here!” 

Another shot rattles the ramparts. Desmond tries to shield his face with his arm as the blast sends more splinters and sharp rocks into the air. Forcing himself up to his feet, he glances towards the east. Bright flashes of light and fire blink in and out of existence as the mouths of the cannons shoot metal and gunpowder into the sky. Those rapid bursts of light keep illuminating the underbellies of the slowly approaching siege towers – beasts on the hunt.

“The rat must have reached their camp and told the Borgia whelp we were waiting for him,” Mario barks as he appears from the smoke, dragging Machiavelli along. A drop of blood runs down his cheek. “Either that, or Contessa Sforza got herself captured and saw no need for any sort of loyalty towards us when they interrogated her.”

A flock of fire arrows gliding over their heads. Sounds of something crumbling in the town, yells from the ramparts. The smell of smoke in the air. Ezio’s hand on his back.

“We need to get out of here!”

Stumbling over debris and dead bodies of a few unlucky mercenaries, they hurry towards the nearest staircase. Their harsh breaths get drowned out by the singing of their own cannons –  a couple of Mario’s men refuse to give up, no matter how much Ezio yells at them to stop and run.

They rush down the narrow stairs as fast as they can with no light and with the air black with smoke and dust. Just as they get to ground level, a barrage of shots hit the battlements again and the centuries old wall has finally had enough. The top part, where they just came from and which has taken most of the beating, gives in with a sigh and comes apart. Massive slabs of stone fall from the heights, taking at least a couple of men and one cannon with them and revealing a patch of night sky in its wake.

Mario, bruised and covered in soot and dust, watches all of this happen with wide eyes. 

“What have those pezzi di merda done to my home – “  

“We have no time,” Desmond says and grabs his elbow. “Come on!”

The siege towers rise to loom over the walls. Soldiers pour out of them just as yet another shot ravishes the fortress, this time to blast open the main gates. That leaves them no other option but to hope to make it to the villa and the tunnel. 

Trying to stick to the shadows, they push forward, doing their best to avoid both the cannon fire and the guns of the invaders who have spread to the streets and rooftops of Monteriggioni. Desmond keeps glancing back to the gates, expecting to see the gleam of Cesare’s gun any minute now. Fear is a tangible weight in his stomach as he grips Mario’s arm to pull him forwards when the pace of the younger Assassins proves too much for the old man.

Something moves in his peripheral vision – something metallic glinting in the light of the fires around them – Mario’s hands on Ezio’s back, pushing him away – 

A gunshot.

“Uncle!”

Another gunshot, this time from the gun built into the bracer of Ezio’s hidden blade. By the time the soldier falls down on the roof, Desmond has already rushed to Mario, with Machiavelli only a few steps behind them. 

“Bastard could not aim,” Mario chuckles through gritted teeth, clutching his shoulder. Blood pours between his fingers. 

Ezio runs to them and drops to his knees, his hands flying to Mario’s chest.

“Uncle! How bad is it? Why would you do that – ”

“I am fine, my boy, do not worry. This shoulder was already useless anyway,” Mario says, his brows furrowed, sweat glistening on his lined forehead. “Now, help me up before that idiot’s friends get here.”

Between the three of them, they manage to get Mario back onto his feet. He is pale and clearly in pain, but it was not a bullet to the head and he tells them as much.

“I will live,” Mario declares and ushers them forward. “We have no time to waste.”

They push their way through the last few streets before finding themselves in front of the grand stairway leading up to the courtyard. Machiavelli scouts ahead while Ezio and Desmond hover around Mario as he tries to climb the stairs while his injury voices its protests with each step. Then it is only the one last mad dash towards the front door, and the horrible part about it is that they have already made it inside, they’re almost there, when the cannonball hits.

Everything becomes chaos and noise and darkness.

The next time Desmond understands anything, he is lying on his side on the floor of the foyer. A few of the candles in the chandelier are still alive, so in the swaying and flickering light he can see the massive pile of rubble he is under. The doorway has partially collapsed, and parts of the balcony now sit on the ground, blocking the exit. A thick layer of gray dust covers his arms and chest, and he has to cough almost as much dust out of his lungs before he can call for the others and try to wiggle himself free. It hurts like a bitch and, ah shit, yeah, that’s at least a bruised rib, for sure. Shit.

“Ezio? Guys? Where are you?”

Something rustles somewhere behind him but he can’t turn around to see what it is. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He calls for the others again, now with panic coloring his voice.

Then Mario’s hand is on his side. 

“Are you alright?” His voice sounds like how sandpaper feels, and bruised and battered doesn’t even begin to cover how the old man looks, but Mario stumbles to push pieces of wood and stone away and dig Desmond out the best he can with the injury to his shoulder anyway.

“Mostly in one piece. Have you seen the others?”

Coughs from their right reveal Machiavelli’s location as he crawls out from under a wooden beam, just as gray and bloodied as the rest of them. With his help they manage to get Desmond free, but this is not over yet.

“Where’s Ezio?”

Desmond’s heart pounds against his ribcage the entire time they spend shouting Ezio’s name and circling around the half-collapsed entryway which opens up to the view of the Borgia forces advancing through the town and towards the villa. Might be Cesare himself leading them, but Desmond doesn’t really care to take a better look to make sure because where the fuck is Ezio? Is he hurt, how badly is he hurt – Desmond can’t heal him if they can’t find him and what if the healing doesn’t work this time, what if the Apple doesn’t have enough energy or something – what if – 

“Here!” Machiavelli’s shout causes him to stop breathing and run around the mountain of rubble to the south-eastern corner of the room, near the entrance to the office Claudia claimed for herself. There Mario and Machiavelli are on their knees, digging into the pile of debris and throwing away broken bricks and splinters from the wooden structure beams. By the time Desmond gets to them, they have cleared enough of the rubble to reveal Ezio’s head and one shoulder, both coated in dust and dirt. He wheezes for breath, then coughs and gasps at the same time before moving on to cursing like there is no tomorrow. Relief nearly makes Desmond drop the piece of stone he is trying to nudge out of the way.

He and Machiavelli send reluctant Mario to keep an eye on Cesare’s forces while they focus on getting Ezio out. 

“Can you feel your legs?” he asks as he lifts the slab – fuck that hurts – so that Ezio can yank his arm free.

“Yes – cazzo, yes, I can. In fact, I would much prefer it if I did not right now – son of a bitch – !”

The reason for that is revealed when they finally manage to pull him out. A large chunk of a wooden beam, nearly the size of a man’s wrist, sticks out from his right thigh.

“Oh, fuck,” Desmond hears himself whisper, then he has to focus on trying to help the idiot who has taken it upon himself to get back onto his feet. “You really shouldn’t be getting up – “

“Boys, they are almost here,” Mario announces from the doorway in a tone that sounds way too calm for the situation. 

“Then we need to go – “ The rest of what Ezio meant to say gives way to the loud scream of pain when he tries to move his leg. Desmond grabs him to keep him from falling over, though with his own abused rib – or ribs – protesting, it’s a small wonder they don’t topple over each other.

Machiavelli says out loud what they are all thinking.

“We will not make it in time.”

They look at each other then – Ezio with his ruined leg, Mario, slowed down by his age and still clutching his bleeding shoulder, Machiavelli with the bandage around his head and bruises everywhere else, Desmond with his abused ribs. This is it. Even if they ran for it and somehow made it to the tunnel – hell, how many of them are able to run? – it would be only a matter of time before Cesare caught up with them. Even if he doesn’t know about the secret door yet, he has more than enough men to spare, he could easily dedicate a group or two to figuring out the way the mechanism works. 

Desmond has somehow done it again. 

And it is all made worse by the way Ezio is looking at Mario, utterly terrified of what Cesare has in store for his uncle.

That’s just – no. No.

With his mind made up, Desmond waves Machiavelli over and asks him to take his place as Ezio’s human crutch. He drags himself to where the front door once was and takes out the Apple.

“I’ll buy you as much time as I can. Go and lock the door behind you, maybe they don’t know about the passage this time around.”

There is a confused silence before – 

“What? No, do not be ridiculous, you are coming with us – “ Ezio protests and tries to march after him, but his leg can’t hold any weight. A genuine look of pain flashes on his face as the leg gives out completely under him, and only Machiavelli’s quick reflexes save him from falling over. The strain thins out his voice. “You cannot fight them all – “

“I’m the only one who can do this – I’ll jump once you get far enough from here. So the quicker you guys leave, the sooner I’ll be safe. And I have this,” Desmond says, not looking at him, and holds out the Apple. “So go.”

Machiavelli, ever the practical man, meets Desmond’s eyes, nods and then starts dragging both himself and Ezio towards the study, which proves to be difficult when Ezio doesn’t want to go. He nearly physically fights Machiavelli, tries to climb over him the best he can with one of his legs refusing to cooperate at all. 

“No, you have to come with us – they will kill you, they are not going to give you time to wait for the jump – amore, please – “

Desmond curls his hand around the Apple and glances through the collapsed doorway to see where Cesare and his army are. Not far. 

“Son, it should be me.” Mario’s tired voice forces him to reluctantly face the others. Mario stands halfway between Desmond and the doorway to his study where Machiavelli has managed to drag Ezio. The expression on his bruised face doesn’t make any of this easier.

“Maybe, but it’s not going to be.” Desmond smiles, then looks down at the Apple in his hand. “Just do me a favor and live to see at least ninety, okay?”

Mario doesn’t like saying goodbye, yeah.

“Good luck, Desmond.”

As he turns around and slowly limps to join his nephew and Machiavelli, Desmond lets his mental walls down and invites the Apple in, letting it start building up power. The golden lines on his arm wake up to glow in response, almost as brightly as back in the vault. The Apple taps into his senses, amplifying them and so make him more aware of his surroundings and of the fact that Ezio is still there, struggling to get to him. His face has grown even paler, the trail of blood running down his leg darker and his attempts to get away from Machiavelli more desperate.

“There has to be some other way – we can do something to the door, or we could burn the bridges down there behind us – something, anything, just come with us – “

“I’ll see you in Rome.”

With his last remaining strength, Ezio wrenches himself free from Machiavelli and manages to somehow hobble a few unsteady steps forward before his uncle moves in to stop him. 

“No, Desmond. You will not be able to jump because I did not let Uncle die, and you know it.” He is angry and out of breath and lashes out when Machiavelli tries to help him. “Please do not do this.”   

“…just go, Ezio.”

Mario lays a bloody hand on Ezio’s arm.

“Nipote, we need to go now or we will all die here. It is his choice, let him do this.”

Maybe it is a sob that escapes Ezio then, when his shoulders shake and he hangs his head and stops resisting Machiavelli’s attempts to drag him to safety. All the fight is gone from his body when he raises his head to meet Desmond’s eyes for one last time.

“Do not dare to die here. Return to your time if you need to – just do not – “

“I know. Go.”

Desmond turns his back to them and gets ready to face Cesare.

Chapter Text

The cannons have quieted.

Not wanting to stop to think about what that might mean, Desmond drags his bruised body up the grand staircase and coughs an ungodly amount of dust from his lungs while he’s at it. A layer of dirt and debris covers the stairs, and his feet slip on the way up to a better vantage point. That struggle is not made any easier by the fact that the few remaining candles of the chandelier are finally on the brink of losing their battle – by now the darkness of the very late hour has nearly managed to reclaim the foyer for itself. 

Though that is also what he is counting on here, Desmond notes grimly as he crouches behind the balcony railing and waits for Cesare’s men to appear. 

And not a moment too soon. A man shouts orders somewhere near the half-collapsed front entrance. Clutching the Apple with his dirty and bloody fingers, Desmond grunts and peeks over the railing to spot a handful of soldiers wandering in. Each of them holds a gun – the elegant design reveals them to be Leonardo’s handiwork. Their metal gleams in the feral light of a flame when yet another man makes it through the ruined entryway and lifts the torch he has brought with him. It makes wild shadows dance on the walls, and the soldiers’ gazes gravitate towards the upper floor. Desmond ducks before he is noticed. 

The sounds of boots on the stone floor wander around in the dark hall. One of the soldiers nudges a pile of rubble with his foot, another whistles, then curses lewdly – Desmond can only guess what pissed that guy off. Did he get a look at the weapons room? The miniature of the town in Claudia’s office?

More yells, this time from outside. Barked commands, the thunder of dozens of footsteps circling around the villa. They’re heading for the backdoor. Shit. 

Deciding to risk it, Desmond sneaks a look over the railing again. The men downstairs have deemed the foyer empty and separated to search the rest of the villa. One of them, a twitchy one clinging onto his gun with stiff hands, is wandering towards Mario’s study where Ezio and the others just disappeared to only minutes ago. Hell, a dark trail of Ezio’s blood glistens on the floor and points towards the study like a fucking neon sign. It doesn’t take that good of a tracker to find the hidden entrance with the world’s most obvious clue helping them out.

Desmond can’t have that.

Grabbing a knife and pulling his arm back to throw the blade makes his injured chest protest. He can live with that. But it will be a tricky shot to hit the soldier from this angle. 

While he is still busy struggling with aiming, the backdoor of the villa is violently pushed open. Light and the smell of torch smoke conquers the foyer as dozens upon dozens of Cesare’s soldiers march right into the heart of the Assassin Brotherhood. Someone shouts orders, for the men to spread out and search the entire villa, to find the Assassins and the treasures they stole from the Vatican, to not leave any stone unturned.

Shit. If it had been only the couple of men from before, Desmond might have been able to sneak around them and take them out quietly. But there’s no way he can deal with this many of them. Not when every breath he takes makes him more aware of his bruised – or broken – ribs. Fuck. Fuck.

A grunt of pain slips through his lips when he lifts the Apple. A hot bright light shoots out from the artifact, forcing him to close his eyes and yank his other arm up to shield them. Snarling, he pushes back against the fury of the Apple and tries to redirect it towards the soldiers down below.

Gunshots blare out, the sounds sharp like a slap to the face. The thuds born from the bodies hitting the floor are quieter.

While the brainwashed soldiers turn against each other, Desmond clings onto the railing with one sweaty hand to keep himself from falling onto his knees. The Apple nearly slips from his grasp – he just barely manages to catch it before it hits the floor. The golden lines on his palm glow in the darkness, the light harsh and unforgiving, and from what he can see through the fabric of his sleeve and past his bracer, so do the ones running up his arm and towards his elbow.

A few violent flashes, like lightning strikes, of the villa lurching into angry dark emptiness. The floor disappears from underneath his feet as he is pulled into the void because the Gray  wants to make its displeasure known. Because he is actively killing people and not all those who he has randomly picked to die tonight were meant to do so. But the raging and thunder are only a tantrum –  Desmond has barely time to understand what the Gray wants before he is spit out back into reality again.

He has to wait for the world to stop spinning before he dares to glance over the railing to see the carnage downstairs. 

The Apple – no, he has littered the foyer floor with corpses and flooded it with blood. But despite the gore and spilled guts, he has barely made a dent in Cesare’s forces. A good number of his men lie on the floor, never to get up again, yes, but many more still live and are currently fighting the soldiers Desmond has brainwashed and turned against them, slipping on the slick floor and avoiding tripping on their dead comrades-in-arms. And not all of them were blind to the unnatural flash of light and lightning coming from upstairs. Fuck.

Cursing under his breath, Desmond steadies himself against the railing and raises the Apple again. 

It is like a hook clasped onto something beneath his ribcage and yanked when the Apple responds. Because this time the artifact takes something from him. His knees hit the floor as a golden light invades every inch of the room and washes over the soldiers, but when the power was a hurricane destroying everything on its path last time, now it has the strength to drown only so many of them. The Gray shouts, but underneath its distraction Desmond can feel the wisps of dozens of minds that manage to escape his grasp just before the Apple sends out its command. 

He needs to move.

Desmond gasps for breath, then forces himself up on his trembling feet. His legs nearly give out under him, but he clings to the railing and half limps, half drags himself across the balcony. The sound of enraged soldiers running up the stairs chases him to the dark, empty art gallery. Maybe a little bit of an overkill on their part, but he did shoot out lightning at them, so, fair. 

Relying on his Eagle vision, he stumbles through the room, not entirely sure what his plan here is. He just needs them to follow him. To keep them away from the study long enough that the others can reach Antonio and get the hell away from here.

The Apple glows again. His legs wobble. 

He more crashes against one of the pillars dividing the gallery than really purposely hides behind it. He tries to muffle his harsh breaths as he leans his back against the pillar and listens. Focuses on his grip of the Apple so it doesn’t slip from his sweaty palm. 

“Come out, come out, Assassin! We know you are there!” a taunting, raspy voice calls from the doorway. “You have nowhere to run!”

Says a man who doesn’t dare to step a toe in the room with Desmond and his fucking magical Apple.

“Fuck off,” Desmond mutters and lets the back of his head bump against the pillar. His pulse thunders almost as loudly as the sound of more and more men jogging up the stairs. If he turns his head slightly to the side, he can just about see the deep red glow of the soldiers. And so he waits for them to venture into the darkness with him.  

The first man that tries to sneak upon him, he kills with his hidden blade. Warm blood spills on his hand and runs down his wrist to ruin the inside of his sleeve, then he yanks his blade free and lets the body fall. He rests that same hand against the pillar to steady himself, then spots another approaching red figure. 

The soldiers soon learn that sending only one or two men against him doesn’t work. So they come after him together. And Desmond asks the Apple to save him even though it has been whining its hunger in the back of his head louder than ever before. 

To its credit, the Apple responds. It responds and claws at his insides, pulling the strength it needs from him.

A body drops on the floor, then another. One of them is Desmond’s own, when he slumps against a wall and slowly slides down to sit on the cold marble. 

He has clenched his fingers so hard around the Apple it hurts to relax them. As he does that, he notes that the glow has spread. Until now, it has only ever been around the metallic lines on his blackened arm, but now the same geometric pattern of light has taken over his chest and the other arm, the glow peeking from the gaps between the armor pieces. The Apple itself has turned gray and dull, but a low hum tells him it is still draining power from him. To replace all the power he stole from it when he saved Ezio. 

There is not a reality in which Desmond could regret saving him, so he finds he doesn’t even mind the thought of dying here now because of it.

Spurred on by his apparent surrender, Cesare’s men appear from the shadows to surround him. He can’t really make out any faces, only gleaming blades and scared eyes reflecting both the light of torches and his own golden glow. 

Shouts from downstairs. Someone approaches the gallery.

“Un angelo,” one of the soldiers whispers just loudly enough for all of them to hear it. Another one grumbles something incomprehensible in response while Desmond squints tiredly at them and wonders which one will be brave enough to wander closer and gut the so-called angel.

The determined footsteps march closer, and all of the sudden the soldiers are all straightening their backs and stepping out of the way to let through Cesare Borgia himself.

His cape billows behind him in a way that, if this was a movie, would feel unbelievable because of how perfect it looks. Not even a splotch of dirt or blood has touched his polished armor on the way here, hell, even his boots look spotless when they come to a stop in front of Desmond. 

Cesare’s expression betrays nothing when he looks down at him. His gaze moves from Desmond’s face to his right arm and the Apple he is holding, then it returns to meet his eyes. 

“It seems you have found something that belongs to my family,” is what Cesare decides to begin with. “Stolen, to be more precise.”

Desmond curls his fingers tighter around the Apple and holds it close to his chest. Already knowing it won’t work, he pushes against its presence one more time anyway, just to see if there might still be enough energy to fry Cesare’s brain after all. Who cares that it would be seven years too early when it would so neatly fix at least half of their problems?

One of the soldiers tries to interrupt with “Mind the artifact, sir. It is of the Devil”, but Cesare brushes the warning off with a wave of his hand.

“You are Desmond, are you not?” It is not really a question so much as a statement, and okay, yeah, the arm is kinda of a dead giveaway. “My father has told me the most interesting tales of you.”

What would Cesare’s face end up looking like if Desmond took the Apple and threw it at his face from this distance? Like, come on, he would break at least a few teeth, maybe his nose. The Apple’s heavier than it looks.

“I see you have exhausted the Apple, but what of the staff you stole from us as well? Where is it?” Cesare doesn’t wait for Desmond to answer before he turns to his men and gives the order to have the villa properly searched for the Papal staff. A couple of the soldiers disappear into the darkness, and Desmond has to force himself to stay still – he doesn’t want to alert Cesare that there is something important to be found in here. Not the staff, but something far more valuable.

“It’s not here.”

Cesare’s attention returns to Desmond. He raises an eyebrow. 

“Ah, he speaks! Do tell, where is it then if not here?”

“Somewhere you’ll never find.”

Cesare scoffs, probably both at the clichè and the assumption that anyone could stop him from getting what he wants. He starts pacing around, and as he does so, his gaze wanders, taking in the empty walls, the faint marks on the walls where the sun hasn’t lightened the areas which not so long ago were covered by paintings. 

“Does Auditore have it? And speaking of him – where is he? Did he scurry off to safety with it while you were left here to distract us?”

Desmond leans his head back and looks up at Cesare with half-lidded eyes.

“Who?”

The long, red cape strikes the air like a lash when Cesare spins around to yell at him, his nostrils flared.

“You know exactly who I am talking about! Where is he? ” The echo of Cesare’s shouted, sharp words in the gallery where Ezio stored all the art he collected for his mother and sister somehow feels like a more brutal invasion than the holes in Monteriggioni’s walls. 

“Your father stabbed him in the fucking neck, where do you think he is?” Desmond hisses and presses one kind of shaky hand against the floor in the hopes of pushing himself to his feet, but a soldier’s blade held against his throat puts an end to that. His gaze returns to Cesare. “He’s dead.”

Cesare considers this for a moment before a slow smile takes over his lips.

“That is not what my informants tell me. And as it so happens, that also contradicts everything Contessa Sforza so kindly described to me yesterday. So I ask you – are you still certain that is the story you wish to tell me?” If Cesare wasn’t a rich, powerful lunatic backed by a massive army and his father the Pope, the overly smug taunting and the vitriol in his voice would make Desmond think of a teenage boy with a face full of pimples and a breaking voice.

But Cesare is young, to be where he is. Hell, he is at least a year or two younger than Desmond, and what – sixteen years younger than Ezio. Thousands of men obey his commands, and the guy himself is a vindictive, unpredictable, childish war-monger.

None of those thoughts are very comfortable.

Nor is the corner Desmond has backed himself into. He clamps his mouth shut because fuck, he should have thought about his response a few seconds more, and now it’s too late to change his story and say that the cannonball that tore through the façade of the villa killed Ezio instead, because that would have been more believable and more difficult to prove wrong. Shit, shit, shit. 

“I know he was here tonight. It would be in your best interests to tell me where he is hiding – my patience has its limits, and your lies have tested them enough.”

“Yeah, well, sorry to disappoint but you’re just wasting your time,” Desmond says, with a one-sided, bitter grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know where he is, but I can say that it isn’t here.”

Cesare barely glances at him and his maybe too obvious show of not giving a fuck before turning to his men.

“Search the gardens, the town, every room in this goddamned villa. Everything, do you understand me? We are in the Assassin headquarters – there must be a secret room or two in here, and I want them found – “

“The fuck you need him for anyway?” The breathless snarl makes Cesare stop mid-movement. He glances over his shoulder at Desmond, his hand still frozen in a gesture to give the soldiers the permission to leave. “You have Monteriggioni, the Apple’s here – what more do you want?”

The corner of Cesare’s upper lip rises in a sneer. 

“I need my victory to be absolute. I need to know that no more of you Assassins will come crawling out of the woodwork to exact your revenge when I least expect it.” He dismisses most of the soldiers with a wave of his hand, then saunters back to stand over Desmond and the Apple. The artifact itself might be gray and dull, but the reflection of Desmond’s own fucking glow gleams in Cesare’s eyes almost as brightly as his lust for power. 

“The Apple. Hand it over.” 

“...Fuck you.”

Desmond has barely time to register the signal Cesare gives his men before one of the soldiers moves. The kick hits just below his ribs. 

For a moment the world is on fire. 

Desmond gasps for breath like a fucking fish, hears his own voice whimpering before he understands that he is the one making the sound. Hunched over and slumped to the side, he has no chance to react before the man slams the Apple from his hands. It flies a good few feet, then hits the marble floor before rolling between the legs of two different soldiers. One of the men runs after it, then very hesitantly picks it up. It is quickly passed on to Cesare, all the while Desmond wheezes, clutching his side, and blinks tears from his eyes.

“Bring him to my tent,” Cesare declares before he marches out without a second look at Desmond.

They take away his hidden blade. They take his sword and every other weapon they find on him, and then they tie his hands behind his back. Flanked by soldiers on all sides, Desmond is made to march down the stairs and through the foyer full of dead bodies. But he barely notices them, because of a warm light peeking from the doorway of Mario’s study.

Don’t let them find it. Do not.

The walk back through the destroyed town hammers in just how much they have lost tonight. He stumbles over piles of debris covering the main street and inhales the stench of smoke and black powder the air is heavy with. Breathing in hurts, and it is not only rage that blurs his vision. Maybe it should be counted almost as a blessing that it is still too dark to see all the damage to the town – what he can see is enough. There used to be a house there, on his right – an arm sticks out from under the pieces of a collapsed wall not far ahead – grown men laugh as they dig through the rubble for both Mario’s mercenaries to take as prisoners and valuables to steal. 

By the time they step out of the shadow thrown by the main gates and leave the burning Monteriggioni behind them, the night has started to retreat. What it has left behind is the army of cannons and siege towers that now lies in wait, surrounding the town. Desmond is made to walk right past them, close enough that he could reach out and run his fingers along their sides if his hands weren’t tied. Wooden planks creak as the towers sway gently in a morning breeze.

With the heavy armor his escorts are wearing and his own injuries slowing them down, the mile’s journey to the war camp takes them closer to half an hour. It is his third time making the trip tonight, so Desmond mostly focuses on putting one foot after the other and trying not to fall on his face. The back of his skull throbs, the rope around his wrists chafes, and if he makes the mistake of breathing in too deep, his injuries do not miss the chance to remind him what kind of a clusterfuck of a situation he has gotten himself in now. 

Walking into a war camp of thousands of men is an experience, to say the least. The rancid stench of sweat, piss, horses and testosterone hits him like a hammer long before they reach the encampment itself. Then they come to the camp proper, and it swallows them whole. Angry, tired men cursing and howling and shouting, no matter where he looks. Metal hisses as someone sharpens their weapons, a horse whinnies from the other side of the camp, a malnourished dog appears to bark at his feet. Mud squelches underneath his feet as the soldiers drag him along, past rows and rows of tents and paddocks and more tents.

Desmond knows they are approaching Cesare’s tent before he spots the meticulously kept, colorful structure of beams and heavy fabric in the distance – the glow, which calmed down when Cesare rode off with the Apple, now returns and earns him the frightened stares of the men all around him. 

He doesn’t bother to be surprised, barely even disappointed, when he finds himself getting tossed face first onto the ground once they have been allowed inside the tent. The impact forces all air out of his lungs. He sees stars in the dark fabric ceiling of the tent for a few seconds because yeah, now that he thinks about it here, lying on the dirt floor and trying not to pass out, maybe, just maybe one or two of his ribs could be at least fractured after all. Yeah.

Not in any particular hurry to get up because why the fuck would he, Desmond listens as Cesare dismisses the soldiers. A heavy silence settles in once they leave, along with a gentle dimness which is only disturbed by a few candles and the soft glow creeping up Desmond’s arms and neck. 

Sighing, Desmond turns his head to see what his worst enemy is up to.

Cesare is sitting at a desk – a desk, he has had a fucking desk brought in here – and has ditched the cape and the decorated armor. He slouches on his chair, legs spread wide, and twirls the dull Apple in his hand, running his fingers over it as he tries to find some way to activate it. The Apple doesn’t give a shit about Cesare though, and barely notes Desmond’s presence – all he can feel from the artifact is hunger when he reaches for it and tries to make it zap Cesare like it did Rodrigo. 

Cesare sneers at the Apple, then slowly moves his gaze to Desmond. 

“You are no angel, of that I am certain,” he drawls, taking his time with the words, then lowers the Apple on the desk and holds it in place with two fingers. “But that begs the question of what you are. What is your connection to the Apple? And do not try to claim you do not know what I speak of – the proof of your power lies all over the floor of that villa. It glows on your skin even now.”

Wouldn’t he like to know. Asshole.

“You do realize there’s no reason for me to tell you anything?” Desmond breathes out and grinds his teeth together as he slowly sits up, which is a little bit difficult at the moment, considering his hands are tied. With his eyes scrunched tightly closed, he lets out a dry laugh. “No hostages, nothing. And just for the record, I’m a dead man walking, so you can just skip the death threats.”

He doesn’t like the fact that Cesare’s immediate reaction is not the scathing temper he expected. He likes the shark-like grin that is now warping Cesare’s face even less.

“Oh, but there is an incentive,” Cesare says, every word dripping venom, and pushes the Apple into a slow roll over the surface of the desk before snatching it up again. “It is hiding somewhere in that villa, and all I have to do is find it. You revealed that to me yourself back there. And once my men bring in Auditore or whoever it is you are trying to protect, you will tell me everything I want to know and more. And this conversation will become much less pleasant for you.” 

Bastard. 

He’s fucking bluffing – he has to be, he has no idea where the hidden door to the Sanctuary is, he has no idea it even exists, and the others have probably reached Antonio by now and gotten the hell away from here anyway – 

Unless Ezio’s injury has slowed them down. Because of course it has, it must have, there’s a hole the size of a man’s fist in his leg, how the fuck is he supposed to walk with that if he hasn’t already bled dry by now – again – and if it’s not Ezio making the passage through the tunnel difficult, there’s Mario’s injury – that shoulder looked bad, and what if Machiavelli has a concussion or something and fucking passes out, or what if Antonio – 

“Or…” Cesare begins quietly, breathlessly even, his gaze locked on the Apple which he sends running over the length of the desk again. 

“Or?”

“Or you answer my questions and I will call off the search.” Cesare catches the Apple with one easy movement just before it falls off the desk.

“Am I supposed to just take you at your word? What stops you from sending your people out there again once you’re done with me?” He’s fucking this up, he’s fucking this up – “If there was something I was trying to protect, I mean. Hypothetically.” 

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing but my word that I will not do so. It will have to be enough.”

Desmond inhales through his nose. Tries to tug his hands free from the ropes binding his wrist together but only manages to make the pain in his chest worse. Shifts his leg before it grows numb because of the awkward position it's in on the dirt floor. Looks up at the commander of the Papal armies and the half-dead Precursor artifact in his hand. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck.

Cesare lays the Apple carefully on the desk before resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward. He brings his hands together and meets Desmond’s eyes.

“Where is the Papal staff?”

“...Deep below the vault in the Vatican. The vault… took it. You won’t get it back.”

Cesare’s face darkens.

“Am I to understand that you do not want me to withdraw my men after all?”

“Hey, it’s the fucking truth! We’re talking about tens of thousands years old mind-controlling pieces of metal here, but this is where you draw the line? I don’t have it, we didn’t take it, it’s not at the villa.”

“Vaults do not take artifacts.”

“Well, this one did. The staff’s gone, okay? You’re not getting it back.”

“How very convenient for you,” Cesare hisses. “If this is any indication of your ability to cooperate – “

“I am fucking cooperating! It’s not my fault you don’t like my answers! Look, I’ll tell you exactly where in the vault I left the staff if you want, but that’s not going to help you get it back. Trust me. It’s gone.”

Cesare scoffs and glances away before furrowing his brows. 

“How did you come to know of the vault in the first place? How did you get access to it?”

Not wanting to open that particular can of worms, Desmond just nods towards the Apple which has found its way back to Cesare’s hand. He stops twirling it when he follows Desmond’s gaze to it, then grimaces before lowering it on the desk again. 

“And your arm? Why is it like that? Is the arm the reason the Apple obeys your command, or did the apparition in the vault give you the ability to do so?”

Oh boy.

“I could use the Apple before whatever happened in the Vatican.”

“So is your arm the cause?”

Desmond shrugs.

“Why is it like that?”

“This, er… this wasn’t the first time I was in a vault like that. Last time didn’t end so well. I touched something I shouldn’t have.”

The fingers Cesare was tapping against the surface of the desk stop mid-movement. He narrows his eyes, opens his mouth, then reconsiders his words. 

“So are you claiming your powers have nothing to do with that… woman? Even when she addressed you by name?” Cesare’s voice is nearly as tight as his patience is thin. “What was she?” 

“You don’t give a shit about her, let’s be real here,” Desmond chuckles, then winces when the edge of his chest armor presses into his tender side. “Just ask about the other temples, I know you want to. Your father must have mentioned those.”

Cesare’s eyes fucking gleam when he leans forward. A wholly different tone has seeped into his voice.

“Where are they? Tell me everything you know.”

“I’ve been in only one,” Desmond says and decidedly does not look at Cesare right then. “Beside the one below the Sistine Chapel, that is. So in the one that did this to my arm, I mean.”

“And where is that?”

So, how risky would it be to tell Cesare Borgia – who has a fucking massive army and probably the wealth of, like, the whole Catholic church at his disposal and could reasonably afford a ship or two or twenty if he felt like it – that there is a Precursor temple on that continent Columbus “found” about a decade ago?

Yeah, no, he and Ratonhnhaké:ton are saying no to that, thank you very much. 

But can he in good conscience send Cesare on a wild goose chase anywhere else either? Cesare and his army dropping in for a little casual hunt for a nonexistent temple is not something he would really wish on any place. 

“Are we reconsidering our deal again?”

It would be kinda funny if he told Cesare there was a vault under Castel Sant’Angelo and the guy spent the next three years trying to dig a tunnel to it. 

“No, no, I’m just wondering if you really have no questions about the end of the world the mystery woman promised? No thoughts about the revelation of the origin of the human race? None at all?” Desmond says instead.

“What do I care about some ancient woman long since dead?” Cesare barks and whips his hand up dismissively. “Who knows what she is – for all we know, she might have been some raving madwoman. She said the world ended – and yet here we are. No, I do not have much interest in who she is or what she wants. But I can see the value of locating these temples she mentioned.”

“You think there’s gonna be more artifacts like the Apple.”

“Do you not? Do you not see the possibilities that lie waiting in those temples?” 

Oh, Desmond sees them and he’s fucking terrified.

“Now, where is that vault?”

“...The whole place’s locked. You won’t get in, even if you found it. Trust me. You don’t want to get in there, just look at what it did to me – ”

Fuck, he’s got to name a place or Cesare’s storming back into the villa himself and Desmond knows the lunatic will tear the place apart until he finds the secret door. And shit, it’s not about the entrance to the Sanctuary and the tunnel anymore – Cesare fucking knows he’s protecting Ezio, that Ezio’s out there somewhere, and if he sends scouts to search the countryside… Yeah, the guys have Antonio, and Ezio can shoot if he’s still conscious, but they’re still only four men in an old wagon out there alone, trying to avoid Cesare’s army of thousands.

“The location, Desmond.”

He can’t risk revealing the vault below the Colosseum, he just can’t, fuck – but what of the temple Ezio found with Leonardo, after that cult kidnapped him? It’s a Precursor site, so Cesare’s not going to get to complain that Desmond lied, but the world’s not going to end even if he somehow managed to get in and see the coordinates of the Grand Temple. He wouldn’t know what he was staring at.  

“...It’s in Rome.”

Cesare laughs.

“Is that the best lie you can think of? Truly, another one, in Rome? And so conveniently close to the first one?”

“Yeah, well, your fucking palaces are right next to each other, aren’t they? Why the fuck wouldn’t these Precursors built their damn vaults close to one other? It’s a city or something.” He knows he should shut up, like right about now. Jesus Christ. 

Luckily, Cesare seems mostly amused by his attempts to sell his lie which is not technically a lie. 

“And where exactly in Rome is this vault of yours?”

These might be the worst directions he has ever given anyone, Desmond notes to himself while explaining as vaguely as he possibly can how to find the Temple of Pythagoras. Then he does an even worse job of recounting how to open the door into the Precursor vault within. And Cesare hangs onto every fucking word.

“And what of the other vaults? My father told me the apparition spoke of several temples. Where are they?”

“I fucking told you, I’ve been only to this one.”

“Yes, but that does not mean you could not know the locations of some of the others.” 

“Well, I don’t. There’s one in Rome, that’s all I know.”

Cesare hums, shifts in seat and turns his attention back to the Apple.

“You will show it to me once we return to Rome. And if it is not there, I shall make it my priority to hunt down Auditore and every single member of his family. So I hope for your sake that it is where you said it would be.”

“And when were you planning to return to Rome?”

“When I decide it is the right time.” Cesare pauses for a moment. He has picked up the Apple again, and now he runs his fingers over the lines on its surface, following the pattern that loops around the sphere. When he then slowly looks up from it and meets Desmond’s gaze, everything about his tone has changed. “Tell me how to use it.”

Desmond reaches for the Apple just for the hell of it, just to see if it would make this whole fucking thing even funnier and kill Cesare right now. 

It doesn’t. 

Boo.

“I think it’s… dead or something. You know I would have used it on you if it still worked.”

“I am aware. How does one use it?”

Desmond bites his lip, then sighs and gives Cesare one more immensely vague and useless explanation. He especially leaves out the part about needing to have the right genes for it, because Cesare doesn’t need to know that. 

Despite Desmond’s deliberate unhelpfulness, Cesare still tries to command the Apple. His fingers twitch around the artifact, his brows furrow and his expression grows harder as he focuses, but to no one’s surprise the Apple remains just as unresponsive as before. 

Trying to hide his failure and disappointment from Desmond, Cesare lays the artifact back on the desk with a heavy hand and stands up. He brushes imagined dust from his clothes before he folds his hands behind his back and stops to consider something, his gaze now forgotten on a back wall. 

“But it did obey you. And you are clearly connected to it even now, considering your glow.” A pause, as Cesare thinks. “Do you think that, if given enough time, it might return to its former state?”

Desmond makes a noncommittal sound in his throat, then shrugs, though Cesare can’t see it with his back to Desmond. Not that Desmond would tell him that even if he knew. 

“You are an Assassin, no?” Cesare wonders out loud, then glances at Desmond over his shoulder. “Are you certain that is still the best path for you, considering how your circumstances have changed?”

Oh. 

Oh, this is great. 

“The stronghold of your order is now under my command. Auditore has left you here to die in his stead – that should show you that he is no leader worth following. Whatever else is left of the Assassins does not amount to enough to even be kept an eye on. I, however, command the Papal armies. I have already successfully conquered a vast number of city states and have plans for more, with the full support of the Pope, the Church and the Templar Order.”

This guy’s just fucking hilarious.

”What are you trying to say?” Desmond says slowly, just to milk this shit.

Cesare’s little twirl to face him couldn’t have been more dramatic.

“Imagine what we could do with the power you wield. With my armies and the strength of the Apple. We could conquer the whole of Italia.”

He knew where this was heading from the get-go, he knew it was coming, and still it takes all Desmond has to rein in any and all reaction he might have had. 

Because if Mario lives – and Desmond needs him to live – the Gray is not going to give him an easy way out of here. And if that’s not an option, how the fuck is he supposed to escape when he can barely stand on his own two feet? So maybe, just maybe, it would be worth it to play along. For now. Until he comes up with a way to get the hell away from Cesare. 

But Cesare isn't stupid. If Desmond just flat-out accepts the offer, he is going to know something is up. And hell, there’s no guarantee this isn’t just some ploy to fuck him over.

“What would I get out of that?”

“You would not die tonight, for one.”

“That’s all?”

“For now.”

Desmond scoffs.

“Really? You would offer that to me, just like that?” he asks. “You know nothing about me, apart from the fact that I just killed a lot of your men.”

“I witnessed what you can do with the Apple. It is something I could put to use. It is that simple.” Cesare turns and heads towards the entrance. “Think it over while you enjoy our hospitality.”

He pushes aside the flap that serves as the door to the tent, and calls over a couple of guards. Desmond can’t make out what he says to them, but it is easy to guess what it was when the men march over to grab him and unceremoniously drag him out of the tent and into the light of an early morning. 

It is not a long journey this time. They follow along as Cesare guides them over to another tent not far from his.

Their loud arrival startles the lone man there, bent over some drawings. He looks up with wide eyes as Desmond stumbles into the tent after the guards push him in, and Desmond didn’t know he was here today, Ezio didn’t know – and it would have broken his heart if he had known – 

“What is this – ?” Leonardo da Vinci asks, then promptly shuts his mouth when Cesare marches in with the Apple.

“I have something for you to study,” Cesare says and lowers the Apple on a nearby desk with a thud. He glances at the mess Leonardo has created in the small tent, sketches and notebooks in artistic chaos all over the floor and every surface available. Cesare scrunches up his nose at all of it, then squares his shoulders and turns his attention back to Leonardo. “I want to know how this artifact works and how it is connected to this man. See if the artifact can be used without him.”

“What about our deal?” Desmond growls and tries to step away from the guards. “Call your men off.”

Cesare just merely looks at him, then turns to one of the soldiers.

“Do not let him touch the artifact. Do not let him out of your sight. He is not allowed to leave this tent. Am I understood?”

“Hey, asshole, I’m talking to you!”

That earns him a fist straight into his stomach. 

Desmond falls to his knees. 

Cesare leaves, one of the guards stays.

The sounds of books and papers being pushed around and falling on the floor force their way past the pain to Desmond’s attention. Biting his bleeding lip, he looks up to see Leonardo in frantic search of something, then the inventor is hurrying over to him with a knife he had apparently stashed inside a book. 

“Where are you hurt, Signore?” Leonardo asks as he crouches next to Desmond and lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. Then, despite the gruff protests of the guard who is only now realizing what is going on, Leonardo cuts the ropes tying Desmond’s hands together.

Everything below his wrists feels what a TV static screen looks like when blood rushes back into his fingers. Hissing, Desmond curls over himself and tries not to think of the pain still blooming in his abdomen. 

Leonardo’s arm curls around his elbow.

“Come, let us get you somewhere more comfortable,” he says in a soft, artificially cheery tone that is at odds with the dark circles under his eyes and the pale, grayish tone born of worry in his skin. With great care, he helps Desmond up and walks him to a nearby chair before sending a dirty look at the guard who has done nothing to help and instead keeps spluttering protests about not letting the prisoner free. Deaf to these complaints, Leonardo crouches in front of Desmond and pointedly looks him in the eye. “What is your name?”

And Desmond breathes out his name while clutching his abdomen even though Leonardo knows it and they both know he knows it. 

The Apple’s hunger keeps whispering in his ears while Leonardo cleans what wounds and gashes he can find, though with the amount of soot and dust Desmond is covered in, it is a fool’s errand. He clicks his tongue in distaste while he studies one of the larger ones, then he disappears to rummage through his things for a needle and a thread to close the wound with. 

While stitching up a long gash on Desmond’s shoulder – he hadn’t even noticed that was there – Leonardo glances at the guard on the other side of the tent, then lowers his voice to whisper. 

“Is Ezio… Cesare mentioned that something happened in the Vatican between his father and Ezio, and I… I heard the cannons last night.”

“He’s fine,” Desmond sighs just as quietly before grimacing when the needle pierces his skin again. “Or well, not fine, far from it, but he was here. He got out. I think. I hope.”

Leonardo glances at him, his eyes wide and worried, the faint gray streaks in his hair and beard apparent even in the low light. 

“And you – how did they capture you?” he asks in an even softer voice. “What happened?”

Desmond closes his eyes and tries to ignore his pounding headache.

“We got into a shitty situation. Someone had to stay behind to give the others a chance. I figured that was my job.”

“I would imagine Ezio had something to say about that.”

Chuckling makes his chest hurt.

“Yeah.”

After he finishes with the stitches, Leonardo wants another look at Desmond’s ribs. He unclasps the chest piece of the armor so he can tug the hem of Desmond’s undershirt free, then he leans in to study the large, angry bruise that is Desmond’s abdomen. The ugly blue and purple blotches are divided into smaller sections by the golden lines the Apple has drawn on him. Not afraid of the unnatural glow, Leonardo presses his hand gently against Desmond’s side and examines him like only a man whose anatomy sketches will still be admired five centuries after his death can. 

“You don’t seem that surprised about… anything to do with me, really.” It sounds more like a question than a statement, really, when Desmond wheezes the words out. 

“Ezio told me about you and your… conundrum when I last had the chance to properly sit down and speak with him.” 

Okay, yeah, of course he did. This is Ezio’s best friend after all. Desmond’s not sure what he was expecting.

“It is fascinating, truly, your existence here.”

“That’s one word for it, yeah.”

“I would love to discuss your experiences some day, in friendlier surroundings – if you do not object, that is.”

“Sure.” 

“Marvelous.” Leonardo brushes a fingertip against a glowing line on Desmond’s arm and furrows his brows. “Not to alarm you, but I do not remember you being quite so illuminating when our paths last crossed. What caused this?”

“I used the Apple too much. I guess it’s now my turn to be its personal battery. It hasn’t killed me yet, so…” Desmond shakes his head, then has to stop because the world seems to shake with him. “Hey, Ezio knows Cesare has you. He’s gonna get you out, I just don’t know how long it’s gonna take – “

“Do not worry yourself over that now,” Leonardo says, his words suddenly hurried, his forehead lined. His hand comes to support him. “Desmond, are you feeling well?”

He has to lean against the touch to stay upright. The Apple is hungry. His heartbeat drums in his ears, his whole fucking skull pulsates with it. 

The sounds of the massive, bustling war camp all around them have disappeared.

No. 

No, no, no. 

“I'm jumping,” Desmond breathes in sharply, holding his side. He tries to stand up but Leonardo doesn’t let him. “I can’t be jumping – Mario can’t – “

Leonardo rushes over to the Apple which is still where Cesare left it, then he runs back to press it into Desmond’s hands. 

“Take it.”

“What is happening?” is the guard’s only angry addition to the conversation before the man realizes to head towards them like a storm cloud. But Desmond doesn’t care because he is jumping and that means Mario is dead and they failed and nothing he ever does matters and he can’t keep doing this and the Apple burns his hands – 

The Apple burns his hands. White, searing pain tears through him, so sharp and vicious that he hisses out loud. His skin hisses as it burns. The Apple lets out a blunt thud as it falls on the ground, and it glows red like it was made of molten metal. It look fucking radioactive when it rolls across the dirt floor and away from him. 

Then he is not there anymore.

Chapter Text

The Gray abandons him in darkness. Blindly, he reaches for anything to hold onto. His palm meets a wall – the burned skin screams. Wincing, he yanks his hand away and cradles it to his chest. His scorched fingertips tingle and throb.

The floor underneath his feet sways, and he slumps against the wall, shoulder first. Almost drops onto his knees. His breath wheezes out of his lungs with an audible sound. 

Still in that awkward half-crouch, he covers his eyes with his other hand and shakes. Mario can’t be dead. Not after everything. It’s not fair. He thought that – 

He thought he could save him.

And now he’s here.

He can’t even fucking sacrifice himself right. How does he keep fucking that up, over and over again? Like, seriously, what’s wrong with him?

He lets the hand fall and presses it over his mouth instead. He breathes in.

Cesare’s going to have his men beat up Leonardo for this.

No, they have done it already.

Fuck.

It takes a moment before he can force himself to move. With the last remains of his strength, he pushes himself up onto his feet and tries to understand where he is. A tentative step forwards backfires immediately – he almost falls when his foot meets nothing.

Clinging to the wall, he tries again.

He is at the top of a staircase.

Running his throbbing hand against the cold stone wall, he slowly makes his way down. A soft, dim light greets him at the bottom and invites him to peek into the room that awaits at the end of the stairs.

His tentative footsteps echo in the large open space as he takes in the high stone ceiling and the absolute chaos that is the massive pile of chests and crates, wrapped up paintings and random furniture standing in one corner of the room. A few dark doorways stare at him from each side of the grand hall. Somewhere on his left, that faint light flickers and beckons him closer.

He knows this place. 

With a headache buzzing inside his skull, he limps towards the light through the warehouse that in time will become the headquarters of the Italian Assassins. Now, after being in the possession of the brotherhood for only a couple of weeks, if even that, it is still mostly just that, a warehouse. Evidently Maria and Claudia haven’t yet had time to unpack all the furniture – all the paintings, collections of armor, weapons, clothes, keepsakes they saved from Monteriggioni. 

But the fireplace is there though, in the room which will someday be called the armory, along with the loveseat and two chairs he remembers from the original timeline. His legs nearly give out under him at the sight of them.

He must have made a sound, because La Volpe, standing by the fireplace with his hands behind his back, snaps his gaze up from the flames. He takes a step back and his hand flies to his blade before he recognizes him.

“Desmond? But how – ?”

The room sways. Blurs. Turns dark. Stumbling, Desmond grabs the back of one of the chairs to keep himself from falling over, though his trembling legs seem to have other plans. He blinks, keeps blinking. Sweat runs down his neck. 

La Volpe reaches him. He catches Desmond’s arm, guides it to rest over his shoulders with practiced ease, and practically drags him to the loveseat.

“Did they make it back yet?” Desmond coughs after crashlanding on the loveseat. “Are they here – “

La Volpe places a hand on his shoulder. 

“They just arrived. Signora Maria sent for a doctor, and she is tending to them in the meantime. Do not worry.”

Desmond’s whole body shakes with his sigh. He leans his head against the backrest, closes his eyes and squeezes his hands into such tight fists that his nails dig into his palm. Fuck. They’re here. Ezio’s here. Desmond’s here, but Mario is not. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes out and then there’s no stopping the words. “So sorry. It wasn’t supposed to go like this – I never meant it to be like this – I’m sorry – “

The hand on his shoulder becomes heavier. 

“I am sure none of this is your fault. Now, breathe. I will go to ask Signora Maria to come to take a look at you, so I need you to stay – Desmond, look at me, do not close – ”

But his eyelids are so heavy and it hurts so much – 

“ – Desmond! “

A soft, dim light is the first thing he becomes aware of, amidst the safe, warm darkness he would like to slip back into. 

A dancing flame of a candle.

Pain. 

A woman’s voice, quietly singing – he knows the tune, the words and the voice. Familiar. Precious. From when he was a child.

He turns his head towards the sound. It hurts, but he wants to see her. And there she is, standing by the bed, sorting through what could be a pile of bandages. 

“...Mother. ”

She stops, turns to look at him. A gentle smile spreads on her lips, just as warm as her touch is when she leans in to cradle his cheek with her hand. The scent of her perfume lingers in the air, and he remembers that too, from years and years ago.

“How do you feel, dear?” she whispers and moves the hand to his forehead.

He croaks out something he cannot decipher the meaning of himself, but it seems that she can. She reaches for a carafe on the nightstand next to the bed and pours water into a cup which she then brings to his lips. 

She adjusts his pillow, smoothens the blanket covering him, tugs on the collar of the shirt he has been sleeping in. It is new. He frowns at that discovery – someone has stripped him of his armor. Washed away the dust and blood. Dressed his wounds. 

When she steps to the side to put the cup away, she reveals an armchair by the bed behind her. In it, with his cheek resting against his hand, sleeps a man.

Old bruises color his left cheek and brow, turning them yellow and purple and brown. The tangled mess of his hair falls over his dusty, worn clothes, there is a smudge of dirt on his cheekbone, and that beard has not seen a blade for at least a week. His right leg, thickly bandaged, rests at an awkward angle so he can keep it straight. 

Ezio.

Desmond blinks, blinks again, only then remembers who he is.

Ezio’s back is going to hurt so, so much when he wakes up. Desmond winces in sympathy, then finds himself biting down on his lower lip to fight off the constricting feeling in his throat. Ezio’s right there, he’s alive and mostly in one piece, there’s no need to cry about it. 

Maria’s fingers caress his forehead.

“Sleep now, little one.”

“Is he – ?” There are a hundred things he needs to know. He tries to get up, but her hand on his shoulder puts a stop to it. He falls back on the mattress and looks up at her, tries to speak despite the fact that his whole body seems to tremble. “What about Mario – I didn’t mean this to happen, Mother. I’m sorry – ”

She cups his face again, brushes her thumb against his cheek.

“Do not worry, dear. Everything will be fine in the morning. Now, close your eyes.”

It’s not fair that somehow that makes his eyelids weigh a ton. Blinking, struggling to stay awake, he watches as she takes the candle and then turns to him once more with a look he knows very well. A memory appears, of her – or no, of his mom? – raising her eyebrow just a little, telling him to go to bed, just as she is doing now. 

Humming the tune from before, she walks over to Ezio. She brushes unruly locks of hair from his face as if he was still a little boy, then leans down to press a kiss on his temple right above an angry purple bruise. That doesn’t wake him up, just causes him to shift a little so that the candlelight can now reach the dark circles under his eyes. 

Desmond swears he closes his eyes only for a second after Maria leaves, but the next time he struggles to blink them open, daylight has found its way through the small windows high up on the walls. In turn, his own glow has disappeared. The only golden lines on his body are those on his right arm, and even those are now only reflecting sunlight.

He recognizes the room now, though that requires a little imagination. Ezio has not yet had the chance to move into this room, hasn’t made it his own. 

But he is still there.

Or no, Ezio has returned. He is in that armchair again, the injured leg now propped up on a stool. He has had time to get a bath and change his clothes, detangle his hair and trim his beard, but the open front of his loose shirt reveals a few gashes and a spread of ugly bruises on his chest. He has a notebook on his lap, and a quill for writing balanced between two fingers. 

While Desmond watches, Ezio lifts a cup from a side table – someone has brought it here for him, because he couldn’t have carried it himself – and takes a sip from it without looking away from the notebook.

Guilt sits down heavily on Desmond’s chest when he starts noticing the traces of grief on Ezio’s face. He has slept, yes, but the pain of losing Mario has still hollowed his cheeks and carved new, faint lines at the corners of his eyes. And there’s something in his rigid posture and the tightness around his mouth that reveals that the leg hurts, as much as he tries to pretend it doesn’t. 

Much like he will do with everything that hurts after this point. 

In the other lifetime, the death of his uncle colored Ezio’s every action that came after it. But not in the way Desmond had first thought it would – when anger, revenge and blood had been Ezio’s instinctual response to the murder of his father and brothers and the loss of his old life and home, two and a half decades later his reaction to losing more of his family, another home and any feeling of safety he might have regained had been defined by exhaustion and just… absence.

There had been no dramatic, tearful moment of the loss finally sinking in, or at least the Animus hadn’t shown Desmond one. No, Ezio had made damn sure he had no time for a breakdown – the idiot had been on his feet and running around Rome the minute he woke up, still injured and under the influence of whatever doctors used in their medicine in the fourteen hundreds. Then Machiavelli had whisked him away to find a new headquarters, to replace his gear and horse, to drive away the Borgia guards from the district, to investigate the cult of Romulus, to catch a thief or two. For days, Ezio hadn’t had time to stop and rest, let alone mourn his uncle, and that had been exactly how he had wanted it. 

And when he finally stumbled upon Claudia and Maria – who were not safe and sound in Firenze where he had expressly told them to go – the siblings had been at each other’s throats. Claudia, at thirty-nine, was beyond fed-up with her brother babying her, which in turn made the façade of everything being fine Ezio had been carefully constructing for weeks crumble in seconds. 

Because Ezio was paralyzingly terrified that he would lose them as well, and the only way he knew how to deal with that gut-gnawing fear was to try to keep the last remaining members of his family as far away from the Borgias as possible. And so he pushed and pushed against Claudia’s wish to be something more than she had so far been allowed to be, because Claudia hating him for the rest of her long life was still better than Claudia being dead.

She did not want his help – she did not want him. Was that not obvious to everyone, when she was so adamant to let his heart be torn from his chest one more time? Or at least that was what Ezio tried to convince himself of when he was forced to face the fact that he would not be able to stop her – he would lose her – and so he told himself he would rather wash his hands of whatever happened to her. Let her do what she thought was best then, if she was so certain. If she knew better than him. He would not care. That way it would not hurt so much when her naivete eventually got her killed.

As if.

He had just simply run away again.

Idiot.

And so the idiot willingly marched into that fight and alienated his sister. He didn’t have the heart to open up to his mother when he thought her still so fragile, Leonardo and Caterina had been taken, Machiavelli was needling him about Rodrigo and Monteriggioni at every chance he got, La Volpe nearly refused to work with the Assassins altogether because of his suspicions about Machiavelli, and Bartolomeo was busy driving off the French.

There was no one left to help Ezio carry the burden of Mario’s loss. Not that he would have dared to ask anyone anyway, when deep down, he considered his own arrogance to be the cause of his uncle’s death. He knew Machiavelli thought so too, did not dare to guess who his sister blamed. Perhaps, over the years, Ezio had grown to accept that he was not responsible for what happened to Federico and Petruccio and Giovanni, but this – oh, this was all on him. If he had put his own wants, soul and peace of mind aside and killed just one more time, if he had let the Pieces of Eden and prophecies be and forgotten about the Vatican, if he had been more cautious and prepared for the possibility of the Papal armies marching in, his uncle might have lived.

So he pushed the pain away and focused on saving everyone else, until it turned into a dull ache much more easily ignored. He had no strength left for anger. That had been consumed by that short rush of adrenaline in Monteriggioni when he had climbed on a horse and galloped towards Rome, only to pass out in a ditch not even halfway through the journey. No, hatred and vengeance were a young boy’s game. Ezio, now in his forties, only wanted to save those he still could – his sister, his mother, Leonardo, Caterina – and go home, wherever that was. Hell, the day he broke into Sant’Angelo for Caterina, Ezio hadn’t cared about killing Rodrigo or Cesare, not one bit – he would let them walk to right past him unharmed if he was just allowed to save her because it was not right that she had to pay for his mistakes – 

He freed her. She broke his heart. And he let her go and accepted the fact that he would never love again, would never have a family of his own and that someday that list of people dear to him would run out of names.

So instead he would use the time he had to build up a brotherhood, to train his apprentices to someday surpass him, to save the people of Rome. To be only an intermediary for a message that had never been meant for him.

Because he let his uncle die.

Ezio turns a page, happens to glance up and finally notices that Desmond is awake.

Slowly, he lowers the cup on the side table. He closes the notebook and puts it away too, then places the quill neatly on top of it, before finally meeting Desmond’s gaze again.

For a moment they just look at each other.

Ezio’s dark hair has found a new, warmer shade in the ray of sunlight he is sitting in, but it disappears as soon as he breathes in and leans back to slouch against the back of the chair. He runs a hand over his face, rubbing his temples and the bridge of his nose, then covers his mouth with it. The other hand, which sits on one of the armrests, he clenches into a fist.

“No more sacrifices,” he begins in a quiet, strained voice. His dark gaze is glued to the back wall. “That was the promise I once made to you. It was one I had intended to keep.”

Ah.

“...Wasn't your choice.” 

Ezio’s mouth opens just a sliver, then he clamps it tightly shut, his lips white. He drums his fingers against the armrest, then stops just as abruptly when he realizes he's doing it. 

“It is not right, Desmond.” Every muscle in his neck is taut, his eyes forced shut. “If I had not – “ He inhales audibly through his nose. His nails dig into the fabric of the armchair. “You should not accept the role of the sacrificial lamb so easily.” 

“I wasn’t going to let you die. Any of you,” Desmond mutters and pushes his blankets away so he can try to sit up. He hisses when the tender skin on his fingertips reminds him of its existence. “History still needs you and Machiavelli, and you need your uncle. My fucking predestined purpose was kinda over and done by the time I ended up here. So rather me than you.”

Ezio whips his head up to glare at him.

“How can you say that? How dare you say that? Do you not have any idea what it is like to sit here and listen to – you – you made me promise I would do everything in my power to make it out of there alive, but you do not allow me to ask the same of you! You did not even try to keep yourself safe! You forced me to leave you behind!” He draws in a sharp breath which trembles with some combination of anger, grief and pain. “I had prepared myself for the loss of Uncle Mario, but I could not face even that pain. I did not even try. To then lose you because of it, because of a choice I made, I…” He presses a hand to his forehead and closes his eyes. “I said I would beg if I had to, but I did not realize it would come to that so soon. Or that my words would amount to nothing.” 

Slowly, painfully, Desmond props himself up on his elbows. He doesn’t want to see what color the bruises underneath his borrowed shirt are.

“You would have done the same exact thing if you had been in my place,” he wheezes through gritted teeth and shifts himself into a slightly more comfortable position so that he ends up leaning against the headboard, half sitting up. “Because – and yes, I am so pulling this card on you right now – I know you pretty fucking well, and I’d like to think I know exactly what you would have done if you had had to choose between letting Cesare take me and Mario, and using yourself as a distraction. You wouldn’t have fucking hesitated, let me tell you that – ”

“This is not about me!” And okay, yeah, maybe Ezio’s shouting now. “This is about you never having a chance to live! You have earned the right many times over by now, and yet you still refuse to accept that chance! No, you gladly give it away without a second thought the moment an opportunity arises!” 

That’s not – 

He’s not – Ezio’s wrong – that’s not how – 

The back wall’s looking fucking nice today, he can see why Ezio was staring at it earlier. Scrunching up his nose, Desmond glances back at Ezio, then quickly moves his gaze back away again. So what the fuck had he been supposed to do then anyway? Let them all die?

“...I would do it again if I had to. I’m not gonna apologize for saving your life.” Sitting up hurts, he finds out. Grunting, he curls one arm around his middle and lets his shoulders hunch. “I am sorry for scaring you though.”

He was expecting more arguing, he realizes, when the silence he gets in response surprises him. Gingerly, he turns to look at Ezio who has leaned his elbows on his knees – he has to mind the wound on his thigh which makes the whole thing a lot more awkward than it needs to be. Ezio shakes his head, then sighs and shakes it again. His voice drops to a raspy whisper.

“No, no, no, you are right. And I would not ask you to do that – Merda. Forgive me, love, I should not have – “ He cuts himself off. With his gaze forgotten somewhere on Desmond’s right, he runs a hand through his loose hair, grimaces, then hides his face in his hands. 

Sounds wander in from somewhere beyond the door – footsteps, a half of a murmured conversation. Desmond studies the curve of Ezio’s tense back and rigid shoulders and doesn’t know how to say any of the things he wants to. He fidgets with his hands, absentmindedly poking at the blisters on his fingers. 

“Desmond, I…” A sharp inhale. A pause. “Are you in pain? Is there anything you need?”

Closing his eyes for a second, Desmond slumps against the headboard. His throat is a dry-ass desert and every part of him aches and now that he’s thinking about it, he’s actually so fucking hungry and could use a shower. A bath. A twenty-first century bathroom.

“I’ll live. How's the leg?”

“Are you certain?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he sighs and glances at Ezio out of the corner of his eye. “So how’s the leg?”

Ezio turns to sneer at his own thigh. 

“It is there.” The leg twitches, as if he wanted to slam it against the armrest in frustration. “It should heal. Or so I have been told. It has also been mentioned that, and I quote, at my age I will not recover as fast as I used to.”

“Ah, yeah, I know exactly which guy you have been talking to,” Desmond chuckles, though his ribs immediately jump at the chance to protest. Grunting, he presses a hand to his side, but then he catches the look of worry on Ezio’s face and forces himself to relax his shoulders. “No, seriously, how bad is it?”

It takes Ezio a moment to answer.

“It will heal. Eventually.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No.”

So it is bad. And it hurts, quite a lot. But he’s not going to get more out of Ezio now. Desmond sighs.

“How long have I been out?”

“Only a few hours. We arrived not long after midnight, and you appeared to give La Volpe a good scare only a moment later.” 

He should ask about Mario and the others. About how Ezio is taking it. But he doesn’t want to make Ezio – he doesn’t want to hurt him. Doesn’t want to bring it up.

He just wants to stop this not-really-fighting-but-kinda thing they have going on and hug Ezio and sleep for maybe a decade, if he’s being totally honest.

And maybe that shows on his face – and he doesn’t even give a shit if it did – because Ezio takes one look at him and gives in.

With his hands placed on both of the armrests, he pushes himself up onto his feet. Well, onto one of them, the right one clearly can’t hold his weight right now. Grunting, he grabs the pair of makeshift crutches he apparently had leaning against the chair, then limps over the short distance to the bed. He lands heavily on the mattress, lets out a hiss of pain and discards the crutches. He gives the back wall one last glance before turning to face Desmond.

He reaches over, to brush a curl of hair from Desmond’s forehead. To touch his fingertips to Desmond’s cheekbone. To rest the hand on his neck and press his fingers against the skin there until he finds a pulse.

“May I?”

“Yeah.”

The gash on Desmond’s lower lip, which has only just started to heal, does not appreciate the lack of gentleness of the starving kiss Ezio pulls him into, but Desmond doesn’t really care. He slips his right hand into Ezio’s long hair, his fingers combing through the lengths – finding a tangle, pulling on it. His other hand grabs a fistful of Ezio’s shirt, his knuckles brushing against the warm skin of his back. And Ezio wraps his arms around his waist and tugs him even closer, and Desmond lets him, even when every muscle in his abdomen protests against the movement and Ezio’s fingers dig almost painfully into his side. When Desmond’s teeth accidentally scrape his lips, Ezio twitches but quickly silences Desmond’s hasty, muffled apologies. 

Maybe it is all becoming too rushed and breathless too fast. 

Groaning against Desmond’s lips, Ezio stops. He breathes out and tightens his hold on him before pressing a kiss on the corner of Desmond’s mouth, another on his jaw, then one more on the side of his throat before hiding his face in the crook of Desmond’s neck. His arms remain in the vice-like grip around his middle, and Desmond feels his chest moving against his own when Ezio takes a slow, wavering breath.

Desmond holds him and tries to smooth out the mess he has made of Ezio’s hair, while trying to catch his own breath. His ribs absolutely do not like his posture, and Ezio can’t really be comfortable, considering his leg, but neither of them makes any attempt to move. Desmond runs his fingers over the muscles on Ezio’s back and smooths out the knots there too, until Ezio’s shoulders drop and relax and he slumps more heavily against him. And maybe Desmond lets his hands wander and slip underneath Ezio’s shirt, just to make sure there aren’t any gunshot wounds he doesn’t know about – and yeah, he saw Ezio limp the short distance between the chair and the bed on his own a minute ago, but he needs to know. Because two bullets should have torn their way through here – and here, he notes as he maps out the warm, unbroken skin on Ezio’s hip and shoulder.

“I was so angry with you,” mutters a muffled, hoarse voice somewhere near his ear, and Desmond’s hand stops to hover over the decade-old stab wound on Ezio’s side. 

“Isn’t that kinda the norm by now?” he huffs and lays his hand flat against Ezio’s spine. That allows him to feel how his entire back tenses. Desmond drops the sarcasm and lets his voice grow quiet. “Because?”

Fingers dig into his back. 

“You accepted it all so easily.” Ezio shifts, the tip of his nose brushing against Desmond’s neck. “As if you had always expected it to end that way.”

Well. 

Not exactly like that, no. But it would be a lie to say he had never thought about what he would do if and when such a moment came. 

Not that there was ever really any question of who he would sacrifice.

“If you had – If it had been your honest wish to return to your time, I would have understood it. My heart would have gone with you, but I would have let you go. But this…” 

Reluctantly, Ezio detangles himself from his arms, though he doesn’t end up far. He lays one hand on Desmond’s thigh, to balance himself. 

“Even now, I can still see you standing there, with your back to me, holding the Apple. And I feel sick to my stomach. I taste bile on my tongue, and the only thing I know is anger.” 

He shakes his head. 

“After we left you, I… I was scarcely able to think. I wanted nothing more than to turn around and limp back so I could drag you out of there myself and scream at you for scaring me so. The others did not shy away from telling me what a death wish that plan was, and it might have led to me saying some things to Niccolò and Antonio that I now wish I had not. And no, I am not proud of myself, if that is what you are wondering. But I did not know what else to focus on. I do not know, I – ”

His touch on Desmond’s thigh turns into a grip. His chest rises with a deep inhale.

“I ran like a dog with its tail between its legs.” Ezio spits out the words, his voice almost unrecognizable. “What kind of a man am I, to have left you to face your death alone when my decisions were the reason why such a sacrifice had to be made at all? Considering all the promises made between you and I, I should have stood by you.” His breath hitches. “It is not right that you survive through everything you have, only to end up dying for something so insignificant as my life.” 

Desmond tangles his fingers in the front of Ezio’s shirt and lightly pulls on it.

“To be fair, you didn’t just leave me to die,” he corrects and tugs on the fabric again. “I seem to remember that you made quite a fuss about not wanting to go, actually.”

“It would be well within your rights to never speak to me again if I had not.”

“I told you to go. You did. Don’t twist it up to mean something it doesn’t.” He slides his hand up to Ezio’s shoulder and wraps a lock of long, dark hair around his finger. “And it’s not insignificant, you know. To me, or otherwise.” 

Ezio narrows his eyes and a faint wrinkle appears between his brows. He makes a sound that is not quite a word, not quite a scoff, and shakes his head again, about to say something. But Desmond ignores it in favor of leaning in and kissing him, and this time there is more to it than just pure desperation.

“No, I’m glad you got out of there, seriously,” he breathes out and rests his forehead against Ezio’s. “Cesare would have had you killed, he said so himself.”

“He was there?”

“Yeah.”

Ezio runs his fingers over the scabs and gashes on the knuckles of Desmond’s right hand.

“What happened after… once we had left?” 

“I killed a lot of men. Cesare made an appearance. And hey, I got to go to the war camp after all.” His forced cheery tone sounds awful even to his own ears. Ezio pretends not to have noticed his grimace. “He has Leonardo. And the Apple. I couldn’t bring it with me.”

Ezio doesn’t bother to ask whether Cesare hurt him. He turns over Desmond’s hand and disapprovingly tuts his tongue at the blisters and burned skin he finds on his palm.

“And how was Leonardo?”

“Well, he seemed fine when I was there, but I don’t know what they might have done to him now. After I jumped, I mean.”  

“We will save him. I do not yet know how, but we will.” A pause. “Desmond, about Uncle. I cannot –  “

A knock on the door interrupts whatever it was Ezio wanted to say. Reluctantly, they pull away from each other, though Ezio’s hand finds its way back to Desmond’s thigh.

“To think that there used to be a time when you could not stand the sight of him, brother.” It is Claudia, absolutely cackling from her spot at the doorway.

Something softens in Ezio’s expression as he takes in the appearance of his sister – her hair not quite done, her cheeks red from running, a cloak covering her shoulders. The last one she removes and lays neatly on the back of the armchair before hurrying closer.

“Mother sent word to La Rosa in Fiore that you had arrived last night though I do not understand why she chose to wait until morning to – “ 

She comes to a violent stop when she notices Ezio’s leg. 

“What have you done to yourself, you big dumb idiot?” she screeches and marches the last few steps over to the bed to hug her brother. Ezio reaches up to wrap his arms around her. 

“Hello, piccina.” 

They stay like that for a while, with Ezio slowly patting her back and Claudia tightening her hold on him. Then she pulls back and presses a quick kiss on his cheek before rolling her eyes. 

“Know that I hate you for all the sleepless hours I had to spend here, here miles and miles away, without any news of what had become of you.”

“You are precious to me too,” Ezio says with a tired smile. Claudia scoffs and scrunches up her nose. Then she turns to Desmond and reaches out to touch his tattooed forearm.

“It is good to see you as well, Desmond,” she says with a genuine smile. Desmond doesn’t care to guess what kind of a kicked puppy expression has crept onto his face because she takes one look at him and then proceeds to hug him as well. 

Ezio has grown serious by the time she releases Desmond. 

“You would not have not wanted to see it, Claudia. It is better that you did not have to.”

And she would like to argue, it’s clear as day, but another glance at Ezio’s injury turns her face pale. Because the siege took her uncle from her. And Desmond can’t not mention it.

“Hey, guys, I… I’m really sorry about your uncle. Ah, shit… I don’t even know what to say.”

The siblings freeze. Ezio tenses up, while Claudia snaps her mouth shut. They turn to look at each other, and oh shit, he shouldn’t have brought it up, it’s too soon, and what if she didn’t know yet? Fuck, fuck, fuck – he just went and blurted that out loud. Good fucking job, Miles, good fucking job. Stellar, even. They just lost their uncle and all they got out of the whole thing is you, you fucking idiot, and that’s not an exchange you would make yourself – 

Claudia leaves. Desmond completely missed it if she said anything or if Ezio did, but she just walks out. Just like that. 

He shouldn’t have said anything. 

Somebody just kill him now – 

He is still gaping at the door Claudia disappeared through when Ezio says something.

Desmond turns to him, blinking, trying to comprehend what the hell is going on, when Ezio leans in and cups his face with both hands. His gaze is steady, his voice level and calm, and Desmond doesn’t understand a word he says.

“...What?”

Ezio smiles.

“He lives, my love. He is here, with us,” he says and can’t stop a blindingly bright grin from taking over his face. “He made it. We are all here.”

Desmond repeats the words in his head, over and over again, but they make as little sense as they did before and there is no way he can be hearing this right – 

“What?” he breathes out and grabs Ezio’s wrists. He holds onto them maybe a little bit too tightly, but in his defence the whole world seems to be turning upside down. “But I jumped – Ezio, I jumped, he can’t be – “

Claudia returns. And right behind her follows – 

“We have finally returned to the land of the living, I see.”

Desmond just stares. 

It looks like Mario, sounds like Mario, whatever it is standing there at the door. Beaming like the sun. He’s finally gone crazy, hasn’t he? Because he’s going to look at Ezio and Ezio’s not going to be able to see Mario there because this has to be all in his head, this is gotta be some Bleeding bullshit –  

But Ezio is still grinning and then he laughs because Mario laughs.

Something tries to escape from Desmond’s throat, a sound that is a sob and laugh and whine all at the same time. Trying to fight it back and losing profusely, he looks between the two men and barely dares to breathe.

“…But I’m here?”

“And so am I, my boy,” Mario chuckles in his booming voice, and his wide smile forgives at least a decade’s worth of lines on his tanned and weathered face. But the way he walks betrays his true age. His steps towards Desmond and Ezio are short and careful, and his body stays stiff and awkward as he tries not to move his well-bandaged shoulder. His arm hangs limply in a sling tied around his neck. “I am so very glad to see you up and awake. We have had a week to worry about what might have happened to you.” 

When Mario reaches out his good arm, perhaps to shake Desmond’s hand, maybe to squeeze his shoulder, Desmond grabs the offered hand with both of his. It is rough and warm and heavily calloused, and a healthy pulse beats under the thumb he presses on Mario’s wrist. 

“But – how? ”

Mario huffs out a chuckle.

“We were hoping you might be able to tell us. Your arrival last night was as much of a surprise to us as I seem to be to you now. From which point in time are you, exactly?”

“Er, it’s been only a couple of hours for me. Or, you know what I mean. Before I got here. But there wasn’t any – I honestly thought you had died when I jumped. But you obviously didn’t, so now I have no idea what the hell is going on.”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” 

Desmond’s gaze finds its way to Mario’s shoulder again. A cold dread lifts its head in the pit of his stomach.

“Has anyone taken a look at that? A doctor, I mean? Someone who actually has a brain and doesn’t just suggest bloodletting for everything? You don’t feel feverish, do you? Have you kept the wound clean – I’ve got to give you guys a crash course on bacteria or something – “

“Remember to breathe, son. Whatever fever I had, it has passed. I have seen two doctors, one last night and another not too long after we slipped past Cesare’s army. Though truth be told, I did not have much faith in the latter, but alas, we did not have much choice. We were fortunate to stumble upon him and his little countryside practice in the first place.” After a gentle tap against Desmond’s wrist, Mario slips his hand free from his grip. “And well, for the first few days, I did think that this could very well be my end after all. But I persevered, despite the odds. And more importantly, our doctor did manage to save Ezio’s leg and keep him from death’s door. Though I have allowed myself to understand that the feat was more thanks to luck than skill.” 

Mario’s gaze finds Ezio, and for the first time today a hint of shadow passes over his features. Desmond follows it, because hold up, what was that about Ezio? 

“The dottore Maria sent for last night told me that my wound is healing as well as can be expected,” Mario continues and grunts as he shifts his shoulder and adjusts the sling around his neck. “The shoulder might never be what it once was, but what use does an old man have for a sword arm? Nay, I grow a little stronger every day and that shall be enough.” 

Ezio avoids Desmond’s gaze, that bastard. Biting his lip, Desmond turns back to Mario who has conjured his earlier sunny smile back on his face. 

“Furthermore, I am happy to tell you that I have done my utmost to avoid any and all danger, and will keep doing so. I would not want to waste this chance you have given me.” 

Desmond still doesn’t understand anything. 

“Thank you, Desmond. I owe you my life. In more ways than one.”

“...You’re – you’re so welcome, you have no idea,” he croaks back in response. “But aren’t you afraid that… It could just get worse, you know?” Because it has to, right? This is just how all of this works and somehow, bizarrely, he has found a way to make everything even worse. Because losing Mario now is only going to hurt so much more and – 

“If it is meant to go that way, then it will. Worrying will not change that. I am grateful for what I have already been given – every day I might yet see will be a gift. And regardless of what might happen, it will not be your fault.”   

Mario might just as well have taken a bat and whacked him over the head with it, multiple times. Desmond looks from the old man’s face to Ezio who reaches over to squeeze his knee. 

“He will not disappear even if you stop fretting for two seconds.”

“You don't know that.” Funny how your own voice can betray you so completely. But at least it still turns into a proper snarl when he needs it to. “So is there anything else you conveniently forgot to tell me about and that I have to hear from your uncle? Or is this kinda dying again just a special thing?” 

“But I did not die,” Ezio quips and smiles, like the smartass he is. “Besides, Uncle made it sound far worse than it was. And how was you worrying over something that already happened going to make anything better?”

Sometimes Desmond still gets the urge to just strangle him.

“Well, okay yeah, maybe not, but I would still have liked to know!” 

“He has a point, brother,” Claudia chimes in from where she still stands at the doorway, with her arms loosely crossed over her chest, listening to the conversation and smiling just as widely as the rest of her family. “Especially considering how much you complained about Desmond keeping secrets.”

“Oh no, no, you will stay out of this if you know what is good for you, Claudia.” Ezio points a finger at her, but she only rolls her eyes. And that’s – that’s Maria behind her, coming to see what all the commotion is about.

Desmond’s lungs overflow with light. Warmth. Barely breathing, he listens to Ezio and Claudia bicker like teenagers and almost laughs when he notices their mother rolling her eyes at their antics. Then Desmond happens to meet Mario’s gaze and, despite the anxiousness brewing in his stomach, matches his grin. 

It is a good day to be alive.

Chapter Text

Carefully, Desmond pulls away the heavy piece of fabric that had been wrapped around the canvas and lets it drape on the floor behind him. He sets the painting down to lean against a wooden chest, then takes a step back to properly study the woman he has just set free. He recognizes Leonardo’s style in her smile, in the intricate details of her auburn hair, the sly expression of the swan she is embracing. He remembers her, from the version of Ezio’s life he saw first – she was supposed to be destroyed along with Monteriggioni. Two of the many artworks Leonardo had gifted the Auditore family along the years were burned in the flames, while the Borgias stole the rest. Though Desmond can’t really take the credit for noticing that himself. He just vaguely remembers Ezio and Salaì bickering over the lost paintings when they were trying to figure out where the cult of Hermes had taken Leonardo. 

Shaun would happily kill him over the chance to see this in person, he muses with a grin as he takes another step back to consider the wall in front of him, trying to decide where to hang up the painting. Like, a lot of people in 2012 would kill him, considering it’s a lost painting of Leonardo da Vinci himself he has gotten his grubby little hands on – Leda or something like that. Shaun gave him a whole lecture about it one time, about how there are only sketches and copies left in their time.

Desmond throws a glance at the pile of stuff behind him – the other lost one is probably still in there somewhere, but he can’t honestly remember which one that is. But in his defence, Ezio did hoard a lot of paintings over the course of three decades, so is it Desmond’s fault, really? Besides, he can’t wait to see Shaun’s face when he hears that the lost paintings aren’t so lost anymore, hell, they might even make it to the twenty-first century now, and it’s all going to be thanks to Desmond.

He has almost finished hanging the portrait up when he hears the off-beat rhythm of someone hobbling closer with crutches.

“Lift the right corner,” Ezio’s voice says from somewhere behind him.

Desmond gives the painting a little push, then glances over his shoulder at Ezio who has come to a stop in the middle of the room, leaning on his crutches.

“You have no idea how much people would pay for this in the future. I know Leonardo’s already a big deal for you guys here, but like… Even kids in the 2000s know who he is. Everyone’s heard his name, and I mean everyone.”

“He deserves it all and more,” Ezio says in a quiet voice and considers the painting again. “Now the other side is too low.”

Rolling his eyes, Desmond reaches over to fix that. 

“Better?”

“Mmh.”

Desmond turns around and studies the gray hue underneath Ezio’s eyes. Murky bruises still cover one half of his face, a shade more yellow now, though they aren’t the explanation for the shadows on his face. And now that Desmond thinks about it, Ezio usually puts a little more effort into his appearance than he has now – it looks like he grabbed the first shirt his hand touched and called it a day.

Frowning, Desmond abandons the painting to walk over to him.

“Did you manage to get any sleep?” 

Last night, sometime in the early hours of a new day, Desmond had been woken up by a violent gasp. Not really properly conscious, he had rolled around to see the silhouette of Ezio half-sitting up in the darkness next to him, his heavy, rushed breaths loud in the otherwise calm night. Desmond had touched a hand to his elbow and asked what was wrong, but all he had gotten in response was that it had just been a dream – the same empty answer he had been given the night before, and the one before that. A moment later, when Ezio had lain back down and Desmond had wrapped his arm tightly around him, with his hand on Ezio’s chest and Ezio’s resting on top of his, a wild heartbeat had still galloped underneath his fingers. And when Desmond had gotten up a few hours later, he had left behind Ezio who had not exactly been asleep anymore but not really awake either – twisting and turning and not finding a comfortable position no matter what he did. 

“The leg aches.” Ezio’s sigh and sour expression make it seem like it was a much greater, torturous confession he was making. He looks past Desmond at the painting. “But, alas, it is not as if I would be of much use even if I was well-rested. What little I can do like this is write letters and go over the designs for La Rosa in Fiore Claudia sent to me, and those I can manage even when tired.”

“Hey now,” Desmond mutters, narrowing his eyes. He takes the final couple of steps to insert himself right into Ezio’s personal space and to snake an arm around his waist. With that same momentum Desmond pulls him into a kiss, and keeps insisting until Ezio gives in and responds in kind, relaxing against him. “None of that self-deprecating shit, mister.”

Ezio grumbles something incomprehensible to that but his hands have also found their way to Desmond’s hips, so not all hope is lost.

“Your uncle asked me to tell you that Machiavelli has asked for a meeting,” Desmond whispers and presses one more quick kiss on Ezio’s lips. “He apparently wants the whole Brotherhood here tonight.”

“He wishes to discuss his plans for the Brotherhood. Or rather, how to use my money to further them,” Ezio grunts. “Or perhaps some of his ideas for ridding Rome of the Borgias before 1503. I do not know. I do not particularly care today. But I do not want to think of Niccolò when I am embracing you, so enough of that – how are you?”

“Er, can’t really complain.”

A couple days of rest and affection have done more good than Desmond thought was possible. The speed of his recovery has revealed that despite his – and especially Ezio’s fears – his injuries were not quite as severe as he had originally thought. Yeah, sure, he’s still one big walking bruise, and there’s not really a part of him that doesn’t ache, but miraculously he seems to have walked away from it all with no broken bones. And no, he hasn’t forgotten about his poor, abused ribs, which still very much hurt, thanks for asking. It just turns out that after getting almost crushed by several cannonballs and an entire stone wall, then beaten up multiple times, your ability to judge how fucking much something hurts gets a little compromised. And maybe Altaïr’s armor had something to with it as well, even if it hadn’t really softened the blows. But he’s just not going to admit that to Ezio. Can’t let his ego grow any bigger than it already is. 

“Well, there is that, at least,” Ezio sighs and shifts more of his weight to rest on his good leg. 

“You’ll get better. Just give it time.”

Ezio grunts again, a real ray of sunshine, then limps past Desmond to go study the chests and countless paintings still lying around in the great hall. He pushes a chest open with one of his crutches, then peers inside. 

Desmond follows after him, touches a hand to the small of Ezio’s back when he comes to a stop by his side.

“Hey, I helped myself to one of your spare swords. And to a dagger. A couple of smoke bombs. Maybe a stack of throwing knives.”

That is what finally manages to draw half of a grin out of Ezio.

“They are all yours. Whatever you need.”

Desmond lets his hand travel up Ezio’s back to come rest near his neck, and absent-mindedly wraps a piece of long, dark hair around his finger. Then they spend a moment looking at the mess of chests and paintings and random pieces of furniture, wondering who the hell is going to unpack all that.

“I don’t think I’m getting my hidden blade back.” Desmond misses the thing already – it’s weird not having its weight on his wrist anymore.

“Take one of mine. I will make do with one, and it is not like I will be going after targets any time soon.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. You need it more than I do.”

He curls his fingers around Ezio’s and gives them a light squeeze before moving over to pull another painting from the pile. He starts to unwrap it, but then glances at Ezio who has scrunched his eyes closed and is taking a deep breath through his nose.

“What’s wrong?”

“I am beyond sick and tired of these walls. I am not even certain when I last saw the sun.” He opens his eyes. “Come outside with me.”

“You sure the leg’s ready for that?”

“Desmond, if we stay here for another minute, I will go mad.”

Something in Ezio’s voice makes Desmond quickly put the painting aside.

“Okay, outside it is.” 

The sky is hiding behind a thick cover of clouds, each of them lined with strokes of gray, but that, the absence of the sun nor the cool winds of January don’t seem to bother Ezio at all when he leans against a railing on Ponte Cestio, only a short walk away from the hideout. The chilly weather seems to have fended off all but the most determined, so much so that when Desmond comes to stand right next to Ezio, their sides touching, he dares to curl his little finger around Ezio’s. Then he is beyond content to just take in the sight of Ezio breathing in deep with his eyes closed, his hair dancing in the breeze, one stubborn wisp stuck on his eyelashes.

A moment turns into another, then into one more, and suddenly they’ve already been there a while – Ezio enjoying the wind and studying the sights of his new home, Desmond watching him and sometimes pointing out things in the distance, like the spot where Ezio accidentally fell into the river once, in another life. 

At some point, he realizes Ezio is in fact looking at him instead of whatever Desmond is trying to show him.

“What?”

“I am glad you are here,” Ezio says with a genuine, relaxed smile and tilts his head to the side. “I do not know if I ever told you that.”

Desmond raises an eyebrow.

“Uh-huh. As in here in Rome or here in your time?”

“What a question, my heart.” Half scoffing, half laughing, Ezio glances up at the sky as if pleading for help. “Does it have to be a choice? Am I not allowed to be grateful for both?”

“Nah.” 

Rolling his eyes, Ezio bumps his shoulder against his. 

“Does it please you to see me suffer, dearest? I have begun to suspect it is so.”

“You’re just turning sappy in your old age,” Desmond chuckles and leans heavily against Ezio’s side in retaliation, shaking his head. 

“I will have you know that I am not old,” Ezio huffs in a tone that was probably supposed to sound offended. He tugs on Desmond’s fingers – their intertwined hands safely hidden between them – and narrows his eyes. “Though looking at you sometimes makes me think that I… You seemed so mature then, so much older than I, when we first met. And now I look at you and…”

“I’m not sure I want to hear the end of that sentence.”

Ezio huffs a laugh, then furrows his brows and drops the smile. 

“Now that I think about it, the first memory I have of you is from right after the hanging. But you must have already been there before that, sì? So where were you?”

“Uh, I was in a jail cell.”

Ezio blinks.

“You were what?”

“Look, I literally died and then woke up here, on another continent and five centuries into the past. So I was a little dizzy and out of it, okay? I was still trying to wrap my head around the whole thing when I ran into some guards, and well…”

“What on earth did you do to make them arrest you?”

Ezio’s disbelieving laugh makes Desmond scoff.

“I was on the rooftops because I was following your brother to make sure you two wouldn’t get your asses beaten by Vieri of all people. And I was wearing twenty-first century clothes. And had this freaky-ass arm out in the sunlight. Yeah, I know, not my brightest moment, but if you didn’t hear it the first time, I had just died.”

“But surely you could have gotten out of there?”

“Obviously I got out. It’s just that… Look, I had a plan and everything, I was dead set on getting out of there and saving your family, but then I got properly introduced to the Gray and… I couldn’t make it in time. I tried to, but – “

“I know.”

“I’m still sorry. I – guess what I’m trying to say, what I wanted to say already way back then, is that I know how it felt seeing them there. I get it. And I don’t know if me saying that just makes it worse, but...”

“It helps,” Ezio says after a pause, his gaze now pinned on something in the distance. His hold on Desmond’s hand is tight. “And whatever debt you think you owe me, you settled it countless times over when you saved my uncle.”

They watch the river again. A thin branch that has lost its leaves sails by, then gets caught by the current and disappears underwater.

A peculiar expression sneaks onto Ezio’s face. 

“What?” 

“Those ridiculous robes you were wearing!” Ezio barks, almost offended, but can’t quite stop himself from chuckling right after. “When we first met, you were dressed as a monk and – and you were wearing that same thing when you appeared in Monteriggioni a year and half later. And your excuse for it was… What did you say? That you had lost them? Absolutely nonsensical! And how blind I was!”

“Do you have any idea how fucking hard it was to keep this whole thing from you?” Desmond hisses and pokes a finger into Ezio’s chest, because fuck him and his giggling. “First you were literally being a nosy kid and sticking your nose into my business every chance you got, and then you got it into your head that I was out to get you. I was so ready to strangle you so many times, you have no idea, I will still do it, don’t think for a second I won’t – Also, I don’t think you’ve yet apologized for calling me a Templar.”

“Did I do that?” 

“Don’t tell me you don’t remember that!” Okay, yeah, Desmond might have screamed, so what?

“It has been twenty years, caro.” The bastard has the nerve to laugh. “You cannot expect me to remember all the times I have tried to kill you.” 

Desmond is so going to push him into the river. Then he’ll be sorry. 

He plots his vengeance for a while yet, and Ezio laughs at his plans, his bright grin so, so beautiful. But eventually the chilly wind gets its teeth around even their throats and drives them towards home. On the way back, Desmond points out the few struggling, run-down shops on Tiber Island and tells Ezio of the deals he made with the owners last time. As they pass by the tailor’s shop, Desmond has proceeded to explain the arrangement Ezio had with the owner Salvo, as the hooded robes they dressed all their recruits in did not just appear out of thin air – someone had to make them, and that someone was Salvo. They’re gonna need something similar this time around as well.

The speech which Ezio now gives to Salvo to present this new and shiny business plan is not quite yet as refined as it will be after a few years of practice, but the basics are there, and Salvo is happy to take the money of any man interested in investing in his little shop. 

“I also need something made now,” Ezio says then, leaning against the counter. He proceeds to describe a set of robes not that dissimilar to that he wore with Altaïr’s armor, or the long white robes he has yet to even see in this life. Salvo gives up halfway through the explanation and pushes a piece of paper, a quill and an ink bottle towards him. 

With quick, certain strokes Ezio brings the layered robes to life. Desmond spies over his shoulder to see him paint the long tails, the movement of the sash tied at the waist, the beak of the hood. It doesn’t take long before he has moved on from the first one and focused on drawing another version, from another angle. They are not exactly like the robes he had, but something a little simpler, sleeker, elegant. Desmond recognizes the influences of Altaïr’s garb in them – Ezio has spent enough time staring at his statue for something to stick. 

Ezio’s hand stops. He turns to glance at Desmond, his gaze running up and down, then it returns to the sketch. He paints over some details, to make the design sleeker, more dynamic. 

“Are they for him?” Salvo asks and nods towards Desmond.

“Yes,” Ezio answers and adds another line while Salvo gives Desmond a once-over, as if to calculate his measurements by just sight alone. “Desmond, do you want a cape? Like the one I had?” He holds his left arm out, then wiggles his fingers to show where the cape would end. 

“Sure.” It’s handy to hide the hidden blade with.

After a few more additions, Ezio pushes the sketches towards Pietro.

“How long do you need?”

“Come back next week and we will see how it fits.”

When they head towards the hideout from there, Desmond has to slow down his gait quite a bit so that Ezio can keep up with him. He tries not to make it so obvious, but the tight set of Ezio’s mouth lets Desmond know he has noticed. So Desmond distracts.

“I didn’t know you could paint so well. Or I knew, but… It’s different to know it and see it in person. The Animus didn’t really think your hobbies were a priority.”

“Whatever you say,” Ezio chuckles, a little bit out of breath. “No, it is all thanks to Mother. Back in Firenze, before all of this began, she insisted that we learn as much as we can – mathematics, languages, history, geography, literature, rhetoric… We had many, many tutors and countless lessons, though I must admit I might have slept through most of them. Or spent them dreaming of pretty girls. Oh, we even snuck out with Federico once or twice.”

The only time Desmond got to see a version of Ezio that was younger than seventeen, he was a newborn baby, but looking at his grin now, he can very easily picture him as a fourteen-year-old with a squeaky voice, aiming a crumpled piece of paper at the back of his teacher. 

“But that of course was not enough for Mother. To my younger self’s annoyance, she wanted us to devote time to studying the arts as well.” Ezio raises the pitch of his voice in an entirely ridiculous and way too accurate imitation of his mother’s voice. “I did not suffer through the pains of childbirth four times only for you to waste your days idling and copulating like a pack of uncivilized, illiterate beasts.”

Suddenly barely able to breathe, Desmond has to lean against a nearby wall to stay upright. He wipes tears from his eyes.

“Do you know what’s one of the first memories of you I have?” he wheezes, trying and failing to get himself under control. His stomach hurts from laughing so hard. “Your mother lecturing you about creative outlets.” 

A blank look from Ezio, then –

“The few times I have mercifully allowed myself to forget something embarrassing, you come and decide to take it upon yourself to remind me of it.” Ezio sighs, doesn’t quite manage to hide the beginning of a smile on his lips, then taps Desmond’s foot with one of his crutches. “I knew I was right – you revel in my pain without an ounce of shame.” 

“Come on, tell me about your art lessons,” Desmond cackles. “I want to hear about them.” 

“No. I am cold, I am going back.” With that, Ezio turns around and heads off, forcing Desmond to jog a few steps to catch up with him.

“Come on, I honestly want to know. I don’t know anything about your childhood. Pretty please.”

Sighing theatrically, Ezio glances at him out of the corner of his eye.

“So, as we have established, Mother insisted. Each of us had to try our hand at painting and drawing, then practice at least one musical skill.”

“Was that how you learned to play the lute?”

“Yes,” Ezio says slowly, suspiciously and clearly calculating whether he wants to ask why Desmond knows about that. “It was either that or singing, and I am no singer.”

“I know. I’ve heard you sing.”

“Why would you have heard me sing – ?“ Ezio cuts himself off and stops to stare at Desmond with a disbelieving look on his face. “So when will I have the chance to see all of the embarrassing things you got up to when you were young? I do not think this is quite fair.”

Pretending not to have heard, Desmond keeps on walking, his tone light.

“So did you like painting?”

A sigh, then the sound of the crutches hitting against the cobblestones as Ezio follows after him. Desmond takes a couple of slower steps to let Ezio catch up.

“I suppose. At least I can now say that I do understand that her demand was born out of love, for both us and the art form, and not out of the desire to torment us. I only regret that we had to leave her collection behind in Firenze. I am quite certain she even had some of Leonardo's early works.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

They turn around a corner and find themselves right in front of the hideout. Desmond pushes the heavy front door open and holds it for Ezio, then lets it close behind them. It also shuts out the daylight and leaves them in… darkness is too strong of a word. Dimness, maybe.

Next to him, Ezio has stopped to glare at the stairs.

“Do you need help?”

“I am fine, caro.”

“O-kay, just making sure. ‘Cause you’ve been on your feet for a while now so – “

“I can manage one set of stairs.” 

“Sure, yeah. Just, considering last night and all the nightmares and stuff, I thought that maybe…” 

He watches as Ezio tentatively taps the first step with a crutch, then seems to stop to wonder how to proceed from there. Just looking at the whole thing makes Desmond nervous.

“Hey, if you ever feel like you want to talk about them, about your nightmares I mean – I’ve had them too, so…”

“Are you trying to distract me?” 

Ezio has retreated away from the steps and turned to look at him, his mouth curved in a way that could be either annoyed or amused. He is close enough that Desmond can see the little scabbed, healing scrape on his cheekbone even in the low light.

“Probably more myself, to be honest,” Desmond admits sheepishly, scratching the back of his head and trying to keep up with the sudden changes in Ezio’s moods because how did they get from the nightmares to here – 

“Allow me to help with that.”

Ezio lays a hand on his chest, right below his right shoulder. Pushes him towards the wall – just a slight pressure that makes Desmond yield and take a step backwards until his back hits the stone. Ezio’s knowing smile is a flash of teeth as he abandons the crutches to lean against the wall before slipping one arm around Desmond’s waist and closing the distance between them.

And Desmond smiles into the kiss – grins when he feels Ezio’s hands wandering, because they never really had time to continue what they started that one morning in Monteriggioni. And maybe he pulls on the front of Ezio’s shirt with just as much abandon, until they are flush against each other, one of his thighs between Ezio’s. It’s all breathless laughter, hungry hands and both of them whispering into each other’s mouths that they should really be heading somewhere else for this but doing absolutely nothing to move, and Desmond offers only half of a thought to wondering whether the others are here and whether he really cares – 

Ezio hisses, flinches, almost doubles over. Desmond grabs him to keep him from crashing onto the floor.

“Cazzo, I forgot,” Ezio gasps, his face suddenly very pale. He clenches his jaw and keeps all his weight off his right leg, cursing very lewdly under his breath. 

“Are you alright?” Desmond asks and slips his arm around Ezio’s back to steady him. The arm Ezio wraps around his shoulders is tense, almost trembling. Ezio closes his eyes and just focuses on breathing for a while.

“...I am afraid we will have to continue this some other time,” he eventually breathes out, his voice thin and strained. Something about the way he says the words makes them sound almost like a chuckle, but his mouth has been curved into a grimace. 

“Don’t worry about it. Sorry, I wasn’t thinking…” Desmond lets his voice die out. He looks down at the injured leg. What if it never heals? What then? What happens to… everything if Ezio can’t be the Assassin he was supposed to be? Is this the price for finally changing something? What if – 

“Now you are thinking very loudly.”

Desmond blinks, then turns his head to see Ezio watching him. His voice is still weak, but he has found the energy to grin. 

“Ready to move?” Desmond asks and glances down at the stairs. 

“Yes.”

“Do you want the crutches or do we try like this?”

“...I trust you more than those things.”

The descent down the stairs is a slow and painful process, but somehow they make it without any further mishaps. Desmond helps Ezio to the heavy, familiar-looking desk Mario had had brought in two days ago. 

Ezio more lands on the chair than really sits down, and lets out a groan before massaging the thigh. 

“Are you okay?”

“I will not die, if that is what you are asking,” Ezio mutters. He slams his hand down on the desk with probably a little more force than he meant to, growls, then sweeps his arm across the desk and indiscriminately sends stuff flying onto the floor.

While Desmond leans his hip against the desk and crosses his arms over his chest, Ezio glances at the mess he has created. He freezes for a millisecond, then tries not to be obvious when he grabs one of the few letters that didn’t take a swan dive off the desk, and slides it underneath a couple of others. 

Deciding not to tackle that entirely normal and very reasonable reaction right now, Desmond focuses on studying the paleness of Ezio’s face instead.

“Hey, you’ve got to give yourself time. Rushing is only going to make things worse.”

Grunting, Ezio lets his shoulders fall and slumps against the desk. He scrunches his eyes closed in frustration and lets out a deep sigh.

“I do not know, amore mio,” he breathes out, not looking up. “I do not know what I am going to do.”

Not knowing what he could say to make any of this better, Desmond slips his hand around Ezio’s wrist and gently pulls it towards himself so he can lean his head down and press a light kiss on the back of Ezio’s hand. 

That finally makes Ezio look up at him, though the smile he gives him is strengthless. He almost opens his mouth to say something, but changes his mind and instead just shakes his head. 

He gives Desmond’s hand a slight squeeze before letting go.

A few hours later, the early evening finds the Italian Brotherhood gathered around the fireplace deep within the headquarters of Tiber Isle. In the calm, blue serenity of twilight, the absence of two of their members is easily noticed. But the French do not care that there are secret meetings to be had, and so the Assassins will have to do without Bartolomeo tonight. Teodora is the other one they are missing. She is present only via her letter, in which she lets them know that she got safely out of Tuscany and is on her way back home to Venice. That also makes her the only Assassin not in Rome right now. But Maria and Claudia, though not yet formally inducted, stand in for her.

Desmond has claimed himself a spot near the fireplace. Leaning against the mantel, he watches the others – mainly Mario, who despite Desmond’s fears has not keeled over and died yet. No, in fact the old man has been positively sunny the whole time, lively, despite the fact that his right arm still rests limply in its sling. Even now, as he sits in an armchair opposite the loveseat and observes his nephew and Machiavelli, a clever look glimmers in his good eye.

Desmond follows Mario’s gaze to Ezio who has limped over to sit at one end of the loveseat. Dark brown eyes meet his when Ezio notices him looking – he turns to give Desmond a tired smile. Then Claudia plants herself right beside her brother, and Ezio is yanked back into arguing with her. On the spot next to Claudia sits Maria who lets out a long-suffering sigh of a parent who can see no end to her trials.

Antonio and Paola are seated in a pair of chairs which do not match the armchairs nor the loveseat and which Desmond saw Antonio drag in a moment earlier. The two of them are set to leave Rome behind soon, to return to their homes and duties, but tonight they are still here. It is not really a surprise then, that Machiavelli called for this meeting so soon after their return to Rome. The man himself stands near the fireplace, next to Desmond, while La Volpe has withdrawn to the pretty much opposite side of their little gathering, where he is perched on an armrest of the last chair.

“We have lost Monteriggioni.” Machiavelli does not look up from the flames when he says that, in a low voice and with his hands clasped together behind his back. “That loss has also cost us the Apple. And worse yet, we cannot no longer afford to think ourselves the only ones aware of Desmond’s true nature. No, the Borgias must have pieced together at least something of his leaps through time and thus robbed us of our advantage. So where does that leave us?”

“It leaves us with the knowledge that we are able to change some things after all, Niccolò,” Mario offers and raises his wine glass in salute. 

Machiavelli glances over his shoulder at Mario, and to his credit, the small smile he gives the old man is genuine.

“That is true, yes. But considering how complete our defeat at Monteriggioni was, how hard-won that one change, we cannot overestimate the importance of forethought and planning now. We are at a disadvantage here, despite our one small victory – and I mean no offence by this – but as overjoyed we are by your presence here, I doubt you alone will be of much help in ridding Rome of the Borgias and their ilk.”

Mario’s good-natured chuckle draws another half-smile from Machiavelli.

“In that, we are in agreement,” the old man huffs before shaking his head, while Machiavelli turns to Desmond.

“Are you certain the Apple is truly out of our reach now?”

“Well, last time Cesare had Leonardo studying it for… I’m not actually sure for how long,” Desmond says after a second, staring over Machiavelli’s shoulder as he tries to remember. “In any case, he’s dragging Leonardo along with him around Italy. That means the Apple’s either there, in the middle of a war camp, or with Cesare himself. So no, we’re not getting it back. And… and at least by 1502, Rodrigo will have taken it, but I don’t know if he’s going to keep it for himself for a while or if he’s going to immediately hide it in Saint Peter's Basilica.”

“And do you suppose Rodrigo will still hide it there once he hears it from his son that you know his future?”

“I have no idea. Probably not.”

Machiavelli lets out a few choice words, while on the loveseat, Ezio leans his elbows on his knees and looks up at them.

“Niccolò, do you know if the Borgias might suspect that you are one of us? Does anyone know you were in the Vatican when – Merda. Contessa Sforza saw you in Monteriggioni on the night of the siege.”

“Yes. As I said, we are at a disadvantage, despite Desmond’s information.” Machiavelli turns towards the others, his brows furrowed as his gaze jumps from one Assassin to another. “I am of the opinion that had Desmond not been captured, revealing our secrets to Caterina Sforza would not have turned out to be a problem. But since Cesare has now seen with his own eyes what our resident time traveler is capable of, I fear we must assume that everything we have allowed the Contessa to learn is something that the Borgias are also aware of. So we cannot let ourselves grow complacent and expect Cesare and Rodrigo not to act. Mario’s presence alone proves that what happened once might not come to pass now.”

La Volpe speaks up.

“Niccolò, Ezio, exactly how much did you tell the Contessa?” He eyes them from the shadows of his hood, half of his face hidden. “Because as I see it, there should not be a reason to worry. Yes, she might have told Cesare, voluntarily or not, that Desmond is from the future and knows all of our fates, but – and please do correct me if I am wrong – I sincerely doubt you had time to go over everything that should come to happen during the next three years, and much less so in great detail. Or am I an embarrassment to my profession and have allowed you to hide from me the fact that you two are a pair of the greatest fools known to man?”

Machiavelli bristles at the implication, his upper lip rising in a sneer, but before he can snarl something cutting in response, Mario steps in to comment.

“It was Ezio and I who spoke with her. And no, we only told her what would happen on the night of the siege, nothing more. She cannot tell the Borgia brat of the future because she does not know anything of it.”

“But she can tell Cesare that Desmond knows what will happen. That is enough.” Ezio rubs his wrist before looking up at Desmond. His voice is rough, his tone bordering on angry. “He will come after you.”

“Yeah, that’s not really a surprise,” Desmond says and blows wayward hairs from his face. “Hell, he already tried to recruit me, did I tell you guys that? He saw me with the Apple and thought I was useful.”

“But that is exactly my point.” The steely look has returned to Ezio’s eyes. “You control the Apple, you know the course of our lives, you have knowledge from a future we can only dream about. He is a Borgia – to him, you are a valuable asset. More than just valuable. He will not let you slip through his fingers a second time without a fight, Desmond.”

Desmond shrugs and glances at the others, then looks away when he finds them all staring back at him.

“Okay, well, maybe. But he needs to find me first. And besides, I’ve faced him before. I know how he thinks.” He doesn’t need to look at Ezio to know what kind of an expression is darkening his face right now. But at least for the moment, the present company keeps Ezio from saying exactly what he is thinking. “And hey, he didn’t seem to have any idea about this whole future thing when I was there. So maybe Caterina didn’t sell us out after all.”   

“That was before you literally vanished from the center of his own war camp,” Ezio growls and clasps his hands together. His tense shoulders have risen nearly up to his ears. “Considering all you have told us about him, I would wager that saying he did not take your disappearance well would be an understatement. Think about it – he would have been looking for someone to take out his anger on, and the Contessa is right there. Up until that point, her title and station might have ensured that she was treated better than most of their prisoners, but now Cesare has lost control of the situation. So yes, we did save lady Sforza’s city and children a decade ago, but I do not know how highly she will value that when she faces the possibility of torture.” He is quiet for a moment. “Leonardo is there too.”

The room falls so quiet that Ezio’s next, whispered words feel too loud for the cavernous space.

“We cannot leave him there.”

Machiavelli narrowed eyes find Ezio to measure and analyze every inch of his posture.

“We will not be able to reach him as long as he remains with the Papal army. You told me yourself that you do not think it would be possible to infiltrate the camp, let alone flee with someone who does not possess your particular skills of stealth. Even Desmond here was only able to escape due to this Gray.”

“There must be a point when he is not with the army – Desmond, do you remember – ?”

“You didn’t run into him until 1502. And what I saw in the Animus contradicts everything our history books say about him so that’s not any use either. But I don’t remember if you ever talked about those few years with him afterwards…” He allows his voice to die out as he closes his eyes and tries to pull Ezio’s memories to the surface. They must have talked about Leonardo’s time under the Borgias’ rule at some point, so if he could only remember – 

Wisps of memories, more feelings than coherent thoughts, dribble in, but the more he reaches for them, the less clear they become. He scrunches up his nose, then lets out a sigh.

“But yeah, probably. Not sure when though.” 

“We cannot make him wait for that long! There must be something we can do!” Ezio’s hand grip the armrest in a way that betrays how much he needs to jump to his feet and pace around – and he almost goes for it, despite the fact he can’t. Claudia’s hand on his upper arm holds him back only so much.

“We will think of something, nipote,” Mario says in a tone that tells Ezio to stay put, before turning to La Volpe who meets his gaze and nods. 

Desmond glances back at Ezio.

“And we’re still trying to save Caterina too, right? Yeah, she might have told Cesare some things, but like you said, it might not have been up to her. And we kinda blindsided her with my whole thing so…”

Ezio looks to the other Assassins for their opinions, then nods and massages his neck. 

“Of course. But Leonardo is still our priority,” he says. “Since we were able to save Uncle, I do not see why we should now suddenly try to adhere to the timeline you saw. We must take the first chance we are given to free Leonardo.”

Antonio interrupts. 

“Now that you mentioned that other life – what should we expect to happen during the next few years? I have heard only snippets of your wild tale, and I have trouble piecing them together.”

They all turn to Desmond then. He sighs and leans more heavily against the mantel, crossing his arms loosely over his still aching chest. 

“Okay, so what I can remember – the next year or so is going to be pretty quiet. We just kept building our presence here and biding our time, until Cesare brought Caterina to Castel Sant’Angelo during the summer of 1501. You sent Ezio there to kill the Borgias and to get her out, but that plan was doomed from the start. That thief I told you about had sold us out, and so Rodrigo knew we were coming, and made sure he was nowhere near the place. Interestingly enough he didn’t seem to have cared to warn Cesare or Lucrezia though. But anyway, Rodrigo wasn’t there, and Cesare left before Ezio could get to him. So he did what he could and got Caterina out. But she had lost Forlì, so she felt she couldn’t be of any use to us and left Rome.”

“You realized that we alone wouldn’t be enough to take the Borgias down. We needed more people, and not just citizens sympathetic to our cause but our own people, trained Assassins. You all know you can’t teach everything we know to someone in just a couple days – I don’t count – so this whole thing, recruiting people, training them, trying to keep them from getting themselves killed, took easily another year, almost two. And at the same time we were also busy digging the ground from under the Borgias’ feet,” he says and closes his eyes as he tries to list all the things Ezio got up to in the past life. “There are a bunch of Templar agents we need to get rid of. Claudia’s girls will tip us off about some corrupt government officials. There’s a whole fucking cult, the Followers of Romulus, the Borgias are using to drive people to arms of the church. We don’t want that. And also yeah, restoring the underground tunnel system would be a good idea if we want to move without them knowing about us. And once our recruits are ready, we need to start sending them abroad to sabotage the Borgias’ alliances and that’s whole another thing. And those are just what I can remember off the top of my head.”

A hawk-like expression has settled on Machiavelli’s face, to no one’s surprise. The look on Ezio’s is harder to interpret, and when Ezio notices Desmond looking, he quickly schools his face back under control. Desmond blinks.

“Er… so then we get to August of 1503. We had enough leads that we could go after Cesare’s inner circle – his banker Juan Borgia, Baron de Valois and Micheletto, Cesare’s own assassin, though the last one Ezio let go, by the way, for reasons I still can’t quite understand, but okay – ”

“I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about, Desmond.”

“ – and all of that happens in like two weeks. The Borgias are freaking out, so much so that by the time Ezio breaks into Sant’Angelo for the millionth time to kill Rodrigo, Cesare has kindly already taken care of that for us. Ezio steals the Apple back, while Cesare’s in trouble because he has no Pope backing him up anymore. He spends that fall trying to sway the cardinals and the new Pope to support him, but we keep messing with his plans until he is arrested in December of 1503.” In the same breath, Desmond explains how Cesare was taken to Spain and how he manages to escape in 1504 and eventually ends up in Navarre, where Ezio finds and kills him in March 1507. 

“You spent a few years travelling around both Italy and Spain, trying to find him, but I didn’t see any of that in the Animus. I saw Cesare get arrested, then it jumped straight to Viana three years later. So I know you were away, but that’s about it. Though there was this one thing – because the Animus didn’t show everything in chronological order then for whatever reason, I saw this later – you returned to Rome in 1506 to hide the Apple. And to save Leonardo from a cult. Yes, a different cult. So I’m pretty sure I’m going to be here for that.”

He can almost see it when Ezio does the math in his head. They’ll have three and a half years until August 1503, then only a few quick short moments for the rest of that year. A jump to 1506, where Desmond gets to be for a short while. Then a few hours in 1507, only to jump – and Ezio doesn’t know this yet – straight to the spring of 1511 from there. 

Desmond will get nearly a year in Constantinople, but then – 

Then that’s it. 

“So you are saying that even though we already know who we are hunting, we still lack the strength to go after them,” Antonio says and gives Desmond the chance to blink and look away from Ezio.

“Er, yeah. A lot of what we did here was just chipping away at the Borgias’ power,” he says, massaging his neck and glancing at the floor. “So I don’t think there’s much we should be doing that differently right now. Although,“ he smiles sheepishly, “I might have told Cesare about one Precursor temple here in Rome. He’s not going to find anything of use there, just the coordinates to the Grand Temple back in the States – well, not the States but you know. But I don’t know how obsessed with the place he might get.” 

“I will have my men keep an eye on the entrance to the catacombs,” La Volpe offers once Desmond has explained where the Temple of Pythagoras is, “but I suspect Cesare will know to expect them.”

“Let us see what he does first, and then act accordingly. This might turn out to be nothing, or perhaps, with luck, even something we might be able to use,” Mario says, leaning his chin on his good hand. He turns to Desmond. “What about the Apple? You said you nearly depleted it of its power. Do you think it might regain its strength?”

Ezio cuts in before Desmond can answer.

“What happens if it does not? Will you still be able to reach the Grand Temple in the future if the Apple is… dead?”

Desmond shrugs.

“Well, it has a few years to recharge before we really need it here, then another five hundred before 2012. So I guess I’m just hoping for the best. Not much else we can do about it.”

After some more questions about the next few years, Mario stands up.

“So, what shall we do now?” he asks and pointedly looks at Ezio who blinks at the sudden attention.

“Should you not be the one to make that decision, Uncle?”

“No. No, it is high time I stepped down. I shall not tempt fate any more than I already have.” Mario pauses for a moment to adjust the bandages around his shoulder, then meets the gazes of his audience. “I was supposed to die. We all know this, yet here I stand. So I shall heed Desmond’s warnings once more – I am not foolish enough to challenge this Gray or, who knows, time itself by doing something so bold as continuing to lead the Assassins. No, I shan’t waste the chance Desmond has so graciously given me. It is time for someone else to helm this brotherhood.”

Anticipation seeps into the room and turns the air heavy. Near the fireplace, with his back to Mario and the others, Machiavelli stays almost unnaturally still. Almost every pair of eyes turns to him, then they move to find Ezio who remains seated, his elbows on his knees, his shoulders tense. 

“I would be interested in taking on the responsibilities, at least for now,” Machiavelli announces after the silence has turned almost unbearable. He very deliberately squares his shoulders. “Unless someone would like to present another candidate. Then it would of course come down to a vote.”

Another couple of nervous seconds crawl by, the gazes jumping back and forth between the two men, until – 

“I have every confidence in Niccolò,” Ezio says a little bit too loudly for it to sound entirely natural, as he avoids looking at any of them. “He will lead us well.”

Desmond can’t say how Machiavelli or the others respond to that because all he sees now is Ezio who lets himself slump against the backrest and closes his eyes. His right hand comes to massage his thigh, and his jaw clenches when his thumb finds a tender spot. Then Claudia’s hand touches Ezio’s forearm – she leans in to whisper something into her brother’s ear while Maria looks over them both, concerned.

“Any objections?” Mario’s voice, as if from another room. Desmond tears his eyes from Ezio and turns to study La Volpe who meets his gaze, as if he had been expecting it. Desmond raises his eyebrows in question – the spymaster gives him just the tiniest shake of his head, then returns to studying Machiavelli with narrowed eyes. 

Mario waits for a moment longer, then gives Machiavelli a curt nod. Machiavelli wastes no time before turning to Desmond.

“Do you have any suggestions on how we should proceed?”

“Uh, well, our best bet now is probably to just focus on building our network here and see what the Borgias do. We need the thieves and courtesans and Bartolomeo’s mercenaries if we want to do anything. And as I said, we need to clear the tunnel system. Scare off the Borgias’ men. Make deals with shop owners. Just… help people. Once that’s all done and Ezio’s leg’s better, we can start thinking about recruiting, but not before that.”

“And will you step in for Ezio for the time-being? As I have understood it, it is imperative that we have someone with his particular skill-set.”

Desmond glances at Ezio, meets his eyes, then looks back at Machiavelli.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Good. For now, you shall help Bartolomeo. You know what he needs more than we do.”

Machiavelli turns to La Volpe.

“I want your people to focus on the Borgias. The moment the Apple is brought to Rome, we need to know about it. Have them followed, steal their correspondence, blackmail their guards – I do not care how you do it.” 

“We do not have a proper base of operations. And besides, my men do not know the city yet – ”

“As soon as you are able then. But soon.” 

La Volpe sighs.

“I will see what we can do.”

Machiavelli addresses Claudia and Maria next. 

“La Rosa in Fiore. We need it operational and attracting influential clients, people close to the Pope and his son. Find out what Contessa Sforza has said, where she is kept, how she is treated. We must know whether she is our enemy.”

Claudia nods, her back pin-straight.

Satisfied, Machiavelli turns toAntonio and Paola to discuss how they might help once they return home. Mario walks over to La Volpe – the old man lays a hand on La Volpe’s shoulder and draws him away, perhaps to talk about what could be done about the thieves’ headquarters.

“Do you need help, darling?”

Maria’s quiet question makes Desmond glance at the family behind him. Ezio is in the middle of getting up onto his feet, which right now is easier said than done. Claudia has reached out to grab his elbow to steady him, but the stubborn idiot refuses to let her help. Claudia rolls her eyes and holds onto her brother until she is certain he won’t fall.

Desmond steps closer, brushes his hand against Ezio’s back while Ezio tries to sort out his crutches. 

“You okay?”

He can see how Ezio has to physically hold back his first, instinctual response. What he eventually ends up going with is a weary sigh.

“Let us just go.” 

Desmond meets Maria’s gaze over Ezio’s shoulder. She passes the responsibility onto him with a nod.

“If you’re sure,” he says to Ezio who has already pushed past him.

The soft light of the fireplace doesn’t reach the hallway Desmond follows Ezio into. The sounds of the crutches beating against stone the floor feel too loud for the space, as does Ezio’s cursing when he almost loses his balance in his haste. He is forced to stop, and so he stands there with his back to Desmond, out of both breath and patience.

“What do you want me to say?” Ezio growls and glares over his shoulder at Desmond. “What is there to be said?”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Desmond leans his shoulder against the cold wall and tilts his head to the side. Then he is content to steadily hold Ezio’s gaze until Ezio swears under his breath and turns away. 

“Your Uncle wanted you to have that role.”

Ezio’s low, bitter laugh echoes in the dark hallway.

“And what is that but nepotism?” 

“You know the others don’t see it that way.”

“Is that so? Tell me then – what have I done to earn myself that title?” Ezio hisses and turns to fully face him. “Nothing. For the past twenty years, I have been a lone blade, sharpened and guided, goaded along by people far wiser and more experienced than I. I am no leader. I am the furthest thing from a teacher. What have I ever taught anyone? Whom would I have had the chance to teach when my life is what it is? I have not had a younger brother for over twenty years. My only sister had to learn how to be the head of our house and take on those duties all by herself because I was not there!”

“You’ll learn – “

“And what would be the price of that? How many mistakes would I be allowed to make for the sake of learning when those mistakes could cost people their lives? You have seen it yourself – my decisions cost us nearly everything in the Vatican and in Monteriggioni, and it is by sheer luck alone that we are all here today. Mistakes are certainly all I have ever made with you.”

“That’s not true.”

“Is it not? Then tell me – what makes me more deserving of the role than Niccolò? More deserving than any of the others?”

“You know that already,” Desmond says and raises an eyebrow at the look Ezio gives him. “I’ve seen what the Brotherhood becomes when you’re allowed to lead it. I don’t have to guess what kind of a leader you’d be because I know already. And yeah, of course you’ll make mistakes, you’re human, but that doesn’t mean something great couldn’t still come out of it – ”

“We are talking about people’s lives here, Desmond – ”

“Yeah, I know that. Do you think you always got it right the first time in the memories I saw? Because no – you made stupid decisions, you were arrogant, you didn’t think, you bent all the rules of our creed. And people got killed because of it. And I've not just seen you fuck all that up, I’ve been you in those moments. So, yeah, I know. But you kept going anyway and pushed through in spite of your mistakes, fuck, because of them, and made the Brotherhood into what Altaïr always thought it could be. It has never been as strong since as it was when you were leading it, and you are a fucking legend in our time because of it. And I don’t doubt for a second that you will be just as great this time around.” 

Ezio yanks his gaze away from him, his lips drawn into a snarl. Anger hasn’t given his face any color – no, the opposite in fact. It is ghostly pale and gray in the shadows he has nearly otherwise vanished into. 

Desmond pushes himself off the wall and takes a few tentative steps towards him. 

“Hey.”

No reaction. 

“Look at me.”

A few long strands have escaped from Ezio’s ponytail and now fall like a curtain to hide his face. His hands, clenched around the grips of his crutches, tremble just the tiniest bit.

“But in that other life, I did not have this, did I?” A little pause as Ezio shifts his weight completely off the injured leg. His voice is nothing less than a hiss. “How do you propose I lead a brotherhood of Assassins now when I cannot even walk?”

Desmond sighs.

“You don’t know that it won’t heal.”

“I do not know that it will.”

“Nobody knows anything, because it hasn’t even been two weeks for you yet. Come on.” He reaches out a hand towards Ezio’s forearm, but Ezio leans away from the touch. And so Desmond stands there in the darkness, looking at Ezio who is adamantly staring at a spot on the floor.

“Niccolò was the only right choice and you know it,” Ezio snarls eventually, still refusing to look at him. He adjusts his hold on the crutches, squares his shoulders, then struggles with getting both himself and the crutches moving towards the end of the hallway. “The only aspect in which I ever considered my skills to be superior to his is killing. Killing, violence and ugly vengeance. And even those have now been taken away from me.” 

Breathing in deep through his nose, Desmond steps past him to block the idiot’s path.

“Now you’re just being melodramatic. No, sorry, hey, I know this sucks, but let’s talk – just wait a second – ” 

“What, are you claiming I was supposed to take on the role of Mentor today?” Ezio growls and tries to push past him, then is forced to give up on trying to  limp away from Desmond when his tired limbs refuse to cooperate. His glare is only made more scorching by the heaving of his chest. “Do you mean to say that in this other life I barely bothered to wait for my uncle’s body to grow cold before I walked over Niccolò and claimed the title – is that what you are trying to achieve with this?” 

“No. Jesus Christ – could you just listen for a minute? I swear I – you can’t just give up.”

“Why not?” 

“Okay, and that’s our sign that is way past your bedtime.” Rubbing his forehead, Desmond scrunches his eyes closed for a few seconds. “Let’s just go to bed and revisit this in the morning, ‘kay?”

“What difference does it make?” The sound of the crutches being slammed against the floor echoes in the hallway like a gunshot. “My leg will not be any better tomorrow than it is today! Nor will it be the day after!” 

“No, but give it a week or two, and maybe you’ll feel different. You’re already much better than you were when I appeared here.”

“I do not have two weeks to waste by just waiting around! Nor the months the leg would need to properly heal, was it ever to do so! I should be out there, fighting the Borgias, searching for the Apple, hunting Cesare! Or helping people and making plans to save Leonardo! But instead I am stuck here and burdening you with responsibilities that should be mine!”

“Hey.” Desmond steps closer and slowly, carefully places a hand on Ezio’s arm. Every muscle underneath his hand is as tense as a bowstring. “It’s not your fault that this happened. And I don’t mind helping out, you know that – ”

“But what of Cesare?” Ezio stares at him, barely blinking. His harsh, raspy breaths seem to fill the empty hallway. “What of all his men out there?”

“What does he have to do with anything – ”  

“Everything! How can you be so calm about this? What was that back there?”

“For fuck’s sake, Ezio, I have no idea what you’re talking about – ”

“Do you truly not consider him a threat? Or are you simply not concerned for your own safety because you still see yourself as only something to be discarded for the sake of the greater good?” His voice breaks. “Because as I am now, I will not be able to save you if something happens, if he finds you again – I already left you to your death once and I – ”

The crutches rattle against the floor when Desmond grabs the front of Ezio’s shirt and pulls him into his arms – the empty hallway repeats the violent sound again and again. At first, all he gets is an armful of stiff muscles and sharp elbows, a chin digging uncomfortably into his shoulder, then Desmond has to stumble half a step backwards to lean against the wall behind him just so that he can hold them both up when all fight leaves Ezio’s body. 

Desmond breathes in, his chest struggling to move against the iron hold of Ezio’s arms wrapped around him. He leans his head against Ezio’s and closes his eyes, and when Ezio hides his face in the crook of his neck, Desmond lays his hand against the back of his head and lets it rest there. 

They stay there in the darkness for a long while.

Chapter Text

Howling winds zigzag through the city and rush to bother the men up on the roof of La Rosa in Fiore. One of them puts his hammer down and shouts something to another who is in the middle of giving the facade a new paint job. None of them pay any mind to Desmond when he rides closer, slides down from his horse’s back and pulls his cape over his left arm. 

Once the incriminating evidence has been safely hidden, he can afford to spend a moment searching through his pockets for leftover treats. He feeds the half of a carrot he finds to his horse and pets the soft muzzle, then leans against the gelding’s neck and sighs. He lifts his cape just enough that he can take a peek at the damage – the left sleeve of his new robes looks as if it had been dipped in something dark, and a few drops have rained on the chest piece of Altaïr’s armor.

He had forgotten the hanged girl.

Desmond had been returning from the catacombs – Cesare’s men have only just found the main chamber of the Temple of Pythagoras – when he had stumbled upon the gallows and looked up at the dead girl swaying slowly in the harsh winds. The color of her face and the rancid smell lingering in the square had told him all he needed to know about how long she had been there. The Borgia guards had not allowed her husband to take her away. He had not dared to do it on his own. Because Ezio hadn’t been there to kill Il Carnefice. 

Desmond flicks his wrist and brings out the hidden blade, trying to see how much blood he got into the mechanism, while cursing under his breath the whole time. 

His gelding, one of the horses brought from Monteriggioni, has moved onto nibbling his pockets in search of more treats. Desmond hides the blade, then spends a good while scratching the horse’s forehead. You can’t always win, he tells himself. You’ve just barely changed one thing, by pure blind luck. Be grateful for that – you were never going to save this one.

The faintest feeling, of something stirring in the back of his mind. A wisp of a thought that isn’t his own. 

“Well hello to you too,” Desmond says out loud when he recognises the presence of the tired Mentore. “Wanna tell me where exactly you have been? Didn’t think memory ghosts or whatever it is you are could just disappear, you know?”

A blur of fragmented thoughts and intentions brush against him, not unlike a touch of a hand on his shoulder, before the construct fades away into nothingness again. 

“Ah, yeah, obviously. My fault – what was I thinking, trying to get answers out of you?”

Rolling his eyes at what his life has become, Desmond leaves his horse at the front of the brothel and heads inside after a quick knock on the door. 

What greets him is a foyer in chaos and the scent of an old perfume so thick and musty that he is half-convinced he could cut it with his hidden blade. Wet paint glistens on the walls, old and worn pieces of furniture are being carried outside, sunlight peeks in through holes in the few windows that haven’t been replaced yet. He has only barely managed to take all of this in when he has to take a step to the side to make room for two men carrying one of the dusty loveseats. While holding the door for them, Desmond spies the army of men working on the place. They’ve gotten a lot done since the last time he was here about a week ago. The same cannot be said about La Volpe Addormentata, which needs its whole rotten roof replaced before they can start working on anything else, and Bartolomeo and Ezio only just agreed on the plans for the restoration of the barracks yesterday.

Desmond knows it means it won’t be long before he starts to jump again – this is going to be the second batch of the so-called Montage memories. The Animus had neatly packed months’ worth of construction into a few small, sped-up cutscenes – what had felt like seconds to Desmond must have been closer to a year of Ezio seeing over the work on each of the faction headquarters, mapping out the underground sewer system and opening blocked entrances, and buying his way into the hearts of the local vendors and shop owners. 

And that’s of course gonna translate into another set of haphazard jumps for Desmond with no rhyme or reason to them. Because that’s fun.

A clear voice shouting sharp commands leads him to the top of the staircase, where he finds Claudia supervising the workers with her hands on her hips and a displeased look in her eyes.

“Hi, Claudia.”

She nods at him, then leans over the railing to shout at one of the men downstairs.

“Hey, you – yes, you! Do I have to come there to show you myself  how that is done? Because it does not seem like you know what you are doing.”

“Problems?” Desmond asks when she straightens up, still muttering something foul under her breath.

“Just an abundance of incompetence and sloppiness. Nothing I cannot handle,” she scoffs before turning to face him. “Did you need something?”

“Is your brother around?”

Claudia rolls her eyes.

“Is my brother around? Yes, in fact, since you asked, my brother is around here somewhere. Knowing him, my brother is probably currently arguing with the architect he chose and hired himself.”

Desmond just smiles at the needling.

“He’s just worried for you, you know.”

“Of course I know he is worried. But his concern does not mean he cannot also be tiresome.”

He chuckles.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess. Bah. There is no need for guessing – he is tiresome and insufferable and drives me insane. What I do not understand is what makes you tolerate him enough to let him into your bed.”

“He has a nice smile,” Desmond grins, then laughs when Claudia makes a disgusted face. 

The gentle whoosh of heavy skirts brushing against the stairs makes them turn around.

“Claudia, dear, have you seen – “ Maria halts mid-step and blinks when she notices Desmond there. “Ah, hello, sweetheart. How are you today?” 

“Oh, hi – “

“Mother, could you entertain Desmond for a moment? I need to go to talk to Ezio about something,” Claudia asks and bluntly cuts him off, already heading towards the stairs. “I shall be right back!”

“Manners, Claudia!” Maria scoffs after her, then turns back to Desmond and shakes her head. “Sometimes she does not seem a day over sixteen. Would you believe she will be forty years old in less than a year?” She huffs, then taps lightly on his arm. “But it seems she has abandoned you. Unfortunately that means you are stuck with the boring old lady now.”

“You’re not boring. Or old.”

“Hush, you are a bad liar,” she says with a grin that reminds him of her son. “But I have wished for a moment with you. Come, let us talk somewhere a little bit calmer than here. Unless you have somewhere else to be?”

She leads him down the stairs and towards the Madame’s office in the back. Desmond’s steps are longer than hers, so he reaches the door first and holds it open for her.

“Hey, um… I think I might have called you Mother that one time. I’m sorry if it made you – ”

“Do not dare to apologize for that!” Maria says and turns to look at him over her shoulder. “It was sweet, that is what it was. And it warms my heart to still be needed. God knows how rare that is nowadays.”

A pressure blooms behind his eyes. It makes his head ache when it blooms into a full-blown presence, an amalgamation of thoughts, though most of them are just of her. Of wondering if her hair had always been so full of silver, of wanting to make her smile just one more time.

Not seeing any reason not to, Desmond does as Ezio pleads him to. 

“They wouldn’t last a day without you,” he says while she takes a seat by the desk.

“And I did not realize your abilities to tell a convincing lie were truly so atrocious.” 

But she smiles, more brightly than before. 

Compared to the rest of the brothel which looks like a storm barged in and swept through the whole place, the office seems practically like a palace. Claudia, Maria and Paola had nothing but time to kill when they were waiting for the others to reach Rome, and it seems they spent that time throwing out all of Madonna Solari’s things and cleaning years worth of dust from the place. Books stand in neat lines on the shelves, a bouquet of fresh flowers has been placed in a delicate vase on the corner of the desk, and Desmond is pretty sure he recognizes the old money chest partly hiding behind Maria’s back.

“Okay, so how can I help?” he asks while he eyes the new paint job on the walls. Did they use to be this exact same shade in the Animus?

Maria doesn’t answer immediately, and it makes Desmond glance at her, maybe panicking a little bit just in case.

“Tell me, how is my son? I know you see a side of him I am not privy to. And I do not want some empty reassurances – I can handle the truth, whatever it is.”

“I… He’s…” He stops to think what to say before he runs out of pronouns. “He didn’t lose an uncle this time, but he’s… He’s almost worse now than he was in the memories I saw. I don’t know, I guess this time he just literally can’t run from his pain, and that’s not… he’s not good with dealing with that. I had hoped that he would talk to me about it, but…”

Maria folds her hands neatly on the desk.

“Yes, it is in Ezio’s nature to pretend that if he refuses to acknowledge his problems, it means that they are not there.” She pauses for a moment, studying her fingernails. “While we fortunately did not have to bid farewell to my brother-in-law this time around, we still lost much, and Ezio more than most.” 

Hesitant, Desmond sits down in a plush chair opposite Maria and waits for her to continue.

“The dottore told us he might fully recover, but only if he allows himself to rest. We both know that is difficult for him. But even if the unlikely happens and he surprises us all with his patience, there will still be a chance that his days as an Assassin are over – and it is not a small chance. You have seen his leg, the damage is great. So while I do continue to live in hope, I am also preparing myself for the possibility that his life will not follow the course set by those memories you witnessed in the Animus. But what is obvious to me will not be so easy for him to accept.”

Desmond smooths the wrinkles on the long tails of his robes and takes a deep breath. It is somehow comforting, to hear his own fears from someone else’s lips.

“And you want me to…?”

“Help him see that this is not the end, if you can.” Maria brushes a piece of gray hair behind her ear before pressing her lips together. “I know my son. He is much like his father, in some ways more than is good for him. He has lived for his duty as an Assassin for so long that he might have become blind to everything he could gain, should those responsibilities be taken from him. Because as I see it, he has his family, his friends, comrades and connections. He might have lost Monteriggioni, but his wealth and influence are still there. Apart from the leg, he is in good health – he would still have time even for fatherhood, if he so wished. And for love and marriage, though I suspect those might have to be separate matters.”

Desmond almost chokes on the spot because fucking hell. And yeah, okay, he had been wondering whether she knew or not, since Mario knows already and Claudia saw them, but it is a completely different thing to have Maria raise her eyebrow at him like that with a knowing look in her eyes.

“Did you think I would not notice that my son has fallen in love?” 

“Er…” Desmond clamps his mouth shut, then massages his neck before glancing at her and chuckling. “Is it really that obvious?”  

“I am his mother,” she laughs. “There is not much I cannot tell by simply looking at him.” Then she sighs and lets the smile drop. “No, I know because I was there when he came to see you on the night you appeared in Isola Tiberina. La Volpe and Antonio had carried you to Ezio’s room and I was there tending to your injuries when I happened to look up. He had forced his uncle to help him, though Mario was not much better off than him – I do not know how they managed it, but there they were in the doorway regardless. He was out of breath and pale as a ghost, so much so that I almost chastised them both for doing something so foolish. But then I saw the tears in his eyes. I could not bring myself to do it.” 

That’s… that’s something. 

“I didn’t… He never told me.”

“I am not surprised he did not,” Maria says and distracts herself by touching one of her dangling earrings. “He likes to keep such matters close to his chest. And that is why I am now so concerned about the repercussions of his injury. What if this continues? He already gave up so easily during the meeting, when I had hoped he would at least challenge Niccolò for the leadership.”

“He doesn’t think he deserves it,” Desmond sighs and scratches dried blood off the fingers of his left hand. “He thinks he somehow failed us – me – in Monteriggioni. I’m not entirely sure what it is that he blames himself for, I don’t know if he even knows himself. He hasn’t wanted to talk about it, and I don’t think I did a very good job of trying to convince him that it wasn’t his fault the one time we did.”

Maria’s dark eyes study him while she considers that in silence. Her frown pronounces the lines around her mouth. 

“Perhaps it was good then that he knew to give the role to someone else. It would have taken its toll on him, I am certain. After all, we both know how high that pedestal he has placed his uncle on is. Ezio would never allow himself to ruin Mario’s legacy, and that in turn could ruin him.” Maria hesitates for a moment. “And then there is of course the matter of that other life you have told us so much about. The man who both is and is not him, and whom he can never truly become. Ezio is not deaf – he has heard the obvious admiration that seeps into your voice whenever you speak of that other and his achievements. I am afraid that he fears he will not measure up.”

“But that’s just stupid,” Desmond scoffs, then blinks at her when he realizes she is not joking. “But it is! They’re not some separate people. He’s still himself, the same guy I saw in the Animus. He hasn’t changed. And once he allows himself the chance to try, he’s going to be just as great a Mentor as he was the first time around, one of the best we’ve ever had.”

“I fear that to him, that is not quite the reassurance you think it is. Imagine yourself in his place – do you hear encouragement or expectations in those words?”

It knocks all air out of his lungs, because of course it does. Because all the signs have been there, he has seen them all, stared right at them, but no. He has been happily ignoring them like a fucking idiot.

“He said that?” he croaks. “That he fears he will not live up to it?”

“Not in those exact words, no.”

“But that’s what he meant? He spoke to you about this and said that? When?” 

Maria waits for him to sit back down before she continues.

“Yes. He came over one afternoon last week and asked if I had a moment, then skirted around the topic for a good half an hour before I finally managed to get him to tell me what was bothering him. And even then I had to coax half the words out of his mouth. Men.” She forgets her gaze somewhere beyond the window, her fingers loosely curled together on the desk. “He used to do the same when he was a child. I remember – oh, I remember, once he had borrowed something of his father’s, some silly little trinket, I do not even remember what it was anymore, and accidentally broke it. He could not have been more than six or seven then. You should have seen him – he was so upset, dear thing. Red in the face, his lower lip wobbling, but no, he would not tell me what was wrong, and just kept repeating No, Mamma before he finally burst into tears.” 

Realizing she has veered off course, she turns to him and leans forward to lay her hand on his forearm.

“You did not mean to upset him. He will understand.” 

Desmond covers his face with his hands and tries not to scream.

“After the meeting, he was freaking out about all of this, like really freaking out, and I fucking looked him in the eye and told him that I knew he would become the best fucking Mentor ever – how could I have been so stupid? Fuck.”

“Language, young man.”

“Sorry, this is just – “

“Calmati, I only jest. But come now, some of that pressure is only healthy for him. If you had told him he was meant to do all that and he had accepted it as an obvious fact, I would be far more concerned.”

Desmond lets out an incomprehensible sound, a groan of some sort, and makes a vague gesture with his hand.

“So what do we do now?”

“We shall wait, at least until we know for certain what will become of his leg. Then we ask him what he wants. Let Niccolò try his hand at leading us in the meanwhile.” 

“That’s not much of a plan.”

“No, but there is not much we can do. And besides, who knows – perhaps having to learn everything anew will give Ezio a new perspective to learning, and so push him into becoming a better Mentor than he would have been otherwise. For he is not a teacher yet. That too is something he needs to learn.” Maria grins – the expression is very familiar-looking. “I am his mother, so I am allowed to say that.” She stands up. “But enough of Ezio. I hear the weather outside is lovely. Will you come sit with me on the balcony? I would much like to hear about you and your family in the… twenty-first century, yes?”

There is no way Desmond can really say no to that, is there?

The Gray snatches him up when he is right in the middle of climbing out of a bathtub. Panicking, Desmond reaches for the pile of neatly folded clothes on a stool nearby – at least one thing falls onto the floor, but he has no time to attempt to pick it up before he is yanked away.

The next thing he knows, he is slipping on the cold floor of the ceremony hall deep inside the Tiber Island hideout. The dark, empty hall echoes his quiet cursing back at him as he stands there, dripping water and tugging on the only piece of clothing he managed to grab – the fabric of the thin, loose shirt immediately sticks to the damp skin of his back. 

At least nobody was there to be subjected to the sight of his naked ass.

“Did you really have to?” he hisses at empty air and brushes soaking wet curls from his face. “You couldn’t have given me one more minute, huh?” 

The omnipotent loading screen wannabe apparently isn’t in a generous mood today. Desmond had barely had time to get home after clearing out one of the Romulus lairs – the one in the fucking sewers – and scrub himself clean of goo and slime and other disgusting things he doesn’t want to thing about when the Gray had decided to appear to bother him. Because of course, why would Desmond be allowed to take a bath and go to bed after taking out a lair of smelly, weirdo cultists and falling into the fucking water at least twice – the place had been just as slippery as last time and he had learned absolutely nothing during his time in the Animus.

At least the Gray didn’t chuck him far. 

Half-naked and so, so fucking done, he wanders towards the main hall. He spends half a thought on hoping that Claudia and Maria haven’t decided to pay Ezio a visit, before stepping into the hall – which fortunately turns out to be as quiet and abandoned as the ceremony hall. No sounds from the city seep through the walls either, so it must be at least as late as it was in the time he just left.

He can spot no one in the armory or the art gallery, and doesn’t bother to head to the basement to see if anyone might be in the kitchen. Yeah, he’s hungry, but the thought of finally getting into a warm bed physically stops him from making any more detours. 

He knocks on the door of Ezio’s – well, their – room, then pushes it open to be greeted by a faint light flickering on the other side of the room. Desmond lets the door close behind him with a quiet thud, then approaches the flame.

He stops by the bed and leans against one of the bedposts, then watches Ezio who is sitting at a small desk Desmond doesn’t remember seeing here before. Ezio yawns before squinting at the rows and rows of numbers on his notebook, tapping the end of his quill against his lips.

“A bad day?” 

Ezio looks up at him, blinking, before rubbing his temples. Splotches of ink cover his fingers.

“A little less so now.” 

Desmond allows himself to smile at that. 

“How long’s it been?”

“Nine days.”

“Someone’s been counting.”

“Always.”

It is good to see his own smile reflected on Ezio’s lips. 

Brushing more wet hair from his face – he is this close to chopping it all off – Desmond walks closer, eyeing the notebook and the piles of letters on the desk. It lures Ezio into giving him another once-over, and his gaze moves unabashedly up and down as he takes in Desmond’s attire, or lack thereof. 

“Well, that explains the bathtub.”

“Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying the view.”

“I never said I was not.”

Desmond chuckles before snatching up a random sheet of paper from the desk and skimming through the note. He recognizes La Volpe’s hand – the spymaster is letting Ezio know what Cesare’s men are up to in the catacombs. Only mild progress since Desmond was last there. They’ve apparently been stumped by the puzzles.

“So who are you and what have you done with Ezio?” he asks and tosses the letter away. “Because last time I checked, he and working overtime were sworn enemies.”

Ezio blinks again, then turns to stare dumbfoundedly at the dark windows.

“I did not realize…” Groaning, he pushes the notebooks and letters away and by doing so makes room on the desk for Desmond who hops to sit on it right in front of him. His legs dangle over the edge, his toes brushing against Ezio’s knees.

“Do I want to know what you were doing?”

“Just making certain my numbers were correct. I may not be able to help you with much, but at least I can use what wealth I have to help the people of Rome. The blacksmith’s shop down the street is in need of considerable renovations, and a few tailors have approached me about acquiring a loan to purchase silk from the East, and there has been talk about restoring some landmarks – ”

Desmond leans closer to take the quill from Ezio’s hand.

“You do know you don’t have to cram three years’ worth of business deals into like two months, right? Because all you’re going to get is a burnout and the Borgias’ attention if you’re not careful.”

Ezio sighs and slumps against the backrest of his chair.

“And what is there for them to see, should they decide to investigate? A wealthy, crippled merchant who has come to invest in art, architecture and the occasional local business, and whose money is good and a little bit too generously distributed for him to make proper profits. Yes, he has just arrived from the north, perhaps even from Firenze, and that, I do admit, will be a bit of a suspicious coincidence in their eyes, but there is enough of Venetian in the good man’s accent to throw them off. Especially if they have him followed and find out that all he spends his days on is arguing with his sister about shades of paint colors, and trying and failing to haggle with art vendors. They will not see an Assassin plotting their demise, that is for certain.”

Desmond frowns – he recognises the tone in Ezio’s voice and doesn’t like it. He rests one of his bare feet on Ezio’s good thigh. 

“You sure about that?”

“Niccolò and I spent hours planning this, do not worry. Besides, I did truly use to be an apprentice of my father’s once. This is what would have been intended for me, had my life followed a different path. I know what I am doing.” 

Desmond grunts and gestures at the nearly melted candle struggling to keep the night at bay. 

“Just, less of this, alright?” 

“Mmh.” Absentmindedly, Ezio runs his fingers up Desmond’s leg and turns to look at the dark windows. 

Outside, it starts to rain. Soft pitter-patter of the rain drumming against the roofs fills the silence as Ezio narrows his eyes, bites on his lip. 

“I am now the age my father was when he died.”

He doesn’t continue until the hum of the rain has grown loud enough to almost drown out his voice. “I have started to forget what he looked like.” He glances quickly at Desmond before shying away again. “I – I remember the warmth of his voice, the weight of his hand on top of my head, the way his smile would make me feel. But when I try to picture his face in my mind, he eludes me. And I try to tell myself that it has been two decades since I last saw him, but...”

“There’s no portrait or anything left?” Desmond asks just as quietly, even though he knows very well what the answer is.

“I remember only ever seeing one in our home in Firenze, but I do not know what came of it. Burned, perhaps, after they hanged him for treason. And if there were any from his youth in Monteriggioni, I never found them.”

Desmond leans forward – Ezio stills when he realizes what he is doing. 

“You look like him. The older you get, the more you resemble him. Federico took after your mother, and Claudia does as well, but you’re the spitting image of your dad,” Desmond says and touches a finger to Ezio’s brow. “This part here, everything around your eyes, your nose, the set of your mouth, those are all him. You have your mother’s eyes, but the rest of your face is just like Giovanni’s.”

Ezio gives him a tiny, hesitant smile and wraps his warm hand around Desmond’s ankle.

“It does not escape me that we always seem to talk only about me. It is not my intention.”

“Mmh. I don’t care.”

“But I do. I want to talk about you. Sometimes it feels like I barely know anything about you, even when I have known you my whole adult life.” Ezio lets his fingers travel up Desmond’s shin until he comes across an old, faded scar that curls around the leg a little bit below the knee. “Humor me – tell me something of yourself. What gave you this?”

Desmond rests his elbows on his knees, his chin on his hands, and straightens the leg so he can see the scar better.

“We had this whole makeshift obstacle course back at the Farm, so we could practice climbing and all that. I fell. Turns out there were rocks in the bushes underneath.”

Ezio gently twists the leg so that he can see the full length of the scar.

“How old were you?”

“Eh, around ten? I think?”

“Ten? When did you start your training?”

“Knowing Dad, probably the minute I knew how to walk,” he scoffs. “Nah, I don’t think there really was any official beginning to it, because getting prepared was basically our whole life back then. So I was just expected to start doing things as soon as I was able – running laps first, then climbing and all the other shit a little later. Hell, Dad’s idea of spending time with me was having me try to sneak around the house without letting him hear me.”

Ezio furrows his brows, his hold on Desmond’s leg tightening just a bit before he continues his examination. He finds another memento of Desmond’s past on his upper thigh – he pushes the hem of Desmond’s shirt out of the way to reveal the jagged scar there. 

“And this?”

“Practice fighting with knives, a few years later. There was this boy, a couple of years older than me and a head taller. Twice as heavy as me. He thought I would dodge. I wasn’t fast enough.”

Ezio glances up at him.

“Practice with real knives? Against your comrades?”

Desmond rubs his wrist.

“Dad came to watch our session that day.”

“And he thought that necessary?”

“Templars won’t come after you with a dull blade. Or that’s what he always said. It wouldn’t do us any good to allow us to learn that we could take even one hit.”

“You were a child.”

“And we were a bunch of nutjobs living in the woods, with my Dad as our leader. The whole thing was nothing but fucked up from the start.”

Ezio shakes his head slightly, with his lips pressed tightly together. 

“I am beginning to realize I do not much care for your father,” he says before reaching out and brushing his thumb over the scar on Desmond’s lips. “I asked about this once, did I not?”

“Yeah.”

“You did not answer me then. But I think I am right when I assume that this too is your father's doing. Or am I wrong?”

“...no, you've got it right.”

Ezio meets his eyes.

“And would you trust me with the whole story now?”

Desmond leans back on the desk and takes a deep breath. 

“It was the day before I left. I was sixteen and so done with the whole place, with Dad and what I thought to be his conspiracy theories. There was a whole world out there, waiting for me, but I was stuck playing squatters with some conspiratory freaks and waiting for either the world to end or for Abstergo to find us, whichever came first. And it was… just shit, you know? It might have been better if I had had someone to talk to, but the few other kids there were at the Farm were very aware of whose kid I was, and Mom… never really stood up for me the way I hoped she would. I guess she was afraid of Dad. I don’t know if she had ever even loved him, because… Looking back at it now when I know all that I do, it seems so obvious to me that they probably just made a kid together because they both came from old Assassin bloodlines. Mom is Altaïr’s very, very distant relative, and Dad is my connection to you and the Kenways. So, making the perfect Assassin and Savior of the world and shit. Yeah, wouldn’t even be Dad’s wildest idea.”

He realizes he’s rambling, but Jesus Christ, it is hard to stop now that he’s got himself started. He doesn’t even remember when he last spoke about this to anyone – has he ever?

“I was sick of all of it. And so when Dad started with one of his lectures again, about how we would have to be better, and train more and harder, and just blindly believe the bullshit he was telling us, I asked him to tell us why. And I kept asking even though he told me to shut up – kept asking long past what was good for me. And yeah, I might have been a little cheekier than I needed to be but… Eventually I told him I thought that he was just making things up, that he just wanted to have people who he could have complete control over, that it was just a fucked up game on his part.”

Ezio’s hand is warm when it comes to squeeze his thigh.

“We were in the middle of a training session, so he was holding a knife – it was mine, he had come over to correct something about my technique just before he started ranting – and he just… I'm not sure if he meant to hit me or just wave the hand in my face, and just forgot the knife was there or what, but this is what I ended up with.” He presses a fingernail against the scar, drags it across the length of it. A bitter grin forces its way to his lips when he almost tastes the blood he spent minutes spitting out of his mouth that day. “By the time they got to stitching my face back together, I had decided that I had had enough.”

The shaking of Ezio’s voice reveals what his expression does not.

“He meant to hurt you. His own, sixteen-year-old son.”

Desmond shrugs.

“Wasn't the first time. Wasn't the last.”

“What do you mean – you mean he hurt you again when you were with the Assassins? When you were using the Animus?”

“Oh, yeah. He punched me when I told him he was no better than the Templars with all the shit he was happily putting me through.”

Ezio pushes himself up to his feet so that he ends up slightly leaning against the desk, his weight now on his good leg. His hands grip the edge of the desk. 

“You were right. And had I the chance, I would tell it to your father myself. In fact, there are quite many things I would like to say to him, and none of them are pleasant.”

Tilting his head to the side, Desmond considers this. 

“You know, you might be the one person he would actually listen to. ‘Cause it wouldn't surprise me in the slightest if he secretly thought he was following in your and Altaïr’s footsteps with all his plans, becoming the next great Mentor himself or some like that.” 

Ezio furrows his brows, scrunches up his nose. Shakes his head.

“However hesitant I still am about my place in our brotherhood, I know I do not want my legacy to be this,” he says and brushes his fingertips against Desmond’s scar. “How quick men are to forget the painful lessons their forefathers bled and died to learn. This is not our way – this is exactly what Altaïr fought against centuries ago. You should have never been subjected to this. Joining us should be a choice, made only when mature enough. It should never be enforced by violence, and it should certainly never be forced upon children.”

“And hey, with just that you’re already being a better Mentor than my Dad. Think about that.”

“Desmond.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m taking this seriously.” Slumping forward, he rests his head on Ezio’s shoulder and closes his eyes. “It’s just a lot. To be honest, I… Don’t laugh, but – back in 2012, when I was feeling particularly shitty because of the Animus and the world ending and stuff, I might have imagined you being there and saying something along those lines to me. So to get to hear you actually say that is a little wild.”

“You are most welcome. Or should I apologize instead?”

“You could travel to the future and fight my dad. While shirtless.”

Ezio’s quiet laugh rumbles in his chest.

“And is that something you thought of often as well?

“...maybe?”

“I shall have to try my best then.”

Still slumped against him, Desmond snakes his hand around Ezio’s neck to pull away the ribbon on his ponytail before leaning back to admire his handiwork.

“I have begun to wonder if you might possess a certain fascination for my hair,” Ezio says, rolling his eyes, as he holds out his palm and waits for Desmond to give him the ribbon back. 

“Oh shit, you got me there. Just let me enjoy it while I still can.”

A moment of silence. A nervous glance at him.

“Should I be concerned?”

“No,” Desmond laughs and shakes his head. “You just decided to cut it at some point, and I’m still mourning that loss.”

“Ah.”

“To about here.” He runs his fingers over Ezio’s neck, then brushes the stubborn locks back from Ezio’s face to replicate the swept-back look Ezio preferred during his travels. It doesn’t look quite right, with his hair still being fully dark and face not yet so lined.

Ezio’s fingers coming to comb through Desmond’s curls is a pleasant surprise.

“This seems to be the one thing about you that has changed over the past twenty years. I remember when it was still short.”

“I should cut it, it’s starting to get annoying.”

Ezio wraps a curl loosely around his finger.

“I shall miss these then.”

“Both of us in the same boat, right?”

“Indeed.”

Reluctantly, Ezio detangles his hand and turns to drop the red ribbon on the desk. Looking at him, Desmond leans back on his hands and pokes Ezio’s thigh with his toes.

“Can we go to bed now? It’s late, I’m cold and this hanging around half-naked thing is getting kinda old.”

Ezio flicks his gaze up to him, and Jesus fucking Christ, is it good to see that beginning of a grin on his face. Now he looks like himself again – it feels like it has been forever.

“Yeah, to bed, you dirty old man,” Desmond laughs and pulls Ezio closer by the front of his shirt so he can kiss him. His pretense lasts all of three seconds before he has to kiss Ezio again, and again and again and again, and then they are stumbling and limping towards the bed and the rest of the night.

The rain hasn’t ceased come morning. 

Blinking at the blurry windows and the raindrops beating against the glass, Desmond tries to get himself to wake up. He glances over his shoulder at Ezio. 

“You awake yet?”

“Mmh.”

The mattress shifts as Ezio turns his back to him and seems to fall right back asleep, at least judging by the quiet snoring coming from his direction. 

Ezio Auditore da Firenze, ladies and gentlemen.

Not bothering to hide his amusement, Desmond shakes his head before letting himself just relax. For once there’s no hurry, and there are worse places he could be in right now. He stretches his arms over his head, then has to stop to yawn right in the middle of it. The movement of his arm makes the metallic lines on it catch the little light there is in the dim room. He flexes his fingers and twists his wrist, following the path of the gleaming light up and down his forearm. 

An arm slowly wraps itself around his middle and pulls him closer. Ezio leans his forehead against Desmond’s shoulder, his breath warm on his skin.

“I was not certain if last night had been only a dream,” he mumbles, still half-asleep, tangling his legs with Desmond’s.

“Nope, still here.”

A light kiss is pressed on Desmond’s shoulder blade.

“Good. I missed you when you were not.”

Somewhere far below them, on the streets, a wagon or something as heavy rolls by, groaning as it moves over the cobblestones. After it has gone, Desmond listens to the rain, then to the quiet, slow breathing near his ear – he has almost convinced himself that Ezio has fallen asleep again when the arm wrapped around his middle tightens its hold on him.

“Do you know what kind of a rumor I happened to hear yesterday,” Ezio mutters, “when I went to see Ignazio about that painting I have been meaning to buy?” 

“I’d guess you’re probably about to tell me.”

Ezio’s apparently awake enough for a dramatic pause. 

“Two Borgia guards stood near his shop, gossiping like a pair of old women. I thought that, surely, they would be complaining about their captain or a game of cards or their wives at home, but no, all they seemed to talk about was this angel Cesare Borgia himself had captured.”

“No shit.”

“Yes. A man with golden eyes and glowing skin, wielding lightning. A man who had, according to the stories, disappeared into thin air. Could you imagine that, Desmond?”

“You sure these guys hadn’t just been drinking on the job?”

“Perhaps they had been. Perhaps not.”

Desmond turns to fully face Ezio, with one eyebrow raised and half of a grin on his lips.

“So is this just an excuse to start calling me an angel?”

Instead of immediately answering, Ezio pulls away enough to prop himself up on one elbow. He tilts his head to the side and considers Desmond before reaching over to run his fingers through his hair.

“No,” he says then, slowly, and far more seriously than Desmond thought the moment would call for. “No, I will not reduce you to the lines on your skin or the glow in your eyes. You are of flesh and blood, tangible and human, and infinitely more than just the circumstances that brought you here. And you are here, with me, even though you sometimes struggle to believe it.” He takes Desmond’s hand into his own but barely gives the blackened skin a glance. “So, no – you are one of my oldest, closest friends and the one whom I love, and I shall call you my heart and my love and every other endearment I can think of besides. But I will not call you an angel just because you glow or travel through time.”

This guy should really come with a warning sign, because Jesus fucking Christ.

“Are you sure you’re not saying that just because you don’t want to admit that I’m too much an asshole to be called that?” Desmond asks and chuckles on top of it all, though it sounds more like a strangled cough.

“Ah, yes, that too.”

“Knew it,” Desmond wheezes, rolling his eyes. 

Deciding that it is still way too early for this, he slumps against the mattress, then frees his hand from Ezio's hold only to grab Ezio’s wrist instead. He turns the hand slightly, then runs his fingertips over the small, silverish scars on the rough, tanned palm.

It takes him a moment to notice that Ezio has gone quiet.

“What are you thinking about?” Desmond asks, not looking up from the map of lines on the hand he’s holding hostage.

“You once said that you had already fallen in love with me long before you ended up here,” Ezio mutters after a heavy pause, somehow making each word sound like a struggle. Another pause follows, somehow just as awkward, and when Desmond whips his head up to look at him, Ezio doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself.

“Yeah?”

Ezio presses his lips together, then shakes his head.

“Nothing. Forget that I mentioned it.”

“You’re still you. Or him, I mean. You’re him and he is you. There’s no difference. I love you because of the things I saw in the Animus but also because of who you are here in this timeline. Hell, even if you decided to show the finger to everything and everybody right now and fuck off somewhere for the rest of your life, I still wouldn’t think you were any less yourself.”

Ezio says nothing to that, just reaches over to press his fingertips against Desmond’s bare side.

“Do you want me to say that I love you as much as I did the other version of you? Or that I like you better? I’m not sure what the problem is here,” Desmond chuckles, now sitting up, and looks at Ezio who squints his eyes at him and pokes his finger into Desmond’s belly next, just to be annoying. 

And Desmond remembers what Maria told him, he knows he shouldn’t but – 

“Are you jealous?”

“No.” 

“You are,” Desmond grins with absolutely no sense of self preservation, because oh, this has just made his whole day, fuck, his whole week – 

“I am not!”

“Yes, you are – “ 

The rest of it gets lost in wild laughter when Ezio snakes an arm around him and wrestles him down on the mattress. Desmond barely fights back because he is too busy laughing, so it is no wonder it ends up with him being pressed down on his back and Ezio on top of him, straddling him.

“You are playing a very dangerous game, my love,” Ezio whispers, his voice suddenly almost as deep as it will be during his Constantinople days.

Running his fingers up Eizo’s thigh, Desmond grins at him.

“Yeah? How dangerous?” 

But contrary to everything he thought he knew about this man, Ezio just huffs and rolls his eyes before grabbing Desmond’s wrist to stop him. He gives it a squeeze, then takes another look at him. His expression changes.

“When did you know that you loved him?”

“You. But, uh, let me think,” Desmond breathes out. He misses Ezio’s warmth the second Ezio climbs over him and back to his side of the bed, hissing when the injured thigh protests. Desmond touches his back to ask if he’s okay.

“I guess it was around these years,” he says eventually, when Ezio has told him to stop stalling. “I don’t know, I’ve never really thought about it. But probably, yeah. Because, let’s be honest, you were kind a lot when you were younger. Like a lot a lot. Or scratch that, you’re still the most extra person I know, but maybe – and this is a big maybe – just not quite as annoying anymore.” 

That earns him a light punch to his shoulder, which only makes Desmond grab the hand – despite Ezio’s evasion attempts – and intertwine the fingers. He rests the joined hands on his chest, so very pleased with himself.

“Hey, I have been in your head. Twenty years ago, all you seemed to think about were girls and sex. Like all the time, Ezio, come on.”

“You did not seem to mind my thoughts on the latter last night.”

“Shut up.”

Pretending that Ezio’s laughter isn’t currently making him smile, Desmond tries to think.

“Yeah, I think it was here. By the time you got to Rome, you had figured out who you were and didn’t have to keep proving yourself to the world so much anymore and… Oh, yeah. There was this boy you found, whose mother had been taken by slavers. And you were so kind to him. Patient. Once I got out of the Animus after that, all I could think about was your voice when you told him to go find his uncle. I guess that was the moment when I finally started to realize what kind of a fucking shitty situation I had allowed myself to wander into once again.” 

He turns his head to meet Ezio’s gaze. 

“I was in love with someone that had died centuries ago. And I had just barely managed to somehow accept that this shit just was my life when I got to the end of your memories and realized that you had left a message. To me. And not just any message but probably the most beautiful speech I’ve heard in my life – was I supposed to just keep living my life as if that hadn’t just happened, huh?”

Ezio holds up his hands. 

“I am sorry, I shall not do it again?” 

“Don’t you dare not to.”

“Then you will have to tell me what I said so I can practice. I want to be ready when the time comes.”

“Is that just a trick to find out if I memorized the speech word for word?”

“Certainly not, amore. But did you?”

Now it’s his turn to try to push Ezio off the bed. 

“When did you know?” Desmond asks in a quiet voice a little bit later, when they have grown tired of messing around like a pair of teenagers. He sits up, then braves to set one bare foot on the cold floor, then another, before wandering off in search of something to wear.

Ezio barks a dry, humorless laugh from where he is sitting on the edge of the bed, sheets pooling on his lap and hiding the marks of destruction on his right thigh.

“And that is precisely the right question. When did I know.” 

He frowns – and his brows are still furrowed by the time Desmond has tugged on a shirt and turned back to him. 

“I wanted to kiss you at the Carnevale,” Ezio says then and massages his neck, his lips twitching when he finds a sore spot. “It was far from the first time I had thought of it. But that night was when I began to understand that the urge to do so was not merely some passing fancy brought on by too much wine and absence of good company.”

A million different reactions war over control as Desmond stares at him, because what the fuck does he mean he wasn’t joking back then? What the shit – 

Loudly screeching “And you didn’t say anything? You?” ends up winning. “Since when has that been a problem for you?”

Ezio gives him a look that is meant to convey that he is being stupid.

“It is one thing to flirt with a beautiful woman whom I do not know and will never see again. It is a completely different scenario to make advances to a man, especially one I thought was nearly a decade my senior, and, far more importantly, to a dear friend of many years whom I could not bear to lose.”

Desmond opens his mouth to say something, then clamps it shut because he does recognize some of his own fears in those words. Not that any of it stops him from feeling like he’s losing his mind.

“But I think I would have found the courage that night, had we not become separated.”

“Had you not run after Cristina, you mean?”

“Yes.”

Oh. 

Well.

Okay.

The next question Desmond wants to ask also requires some courage, so naturally he first distracts himself by raiding Ezio’s closet for something more to wear. 

Tugging on a pant leg, he glances back at Ezio, then decidedly does not look at him when he finally forces himself to just ask. 

“Did you still kiss her that night?”

“...I did.” 

It doesn’t exactly hurt him anymore, because it is not a revelation, only a confirmation of something he already knew, or at least suspected, but it does manage to coax a gentle, winded “Oh” out of him anyway. He stops fighting with the pant leg for a second, then runs a hand through his hair before looking at Ezio who meets his gaze head on.

“I was young and foolish, and entirely convinced that the feelings I still harbored towards her were true love, and she the love of my life. So I did kiss her. Judging by your question, I suspect you know how that ended.” Ezio turns to look at the rain beating against the windows. “And my heart bled because she did not want me. And it bled because kissing her had not been like it had once used to be, and as hard as I tried, I could not escape the thought that I should have kissed you instead. So I ran to where we had parted, but you were not there. I wanted to search for you, but duty called me to hunt the new Doge first. And when I finally found you afterwards, you barely said two words to me before you left – because you knew, did you not? And then I did not see you for two years.”

“That’s – ouch,” Desmond says very eloquently, then wanders over to him because he suddenly feels the need to prove to himself that yeah, he can now just do that and lean down to kiss Ezio, and that the bastard will not only allow it, but happily kiss him back. “Sorry about that, if it means anything anymore.”

“No, it is I who needs to apologize. I have let Cristina and my own immaturity stand between us not only once, but twice. Once is a mistake, twice is plain stupidity, and I am truly sorry, Desmond.”

“Yeah, well, I bet this whole time travelling thing would have fucked us over anyway. It’d probably made things even worse if we had gotten together earlier, so…”

Reluctantly agreeing, Ezio lies back down on the bed before taking Desmond’s hand into his own. He tugs on it gently until Desmond gives in and climbs back onto the bed with him. They end up side by side, looking up at the ceiling. Ezio brings their joined hands to his lips, his breath warm tickling Desmond’s fingers, the kiss light and airy, before letting them rest on his chest. 

“But to answer your question – no, I did not yet have a name for what I felt then, and only started to barely grasp it two years later in Forlì. When we did not hear from you that night, nor the next, I…” 

Desmond turns his head to look at Ezio’s profile, sees him narrowing his eyes, his chest falling as he sighs. The muscles on his neck and jaw are so taut they look ready to snap.

“You do not know how many times I cursed myself over those nine years for letting you go alone after that Orsi bastard.”

Desmond gives Ezio’s hand a tiny squeeze.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth earlier.”

Ezio fakes a smile for him, then hides his expression by pressing another kiss on Desmond’s knuckles. 

Straight to the deep end this morning, right? 

“Hey, so,” Desmond begins without knowing where he is going with it – he only knows he can’t handle the pain in Ezio’s eyes. He rolls around to lie on his stomach and presses his fingers against Ezio’s ribs. “Are you ever going to tell me what the other you said? You know, back when – “

“I remember.”

“Okay, good. So are you? What did he say?”

Ezio is quiet for a moment, with a small, soft smile on his face. He reaches over to brush a curl from Desmond’s face.

“That I was an utter fool,” he says and tilts his head to the side. “That some grudges are worth holding onto, some are not, and that I should know the difference by now. That there would not be many chances for love in my life, and to throw away the one I had been given so freely was madness, especially when I was so clearly in love with you.”

Desmond stares at him.

“You’re shitting me.”

“I assure you I am not.”

“But that’s – he’s – he really said that?”

“Yes.”

“And what – you didn’t immediately think it was just me trying to get you to forgive me?”

“No. It was not you,” Ezio says slowly, narrowing his eyes as he looks up at Desmond, his hair framing his head like a halo. “He – the way he moved, the way he spoke, his voice, everything changed. I knew it was not you.”

Groaning, Desmond buries his face in his hands.

“My life’s so fucking weird.”

Ezio hums, not really disagreeing. 

After some more grumbling, Desmond turns his head so that he can blink one eye open to look at him.

“Any other wise words he wished to share?”

The way Ezio’s eyes soften should really have been his warning. 

“He would have given so much to learn more about you. To know something, anything, beyond just your name.” 

Very carefully, Desmond hides his face again and just breathes for a while.

Outside, the rain finally stops. A bird calls somewhere in the distance. The sheets rustle as Ezio shifts next to him. A door is shut downstairs – Mario has woken up.  

It’s not fair, really, that Desmond is still trying to decide if his heart just got broken, when the realization finds him.

“I went after one of the Orsi brothers,” he breathes out and pushes himself up on his elbows. He stares at Ezio, his own heartbeat galloping in his ears.

“Yes?”

“He wasn’t supposed to be there. He was supposed to be already dead by that point, but he wasn’t!” Almost getting tangled in the sheets, Desmond sits up on the bed and tries to understand. “I don't honestly remember which one of them he was, but it doesn't matter. Because in the Animus you killed them both the day they took Caterina’s kids. But here the guy lived through that day because we didn’t manage to kill him. And he was still alive a couple days later, the day he and what was left of his army came back. The day I jumped to.”

Now Ezio sits up as well.

“So you are saying that Uncle surviving was not – “

“It was not the first time I actually changed something.” Desmond doesn’t know whether he is supposed to be ecstatic or worried. “Or I mean, the guy obviously died soon after, but because I killed him. I don’t know if that counts – “

“So when he died, it was not the Gray that kept things as they were supposed to be, but you,” Ezio breathes out. “Have we been wrong this entire time? Would that man still be alive today if you had not killed him that day? It must be so –  surely Uncle is walking proof of that theory, when he is still alive and well despite the fact that it has been weeks since the siege?”

“Yeah, I guess – no, wait, fuck, how does this work then? I thought the memory had to be finished for me to jump, because that's what happened with Cristina. But obviously that's not the case now after all. Ah, shit, this doesn't make any sense.” Desmond grabs his hair with both hands and scrunches his eyes closed. “Okay, okay, so the Orsi guy would have lived. Mario lives. You would have died in the Vatican if I hadn't intervened, but the only reason you got injured in the first place was because I was there to distract you. So doesn’t it sound like I can change some things?”

Ezio frowns. 

“But why only some? We still lost Cristina and her husband. And you could not kill Rodrigo when you tried, vero? Because the Gray physically stopped you?” 

“Yeah. It also caused me to… what happened to the Doge was its fault. And it used to throw tantrums every time I killed one of your targets too early.” 

“Are you certain about the Doge? I never truly understood what happened there that day – I do not remember what I saw.”

“The Gray moved me. I was trying to get to Grimaldi and suddenly I was facing the Doge instead. I crashed into him and he fell.”

They sit in silence for a moment, looking at each other, trying to make sense of this. 

“Does it not seem to you like the Gray can only directly affect you?”

 Desmond blinks at him.

“What?”

“As I see it, it can stop you from killing someone and use you to cause someone’s death, when it needs to do so to adhere to the original timeline. But when you have not been present or when those time-altering changes have not been of your doing, the Gray has not intervened. It has not been able to prevent you from setting changes in motion either.”

“So, what, are you trying to say that Cristina dying in a worse way, Rosa getting more seriously hurt when she fell – those weren’t the Gray fucking with us? That they were just… coincidences?”

“Consequences. But not of some malign force, but simply the results of our actions. Of course Rosa’s injuries were worse if she had had time to climb higher. And Cristina… well, you said it yourself that there was nothing we could have done. Perhaps the same would have happened in the memories you saw, had she been allowed to live past that day.”

“That’s just… fuck.”

“But it would make sense, no? History still follows its course, the best it can, because we are still the same people in the same circumstances, making the same mistakes, working with the same likelihoods as in the timeline you saw. The explanation does not have to be some mysterious higher power – or at least, not in most cases. Perhaps it has never been fully about ensuring that this timeline remains an exact mirror image of the first, because how impossible would that be when by simply existing here you are already sending ripples of change through the fabric of time? So yes, the Gray does have the ability to stop you, but perhaps it is not as omnipotent as we thought it to be.”

Desmond drags his hand down his face.

“You sure about this?”

“No.” Ezio’s laugh is clear and free. “How could I be? But this is the best I can offer with the information I have.”

Groaning, Desmond falls to lie on his back. He glares at the ceiling, feels the headache coming in, then presses his cold toes against Ezio’s leg.

“Can we stay here for the rest of the day? Because I think that after all that I deserve to stay here for the rest of the day.”

Still chuckling, Ezio leans down to kiss him.

Chapter Text

Desmond ducks to avoid getting a tankard’s worth of beer splashed right into his face. Not missing a beat, he adjusts his course and keeps pushing through the rowdy crowd. Loud laughter erupts from somewhere behind him where the worst drunkards have a game of Hazard going. The sound of a lute just barely reaches his ears over the cacophony – the poor instrument is begging to be put out of its misery, as the guy playing it has not managed to hit a single note properly so far.

One would think that with the amount of money they gave to La Volpe, he could have afforded to hire someone with a little more skill.

Rolling his eyes at the thought, Desmond routinely pushes away the presence in the back of his mind, along with its opinions. He walks by the open front door as he heads towards the bar – a breeze flows into the stuffy, fully-packed La Volpe Addormentata, but it has no hope of managing to cool down the building which has absorbed all the warmth of a summer in its bloom. But the red-faced, gossiping people don’t seem to mind, as they are far too occupied with celebrating the opening of the inn. 

Eventually, Desmond manages to elbow his way to the counter. He waves a hand at the busy bartender, then holds up two fingers. The bartender nods, and Desmond is left to lean against the counter, since there are no free seats left. He tugs on the collar of his robes and brushes hair from his face – his curls behind his ears are damp with sweat.

He scans the crowd as he waits. The first thing to catch his eye is the ring of men at the back of the room, crouched over their game of gamble. A few of them cheer – one of them, a young guy, stands up abruptly and marches off, cursing. Desmond follows the man with his gaze, until he notices a courtesan he is pretty sure he recognizes as one of Claudia’s girls guiding a thief towards the storage room. Shaking his head, Desmond gives them their privacy and looks somewhere else – at the table in the farthest corner of the room.

A girl in her twenties, with flowers in her hair and the front of her dress a little bit too risqué, has stopped to talk to the lone man sitting at the table. He is easily at least a decade older than her, and while his clothes don’t exactly make him stand out, they are clearly better cut and of finer, more expensive materials than those of the rest of the crowd. The man leans his chin on his hand and says something to her, grinning. She giggles, a rosy hue blooming on her cheeks.

The customer sitting on the stool next to Desmond pays and leaves. It takes only a few seconds before someone else takes the newly-freed seat.

“So, what is your verdict?” La Volpe asks in a pleased tone before gesturing at the bartender. “Does my inn have any chance of holding up in comparison to the one you saw in the Animus?”

Desmond grins and gives the place one more slow look to humor La Volpe. 

“It’s better.”

“Empty flattery will get you nowhere, Desmond.”

“No, no, I mean it and I’ve got proof. Look over there – that corner there used to be drafty as fuck, and you couldn’t get it fixed it no matter what you tried. And now it’s just not. So like I said, better.”

That gets a chuckle out of La Volpe.

“Well, we have done at least something right then.”

“Yeah. And hey, speaking of – congrats. It’s not every day that you open an inn.”

“No, it is not indeed,” La Volpe drawls and turns to smile at him from the safety of his hood. “Thank you for suggesting it. And know that we could always use another bartender, should you ever feel like changing professions.”

Desmond laughs.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

On the other side of the room, the girl makes her move and takes a seat at the table opposite the man who raises an eyebrow at the boldness – amused, not offended.

“Are you still getting along with Niccolò?” Desmond asks and looks from the pair to La Volpe who scrunches up his nose at the question.

“He wishes that some matters would develop more quickly than they have so far. I am not certain I share that sentiment.” He leans more heavily against the counter. “But you do not need to worry that I might take a page from my counterpart’s book and demand Niccolò’s head because of this.” His grin is a quick flash of teeth, gone as soon as it appeared. “At least not yet.” 

Rolling his eyes, Desmond looks over his shoulder to check if the bartender still remembers that he is there.

“He has been trying to acquire new informants,” La Volpe continues, “since he is not certain whether he would be welcome back to the Vatican. But I hear that he has not had as much luck with it as he might have hoped.”

“Mmh. Ezio said something about that.”

La Volpe doesn’t immediately continue, and it makes Desmond stop and glance at him. Dark eyes meet his from the shadows of the hood, then look away.

“He and Niccolò seem to be on surprisingly good terms. I had thought that given all that has happened, perhaps they might not… But I guess I was wrong.”

“Yeah, no, they weren’t like this the first time around. I don’t know, guess they’re buddies now. But a lot of it is just them planning to which Romulus lairs I should go next and which Borgia captain they want me to kill and stuff like that. Niccolò has very detailed notes about everything I told him about these years, so he might have a better idea of what’s going to happen than me now.”

“And do you suppose that is a good thing?”

“Which one? Them spending time together or Niccolò possibly messing with the timeline?”

La Volpe just looks at him.

“Okay, fair, I walked right into that one. I don’t know, I just… I’m still trying to wrap my head around this whole changing the timeline thing and it actually working, so I’m just glad if it’s someone else’s problem for a while. And since most things still seem to end up pretty much like they did the first time around, I don’t really even know how much damage he could realistically do. And if we can change something for the better, I guess it’s worth a try, right?”

“And you want to hand that responsibility to Niccolò Machiavelli?”

“Well, I didn’t say it was the best idea we’ve ever had. But I… honestly just don’t want to be the one making the decisions anymore. And it’s not Niccoló alone, you know, Ezio’s almost as involved in it and…” He looks down at his fingers which he drums against the bartop. “He’s had it rough, with the leg and losing Monteriggioni. You didn’t see what he was like a few months ago. So if he’s excited about anything, even if it’s scheming with Machiavelli, I’d say let him. Seriously.” 

La Volpe meets his gaze again, holds it, before looking away and sighing.

“I hope you know what you are doing.”

“You’re speaking to the guy who’s quite literally making this shit up as he goes.”

“I have noticed.” Shaking his head, La Volpe claps his hand on Desmond’s shoulder. “But how are you? I hear the Gray has been hounding you lately.”

“Nah. Or well, a little bit. But at least I don’t usually end up that far – I’ve been skipping a week or two at most.”

“Ah. But the summer still came sooner for you than the rest of us.”

“Yeah.”

Back at the table Desmond was eyeing earlier, the girl leans forward. She has her chin resting on one hand, the other she is running through her hair. But the object of her obvious interest shakes his head and says something – Desmond can’t quite read the man’s lips all the way from here – and her shoulders sag, just the tiniest bit. Still, she reaches for him across the table and asks something, but the man gives her another stern no, which is only slightly softened by his smile. She stands up, straightens her skirt and walks away, though not before turning to glance at him one last time. 

The drinks Desmond ordered finally arrive.

“On the house,” La Volpe says and nods at the bartender. 

Desmond raises one of the drinks as thanks, then starts making his way back through the crowd while trying not to spill anything. 

Once on the other side of the room, he unceremoniously slides into the seat the girl vacated moments before and pushes one of the drinks towards Ezio. 

“So, what did she want?” 

Ezio grins at him, then chuckles under his breath as he turns to study the crowd, leaning his chin on his hand.

“Guess.”

Desmond taps his foot against Ezio’s, while also trying not to accidentally kick the cane Ezio has leaning against his seat under the table.

“Uh-uh. And what did you say to her?”

“That if I left with her, I would no longer be welcome in my own home, and that unfortunately for her, I happen to rather like the one waiting for me there.”

“Good answer.”

A smile curls Ezio’s lips as he quickly glances at Desmond again before returning his attention to the drunken merriment and chaos all around them. 

“And besides, I am far too old for her anyway.”

“Oh, I don’t know, she didn’t seem that much younger than me.”

“Do not make this weird, Desmond.”

Desmond hides his smirk by taking a sip from his drink. 

“Whatever you say, old man.”

A foot hits his under the table.

“Again with the old,” Ezio grumbles, glaring at him. “If you already call me that now, what will you do when I am actually old and gray?”

“You’ll have to find out.”

Muttering something not so pleasant under his breath, Ezio rolls his eyes before tasting his drink. 

A loud cheer cuts through the usual cacophony as another game of Hazard comes to an end. The lute begins a new song – someone must have tackled the original player and stolen the instrument, because this attempt at music is almost passable. 

Desmond rests his elbows on the table and considers his company. 

“So how’s your English coming along? Have you actually been practising while I was away?”

Ezio stops to think for a moment.

“I have.”

“Mmh. So what’s the deal with that anyway? You’re not going to be able to use it with anyone else – my English is five hundred years more modern than what they are speaking in England now. Their English is even older than Shakespeare’s, and I only barely understood the passage from Romeo and Juliet Mom made me read when I was thirteen. And yes, I know you don’t know who that is – he hasn’t been born yet, and that’s the point.” He smiles. “Don’t get me wrong, you trying is very cute and all, but I don’t see the point.”

“It is your language. Is that not reason enough?”

Scoffing, Desmond crosses his arms over his chest and meets Ezio’s far too smug gaze.

“Is there like an off button for that? You don’t need to turn everything into a dramatic declaration of love, you know.”

“But what if I want to?”

“Nobody asked what you want.” Desmond massages his neck, lets his gaze linger on the smile on Ezio’s lips. “I think I liked you better when you were flirting and sleeping with everything that moved. Gave you less time to be this sappy.”

Ezio takes another sip from his drink. Presses his leg against Desmond’s under the table. 

“You only find issue with affection because you are not used to it. You have not been loved enough, and I have not yet had enough time to remedy that.”

“...I’m going to throw my drink at you. Can you not psychoanalyze me while we’re out in public?”

The bastard’s chuckling is not making him smile. It is not. 

Taking another sip to hide the fact that he is not smiling, Desmond allows himself to study Ezio again. He has rolled up his sleeves, and so when he rests his arms on the table, Desmond has to curl his fingers around his pint to keep himself from reaching over and running his fingers over the dark hairs on Ezio’s forearms. He counts the faint lines that appear at the corners of Ezio’s eyes when he smiles – and the smile grows brighter when Ezio realizes he is looking. Which only makes Desmond more aware of how much he would like to kiss him right now.

He resorts to kicking Ezio’s shin instead.

“Ow.”

“Serves you right.”

“For what?”

“For being you.”

“That does not make any sense,” Ezio whines, though he can’t help chuckling right on top of it. He considers Desmond for a moment, tilting his head to the side, then glances around to see if anyone is looking at them before sliding his hand across the table so that he can take Desmond’s into his just for a few seconds. “There is nothing stopping us from going back home if you do not want to stay here.”

“Mmh.” Closing his eyes and leaning his elbows on the table, Desmond lets his leg rest against Ezio’s. “Who was that letter for?” 

“What letter?”

“The one you were writing before we left. You know, writing so intensely you didn’t notice me there standing right in front of you.”

“...Ah, that one. I was… writing to Rosa. She is a far better source of information on what is happening in Venice than Antonio.”

“We both know you weren’t writing to Rosa, come on,” Desmond huffs, grinning, and taps his foot against Ezio’s ankle.

“Do we?” Ezio raises an eyebrow, then glances at the direction of the bar behind Desmond’s shoulder. He freezes, all of his amusement disappearing in an instant. 

“What?” Desmond asks and turns around to take a look himself.

One of La Volpe’s thieves has appeared from the back room – must have used the entrance there – and is now whispering in the spymaster’s ear. The tenseness of La Volpe’s shoulders reveals that it is something important, and he confirms that assumption when he turns to meet their eyes.

Ezio reaches for his cane under the table, but La Volpe has already made it halfway across the room by the time they have both gotten themselves up to their feet. 

“Cesare made the journey faster than we anticipated. He has just arrived in Rome,” La Volpe says when he reaches them, his voice barely audible over the cheering of the crowd. “My men confirmed that Maestro da Vinci is with him.”

“What?” Ezio’s hand comes to grip the edge of the table for support. “He was not supposed to get here until next week.”

“Perhaps something happened in the catacombs and he had to change his plans. I do not know.”

“Cazzo – it does not matter now. We need to – ” 

Ezio’s cane clangs against one of the table legs. 

He doesn’t fall, doesn’t even really stumble – he just closes his eyes for a second, breathing in deeply, before turning around and angling the cane so that he can pull it away from the narrow space between the table and the seat.

“Where are they? Are your men still following them?” he asks, not looking at either of them as he starts limping towards the front door. “We need to get Leonardo as far away from that man as we can – ”

“And what do you think would be your role in the ambush, my friend? We talked about this,” La Volpe says as he catches up to Ezio with a few quick steps. He lays a hand on Ezio’s shoulder and draws him to a stop. “It is Desmond I came to fetch. You know this.”

Someone wins at Hazard again. The crowd buzzes – cursing, shouting and drunken singing float over the constant chatter of the bar and fill the silence that has materialized between the three of them. 

“Just this one time, okay?” Desmond whispers as he steps closer and brushes his fingertips against Ezio’s forearm. “I can do this.”

Ezio closes his eyes again, curses, breathes out. Stares at the floor.

“Ezio – “

“No, you are right,” he sighs and looks up to give Desmond an empty, flat grin. A grimace replaces it soon after as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “This is how it must be now. And you two cannot afford to waste time, least of all on trying to spare my feelings.”

La Volpe nods and heads towards the exit without another word. Desmond isn’t quite as efficient – he meets Ezio’s eyes one more time, mouthing the words “I’m sorry”, before he manages to force himself to follow after La Volpe.

Saddling up takes only a couple of minutes, then Desmond and La Volpe lead two of the spymaster’s own horses outside. As Desmond climbs into the saddle, he spots Ezio by the small wagon that brought them here. Ezio limps over while Desmond reaches down to adjust the straps of the stirrups.

Ezio lays a hand on Desmond’s knee and looks up at him.

“I will return home and let Uncle know. Send word if something goes wrong.” 

Nodding, Desmond quickly glances at La Volpe to see if he’s ready, then returns his attention to Ezio.

Fingers dig into his thigh. 

“Be safe.” 

Desmond covers Ezio’s hand with his own for a few seconds.

“I’ll come back.”

And then La Volpe is calling his name, telling him to hurry up. He sighs as Ezio lets go and takes a step back. After one last glance at him, Desmond turns his horse around and ushers it into cantering after La Volpe, towards the city and Cesare.

The massive figure of Pantheon looms in the distance when they run into one of La Volpe’s thieves. The man guides them towards Cesare’s entourage, and since the quickest route there is via the rooftops, they leave the horses behind and take to the roofs. 

It doesn’t take long before they spot a group of thieves, lurking on the edge of a roof and peering down at something.

“There,” one of the thieves says as a greeting when Desmond and La Volpe crouch next to the little group. And yes, there on the street is Cesare, atop a tall, regal looking horse. Next to him, on a more plain steed rides Leonardo, his freckled face pale and worried even in the warm sunlight. Behind them follows a man Desmond recognizes as Micheletto. 

The metal armors of the soldiers surrounding them shine brightly in the harsh sunlight.

“Six guards,” the thief continues and points out a few more soldiers behind and ahead of the main group. 

“And all the others who will rush to their aid the second something goes wrong,” La Volpe adds and nods towards the city guards wearing Borgia colors. Desmond’s Eagle vision reveals a lot more of them among the crowd of the late afternoon. But at least the heat has got to them as well – a couple of the guards seem to be nodding off on their feet, despite the close proximity of their Captain General.

“We have to do something before they reach Castel Sant’Angelo. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll break into that place again to get Leonardo out, but I’d rather not if I don’t have to.”

La Volpe straightens up from his crouch and narrows his eyes – going through the map of the city in his head. 

“Then we ambush them somewhere a little quieter.”

After counting the guards against just to be sure, Desmond glances at the spymaster.

“How many smoke bombs do you have with you?”

“Three.” La Volpe turns to the thieves who produce two more bombs. 

Desmond counts his own – three as well. 

“Okay, we’ll use these. Anything else that could work as a distraction?”

The thieves talk among themselves before one of them addresses La Volpe.

“Nico and some of the others were planning to come to this district today. I could go to see if I can find them.”

“Go.”

She leaves, then Desmond and the rest are forced to move as the entourage they are tailing turns around a corner. Leaping over the gaps between tall buildings, they shadow Cesare and his group in silence, looking for anything to use to their advantage.

A flash of blue catches Desmond’s attention.

“Aren’t those some of Claudia’s girls over there?” 

While La Volpe and a couple of his apprentices go to ask for the courtesans’ help, Desmond and the rest of the thieves keep following the group which is making its slow way through the packed streets. Cesare’s horse keeps throwing its head up and opening its mouth, protesting against its rider’s harsh grip on the reins.

Desmond frowns as he sneaks closer to the edge of the roof to try to see if Cesare might have brought the Apple here. But there is no hum in his ears, no resonance trembling through his teeth. So probably not, unless the thing is wholly and totally dead.

Then he considers Leonardo’s stiff shoulders and timid posture. It’s a gamble, snatching him away from Cesare when he spent years working for the Borgias in the original timeline – Ezio met with him several times during those years but didn’t help him escape. So why are they risking everything now by saving him?

Because last time, Desmond wasn’t there to vanish from right under Cesare’s nose. Last time, there was no talk of time travel or a chance for Cesare to see Apple’s true power this early on. Last time the Apple hadn’t been completely drained of its power by the time it was brought to Leonardo.

The way Leonardo flinches when Cesare raises his voice to shout at his horse tells Desmond all he needs to. 

The group turns again, this time to a quieter street, and parts of the conversation reach Desmond’s ears.

“I fear our sudden arrival will draw the Pope’s attention,” Micheletto says, now riding by Cesare’s side, his voice so hushed that Desmond has to stay still and focus if he wants to eavesdrop. 

“Once Maestro da Vinci opens the door to the inner chamber of the temple, I will claim whatever artifact awaits inside, and then what my father wants will not matter any longer. I do not care if he hears of that place, or even drags himself there personally to see it with his own eyes. He is free to rage all he wants.” 

Cesare’s voice carries far more easily than Micheletto’s. 

“I am so tired of his incessant demands that he should be given the Apple. That is all he is willing to talk about – his precious Apple. It is infuriating. And he dares to keep pestering me about it – and about letting the one man who can control the artifact get away. As if he had not run away from the very man himself in the first place!” Cesare sneers before glancing at Micheletto. “Speaking of, any signs of this Desmond?”

“None so far. But the Pope’s men are searching for him as well – his Holiness plans to use the rumors about you catching an angel to have the people hunt for either a miracle or a blasphemer, but no one has yet come forth to tell of a man fitting his description. At least no one credible.” Micheletto hesitates. “But sir, we cannot be sure that the man is even in the city. If the guards spoke true and he truly vanished… He could be anywhere by now.”

Cesare bristles at the suggestion.

“I do not care what lengths you will have to go, I want him found! Do you understand?” Cesare lowers his voice and moves his horse closer to Micheletto’s, his face red, his whisper a sharp hiss. “If he truly knows the future, my future, he is far more valuable than the Apple. We cannot have him work with the Assassins against us. And we cannot let him fall into the hands of my father either.”

Cursing quietly, Desmond hurries across the rooftop to check out the street Cesare and the others will have to take next. More guards. Shit. If they want to save Leonardo, the best chance they’ve got might be right here.

And for once in his life, luck is on his side. The cavalry has arrived – the one thief La Volpe sent to fetch her buddies appears, along with three more thieves. Desmond hands them the smoke bombs and tells the thieves to throw them on his signal, in two waves. Then he circles back so he can descend down to the street level without Cesare or the soldiers noticing him.

With his hood drawn up, he sneaks as close to the group as he dares, gently pushing people out of the way. As he eyes his target, the presence in the back of his mind wakes up and starts pointing out the signs of boredom in the soldiers following in Cesare’s wake. 

While the mentor tells him to slow down so that he doesn’t blow his cover, Desmond searches the crowd for La Volpe and spots him at the other end of the street with the courtesans and his apprentices – Cesare and his group are in between them, with La Volpe and the others ahead of them and Desmond behind them. 

La Volpe meets his gaze – Desmond nods. 

The girls rush towards Cesare and Micheletto. The already anxious horse tries to dance away from them, but Cesare is not interested in either the women or the horse’s reaction. He digs his heels into the horse’s flanks, while Micheletto shouts for the courtesans to get out of the way. Two of the guards move closer, their horses now on each side of Leonardo’s. 

Desmond signals the others. 

Smoke fills the street. Men shout. Hooves stomp against the cobblestones. Desmond leaps forward, grabs the leg of the closest guard and pulls. Surprised, the man falls from the horse’s back and crashes on the ground, while Desmond grabs the reins. He climbs into the saddle and turns the skittish horse around while looking for Leonardo’s blue figure. And there he is, struggling to control his horse – it is backing up, making almost a circle in its panic and just barely misses ramming straight into another horse. 

“Assassins!” Cesare’s shout cuts through the chaos. His silhouette is blood red as he kicks both his horse and the courtesans around him, indifferent to the damage he creates in his mad attempt to get to his enemies. He screams for his guards, who are trying to force their horses into the thick smoke with varying results.

But Desmond has no time for Cesare. Trusting La Volpe to keep the Captain General busy and to get the girls out of there, he hurries his horse towards Leonardo who is currently flanked by two guards. 

Something grabs him. 

He is forcibly pulled to his right – an arm has been wrapped tightly around his neck. His horse doesn’t appreciate the sudden shift of his weight. It tries to move, knocking against the horse his attacker is sitting on top of. Desmond ejects his hidden blade and makes a wild swing behind his back – his blade on his left arm, his attacker behind him on his right. He hits something, at least judging by the hiss coming from behind his ear, but then the arm is replaced by a wire which digs right into his throat. 

Struggling against the wire, he thrust his left elbow right into Micheletto’s gut. It isn’t enough to free him – but the blade thrust right in Micheletto’s face is. 

After using his elbow as a weapon again, Desmond rights himself in the saddle, gasping for breath, and ushers his horse to move before Micheletto recovers enough to make another attempt. His lungs burn as he whips his head around to see a throwing knife fly past him through the fading smoke – it scratches Micheletto’s shoulder. 

La Volpe is only a flash of hood and a bleeding nose on the other side of the street, behind a raging Cesare who is holding onto the reins with a bloody hand. The spymaster raises his hand – another wave of smoke bombs hits the street. 

At least one guard lands on the ground when his horse bucks and runs off, and any formation the men might have tried to achieve breaks apart as the horses flee in different directions. 

Leonardo’s horse is very much trying to do the same when Desmond reaches him. Leonardo lets out a surprised yelp when he notices him, his face white.

“Desmond?”

“We have to go now!” Desmond wheezes, his throat very much not appreciating his attempt to shout.

That is the moment Leonardo’s horse finally decides that it has had enough. Its eyes wide, it hightails past the guards and out of the street, leaving Cesare and the others far behind, and all Desmond can do is follow.

People run out of their way as they storm through a labyrinth of narrow streets and alleyways, knocking into food stalls and unfortunate guards on their way. Desmond grabs a fistful of his horse’s mane to balance himself – ahead of him, Leonardo is struggling to stay in the saddle.

But slowly, after rushing through at least a dozen streets, they start to slow down. Either Leonardo has managed to bring his horse back under control, or then the spooked animal is just getting tired. Desmond tries to bring his horse closer to Leonardo’s, to ask if he’s okay, but a quick glance behind them reveals that their problems don’t end here. 

Someone is following them. 

Micheletto.

Shit. They need to get rid of the horses and disappear.

“Leonardo! Turn right!”

They hurry to the next side alley, then turn left at the end before sliding down from the saddle. Leonardo’s horse never really comes to a full stop, and his leap down to the ground is less than elegant. But Desmond gives him no time to regain his balance before he grabs his arm and starts tugging him forwards, towards yet another narrow alleyway. He needs a crowd, a fucking hay cart, something to hide them in. 

Another turn around a corner, another mad dash through yet one more back street. Leonardo’s breath wheezes as he tries to keep up with him, tripping over his tired feet. 

Cursing, Desmond leads Leonardo out into the sun of a large piazza, full of vendors and stalls and people haggling and gossiping.

“Keep your head down,” he says under his breath and pulls his hood better over his head as they blend into the crowd. He lets Eagle Vision bleed into his eyes and keeps glancing behind them while he pushes Leonardo to keep moving. 

The sun beats down on their backs as they slowly trudge across the square, subtly nudging people out of their way. Sweat clings to their skin and makes their clothes stick to their backs. Once, out of the corner of his eye, Desmond catches a flash of red somewhere far behind them, but he can’t see it the next time he dares to steal a look.

Eventually, they reach the other side of the square and slip back into the shadows of the back streets. Desmond makes them keep going for another five minutes before he allows them to stop and Leonardo to catch his breath. 

“Did we lose him?” Leonardo gasps out the question while leaning his hands on his knees. His legs visibly tremble. 

“Usually I would say yes, but with Micheletto I’m not sure.”

“That does not sound very good.”

“It doesn’t, yeah.” Coughing, Desmond touches a hand to his tender throat. 

“Is there… I do hope you have a safehouse or something of the sort. We cannot keep this up forever.”

“We have one, but I don’t think we can head there yet. If he is still following us, the last thing I want is to lead him straight to our doorstep.”

Leonardo manages only a nod, looking very unsure.

“Come on, let’s keep moving.”

Desmond has barely gotten the words out of his mouth when a vague feeling – an inkling, like someone whispering There! right behind his ear – makes him spin around.

The clang of metal echoes in the alleway as Micheletto’s dagger meets his hidden blade.

The deep gash on Micheletto’s cheek bleeds dark red blood over his jaw and into his clothes as he stares at Desmond over their crossed blades. Desmond has a split-second to take that image in, then Micheletto moves – Desmond deflects the swing of the dagger, then steps to the side to block Micheletto from slipping past him to get to Leonardo.

And that is how the rest of that dance goes – Micheletto keeps attacking and Desmond keeps parrying. And on each step, the voice of Ezio is there, guiding him through every dodge and counter.

Ezio cues him – Desmond feints, grabs Micheletto’s wrist and twists until the dagger falls from his hand. He kicks the blade towards Leonardo who hurries to pick it up. 

Furious, Micheletto thrust his free hand towards Desmond. There is a new blade in it, but it’s not his dominant hand so the swing isn’t as precise as the ones before. 

And for a split-second there is an opening. The voice in Desmond’s head tells him to take it.

But he doesn’t plunge his hidden blade into the soft flesh of Micheletto’s throat. No, he has learned his lesson. Screw the Gray. 

No, he grabs Micheletto and slams his head against the wall.

Cesare’s assassin falls to the ground, unconscious.

Desmond stands over him, trying to catch his breath. He massages his neck, then checks the mechanism of his hidden blade, his chest still heaving. 

They did well.

Yes.

“Is he dead?” 

Desmond snaps his gaze up from the unconscious body to Leonardo.

“No. But we’d better get moving before he wakes up. You okay?”

“A little frightened, but I will survive.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

The sun is starting to set by the time Desmond finally dares to approach Tiber Island. 

The last couple of hours have been spent hiding and sneaking around a city in a state of alarm. It turns out that attacking the Pope’s son and the Commander of the Papal armies and kidnapping his “guest” in broad daylight in the center of Rome does make every guard and soldier in the city take up arms. Who would have guessed.

Despite being pretty sure that nobody is following them at this point, Desmond can’t help but glance over his shoulder one more time before he lets Leonardo into the hideout. 

The entryway is empty and dark when he locks the door behind them. They drag themselves down the stairs and into the sitting room, and Desmond spends a moment lighting up candles while Leonardo slumps down to sit on one of the chairs by the cold fireplace. 

“You alright?” Desmond calls and lights another candle, looking over the flame at Leonardo.

“Yes, yes, just tired,” comes the winded reply. 

“I don’t know where the others are. Ezio said they’d be here but… Hey, I’ll go see if we have anything to eat – “

Sounds coming from the hall make him stop. After telling Leonardo to wait, he walks to the main hall and almost crashes straight into Mario.

“Desmond, there you are!” Mario’s whole face lights up. He turns to shout over his shoulder – “He is here!” – then unceremoniously wraps his good arm around Desmond’s shoulder in a quick hug, patting his back. “We were so worried – it has been hours. What of Maestro Leonardo?”

“He’s over there, we’re fine.”

“Good, good. Now, Desmond – “

Behind Mario, La Volpe emerges from the darkness. A large bruise has blackened his nose and left eye, but he is walking on his own two feet and smiling in that lop-sided way of his when he meets Desmond’s eyes.

Ezio is the last to appear, though only because of his injury. He breathes out when he spots Desmond before slowly limping across the room towards him. 

Desmond meets him halfway. 

Ezio’s hand comes to cradle his cheek and draw him closer while La Volpe and Mario pretend not to notice – even though this is far from the worst Mario has had to witness during the last few months.

“Grazie a Dio,” Ezio whispers as he leans in to press a kiss on Desmond’s jawline.

“Hi,” Desmond mutters just as quietly, smiling, and covers Ezio’s hand with his own.

Reluctant to let go, Ezio pulls back just enough to take a good look at him, and Desmond can pinpoint the exact moment he notices what must be a bastard of a bruise on his neck. 

“You are hurt.” Ezio slips his hand free to tug on the collar of Desmond’s robes to reveal more of his throat. 

“It’s nothing.”

“Someone trying to strangle you is not nothing.” 

“I’ve had worse, you’ve had worse,” Desmond mutters, suddenly very conscious of the two other Assassins standing a dozen feet away and listening to their every word. “And I promise the guy who did this is far worse off than me.”

Ezio scrunches up his nose, but Desmond wraps his fingers around Ezio’s wrist and gives it a squeeze before bringing their hands away from his neck.

“Jesus, I’m fine, really. We’re both fine.”

Ezio blinks at this, very much disagreeing with the first part and trying to understand what Desmond means by the latter. Then he hears the approaching footsteps.

“Leonardo.”

Ezio hobbles the few steps needed to pull his best friend into a hug, both of them smiling from ear to ear. Some color has returned to Leonardo’s face, and his bright smile spreads quickly to the others as well.

“What happened, my friend?” Leonardo asks when he pulls away, and points at Ezio’s leg.

“It is a long story,” Ezio sighs and lays a hand on Leonardo’s shoulder. “Though now we might just have the time for it.”

“Yes – as luck would have it, it seems that I have just resigned. So I have all the time in the world now.”

Ezio shakes his head, chuckling.

“Then we will have to start from the beginning.”

With that, he starts leading Leonardo towards the sitting room. Mario disappears off to the kitchen, to rummage through the cabinets for something to drink, while La Volpe says his goodbyes, explaining that it is time for him to head home now that he knows they are all safe and sound. Desmond walks him to the door, then heads back to Ezio and Leonardo who have taken seats by the fireplace. Ezio is already in the middle of describing the vault below the Sistine chapel when Desmond walks in.

Suddenly feeling exhausted, Desmond stops by Ezio’s chair and touches a hand to his shoulder.

“Hey, I’ll just go get changed. I’ll be back in a second.”

Ezio’s warm hand comes to cover his.

“Are you certain you are alright?”

“Yeah, don’t worry.”

Ezio gives his hand one more pat before letting go and turning his attention back to Leonardo. 

And so Desmond drags himself through the hideout to their room, already tugging open the front of his robes and running his hand through his sweaty hair. He pushes the door open and starts pulling his robes off before the door has even closed behind his back.

He is still tangled in the long tails of his robes when he hears something moving behind him.

“Did you miss me already?” he asks, grinning, and glances over his shoulder, expecting to see Ezio.

And it is Ezio standing there by the door.

Just not his Ezio.

This one is looking at him from under a hood that once upon a time used to be blue, but has long since been muted by the elements. Its shadow hides most of the weary face, and what little it doesn’t is covered up by a beard which is both shabbier and longer than it was two minutes ago, all of it tinted with silver.

A pair of wise, tired eyes meet his as the construct tilts its head and considers him, its mouth curved into a frown.

“Desmond.”

Chapter Text

Desmond’s robes slip from his fingers and fall onto the floor. Not breathing, he staggers a few steps back – almost crashes straight into the bed. 

Gripping one of the bedposts with enough force for it to hurt, he stares at the thing on the other side of the room. 

You could almost think it was only a trick of the light, with the way it’s blending into the shadows. Its arms, wrapped in worn pelts and thick wool, rest loosely crossed over its chest, with just the tip of the hook blade peeking out from the scratched-up bracer. The eyes studying him are of an achingly familiar shade of brown, and the graying brows would look almost sad if the rest of the expression hadn’t been so carefully schooled to give away nothing. 

Somewhere below them, downstairs, the three men burst into laughter. Only muffled echoes of those sounds reach the bedroom, but they are enough to startle Desmond and draw his attention away. The dark wooden floorboards stare indifferently back at him as he listens to Mario’s distant, booming voice as the old man no doubt recounts some adventure or other. Clinging onto the mundanity of the sound, Desmond shakes his head and tells himself that he’s just tired and hungry, and the day was swelteringly hot and exhausting, and he almost got himself strangled – 

It is still there when he looks up.

“...so I’m finally losing it. Took you fucking long enough.” His voice doesn’t quite make it through the final words, and the breath which forces its way out of him comes out raspy and wavering. His posture sags along with his heavy shoulders.

The mattress gives in when he slumps on it, his legs trembling. 

“Go away. Fuck off.”

It decidedly does not fuck off. Soft footsteps leave the door and approach the armchair which has somehow turned into a permanent fixture of their bedroom. The thing comes to a stop behind it. And despite the fact that Desmond doesn’t want to see it, doesn’t want to acknowledge it, doesn’t want anything to do with it, he can’t help but steal a glance at the construct anyway as it grabs the backrest of the armchair with both hands and turns its heavy gaze on him. 

Sighing, Desmond glances at the ceiling.

“I guess we’re doing this then. Fuck, I… Just give me a minute.”

He doesn’t know why he is surprised. He has been talking to the presence in his head for months now – what the fuck did he expect? That it wouldn’t eventually start talking back? 

“This is not how I imagined this would go,” he mutters and brings a hand to his neck to massage it, then winces when he finds the tender bruise there. He looks at the construct, sighs and lets his hand fall onto his lap. “Okay. This is my second time officially meeting you for the first time and I still suck. I don’t even fucking know what to say. Hi, I guess. You changed my whole life. Shit.”

The tiniest hint of a smile softens the weary face.

“Piacere.”

“Yeah, that.” 

A curtain of curls falls to hide Desmond’s face as he looks down at his hands. His nails dig into his palms. There’s a patch of red, irritated skin near his right thumb and half a dozen little gashes on his knuckles. 

He brushes his hair from his eyes with one jerky movement, then forces an empty grin onto his lips as he faces the construct again. 

“So, do I answer all your questions? Was a washed-up bartender what you pictured when a golden goddess reached across millenia to tell you my name, huh? Was passing a short, incomprehensible message on to me really worth all the shit you had to live through? Having any regrets yet?”

The construct narrows its eyes. Squares its shoulders.

“You belittle yourself for fear that I might consider you a disappointment.” 

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Desmond mutters and rubs his forehead with both hands. “What do you want me to do then? Be proud of what I am? Look, I know Minerva and the rest painted me as some hero, but I’m not. I’m not like you. I ran from the Assassins, okay? Full on abandoned them. Then I allowed myself to be caught by the fucking Templars of all people, and if that wasn’t enough, I fucked up with Lucy and – And hey, just the fact that I’m here, or think I’m here, most likely means that I failed to save the world, okay? Because why else would this happen?” he croaks, wringing his fingers. “After everything you went through to get those messages to me, I somehow managed to fuck it all up. And now you’re stuck in my head like this and…” he sighs, glancing at the windows. “So yeah, I get it if you think I’m not what you were promised but – ” 

“I thought that you would know me better than that.”

And Desmond has to turn away – as if that would help when it is all just in his head, but fuck it anyway. Fuck it all.

“You were willing to pay the greatest price there is to save everyone else. What more could I possibly ask for?”

The quiet footsteps move again, their sound softened by the heavy rug on the floor. But Desmond won’t look. He won’t allow himself to. Desperately clinging onto every sound is bad enough. He breathes in sharply through his nose and closes his eyes.

“...But what if it didn’t work?”

“You chose to try. That is enough.”

There is nothing that would have stopped him from whipping his head up to look at Ezio then. 

Desmond finds him standing by the desk and studying the letters and books scattered over it, running his fingers over them. His dusty robes are in stark contrast with the new, almost lavish clothes that have been left to wait on the back of the nearby chair. The dim light of the late evening paints streaks of silver into his beard.

Desmond tries to get his voice back under control.

“Are we sure you’re not just my imagination? ‘Cos that was… This is a bit too much in the wish fulfillment department to be real – ”

“I am well aware I am just the memories of a man long since dead, hiding in the mind of another. An imitation of someone who once existed, in another life,” Ezio says in a quiet voice and grabs a book from the desk. He turns it around in his hand to look at the cover, then carefully places it back where it was. “We both know I am not real, Desmond. Not in any way that matters.”

“No, but… You’re still – you’re still aware. So doesn’t that make you real? In a sense?” 

“What is a man but the sum of his memories? Is this what you are referring to?” Ezio glances at Desmond with a wry smile on his lips, his eyes hidden by the shadows of his hood. He tilts his head as if considering something. “Sixteen. What a peculiar name.”

“Okay, so you’re poking into my head now,” Desmond chuckles breathlessly. “Of course you are, why wouldn’t you.”

One corner of Ezio’s mouth rises with a hint of a grin.

“I thought it would be only fair, all things considered.”

“Yeah, sure. Go ham,” Desmond laughs and scratches his neck. “Er, actually, about that – are we going to be weird about me spying on pretty much your whole life? Because I've been told it isn't… a nice thing to do.”

With his face as difficult to read as before, Ezio leaves the desk and approaches the armchair again.

“What would it achieve?” he asks as he settles down to sit on one of the armrests. “You did not have a choice.”

“But I kinda did though. I could have walked away when Lucy got me out of Abstergo.”

“And what then? You would not have received Minerva’s message. You would not have been there to wake up the device. And then everything Altaïr, Ratonhnhaké:ton and I went through would truly have been for nothing.”

“...I didn’t know any of that back then, so I don’t think it counts.”

Adjusting the scarf around his neck, Ezio studies him for a moment, and Desmond has the inkling that he isn’t so much looking as he is digging.

“You decided to stay to help the Assassins because you thought it was the right thing to do. And it was.”

At first Desmond frowns, but it turns into a tired grin soon enough.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it now, this whole having someone in your head thing is kinda annoying. Sorry.”

“As I see it, we are even now.” The smirk accompanying that statement is very familiar.

They sit there for a quiet moment, looking at each other, the Savior of the World and his Prophet. 

The bruising at Desmond’s neck throbs. Old sweat sticks to his skin, and he finds himself trying to smooth out wrinkles on his clothes and brushing away the dust and dirt on his knees.

“…How long have you been aware? Or, I don’t know, like this?”

Looking at the dark windows, Ezio squints his eyes as he thinks.

“I am not certain. The process was… gradual. At first it was hard for me to grasp that this was neither my body nor my life. I suspect you might have been aware of me long before I truly understood where and what I am.”

“Probably, yeah,” Desmond breathes out before slowly getting up from the bed. “Should I bother to be surprised that Vidic conveniently left out the tiny little detail that you would start talking to me once the Bleeding Effect got bad enough?”

The funny thing is that this is really not what he always imagined when people warned him about the later stages of the Bleeding Effect. No, he had thought he would just end up losing track of what was his and what his ancestors’, not that another consciousness would grow to take root in his head. No, he hadn’t even known to fear this. He had been too occupied with fighting off the queasy feeling awakened by Clay’s parting gift, painted with blood on the walls of his cell. Or the memory of Daniel Cross mumbling to voices nobody else could hear, telling them to leave him alone –

Ah.

“Perhaps he did not know,” Ezio offers, though he looks as sceptical as Desmond feels.

“Mmh, I really doubt that. Fuck, I don’t know and I don’t really care. Just fucking figures that I don’t even get to go insane the normal way.” He groans and rubs his brow as he drags himself to the windows. His spooked reflection stares back at him with wide eyes from the dark glass. “Okay, so you’ve been growing more aware. Now you can do this.” He glances over his shoulder at Ezio and waves his hand at him in a vague gesture. “What’s the next step going to be? Taking over my body and snuffing me out so that I’ll literally become you?”

He was joking, at least some part of him was, but all sarcasm dies in his throat when he sees Ezio lose the proud posture of the Mentor of an Assassin Brotherhood and turn into a tired, middle-aged man.

“I cannot say for certain, but I fear it might be as you say. Every day I am more… here than I was before.”

Desmond tears his gaze from Ezio, biting his lip. He curls his fingers into a fist. Unfurls them. Brushes his thumb over a small scrape on his index finger. 

He did say to Ezio, his Ezio, that he had accepted that he would eventually end up losing himself into the Bleeding Effect. He just didn’t think it would come for him so soon. He hadn’t realized it would be like this.

“Why are you here now?” His voice gives away far more than he meant it to when he bullies himself into looking at the construct again. “You make no sense, you know. First you’re just a – I don’t know – a feeling, a tiny presence in my head. Then you fuck off to who knows where so that I couldn’t reach you at all before the siege. And now you’re here, speaking to me, telling me I’m going to disappear. So what changed?”

“You know what did.”

It’s so simple it’s stupid.

“...The Apple.”

“I have only the haziest recollections of the time when the Apple was with you. It seems to have prevented me from coming to the surface, so to speak, and kept the process at bay. But I am afraid that now, without it, this will only escalate.”

Desmond closes his eyes. Breathes out through his nose.

“And you can’t just stop it?”

“I have no power over what is happening. I do not want this any more than you do.”

“Oh, come on, you’re getting a new chance at life, in a young body,” Desmond mutters as he spins around and heads back towards the construct. “What’s not to like?” 

“I meant what I said. I have seen enough for one life. I do not need another, especially not yours.”

“Why not?” Desmond asks flatly. “I’m just a name to you. You don’t know me.” 

“I have been with you for a while now. I know you, as you know me.”

“Of course you fucking do. I just…” His breath hitches in his throat as he raises his hand with no idea what to do with it. He brings his fist up to his mouth, then lets it fall, his fingers twitching. He looks to the side as Ezio stands up. “This is getting borderline ridiculous. I thought that me ending up in the past was already insane. Then I started jumping through time which is on a whole new level of absurd. And now this. Seriously, if this is all just one big hallucination, it’s just needlessly convoluted. What is the point? The Precursors couldn’t choose just one idea so they went with all three instead?”

“You still do not quite believe that this could be something more than just your imagination.” That somehow manages to sound both like a statement and a question at the same time. 

“Yeah well, I just started to fucking question that!”

It is not the construct who replies to that outburst, but a quick knock at the door. Before Desmond has time to rein in his expression, another Ezio, this one a decade younger than the one standing in the middle of the room, peeks in. 

“Desmond, is everything alright?” he asks as he pushes the door fully open. He stops when he notices the robes on the floor, then his gaze moves upwards to take in Desmond’s disheveled state. “It has been a while since you left us. And I thought I heard...”

Very slowly, Desmond turns his gaze from Ezio to the construct who meets his eyes, then back again. 

“Yeah, sorry, I've just…” He blurts out with no idea how to end that sentence. He tries to cover at least some of his deer-in-the-headlights panic by rubbing his eyes, then waves his free hand vaguely in a clumsy distraction attempt.

Which, unsurprisingly, seems to do nothing to assure Ezio that everything is fine. He takes another step towards Desmond, his cane tapping against the floor, and his brows furrow as he glances at the spot Desmond was staring at.

“I don't know, I'm just more tired than I thought after all,” Desmond hurries to say, his voice weak. “This day brought up some bad memories and… I think I’m just going to head to bed. Could you tell Leonardo that I’m sorry and that I’ll see him tomorrow?”

“Of course.” Ezio’s grip on the door handle tightens as he hesitates. He presses his lips together. “Caro, are you certain you do not need anything?”

“Seriously, I’m fine.”

“Well… I will go sit with Leonardo and Uncle for a moment, but I will not be long.”

“Yeah.” It's more a wheeze than a word, the sound he lets out when he looks away from Ezio and at the hallucination, who has an almost identical expression of worry on his lined face.

Somewhere behind his back, the door is closed. The construct waits until Ezio’s footsteps and the tapping of the cane have faded away before he addresses Desmond again.

“You did not tell him.”

“I'm going to. Don’t look at me like that, I’m going to – I swear that I’ve had enough of keeping things from him,” Desmond huffs as he sits back on the bed. “But he just got Leonardo back not an hour ago, I don’t want to ruin that. And this is just… It’s a lot. With the way he’s been acting because of the leg… And today, when I left with La Volpe – he’s worrying about me enough as it is.”

Ezio crosses his arms over his chest and turns his head towards the door, as if trying to hear something. His eyes narrow into thin slits. 

“He will go after the Apple.”

“We don’t know where it is. If it even works anymore.”

“That will not stop him.”

Desmond sighs and covers his eyes with his hand.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

He was sure that any attempt to get some sleep after a revelation like that would be doomed from the start, but apparently his sheer exhaustion did not care what he thought. He remembers crawling into bed after washing away the dust of the day, then nothing at all.

When he wakes up the next morning, Ezio is still asleep. The real one, with one of his arms wrapped around Desmond, that is. The one freeloading in his head is nowhere to be seen – which of course doesn’t mean it’s not there, but at least it’s not staring at him right now, because Jesus fucking Christ – 

As carefully as he can, Desmond lifts Ezio’s arm so that he can slip away from the warm embrace. He gets dressed quickly and makes sure the door lets out only the softest sigh when he closes it behind himself.

His first instinct is to leave the hideout behind and just run. But he has barely gotten outside when he remembers the state of chaos he left the city in yesterday. There is not a guard in Rome who isn’t looking for a man fitting his description, and while he’s confident he could get out of most situations, he’s also not at his best today. 

Also, Ezio would kill him if he got himself caught right after rescuing Leonardo.

So he changes his course and heads up instead, climbing to the top of the hideout, the highest building on their tiny island.

He sits there, cross-legged and scratching the stubble on his cheeks, while he looks over the drowsy city.

He’s going to disappear.

A shaky breath forces its way out of his lungs. 

Okay. Okay. So that’s a thing that’s going to happen.

Unless they get the Apple back. But how would they do that?

Cesare has it now, but it didn’t seem like he had it with him yesterday. So it is most likely at the war camp, and they’re not getting it back from there. So they’ll have to wait until it is brought to Rome. 

But who’s to say that it ever will? If this timeline really is not tied to the first one so tightly after all? Cesare might decide to keep the thing for good, or if Rodrigo does get his hands on it, he might hide it somewhere else – who knows, even whisk it away from Italy and ship it to some remote hiding place in the middle of fucking nowhere. He’s the fucking Pope, it’s not like he hasn’t access to every nondescript tiny church and mausoleum the Catholic church controls. 

Or maybe the most important question isn’t even how they’re going to get the Apple back.  Maybe it’s the one about how long Desmond is going to last.

Right. Fuck.

He glances up when he hears someone moving next to him, but turns back to stare at the city when he realizes it’s just the ghost living in his head.

“I didn’t ever think that getting to meet you would make me feel this shitty,” he mumbles as Ezio settles to lean against a chimney right at the edge of his peripheral vision. His dark hood hides his face.

A breeze dances over the rooftop – a pleasant change from yesterday’s heat. Desmond closes his eyes as it ruffles his hair, then opens them again to look at Ezio. 

“I don’t actually have to speak out loud when I talk to you, right?” 

Just the subtlest shake of his head is Ezio’s answer.

“Right,” Desmond chuckles, then tries to figure out how to direct his thoughts at the construct. “Have you… I don’t know, eaten the others or something? Altaïr, Ratonhnhaké:ton, Haytham. Haven’t really heard from them in a while.”

“I suspect that as I become more… tangible, something else has to give way. The others’ memories. You.”

A lonely, tiny cloud sails past them. Its shadow washes over them, then floats down to follow the Tiber. 

“Well, I guess this is better than the alternative, in a way. At least now my body won’t go to waste.” 

“I do not want it.”

“I know. Still.” Desmond runs his hand through his hair, keeping his gaze strictly on the horizon. “Hey, if it really comes down to it, you can have it. Hell, I’m glad it’s you.”

A small pebble has got stuck to the sole of his boot. He wiggles it free, then rolls it on his palm. It’s a light, sharp little thing he chucks over the edge of the roof and into the river. Then he glances over his shoulder at Ezio who has yet to say anything. 

“What?”

“I would wager that your lover will not be of the same mind on this matter.”

“Uh – yeah, probably not. Yeah, no, he’s going to hate this.” Groaning, Desmond lies down on his back and presses his palms over his eyes. He holds them there long enough that the sudden brightness of the sun makes his eyes water when he finally looks at the sky again. Yeah, that’s a conversation he really doesn’t expect to go over well. 

He shields his eyes and tilts his head to look at the construct. 

“Also, speaking of, how uncomfortable is it to see him with me?”

“Seeing him fumble his way through his life is a far worse thing,” Ezio huffs and meets his gaze with a small smile on his chapped lips. “Recalling one’s own failures and shortcomings is painful enough – having to witness them again like this is something else entirely.”

“I can imagine.”

Ezio straightens his back and walks over to the edge of the roof where he stands with his back to Desmond, looking over the river. A rogue wind brushes against the heavy pelts on his robes and makes the short hairs on them dance. 

“But to answer your question – what I feel is curiosity. Regret. Longing.” Another gust of wind tries to catch his hood and push it down to his neck, but he raises a hand to hold it in place. An imaginatory hood in an imaginatory wind. “And bitterness, perhaps. As you know, the life I was given did not often allow for such luxuries as love. At least not until Sofia. I love my wife and could not hold the short time I had with her any closer to my heart. But seeing the two of you now…”

As Ezio’s voice drifts off, Desmond pushes himself up to his elbows, then fully sits up, all of his attention on the way the light of the rising sun turns Ezio’s eyes golden. 

“While you found each other in this life, the man I once was, the man I remember being, was always meant to live and die without knowing you,” Ezio breathes out, his voice rough and almost angry, as he turns to face Desmond. “I do not know if, had things turned out differently, we would have become what he and you are in this life. But I lament the fact that I was never even given the chance to find out.”

“I would have loved you.” 

Sending a thought is far easier than saying the words out loud, Desmond realizes only after he sees the surprised expression on Ezio’s face. 

“...Aaaand I didn’t mean to tell you that. Sorry.”

“Do not apologize.” Ezio’s tone is light, amused, and his chuckle easy when he notices the blush of embarrassment creeping on Desmond’s face. And then the bastard has the nerve to wink at him. “Thank you, Desmond.”

Below them, the city is starting to wake up. The wind carries over a delicious scent from a bakery somewhere nearby, along with the sounds of children laughing. A flock of pigeons takes flight and rushes right past their roof and towards the open sky, the hum of their wings so loud that it almost startles them both. 

They stay in that comfortable silence for so long that Desmond half-expects the construct to have disappeared again by the time he dares to steal a glance at him. 

“Hey, I’m just wondering… You spoke of Sofia as your wife, but I didn’t get to see that far in the Animus. So, uh, what’s the last thing you remember of your life? Because you look – ”

“Like you remember me?” A smirk curves Ezio’s mouth as he steps away from the edge of the roof and walks past Desmond. And when Desmond twists around to see what he is doing, the old mentor is gone, and in his place stands a young boy, lithe and clean-shaven. The red ribbon of his ponytail dances in the wind, and the fresh cut on his lips has bled a trail of blood over his chin and down his throat.

“I am whatever form I choose to take,” the boy declares, his voice high and bright, as he bends down into an elaborate and entirely ridiculous bow. And when he straightens back up again, the boy has already turned into a man. 

A white cape flows proudly down his back, and the long tails of his robes sway in the breeze. There is not a strand of the old mentor’s silver in his hair yet, and his face, only slightly lined, is the exact mirror of the man Desmond woke up next to this morning.

“I told you – I am not real.”

Desmond struggles to find his voice. 

“Yeah, I can see that. Kinda creepy to hear you say that with that face though.”

Ezio chuckles, shrugging. 

Desmond turns back to face the city. It doesn’t take long before he hears Ezio’s footsteps approaching, but it is the gray mentor who sits down next to him. And yet this one is different as well. The Assassin robes are gone, replaced by something simple and plain to wear at home. The hood and weapons are gone, and there is more gray in his hair than Desmond ever remembers seeing. His face too, seems to suggest that this man is maybe a year or two older than the one who spoke to him through the Animus. 

“Your favorite?” Desmond asks as Ezio settles down next to him.

“Perhaps.” Ezio looks down at his hand which he curls into a loose fist. He breathes out and lifts his gaze to the city. “This is who I remember being.”

But he doesn’t look sixty-five. This can’t be who he was in 1524 – 

“I remember leaving Masyaf and reaching Rome almost a year later. I remember the day I married Sofia, I remember the home I bought for her. But I cannot recall anything that happened after the summer of 1513. Your existence tells me I must have had children before I died, and considering how these memories are… passed on, I can guess the reason why my memories cut off where they do.” Ezio’s voice betrays him then, revealing far more than his words were intended to. He keeps his gaze on the horizon, his body unnaturally still as he thinks of the child he will never get to meet. 

But the moment passes. Ezio tilts his head, not really focusing on Desmond but on something behind him. “Ah. 1524. Eleven years then,” he sighs as he rummages through Desmond’s memories. “More than I feared. Less than I hoped.”

“Ah, fuck… Hey, I’m so sorry I dragged you into this. Seriously.”

“...I have had time to accept it.”

“Oh, come on. You’re stuck in my head. Without a body.”

“And if you do not make haste, that problem will soon resolve itself.”

“Can you stop dodging for one fucking second? I am sorry. I know you wanted all of this bullshit to be over back in Masyaf. You absolutely deserved that normal, quiet life you wanted. Not his.”

“And I had that. For the eleven years I cannot remember.”

“That’s not the same and you know it.”

Ezio glances at him out of the corner of his eye, with a wry grin on his lips. The rising sun peeks in through the archways of the distant Colosseum, painting the giant of a structure with shades of gold and red. 

“...Do you miss Sofia?” 

Ezio sighs and brushes a strand of hair from his eyes. 

“Very much.” He manages one, bittersweet smile. “But it is comforting to speak to one who knows her as well as I do. Cares for her as much I do.”

Desmond finds himself mirroring the smile.

“Yeah, she was great.”

It is not so difficult then, to stay there and watch the sky and speak of the woman they both knew and loved once. 

Later, when Desmond hasn’t managed to find Ezio even after searching the entire first floor of the hideout, he finally stops in front of the door of their room. Inhales. Tells himself to stop being such a coward. 

The faint whispers of a half-finished conversation coming from the other side of the door hint that he’s in the right place. Sighing, he rests hand against the wooden door and just listens for a moment. 

“ – has no idea either?”

 “Not that I am aware of.”

“That is truly unfortunate. I am sorry, my friend.”

Nothing but the sound of his own breathing then. 

Muttering quiet curses, Desmond raps his knuckles against the door before pushing it open.

What greets him is the sight of both Ezio and Leonardo sitting on the bed – Ezio only half dressed, Leonardo hunched forward to study the injury on his thigh. The maestro gives Desmond a quick though genuinely happy greeting before returning his attention to the far more interesting matter of scar tissue, while Ezio’s gaze stays heavy on Desmond the entire time it takes him to walk over and take his spot by Ezio’s side.

“Where did you disappear off to?” Ezio asks in a quiet voice as Desmond leans against the closest bedpost. “I thought that you had jumped.”

“Just needed a moment. I’ll tell you later,” Desmond mutters and meets Ezio’s eyes for just a second before very deliberately turning to look at Leonardo, who is running his long fingers along the scarring on Ezio’s thigh. He stops every now and then to press his hand flat against the muscles there or ask Ezio to try to straighten the leg. 

“It has healed quite well, all things considered. Full recovery is not entirely impossible,” Leonardo says when he finishes his examination, his brow furrowed. “I have some suggestions on how you should exercise to help strengthen the muscles. And once I get my hands on some materials, I will make a better cane for you – the one you are using now is not ideal.”

“Thank you, Leonardo.”  

“Though I have to wonder…” Leonardo begins and nods towards Desmond’s black arm. “Have you tried healing him?” 

“Yeah, it’s the first thing we tried when I got back onto my feet after the siege. But it turns out I don’t have enough power to heal him without the Apple.”

“Could you still try? I would like to see it for myself.”

“Yeah, sure.”

After some shuffling around, Desmond and Leonardo manage to switch places so that Desmond ends up sitting on the bed opposite of Ezio. He lays his right hand on Ezio’s bare thigh, on the small patch of skin between his knee and the ugly scarring. He closes his eyes and focuses on the feeling of warm skin under his fingers, wanting the injured muscles to heal. 

And he feels the power surging through his arm. He knows he is glowing before he opens his eyes. 

“Fascinating,” Leonardo exclaims and leans in closer. The glow reflects in his eyes as he studies the golden lines on Desmond’s skin, now more visible than before. “How does it feel, Ezio?”

“Strange. There is this numb, tingling feeling I remember from before, but it does not hurt.”

Breathing out, Desmond stops focusing and lets the little energy he has managed to gather dissipate into thin air.

“Yeah, no chance. I don’t have enough power to do it. We’d need the Apple.”

Grunting, Ezio shifts the leg so that he can rest his foot on the floor. 

“And we will not get it back for a few more years, yes?” 

“Mmh. Cesare has it now, but it’s probably back at the war camp. Couldn’t sense it yesterday,” Desmond says and glances at Leonardo who nods to confirm his suspicion.

Something dark flashes in Ezio’s eyes, but it is gone just as Desmond notices it. 

“Well, we have you with us now.” The smile Ezio plasters on his face then is not one of his most convincing, but at least the affection with which he touches Leonardo’s arm can’t be faked. “I would rather have it this way.”

Leonardo saw Ezio’s reaction as well, because his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes when he gives Ezio’s shoulder one last friendly pat before turning to Desmond. 

“I have not yet had the chance to thank you for saving me.”

“Nah, don’t sweat it. Of course I’d help.”

“But I shall thank you anyway. Your help means a lot to me.”

With that, Leonardo leaves, mumbling something about some designs he wants to sketch. The door closes after him and makes Desmond suddenly very aware of the fact that he is now alone with Ezio. 

His hands are suddenly sticky with sweat. 

He glances at Ezio, decides that his halfdressed state is a good enough distraction, and marches to the wardrobe. He pulls out a few options and shows them to Ezio so he doesn’t have to get up on his feet – the leg might hurt more than usual after Leonardo’s examination.

“Niccolò sent word. He wants to plan for the Borgias’ inevitable counterattack. You did snatch Leonardo away from them after all, in broad daylight,” Ezio says and reaches out his arm to catch the pieces of clothing Desmond throws at him. “I would expect him to arrive any minute now.”

Fuck. 

Thank God. 

Not knowing how to convey any of that to Ezio, Desmond only shrugs and watches him get dressed. 

“Something is bothering you,” Ezio notes as he finishes braiding his hair. 

“Mmh. Later, okay?”

Frowning, Ezio gets up and grabs the cane from where it was leaning against the bed. He crosses the distance between them and rests his free hand on Desmond’s waist, a gentle invitation to come closer so that he can more easily search Desmond’s face for something that would tell him what is going on.

Desmond would just rather not speak. He leans against Ezio, then angles his head so that pressing his lips against Ezio’s doesn’t take much effort. And then he gladly allows himself to become deaf and blind to anything else but the mouth against his and the calloused hand on his hip. Because this is still him. This is something he wants, something that is still his own.

He prides himself on the fact that he doesn’t whine when Ezio breaks the kiss and pulls away. Worry has made a wrinkle appear between his brows, and he holds Desmond like something fragile when he brings his hand up to cup his cheek. 

Despite himself, Desmond leans against the touch.

“I love you,” he mumbles just as Ezio opens his mouth to say something. “Not just some version of you from the Animus, but you. You know that, right?”

It’s not hard to pinpoint the exact moment when the Assassin in Ezio takes over. 

“Desmond, what is wrong?”

He sighs and closes his eyes.

“...Once Niccolò has left.”

“No. Now.”

“This can wait for a few hours – “

“Niccoló can wait! What is it? Is it the – ”

“Just… please. Once he’s gone. I promise.”

Ezio’s chest rises, then falls with a deep breath. He brushes his thumb against Desmond’s cheekbone, his dark eyes meeting his.

“...I will hold you to that.”