HRRRMMM… You know, this just slapped me in the face the other day. I kind of had no warning. Always loved the games, but have never actually been inspired to write a fic before. IT'S QUITE ODD. But I enjoy it! You should, too. Don't have much else to say on the subject.

So, away we go!

Warnings: Slight ShaunxDesmond. A bit of preslash? Slight spoilers? Go finish the damn game and come back later.

Disclaimer: Oh man, Assassin's Creed would be so much fruitier if I owned it. A real shame, actually. It would have been marvelous…



Desmond came back to awareness with a groan. Nausea completely overwhelmed his senses, and he kept his shut tight, trying to hold back the bile that threatened to rise up in his throat.

"Hey Des, how ya holding up there, buddy?"

He groaned again, but managed to crack open one eye and turn his head to face Rebecca. She was watching him anxiously from behind her terminal. "Becca? Wha' happen'd?" He managed to slur, slightly pleased that he hadn't puked all over her yet. "Why'dya pull me out?"

Desmond shifted slightly, attempting to prop himself up on his elbows, but the room spun dizzyingly and he flopped back down into the Animus' chair with a moan, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Desmond," Rebecca said, voice heavy with guilt as she stood to move around the table to stand next to him, "I wasn't paying attention to your vitals. That's usually Lucy's job…" Their aforementioned colleague was currently away, meeting with a different group of Assassins, and was not due back for another week. "You've started to run a fever. Still low grade, but using the Animus when your brain's trying to cook itself isn't exactly an awesome idea. Kind of makes it worse, actually." Rebecca smiled sheepishly, staring at him with open concern. "How do you feel?"

"Like shit," was all he could force out, swallowing painfully and letting his arms drop back down to stare at the swaying ceiling of the Animus room, really the cabin's converted living room.

It was hard to believe they had been in this safe house for a whole month already. Perhaps it was because practically every waking moment was spent in the Animus, where time was completely relative, where days could have gone by and Desmond would never have even known it. Maybe it was because they were no closer to finding any answers then when they had escaped the last hideout. As desperately as they searched, they still couldn't find any clues as to what this supposed disaster may be, or how to stop it, or anything. The hours Desmond spent in the Animus, wading through memory after memory, yielded nothing of value.

Suddenly, Rebecca was pulling the needle out of his arm and tugging at his elbow, attempting to maneuver him into a sitting position. "C'mon Des, let's get you to bed."

Desmond sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the chair, but it quickly became apparent that he wasn't going to be able to get very far on his own. Already he was too dizzy to focus on anything, and with another pained groan he sat forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, letting his head hang down. He willed himself not to throw up.

He could practically feel the little holes Rebecca was drilling into the back of his head with her eyes.

"This isn't going to work," she announced. Turning, she bellowed over her shoulder, "Hey, Shaun!" A pause. "SHAUN! SHAAUUNN! SHAAAUU—"

"Jesus Christ, what is it, woman?!"

Desmond glanced up long enough to see Shaun stumbling into the room, looking extremely peeved. Judging from the fact that he had entered through the door that led to his and Desmond's shared bedroom, and that his clothes were looking extremely rumpled, he had been resting.

Desmond let his head fall back down.

After a silence, a pair of feet appeared in Desmond's line of sight, stopping directly in front of him. "What happened?" He heard Shaun ask.

"Desmond's sick," Rebecca replied simply. "He's got a fever."

"How high?"

Rebecca shifted to consult the computer. "101.3 degrees."

Suddenly, a hand was coming towards Desmond's face. Startled, he flinched away from it, his head snapping up, causing the room to lurch sickeningly. Shaun made a sound of annoyance, grabbing the back of the younger man's neck with one hand and clapping the other to his forehead.

"Get off," Desmond grumbled, trying to squirm away, but Shaun tightened his hand on his neck.

"Would you stop acting like a child?"

"Fuck you…"

Shaun sighed with exasperation, but he must have felt some pity for Desmond. He hauled him to his feet and let him lean heavily against his shoulder, and Desmond was secretly grateful for the help. He half walked, half dragged the ailing assassin to their bedroom, and Desmond managed to totter to his bed under his own strength, falling into it and closing is eyes, biting back a miserable moan. He heard Shaun walk away and return several moments later, and he shivered as something cool was pressed into his temple. He blinked, turning slightly to see Shaun standing over him, nudging his forehead with a bottle of water.

"Thanks," He muttered, sitting up slowly to take the water, eyeing it doubtfully. He wasn't even sure if he'd be able to keep it down.

"Drink all of it," Shaun ordered, scowling, "And then get some rest. You can't use the Animus again until you're well." With that, he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him. Desmond frowned, taking a few tentative sips of the water. It rolled about uncomfortably in his stomach. He felt wretched. His body ached vaguely, and his clothes clung to his sweaty, too-warm skin uncomfortably. With a sigh, the assassin quickly abandoned the water, falling back down into his pillows. It didn't take long for sleep to claim him.


Rebecca looked up when Shaun reappeared. "How is he?"

Shaun shrugged, strolling to his desk on the opposite side of the room. "It's just a fever. We've been pushing him. He'll have to sleep it off."

Rebecca frowned. "It's the bleeding effect. It's seriously starting to fuck with him now."

Shaun glanced over at her, confused. "He has a fever. What does that have to do with the bleeding effect?"

Rebecca sighed, turned to place her elbow on the table, her chin in her hand. "Well," she began, addressing the wall, "He's exhausted. S'not exactly a cakewalk, using the Animus, and he's in it all day, every day. When he's not in the Animus, the bleeding affect is screwing around with his brain. Haven't you noticed how spacey he is? His brain is totally getting trashed; he's hallucinating half the time he's awake. He says he dreams about it all the time, too. It's happening in his sleep. It's like, his mind hasn't been able to get a single break from all of this since we started. When the mind is exhausted, it starts affecting the body. Weakening it, you know?" She glared at the wall. "He's under a shit-ton of pressure, but we can't let up on him. It's not fair… But we got no choice."

Shaun was frowning now, eyes fixed at a point on the wall opposite him. It was true; the bleeding effect had been worsening these last few weeks. At times, it seemed Desmond's mind was miles away from them all. Several times, he had begun speaking to the group in Arabic or Italian without realizing it, and after intense sessions in the Animus, he occasionally had difficulties recognizing them immediately, or remembering their names.

"He'll be lucky to get out of this with his head in one piece," He said softly. Rebecca sighed again from across the room. Shaun shook his head, scrubbing his face with his hands. He turned to look at Rebecca.

"Come on, we still have work to do."


He could hear the guards shouting behind him as he ran. His clothes felt heavy and sticky with blood – not his own, but his target's. He smiled savagely at the thought: one more villain gone from this world. Ezio turned a sharp corner, throwing himself over the railing of the bridge and dropping into the water with a splash—

He was cold. Why was he so cold? He felt like he was drowning. And he was so tired, so tired, it would be easier just to drown…

He plummeted, arms outstretched. He closed his eyes, and, smiling, twisted his body mid-flight. And he was flying – like the raptor he was named for, he was flying. It was here where he was truly free—

The faceless figures were pressing in around him. They were grabbing at his arms, the hem of his jacket, fingers digging into his flesh. He thrashed wildly, batting their hands away, trying to pull himself out of their grip. "No!" He cried, trying to break through them, to run and hide, but, oh, God, they were everywhere, and looking around, he realized he was back here again. "No!" He choked on the word, and he needed to run, to escape, but he was panicking and his heart was beating too fast and his feet were rooted to the spot and they were grabbing at him again and pulling him down and, ohGodtheywouldn'tllethimgo, and he wanted to scream but he couldn't, it hurt too much, and now he was burning, his breath catching in his throat, a low groan slipping past his lips. God, it hurt, and all he wanted was for it to stop, stop, stop, please, just make it stop…

Someone was shaking him.

Desmond bolted upright, simultaneously shoving the figure away from him while he scrambled backwards. His back hit the wall, and he fell from the bed, landing on the floor in a trembling heap, breaths coming from him harsh and loud and way too fast. Everything was spinning, and someone was grabbing him by the shoulders again, hauling him upright and pushing him against the wall. Hands were grasping his face and someone was talking to him, but he couldn't focus on their face, couldn't hear them over his own breathing and heart beat.

"Desmond! DESMOND! For fuck's sake, calm down, you're going to make yourself pass out! DESMOND!"

He still couldn't focus on anything, but he thought the person was familiar, or at least his voice was, but blackness was creeping into his vision, and soon everything fell away all together.


Desmond blinked, suddenly awake. He was back in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, his head pounding dully in time with his heartbeat. The blankets were pulled up to his chin, but he was hot. He kicked them off, shifting his weight onto his elbows as he attempted to sit up.

"Lie back down."

Shaun was walking back in, a frown on his lips and his brow furrowed. When he didn't obey immediately, the Brit stomped over to his bed, pushing him down easily and pulling the blanket back over him. He looked irritated. "And keep this on, you have a fever, you idiot."

"No, it's hot," Desmond croaked, realizing he must sound like a child.

"I don't care, keep it on," he barked, stalking out of sight again as he disappeared into the bathroom.

Desmond managed to shift and squirm his way into a half-way sitting position by the time Shaun reappeared. He stalked across the room to grab a chair and drag it to Desmond's bedside, dropping into it. Desmond jumped about half a foot when Shaun grabbed at his neck again, pulling the assassin towards him and slipping something into his ear. After a second, Desmond realized it had to be a thermometer, and he wanted to give Shaun a dirty look, but decided it was too big a risk when he was holding onto his neck like that.

There was a shrill beep that made Desmond wince, and Shaun removed the device, consulting it with a scowl. He glared up at Desmond and arms crossed. "103.4 degrees," He announced irritably, as if Desmond was personally responsible for his temperature and had given himself a fever on purpose.

Still, no good would come from pissing Shaun off now. "Sorry?" Desmond offered hoarsely as he leaned back down, closing his eyes. His head was fuzzy, but he attempted to make sense of it anyway. "Did I pass out?" He asked.

"Yes," Shaun answered, his voice harsh. "You hyperventilated. I don't think you recognized me." He paused. "Must have been some fucking fever dream."

Desmond shook his head slowly, eyes still closed. "Wasn't a dream… Not all of it… Fuck, I don't know…"

"The bleeding effect?" Shaun asked quickly, and Desmond heard his chair squeak as he leaned closer.

"Some of it…" He confessed. He suddenly found that he was cold, freezing in fact, and he burrowed himself deeper into the mattress, moaning slightly. "'S cold," He murmured, shivering.

"That would be the fever," Shaun told him. "Hold on."

He heard him rise, and then felt the weight of another blanket being thrown over him. Desmond mumbled a thanks, and Shaun sat again. There was silence for several long minutes.

"The bleeding effect is getting bad."

"Yeah," the assassin said softly.

"It's only going to get progressively worse, you realize."

"Yeah."

"But you're still going to continue with the Animus?"

"'Course."

"… You're not very bright, you know."

"Yeah, I know…"

Another long silence.

"The bleeding effect wouldn't have made you that distressed. You were practically sobbing in your sleep, and you were half out of your mind when you woke up."

Desmond was quiet for a moment, his brain sluggish and the words not coming to him as quickly as they should. "A nightmare," He finally said, turning his head to bury it into his pillow. "One I haven't had since… Fuck, since I was nineteen…"

"What about?" Shaun asked.

For a moment, Desmond considered ignoring his question. He didn't have to tell him. It was personal. But then, Shaun had seen how much it had rattled him. And talking about it was better than falling back to sleep and into another nightmare.

"I… I dunno. It's weird. When I ran away… From the Assassin compound, where I was raised… I started having nightmares. I mean, I was sixteen. I was scared shitless, I didn't want them to find me and bring me back… I hated that place. I…" Desmond sighed. "I would dream that they found me and they'd drag me back… Torture me… Kill me… My friends, and teachers, and… Parents… I… Everyone there was crazy, and… It's stupid, but I was scared. It was only until I was half way across the country when I started to feel safe. Well, not safe. Never really been safe, always looking over my shoulder… Waiting for someone to attack me… Couldn't stay anywhere too long… Someone was always looking for me… Stupid, but… For years, I was scared."

Desmond was vaguely aware that he was rambling, but he was too tired to care. He opened one eye to find Shaun staring at him with an unreadable expression.

"Are you scared now?"

Desmond paused, thinking. "… Yeah."

"You shouldn't be." The words came out quickly, and sounded almost pained, but when Desmond turned to look at him, Shaun was staring fixedly at his hands. "You're safe here, Desmond. I… We won't let anything happen to you."

Desmond felt like his mind was a million miles away from him. His thoughts were slow, and it was difficult, trying to understand Shaun's words. He closed his eyes again, a half-hearted chuckle escaping him. "'M not safe… Never safe… Not even from m'own mind," he said slowly. Shaun made a strange noise, but Desmond was too far gone, slipping slowly into sleep. He felt Shaun's hand on his face again, but this time he was smoothing sweat-soaked hair from his forehead. It was a strange comfort from a completely unlikely source.

"Get some sleep, Miles. You'll be alright."


"Is he okay?" Rebecca asked, slipping into the room quietly, casting a concerned look at Desmond. Shaun turned to look at her and sighed. Desmond had only been asleep for ten minutes, but already his expression was a pained one.

"His temperature keeps getting higher," He told her, frowning. "It's worrisome." Shaun ran a hand through his hair, his frown shifting into his usually scowl of annoyance. "What the bloody fuck did he catch? And how? The only people he's been exposed to in the past month is me, you, and Lucy. Why is he so sick?"

"I don't know," Rebecca said slowly, "He could have gotten this anywhere. I mean, our immune systems are running smoothly, they can beat off a whole mess of shit that's lurking around here, but Desmond's isn't working so well. The Animus and the bleeding effect have seriously worn him down. Whatever he caught has probably been brewing for days, maybe weeks…"

Shaun turned to stare at the younger man. He was pale except for the flush of color across his cheeks, and there was a fine sheen of sweat on his face. He was shifting fitfully, murmuring quietly, though Shaun couldn't catch what he was saying. He had never seen anyone become this ill so quickly before. He was worried for the assassin. Though he found him almost as annoying as Rebecca, Desmond had managed to crawl under his skin and take up permanent residence in the back of Shaun's head. Shaun had become used to Desmond's constant presence. Hell, he even considered the man a friend. Though he enjoyed abusing and taunting the assassin, he found no pleasure from seeing him in this state.

"But what can we do?" He asked, frustrated. "If he gets worse, he could die. We can't take him to a hospital. We can't get any sort of doctor to help him. This isn't something a bandage or a pain killer can fix – we're useless here!"

Rebecca leaned against the doorjamb, staring at her feet. "At this point, it's all on Desmond. Whatever he has, we can't fight it for him." Rebecca smiled weakly at the historian. "He may not be at his best, but Desmond is still tough. He can pull through. He always does."


and the hands were there, and they were pulling at him, trapping him, and he wanted to die, because he was scared, and it hurt, God, but it hurt, and –

There were hands on his face again, stroking his cheeks and forehead soothingly, and a stern but gentle voice was ordering him to calm down and look at him. His eyes snapped open and darted around frantically, before they fell on a rather blurry Shaun. Mortified, he realized that those were tears blurring his vision, and he reached up to rub at his face.

"'M fine," He choked, too embarrassed to look at the older man.

"Another nightmare?"

"Yeah… Same one…"

If it was even possible, Desmond felt worse than he had an hour ago. His muscles ached and his head was pounding mercilessly against his skull. The nausea had returned with a vengeance, and everything swam in front of his eyes. Shaun insisted he take his temperature again. It was 104.9 degrees. Desmond moaned.

"Go back to sleep, Desmond. The only way you're going to get over this is if you rest. Just go back to sleep."

And Desmond did.


He was running.

He couldn't see anything, not even his own body, but he knew it was there, and he knew he was running, and he couldn't stop. His feet were slipping against something, something slick and wrong, something that shouldn't be there, couldn't be there.

Suddenly, the world began to fill out around him. Colors rushed by as he ran, objects forming out of the nothingness, and before knew it, he was standing in the warehouse of their first hideout, breathing heavily, body shaking from head to foot.

It was here, but it was all wrong.

Blood, blood was everywhere, on the floors and walls and stairs, everywhere. He was moving again, his feet scrambling to find purchase on the slick floor as he bounded up the stairs.

He knew what he would find even before he got there. Still, he was unprepared for the sight. They were just laying there pools of their own blood, too still, too cold. There lay Lucy, and Rebecca, and, oh, God, Shaun, splayed across the floor with grinning, gaping slashes across their necks.

And the blood, the blood was everywhere, on the walls and ceiling and floor, and, no, soaking through his shirt, dripping down his unsheathed hidden blade to the floor and trickling down his face as tears spilled from his eyes, and HE had done this, his fault, and he was breathing frantically, clutching at his head with his hands and moaning, it was him, his fault, his fault, his fault, and he couldn't remember, but somehow he knew, and he wanted to scream but he couldn't breathe and those hands were grabbing at him again, burning him, pulling him down until he was falling, falling through nothingness, not like the free fall that Altair relished and Ezio love, that even he took a thrill in, but a terrifying descent that seemed to have no end, and he was drowning again, the hands choking him, piercing his skin and his bones and he —

There were the hands again, but they were not the ones that hurt. They were the hands that stroked his face and smoothed his hair, and a voice was speaking in his ear, frantic and sharp and worried, but Desmond didn't care, because he knew that voice and he knew that touch. He flung himself at the owner of the voice and hands, clinging desperately to his frame. He ignored the nausea and pain that surfaced at the edge of his awareness as his fingers tangled into the back of his shirt and his face was pressed into his collar bone and painful, harsh sobs were ripped from his throat.

"I'm sorry!" He gasped, scarcely aware of what he was saying, only caring that this person was here and had thrown his own arms around the assassin, voice still loud and startled. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, God, I'm sorry, please…"

"Desmond!" He heard the man cry, and strong hands grasped his shoulder, holding him at arm's length."Desmond, you need to stop! Calm down, breathe! Are you listening to me? DESMOND!"

The man's eyes searched his face for any clues of comprehension. Desmond, still choking on his sobs and trembling, stared right back. It took several long moments before it finally hit him. "Shaun," he gasped, completely out of breath and lightheaded. Shaun seemed to sense this, because he eased Desmond back into a reclining position, watching him with open concern. "I…"

"Easy, Miles, just breathe, take it slow…" Shaun said soothingly. He was sitting on the edge of Desmond's bed, his gaze fixed on the assassin's face. "It was a dream. You've been out for a couple hours, your fever's gotten too high." He himself was looking extremely rattled. "I wasn't able to wake you. I was afraid you were going into a coma…"

Desmond blinked, his head too heavy to process much of anything being said. "'M okay…" He croaked, squinting at Shaun in an attempt to bring him into focus.

Apparently, this was not what Shaun wanted to hear.

"No you bloody well aren't!" He snapped, glaring at the younger assassin. "Your fever was at 106.7 bloody degrees! You were literally less than one degree away from brain damage! Or death! Or god knows what else!" Desmond flinched slightly, but Shaun only sighed. "Never mind. Just hold still, I need to check again, you were thrashing around too much earlier…"

This time around, it was 105.8, still too high for Shaun's comfort, and he frowned at him. Desmond blinked blearily back. "Sorry," he mumbled again, "'M sorry…"

Shaun let out a frustrated breath. "Stop apologizing. You can't help being ill."

"No, I'm sorry…" Why was this so difficult for him? Didn't he understand?

Shaun stared at him until it hit him. "Oh, your nightmare," he said, brow furrowed. He placed a hand on Desmond's sweat-slick forehead. "Don't worry about it, Miles. You were dreaming, nothing happened."

"But—" Desmond choked on the rest of his sentence. His hands clung to Shaun's shirt again, and the historian was looking at him with shock, which soon melted into an expression of worry.

"Desmond, it was a dream. You're still delirious, your fever is high. You're okay..."

But Desmond was quickly losing comprehension of the conversation. Shaun's hand was smoothing his hair again, and it was making Desmond tired. His eyes slipped shut and he sagged back into his pillows.

"It's okay, Desmond. I won't let anything happen to you. Just… Just be okay…"

Once again, sleep reclaimed him.


For nearly twenty-four hours, Desmond suffered.

His fever fluctuated, never rising above 106.3, but never falling past 105.5. He was haunted alternatively between nightmares and hallucinations from the bleeding effect. He was never very responsive when he was awake; the fever was making him too delirious. Even though he was completely exhausted, he could never stay asleep for more than an hour, either.

Shaun found it nearly painful.

He could give very little help to the younger man. He could offer soothing words, wash the sweat from his face, try to shake him awake from nightmares and talk him through hallucinations, but that was all. Several times, he found himself wishing desperately that he could take the assassin's pain away from him.

"You're alright, Miles," Shaun told him as the man moaned and twitched fitfully. "Just come back, Desmond. You'll be fine. Just come back…"


Desmond cracked her eyes open slowly. He could tell he had been asleep for a several hour; actually asleep, unbothered by nightmares or pain. He shifted slightly, and lifting up his head he saw—

"Becca?"

The woman, who had been sitting in the chair with legs stretched out to the end of Desmond's bed, balancing a laptop on her knees, started slightly, and looked towards the assassin. She grinned at him.

"Hey, Des!" She said softly, closing the computer and leaning forward in her seat. "How you feeling?"

Desmond sat slowly upright, rubbing at the back of his neck and taking stock of his various pains. "Better, actually," He said, his voice low and scratchy. It was true. His body still ached slightly, and he could tell he still had a fever, but it was lower than it had been, and the dizziness and nausea had gone.

Desmond looked back to Rebecca. "Where's Shaun?"

Rebecca grinned and gestured with a thumb over her shoulder. Desmond leaned forward slightly to glance past her, and he saw Shaun's form on the bed on the other side of the room, back turned towards them. He was very obviously asleep.

"You've been out of it for about a day," Rebecca informed him in hushed tones. "Shaun's been up with you the whole time. I only just bullied him into taking a break a couple hours ago. He's been really worried about you."

A twinge of guilt shot through Desmond's stomach. He could only remember bits and pieces of the last twenty-four hours, but he did remember Shaun being there every time he woke from a nightmare or fever dream or terrifying snatches from the bleeding effect…

Rebecca could read the look on his face. "Hey, don't worry about it Des. It's not your fault you 're sick, and you're on the mend now." She stood, tucking her laptop under her arm. "Now come on. It's been two days since you actually ate something, I bet you anything you're starving to death."


At first, Shaun wasn't sure why he was awake. He had only been asleep for a couple hours, and he was still exhausted. There were no windows in the room, so there was no sunlight to wake him. In fact, all the lights in the room were still just as dim as he had left them when Rebecca had ushered him to bed. The room was completely silent. So what had woke him up?

Wait. Silent.

There was no soft clicking of the keys on Rebecca's laptop. He couldn't here Desmond's quiet breathing, or the whispered groan of the mattress as the restless sleeper shifted and turned. It was silent.

For reasons he could not explain, Shaun panicked.

Before he even realized what he was doing, he was jumping out of bed and bolting for the door. He nearly fell into the next room in his haste, eyes darting around frantically. Not spotting them, he was halfway out the front door before Rebecca stuck her head out of the doorway leading to the kitchen.

"Shaun? What are you doing?"

The older man sputtered and stormed into the tiny kitchen.

Desmond was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at him with a bemused expression. He was nursing a glass of water, and was making a valiant effort at finishing a bowl of condensed soup, though it was clear at this point that he was mostly just stirring it around. Shaun took note of his slightly flushed face and too-bright eyes, but the relief he felt that Desmond was conscious, that he was upright and responsive and there, was almost overwhelming. He could have kissed the man.

But of course, he didn't. Instead, he got pissed off.

"What are you doing out of bed?" He barked, making the assassin jump. "You're still sick! Where in the hell is your jacket? Jesus, you aren't even wearing any bloody socks!"


Desmond let Shaun chase him out of the kitchen and back to his bed ("What are you doing still sitting there? GET. TO. BED. NOW!"). He endured the man's worried scolding ("Stop bitching! It's not my fault you're an idiot and can't even take care of yourself for more than a minute."), let him palm his forehead and finally take his temperature ("102.7 degrees. You're a real pain, you know that?"). He drained the water he forced on him ("When I say drink all of it, I mean it, Miles!"), and let him glare him into a reclining position and pull the blankets over him again, even though it was stifling ("I don't care if it's hot, you are keeping these blankets on!").

Shaun had been really worried about him. If it eased his mind, even a little, Desmond would let him fuss.


Desmond was dimly aware, several hours later, that his fever had gone up again. It didn't bother him, though. He recalled Rebecca saying earlier, when it was starting to climb again and Shaun was beginning to act anxious, that a fever would spike before it broke.

Still, that didn't seem to stop Shaun from worrying.

Once again, he was stroking Desmond's face and hair. Though Desmond still thought the action was odd coming from Shaun, it still wasn't entirely unwanted. It was extremely calming. He turned his head slightly to glance at the historian.

"Hey…"

"Yeah?"

"I… Uh, th-thanks, Shaun… For…"

"Yeah. No problem, Desmond. Just go back to sleep, alright?"

Desmond nodded, letting himself drift off. Somehow, he knew no nightmare would touch him.


Well, jeez. That turned out pretty long. 12 pages. Honestly, I have no idea where it came from. Maybe inspiration will strike again in the future. I do so love Assassin's Creed.

I dunno.

Review and we'll see.