Primary Care

Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5

By Monster

Any idiot would know that the physical conditioning of a twelfth- and fifteenth-century assassin couldn't possibly correlate to a twenty-first century bartender, so Shaun didn't understand why Lucy was shocked that Desmond broke his damned arm jumping off a thirty foot tall stack of boxes.

He was pretty sure the same thing happened to That Italian Assassin, but Shaun was scolded for his choked laughter.

The worst part was the setback in their already delayed schedule.

"But Shaun!" The girls had cried. "We don't know how the Animus will react to a broken limb! Or how Desmond will react!" Women. Fearless leader or not, Lucy was ridiculously sympathetic. He didn't know what Rebecca's excuse was; that chit was hardly female.

So, damn it all, Shaun was stuck piecing together the Truth and Desmond was doing American things in the corner of the room. Shaun, enjoying a lovely cup of traditional Earl Grey tea (in those horrible bags, awful contraptions) when the failure-of-an-Assassin spoke up.

"That segment isn't important." Desmond said, pointing at the screen. Shaun scowled but did not acknowledge that Desmond even spoke, and pretended he was still in the corner. "It was Sixteen's test of coding in the Animus. It's a ramble on Queen Isabella's fertility or something."

Shaun paused, fingers flexing over the keyboard, resisting the urge to strangle. "It is relevant." He said tersely.

Desmond stared at Shaun hard, like he was an idiot or something. Shaun was not amused. "How is it relevant if one of Sixteen's ancestors fucked Queen Isabella? Christ!"

"You're a right moron, Miles. Christ! Just because it doesn't pertain to you doesn't make it historically unimportant!"

"From Sixteen's journals, the only thing you'll learn is that the Spanish Royalty is filled with promiscuous bastards!" Shaun swiveled forcefully in his chair to glare at Desmond only to see that the pitiful Yankee was looking a bit ill.

"Sixteen was sick," He elaborated. "He leaves videos in these journals. You can't see them but every night I have nightmares about that asshole's ancestors fucking some nasty aristocrat only to shank them the next morning. After. Fucking. Them." He needlessly emphasized. Shaun thought Desmond deserved it, and he said as much. Desmond kicked Shaun's chair away from his desktop with surprising force.


Shaun thought Desmond should have broken his neck rather than his arm.


They couldn't really go to a doctor ("All doctors are Templars in one way or another," Lucy said adamantly and Shaun rolled his eyes at her. Hard.), so Lucy set the bone for Desmond, and he made the most painful noise that Shaun had ever heard, so he was a little sympathetic. A little. While Desmond was panting from the pain and agony, Lucy poured whiskey down his throat; Rebecca made a pitiful splint; Lucy wrapped the splint in gauze; Rebecca added another splint; so on, so forth. Shaun watched passively. He had offered his help, but Lucy was convinced that he would find a way to poison Desmond (she was correct, but the accusation still stung).

Whiskey made Desmond hilariously drunk, and Shaun would have appreciated it more if it wasn't causing the assassin to moan in pain. While Lucy wasn't looking, Rebecca slipped him a couple pills with the next swig of whiskey; he was out like a lamp. Shaun had a sneaking suspicion that they were pills that Lucy had "confiscated" when she formed the group. When Lucy glanced up at Rebecca at the sudden quiet, she shrugged innocently and said something about not being able to hold his liquor under duress.

A glance at Shaun and he just rolled his eyes at her again. She scowled.

She confiscated his guilty pleasures, too.


Shaun thought Lucy could go jump off a bridge.


"I'm going to regret this, but," Lucy sighed as if it was the most taxing task, talking to Shaun. He preened at the thought. "Rebecca and I need you to watch Desmond. We need medical supplies and food and quite frankly, I don't trust you in public anymore." Shaun quit preening.

"It was one time, and I was right anyway." He argued.

Lucy threw her arms up in the air. "Whatever! Frankly, women are more unassuming anyway." He snorted, and Lucy ignored him. "Rebecca and I have a better chance of getting what we need. So stay here."

Obviously, Shaun was Lucy's new golden retriever. The bint left, and Shaun rotated his head to stare disdainfully at the corner Desmond's prone form occupied. He swiveled back to his computer and began working on the Truth as long as Desmond remained in blissfully drugged sleep.


Shaun thought that Rebecca could take her bloody pills and shove it.


When Desmond is delirious with pain or so high on whatever Rebecca gave him, Shaun doesn't really mind him. He glances over his shoulder to make sure that the idiot hasn't rolled on his broken arm; this glance, Desmond has managed to become feverish with pain.

Shaun had no idea what to do. This was Lucy's forte, for chrissake. He moved toward the bedside, staring at Desmond. He unzipped the atrocious hoodie and pressed a can of soda against Desmond's forehead. He slapped his forehead and retreated to the watercloset, returning with a wet cloth which he draped over the assassin's forehead.

"Fuck, it hurts," Desmond whispered. Shaun didn't think the idiot knew he was awake. "Jesus. It wasn't this bad when I broke my leg."

Shaun figured it was probably Desmond's fault that time also. "What happened?"

Desmond laughed bitterly; "Training." He groaned and tried to move his arm but stopped with a cry of pain. "Fuck!"

The historian surveyed the room in hopes of finding those magical pills of Rebecca's. There, on her desk next to the Animus two-point-oh- an inconspicuous orange bottle half filled with little white pills. He left the babbling idiot's side to retrieve them and what remained of the whiskey before popping two of the pills in Desmond's complaining mouth and forcing him to drink the alcohol. Desmond sputtered, and almost choked (wishful thinking), spilling the whiskey over his cheeks and chin. Shaun watched passively.

Desmond's eyes rolled to the back of his head and he passed out.

Shaun went back to work. After he changed the wet rag and made sure the idiot still had a pulse.


Shaun thought that Desmond was an attention whore.


The girls came back with medical supplies and the like. They wouldn't let Shaun in the shopping bags at all, just tossing him the bad with medical supplies before the ladies glowered and left for the kitchenette. Gauze, more splints, pain medication (Shaun snorted at that), band-aides (with cartoon Batman on them. Shaun supposed Rebecca picked those out); it was a small pharmacy, sans condoms. Nice message there, Lucy. Yankee bitch.

"Has he gotten up at all?" Rebecca asked, shuffling things around her desktop. Searching, Shaun supposed.

"He groans in pain occasionally, but other than that he hasn't done anything important. Did you buy tea?"

"Hasn't gotten up at all, huh?" She continued her shuffling. Rebecca muttered things under her breath and begins her search on the floor.

"No. He remains blissfully quiet. Did you buy tea?" Shaun asked again, watching Rebecca search but not helping.

"Weird, those meds shouldn't last so long, the pain should have woken him up a little while ago."

"Small blessings. Did you buy any tea." Shaun repeated, glaring meaningfully at Rebecca's back.

"No, Shaun, we didn't buy any of your damn tea. We didn't get alcohol or beer or soda, either. Just fucking coffee." Synchronized groans from Shaun and Desmond. "Where the fuck are my pills?"

Shaun glanced behind his monitor at the bottle of meds sitting quietly and unnoticed, orange around the black of the screen and computer. "Haven't seen them."

"Yes, I bought tea, no matter what Rebecca says," Lucy said irritably, stocking the cabinets in the kitchenette. Shaun sighed in relief.

"Did you get-"

"Yes, Shaun, it's Earl Grey." She answered, and Shaun sighed again happily.

"God save the Queen, Lucy, you are amazing, even if the tea is in those bloody awful bags." Shaun fills his sentence with so much relief and pleasure that Lucy doesn't remind him of her 'the Queen is a Templar' theories. He watches as she stocks the cabinets, wondering how such a small space can carry such a large amount of items.

"How's Desmond?" Lucy asked, putting fruits and vegetables in the refrigerator. Shaun sneered at the food behind Lucy's back- they're trying to save the world and Lucy wants them to have their share of carrots.

"Same as when you left. Dead to the world- metaphorically speaking," He amended when he caught Lucy's worried expression. "Woke up briefly to piss and moan but passed out shortly thereafter."

"I suppose it can't be helped," No, really, Lucy, Shaun wanted to say.

After silence, Shaun voiced the question not one of them has asked out loud. "So how long do you think Miles will be out of commission?" He crossed his arms and steps aside as Lucy glares at him, pasta noodles in hand. It is a beat of silence before Lucy replies.

"Honestly, Shaun, I have no idea. Only Desmond knows how his body reacts to the Animus, and it could do some serious damage if we put him in there now. It might be months before we can put him in again." Shaun swore. "Exactly."

"So what do we do until then? We're at quite a stand-still until Miles is certified 'ready,'"

Lucy grimaced. "I know, but we don't have a choice. We'll just need to decrypt the memories we have and view them, gather relevant data. Work on the Truth, maybe."

"How in the hell are we supposed to do the Truth, Lucy? Desmond is the only one with a real grasp on it."

"Well, I guess you'll have to work together then," Lucy responded sweetly and Shaun swore again so vehemently that Lucy slapped him.


Shaun thinks that Lucy can suck it up and put Miles in the Animus, because this is ridiculous.


They can't even train Desmond while he has a broken arm. They can make him run, and maybe one-armed work outs, but it is nearly fruitless. Shaun spends most of his time decrypting with Rebecca, or piecing together the Truth. There wasn't much to do without the Animus except work and bitch.

"Why hasn't Vidic found us yet?" Desmond asked one day. Shaun paused in mid-keystroke, surprised. That was a surprisingly good question.

"Who's to say he hasn't, Des?" Rebecca responded, saving Shaun from admitting he had no idea.

"Well, I mean... why hasn't he come here if he knows where we are?" Miles asked slowly, as if explaining things to a small child (similar to how Shaun spoke to Desmond, really).

Rebecca deliberated for a moment before responding. "I think it's because he wants to know what you know, too. Y'know, make sure you got enough time to know what he wants to know before you go an' kidnap people, y'know?"

"How is he tracking our progress?" Desmond said, as if nothing was wrong with Rebecca's last sentence.

"Dunno Des. That all depends on if he got through Shaun's firewalls," Shaun puffed his chest out, proud, though neither were looking at him. "In any case, we're at a standstill until that," A gesture toward the broken arm. "Is better."

"So what the hell am I supposed to do?" Desmond asked, frustrated. Shaun perked at the opportunity to finally speak, and he beat Rebecca to the punchline.

"The same thing you always do, Desmond; absolutely nothing." Desmond, who happened to be leaning near Shaun's desk, kicked the swivel chair forcefully sending him away from his monitor. Shaun grinned in pleasure.


Shaun does not enjoy mixed signals.


Everyone is getting stir-crazy by now. Rebecca has long since given up on her pills, making Shaun wonder not for the first time what exactly the damn things are. It's late at night, and Shaun is still working on the Truth. Lucy and Rebecca had retired to their bedroom some hours ago, leaving Shaun and Desmond (though that was incredibly debatable, as he was laying on the bed in the corner being American) the only ones awake. With a stretch, Shaun stood, taking his mug with him to the kitchenette to make more tea.

It was close to three AM, Shaun noticed, popping the mug of water into the microwave. He set it for three minutes and peered out the small window in the kitchenette, barely larger than Shaun's head and shoulders.

He didn't know Desmond was behind him until a hand grasped his arm, flipping him around. With a gasp, Shaun was turned forcefully and pressed against the wall with a very awake Desmond staring into his soul with brown eyes.

Shaun knew he looked like a dear in headlights, but Desmond didn't notice. Desmond didn't notice anything- his eyes were unfocused and Shaun stared fearfully over the rims of his glasses. Bleeding effect, yes, perfect; please tell me he sees me as anybody but a Templar.

Apparently he was not a Templar, because Desmond pressed closer to Shaun, gripping his wrist tightly with his unbroken arm and using his cast to keep the other pinned as well. A thigh went in between Shaun's leg, pressing against his groin, and he squeaked. "D-Desmond!"

Desmond said something in Italian, pressing even closer to Shaun, taking his left hand and trailing it down Shaun's leg. Shaun tried to get as close to the wall as possible. Desmond had none of that, pressing himself even closer to Shaun. Desmond murmured in Italian again, his lips trailing Shaun's shoulder and up his neck. As his lips nearly closed in on Shaun's, the timer on the microwave went off, startling both Shaun and Desmond the fifteenth century Italian playboy.

Desmond's eyes seemed to focus and he realized where he was. The microwave beeped insistently. He looked down to the precarious position they were in, and Desmond released Shaun before turning tail and fleeing back to his bed.

Shaun was still pressed against the wall, the small window next to him filtering in bits of moonlight, and the microwave still insinuating itself into his reverie.


Shaun was thankful for Lucy sometimes.


Shaun hated being stuck in a room with everybody; it was okay as long as Desmond was in the Animus, but he wasn't, so it was bloody pointless. The girls were tinkering on the Animus and Desmond was sorting through his memories on Rebecca's computer. Shaun was fiddling with the Truth, which seemed more bizarre and impossible each day.

"Damn it, Lucy! I think we do need a bigger memory core. Desmond was cranking out too many memories and we don't have enough space to store it," Desmond craned his head around the computer and Shaun glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder at the girls.

"We can't be using up that much space that quickly-" Lucy tried to argue, but Rebecca had none of that nonsense.

"Don't be stupid, Lucy, you know how much space memories take up on the hard-drive. Abstergo had ridiculous amount of space- a ridiculous amount ofmemory. We don't. We either need to delete memories as we do them or get more space,"

Lucy pursed her lips, as if it was a hard decision. Because we weren't working for those memories at all, so we should obviously delete them. God, you stupid bint, go get a bloody external hard-drive, Shaun was about to open his mouth to speak his mind when Lucy made a decision.

"All right. Rebecca, let's go. Shaun, you stay here and watch Desmond," She ordered. Woof. Desmond made an indignant noise, like he was capable of watching himself, which everybody except the idiot seemed to know was not true. Rebecca and Lucy left after that, with promises of being back soon. Shaun ignored them both.

The room was silent, save for the tak-tak-taking of the keyboards, and Desmond's muttering about how "it's easier to just live the memory than trying to organize the fucking things."

Neither spoke, until Desmond opened his mouth. "Shaun-" And Shaun rolls his eyes and stops typing, because here he's going to apologize for molesting Shaun in the kitchen a couple nights ago. But Desmond doesn't. "Want some tea?"

Shaun stared in shock, because Desmond wouldn't touch Shaun's tea with a ten foot pole. He wonders briefly if the assassin has been dipping into his stash of Earl Grey. He handed the cripple his mug. "Be quick about it, Yankee." Shaun said stiffly.

"Whatever." Desmond replied, and muttered 'limey bastard' under his breath as he leaves to make Shaun's tea.

They have a routine by now; work on Animus, complain, work on Truth, complain, eat something healthy to appease Lucy while complaining. If they were lucky, Lucy allowed Shaun to take Desmond for a walk (woof). It was evening now, and Lucy had Shaun and Desmond doing circuits around the warehouse. Desmond was balancing precariously on the wall, walking with his arms outstretched for balanced. Shaun hoped he didn't fall on his broken arm again.

Shaun never brought up the Kitchen Molestation, and Desmond never acknowledged that it even happened. Shaun wasn't sure if that bothered him. A strong gust passed by and Desmond teetered on the wall, his arms pin wheeling to keep balance.

"For god's sake, Miles, get off the damn wall before you fall and break your other arm." Shaun snapped, ready to shove the idiot off the wall if that's what it came to.

Desmond scowled unhappily and glared at Shaun, "You're not my mother," he said sourly, but complied. They walked in silence for a few beats and Shaun kicked a rock around the bend they trod.

"How's the Truth?" Desmond asked, trying to maneuver his broken arm and horrible cast into his hoodie. Shaun watched him struggle. Your misery sustains me.

"Complete bullshit; quite similar to trying to find a needle in a needle stack." Shaun said immediately, bitterly.

Desmond raised an eyebrow and frowned. "That sounds pretty easy, actually."

Shaun glowered at the assassin, wishing pain upon him. "Not when you keep getting the wrong needle. I don't know where Sixteen learned to encrypt because he couldn't turn on a computer without a bloody helmet." They never let Sixteen near any technology and were wary about letting him near the Animus initially.

There was more silence before Desmond said tentatively, "Shaun? What... was Sixteen like?"

Shaun slowed his pace and watched his feet. 'Just as useless as you bloody are,' he wanted to say. 'A blight on technological advancement,' maybe. But Shaun can't come up with anything disparaging for Sixteen. He wiped his face with his arm furiously, stopping to think. He heard Desmond walk a couple more steps before he stopped. Raising his head from the crook of his elbow, Shaun spoke.

"He was a good kid."

"Kid? Abstergo used a kid in their-" Desmond looked ready to explode and Shaun felt mightily pissed.

"Yes, kid, but over the years Abstergo has done much worse than take some barely legal, technologically retarded hippy punk for their experiments!" Shaun snapped. Desmond opened his mouth angrily to retaliate but Shaun snarled at him, "What are you, part Rottweiler? Let it go!"

He walked away leaving Desmond behind him.


Shaun thought Lucy should lecture her employees on a safe, harassment-free work environment.


The next time it happened was almost two months later; Shaun was leaning back in his swivel chair, rubbing his eyes hard. They felt as if they were bleeding, trying to decrypt and translate and whatever else to Sixteen's Truth. He felt arms slide down his chest and Shaun choked and threw his arms up hoping to catch Desmond in the face. He caught the left arm easily, but gently wrapped his elbow around the right, careful not to jar his broken arm.

"Miles, you shit!" Shaun spluttered, struggling wildly. Desmond responded in Italian, something soothing from the tone of his voice, and he trailed his hands lightly down Shaun's chest, playing with the hem of his sweater. Shaun was torn between wanting to yell rape or breaking Desmond's other arm. The light touch of Desmond's lips and hands soothed Shaun and let him relax- minutely.

Desmond was speaking seamless Italian, murmuring into Shaun's ear, his lips tickling the shell. Shaun's breathing hitched, his arms raised, hands placed on Desmond's shoulder and cradling his head. "Desmond," Said assassin pressed his lips to Shaun's ear, licking the lobe before trailing kisses down his jaw and neck- Desmond's hand was under his shirt, lightly tracing the skin with his calloused hands.

Fuck, though Shaun. He gripped the hair tightly, listening to the sweet Italian whispered into his shoulder. Shaun swiveled his chair to face Desmond, the other man drawing him up to stand. Desmond's right hand traced light patterns underneath Shaun's shirt, the other wrapped around his neck.

Then Shaun moved his arm and prodded Desmond's broken arm. Hard.

"FUCK!" Desmond shouted, trying to untangle himself from Shaun's shirt and limbs while attempting to keep his broken arm from being jarred. "What the fuck was that-"

Shaun was flushed very red, trying to prevent himself from hyperventilating (and succeeding quite admirably, if Shaun said so himself). "Out." He said lowly, furiously. Desmond looked red himself, but Shaun was having none of that nonsense.

"I-I- Shaun, I didn't-" Desmond stuttered pitifully, and Shaun wished he could glare a hole in the man's head.

"Out." he seethed again, pointing toward the door. Any battle-hardened assassin would've thought twice about facing Shaun at that point, so when Desmond turned and fled from the room Shaun didn't feel accomplished. He didn't feel all that happy, either; just incredibly pissed off and aroused.


When Lucy notices that something's up, she will figure it out.


Where Lucy had initially ordered Shaun to walk Desmond, the two men now avoided each other like the plague (with a few well placed glares and sneers at Desmond and a few extra barbs at the cripple's expense).

Lucy cornered Shaun by the tiny window in the kitchenette. "What the hell is going on?"

Shaun scowled and flushed red. "I have no idea to what you are referring, Miss Stillman."

"Don't give me that 'Miss Stillman' crap, you only pull that when you're obviously hiding something."

Shaun's scowl deepened and Lucy withdrew a little at the intensity of it. A surge of victory passed through him. Lucy rubbed her temples and stares at Shaun, pleading. "Look, we've still got nearly three and a half months until we can put Desmond back in the Animus; you guys were getting along fine and then it just deteriorates overnight. Lover's spat?" She finished sympathetically.

"L-lover's-? Fuck you, Lucy!" Shaun said indignantly, falling back on rudimentary American insults.

"Well then tell me what's wrong," She insisted, as if she wasn't just insulted. Bint, Shaun thought at her rudely.

"Did you know Desmond suffers from bleed effect?" Shaun asked conversationally after silence, crossing his arms. Lucy's flat 'what' reminded Shaun of his father's reaction to Shaun's suspension from boarding school. "Yes. It's not as bad as Si... you know, but he still reacts. I believe he's living out the memories we don't review,"

Lucy's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What kind of memories, Shaun?"

Shaun shifted uncomfortably. This is like on those American sitcoms, he thought. 'Point at the doll where the bad man touched you.'

"Shaun," Lucy repeated.

"Sexual ones, okay! Blimey, you awful, nasty bint, he's reliving his ancestor's fifteenth century sexual prowess, bugger you! Bugger everyone! And I'm the one who suffers from it, blasting- damn you, you evil twat," Shaun found his cockney accent returning the angrier he grew, so he simply stood silent fuming at Lucy.

"You're not the only one," Rebecca said from the counter of the small kitchenette. Lucy turned startled. "Well, you are for the sexual memories. Des comes and talks to me in Arabic a lot. It's all conversational. I have no fucking clue what he's saying so I make up my own conversations with him." Lucy and Shaun both shared flat 'whats' this time and Rebecca grinned eagerly.

"How often has this been happening?" Lucy demanded, tapping a boot on the floor.

Shaun's 'for months' was drowned out by Rebecca's 'since a week ago or something.'

"How in the... how did I miss this?" Lucy asked furiously, covering her eyes with her palm. She looked humiliated. Shaun thought it served her right.

"The way I see it, he's living out general life now. In the memories we pull out assassinations and information surrounding those only. I'm willing to bet he's living the gray area now." Rebecca said, kicking her legs on the cabinet under her and spraying Cheez-Wiz on a cracker before popping it in her mouth. Shaun thought it was surprisingly insightful of her.

"That's decades of memories, Rebecca," Said Lucy, weakly.

"It's just a thought. I'm willing to bet he dreams them, too. But he's probably not suffering as much as he would should he still be in Baby every day." She nodded her head sagely and Cheez-Wiz'd a mustache on a cracker with two beady eyes before eating it gleefully.


A moment's privacy is too much to ask for, thank for bringing it up, Shaun.


Shaun was in his small room, leaning against his headboard with a book forgotten next to him on the bed and his hand down his trousers. The pitiful lamp on his nightstand cast an ugly yellow glare on the tiny room, but it gave Shaun the illumination he needed.

Shaun squeezed his member, groaning quietly to himself. He gripped himself tighter, moving his hand slowly up and down the shaft. He hissed as the pulsing vein on the underside of his cock was pressured. Shaun allowed his head to loll back, bumping the wall. He found his other hand reaching into his trousers and pants, teasing his balls lightly. Shaun's hips bucked. "Yes," He hissed, closing his eyes tightly.

As Shaun's eyes drifted closed, he withdrew the hand teasing his testicles and pulled up his shirt, teasing his chest, circling his nipples. Shaun's hips bucked and he let out a breathy groan. His hand sped up, squeezing on alternative pulls. His head rested against the wall and Shaun whimpered as he felt his balls tighten, precome leaking from the head of his cock.

He opened his eyes and sped up his strokes, and then noticed a figure leaning against the door frame of his room. Desmond, Shaun thought, or maybe whimpered because then Desmond shifted uncomfortably on the frame, adjusting his own trousers. He did not come closer, nor did he say anything.

Shaun kept eye contact, bucking his hips minutely but frantically. He whimpered, and Desmond inclined his head, almost giving him permission, a flush staining his tanned cheeks. Shaun teased his chest without a thought and he saw Desmond lick his thumb, and sustaining eye contact with Desmond, Shaun came, whimpering (DesmondohgodDesmond-), wetting his trousers in a flood of pleasure, leaving him feeling sated and horribly like a sixteen year old bloke who just came in his trousers in maths class.

When Shaun opened his eyes again, panting heavily, Desmond was no longer in the door. Shaun blushed, swallowing awkwardly, before standing up and closing the door with a gentle hand.

If Desmond tried to bring this up, he would deny it. Shaun found himself almost hoping that was just a moment of the bleed effect. He closed his eyes again, but still saw the dark brown of Desmond's eyes burning in his mind when Shaun came.

Shaun still worked relentlessly on the Truth. Rebecca was helping Desmond sort his memories, Lucy was being an annoying chit. She kept shooting Shaun "knowing looks," though Shaun was certain the tart had no idea what she "knew."

Desmond was avoiding Shaun. Well, maybe not avoiding, but he certainly wasn't making more of an effort to see Shaun. He wasn't sure if that should bother him or not. He glared at Lucy for good measure. She swatted the back of her neck as if something annoying stung her.

"Lucy, those memories we were decrypting before Des broke him arm-" Rebecca asked, looking up. "And Shaun. Come here, this image-" Shaun sighed and ignored her, but he heard Lucy's boots claking on the floor. "I think there's another assassin on screen, but I can't be sure."

"I don't know all the fifteenth century assassins, Rebecca, just the one that Abstergo needed." Lucy said, then, "Holy shit!" followed by laughter.

"Who is it?" Rebecca asked. Lucy was howling at this point.

"It's Machiavelli," She said. "Niccolò Machiavelli."

Shaun sneered. "Machiavelli was not an assassin."

"Apparently he was," Lucy insisted. "Come over here and look."

"Never." Shaun said, scandalized. He actually turned to glower and the women surrounding the Animus. "The Prince was a true masterpiece and I do not need assassins inserting themselves into everything I love. I was going to be a professor of history at a prestigious university, damn you," He added sourly.

"Hey, it was either wait for Abstergo to get you or the Parliament of Templars."

"The British government is not full of Templars!"

Lucy shot him another pitiful, knowing look and Shaun never wanted to stab her more than in that moment.


Shaun would like to believe that assassins are not dipping their fingers in every pot.


Shaun watched Desmond putter around the kitchen while waiting for his water to finish heating in the microwave. It was Desmond's turn to cook, if only because Rebecca was inept, Lucy was busy, and Shaun was banned from cooking. Shaun studied Desmond's back as he stood over a small pot on the small stove. His hoodie was slung over the ledge separating the kitchenette from the small dining area and his neck was dotted with sweat from leaning over the boiling...whatever was in the pot.

His back was very lean and the shirt Desmond wore splayed suggestively over developing muscles and rippled every time Desmond rotated an arm in its socket or stretched his back. His skin was paler than when he first arrived to the small team, but its natural hue was still dark, softly reminding Shaun of the assassin's heritage. Desmond rotated his neck and it cricked, and suddenly Shaun felt his hands itching to touch that neck, the tan column of perfect flesh and sculpted muscle, and those shoulders-

God, Shaun breathed to himself. Desmond turned his head to locate the onions that where already in his hand. The assassin scratched his stubbled chin with his free hand before grabbing the knife to carefully chop the onion. That I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek, Shaun thought, before being startled out of his reverie by the microwave. Desmond passed Shaun the steaming mug carefully.

To secure his status as unfeeling bastard, and to help rid the flush on his cheeks, Shaun commented that Desmond was a lovely wife. Desmond threw one of the knives into the wall next to Shaun's arm.


Shaun is not in denial.


He is watching Desmond now. Making an effort to watch him, that is. Shaun watched Desmond's brow furrow in confusion when he is studying a memory, his ears flush when That Italian Assassin is flirting with one of the whores in Venice, his lips twitch at a particularly skilled assassination. Shaun swiveled his chair as forcefully as he was able and retreated to the kitchenette.

"When will he be ready for the Animus again?" Shaun demanded, gazing crossly at Lucy (who was making some kind of vegetable pasta).

Startled, Lucy let out an "Uh,"

"Woman," Shaun said in what he hoped was a menacing fashion.

Lucy scowled this time. "It's only been six months Shaun."

"And that means what, exactly,"

"What it means," Lucy said irritably. "Is that Desmond still has maybe three to four months until we can do anything." Shaun cursed. "I'm sorry! There's nothing I can do about it. We're all going stir-crazy." Stir-crazy. Of course. That's what the problem is.

"We don't want to take any chances now. The bone is too fragile, so we've been pumping Des with some vitamin D, and hopefully by nine months we can pop him back in the Animus," Rebecca said in what was probably a comforting fashion. Shaun left the room, muttering.


Shaun is a firm believer in karma.


Desmond is asleep. Shaun is reading a book on the Renaissance papacy, and Desmond is bloody well asleep quietly in the corner, worn out. Out of the corner of his eye, Shaun watched Desmond shift in his sleep. He dog-eared a page on Borgia, and flipped to another page. He saw Desmond roll over to flatten out on his back and he lowered the book, watching the man on top of the sheets. His hoodie is thrown haphazardly across the floor and the white shirt clinging to Desmond has ridden up, revealing a sculpted belly that leaves Shaun's mouth dry. Desmond's hand has somehow sneaked down his jeans and Shaun closes the book, placing it on the desk without removing his eyes from the other's body (specifically his unbroken hand).

Desmond is rubbing his hand up and down a length that Shaun cannot see (damn it all), and a quick flicker of his eyes reveals Desmond's are still closed. The assassin unbuttoned and unzipped, pushing his jeans down just a fraction, just not enough, Shaun thinks, and white cotton boxers tent further as his hand...

Shaun moaned quietly, his own trousers growing tighter, and watched Desmond relentlessly tease (Shaun isn't quite sure who the moron is teasing, himself or Shaun), hand now wrapped firmly around his shaft. The historian found his own hand mimicking Desmond's movements, though he was unsure of when his trousers opened. Desmond released a hiss of a groan, tightening his grip and wanking furiously. His own cock twitching at the thought, Shaun fantasized what it would feel like, to have Desmond in his hand, to trace the vein with his fingers (and maybe his tongue), to feel the cock in his mouth. He wondered if Desmond is thinking the same thing because they release simultaneous moans. Shaun allowed his head to fall back on the chair, watching Desmond under lowered lashes, gripping himself and the armrest on his chair, moving the same pace as the other man.

He watched as Desmond's hips twitch and his back arch. Shaun can't see it from where he is, but he is certain sweat was dotting Desmond's forehead and his face is flushed; Shaun raised a hand to trace his neck, watching with quiet whimpers and thrusts into his own fist. He didn't realize Desmond was watching him until he gazes at the other man, their eyes meeting. Shaun felt his face burn, but does not stop stroking in tune to Desmond, who threw his head back and moaned, one that is low-pitched and Shaun imagined he can feel it in his groin.

Suddenly, Shaun is gasping (Des,) and coming, hips bucking, trousers not salvaged from the furious wanking. Desmond followed not long after with another low, throaty groan, never removing his eyes from Shaun's. They both lay panting in afterglow, Shaun sprawled on his chair his a hand still down his pants and Desmond, withdrawing his hands from his denims to wipe it on the bed spread, still gazing in Shaun's direction. He isn't sure if Desmond's eyes are open or closed at this point, his sight gone blurry from peering over the top of his frames.

Desmond sat up and Shaun opened his mouth, then closed it again.

He sighed softly, "Desmond, I..." And Desmond beckoned to Shaun, and Shaun was so close to giving in, to going over to the stupid assassin and kissing the bloody life out of him, wondering if he's as talented with his tongue as he is with his hands. Shaun was still panting, and Desmond gestured again.

"Shaun," He said, and the way he says it is perfect, exactly how Shaun heard it in the dreams he denied having, in the voice he hears when he's having it off in the shower, and Shaun squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the image of the gorgeous young assassin on the bed, ignoring everything he has just seen. He stood and tucked himself in and zipped up before leaving for the watercloset.


Shaun does not like approaching people, nor does he enjoy being approached.


Shaun was alone in bed a week later, avoiding contact with Desmond outside of being snide. Shaun was staring at the wall across from him, wishing for nothing more than a small window to overlook the warehouse district. He wanted to open it, and hang outside of it, staring at dull stars in the sky; he wanted his fags back, even though he hasn't smoked one in a year he feels the urge to light up. He cursed Lucy in his prayers and closes his eyes. He heard his door open and close and a body sat on his bed- Shaun jerked.

"Hey," Desmond scowled, glaring at Shaun (who looked like a deer in headlights, but that's one more thing he'll deny). "Watch it."

"Desmond, what the bloody hell are-" He began but Desmond ignored him, pulling off his hoodie and throwing it on the floor (which, really, Shaun thinks, should be hung up in the closet outside). As Shaun stuttered indignantly, Desmond slid under the sheets, closing in next to Shaun. Shaun was so confused he couldn't do anything but allow Desmond to get comfortable.

Shaun could feel Desmond's chest pressed against his back, and he could feel Desmond's arm under his head, his right arm wrapped carefully around Shaun. He felt Desmond pressing his nose into his hair, inhaling deeply before placing a gentle kiss on the back of Shaun's neck.

"Desmond, what," Shaun managed weakly as the assassin tightened his grip on Shaun briefly, holding him close. Desmond tangled his legs with the historian's and Shaun is utterly lost.

"Shut up," Desmond huffed irritably, his forehead pressing against Shaun's neck (it felt hot, and it took all of Shaun's willpower to not wonder how hot those hands would feel on his body). "Do I need a reason?"

Shaun's mouth was dry and he tried to slick his lips with his tongue. It didn't work. "Yes, it's generally polite t-to inform people why you invade their beds." He said thickly.

He could feel Desmond's lips stretch into a smile across his bare neck. "Because I've come in my pants twice with you watching," He replied. "Go to sleep, Shaun,"


"Sleep," Desmond said, sternly this time. He pressed his body as close to Shaun's as possible (snuggling, thought Shaun).

After what seemed like forever spent in silence, Shaun lifted one of his hands and gently laced it together with Desmond's hand, careful of the broken arm. Tomorrow, Shaun will kick Desmond out and disregard that he allowed the man in his room- for tonight, though, Shaun can live with Desmond pressed against his back.

Shaun wished he could say the Desmond only sneaked into his room that one time; he would be lying, because Americans are much more invasive than that. Throughout the weeks following that first night, Desmond repeatedly sneaked into Shaun's room. Locking the door wouldn't work; Shaun isn't sure if Desmond's lock-picking ability is from childhood training or the bleed effect. Either way, he was not amused, waking up in the morning to a bare chest pressed into his own naked torso, Desmond's broken hand tracing patterns on his belly (sometimes with Desmond's hand down his trousers, the assassin's own hips grinding into Shaun's). He hated the way Desmond inhales into his body deeply, as if Shaun is the most heady scent he has ever smelled, and he hated the way Desmond curled himself around Shaun and the way Shaun's own body responds to the damn American (traitor, Shaun thought more than once when Desmond wrapped his arms around him).

Whenever Shaun went into the kitchen early morning, Rebecca was always there, and her "knowing smiles" were a lot more predatory than Lucy's, as if she does know exactly what Shaun was up to, and he felt the need to either come clean to her or deny all attachments. She wouldn't say anything, simply stood from the small table outside the kitchenette, wiggled her eyebrows, and retreated to the study. Lucy didn't know anything was going on, and really, what kind of squad leader doesn't know everything her team is up to?

What Shaun truly can't stand is the fact that Desmond acted as if nothing has changed, like he doesn't sneak into Shaun's room to molest him at night like some creepy uncle, like he doesn't murmur sweet nothings (nothings, he emphasized) into Shaun's ear, as if he doesn't twine himself around the historian like ivy. He feels miffed, but he can't bring himself to confront Desmond, because that would be acknowledging what is happening. When Shaun found himself catching Desmond's eye, the assassin winked slowly and offered a small smile. Shaun swiveled around quickly, as if Desmond can hear his heart fluttering in his chest.

Lucy and Rebecca were preparing the Animus now; in a couple days they were planning on putting Desmond back in, because "it's just a teeny-tiny bit more, Des." Shaun liked Desmond better in the Animus because he can help, and because Desmond could help them. He liked how he can stare at Desmond, watching his eyes flicker behind closed lids and his fingertips twitch. When Shaun noticed his own lack of activity, finding himself simply thinking of Desmond, he would swivel his chair around to his computer screen once more, taking his mind off the assassin.


Shaun would appreciate if others kept their noses out of his own bloody business.


Shaun felt the watching was a vicious cycle, and fancied that he could feel Desmond's eyes on him, trailing up his back and down his legs and lingering on his rear. He bristled at the feeling and shot glares over his shoulder, but Desmond was never facing him. Whenever Desmond passed while Shaun was standing, a sharp swat would be sent to his arse, and Shaun flushed violently.

"Desmond!" He hissed each time, and the only reply he was graced with would be a sultry wink over Desmond's shoulder. As the assassin sauntered from the room, Shaun spotted Lucy and Rebecca staring (Lucy, neutrally, Rebecca, with a malicious grin). "What?" He snarled, and Rebecca snickered.

"It's cool, Shaun," She said through her laughter. "Des isn't gonna rape you."

"Cool- rape- just what do you think is going on?" Shaun demanded. Lucy and Rebecca rolled their heads toward each other with resigned expressions before Lucy turned toward Shaun again.

"You know." She said sagely.

Shaun felt his eyebrows knit together in feigned confusion. "I know?"

"Yes. You know," Lucy emphasized. "and we know."

He, of course, knew exactly what was being discussed. "What is it we know, then," Shaun asked dryly.

Rebecca met Shaun's eyes, her own with an evil glint. "That you're letting Des f-oof!" Shaun was never more thankful for Lucy's graceful elbow in the other twat's stomach. Desmond groped him again while reentering the room.


Shaun wished they'd stop meeting like this.


Desmond needed to stop cornering him in the kitchen. The nearly mended arm was on the wall above Shaun's head, the other fitting itself tidily down his trousers. Desmond had his mouth pressed into Shaun's shoulder, sucking harshly and the historian had his head thrown back in ecstasy. Desmond's grip was bloody perfect, the way he moved his wrist and stroked just so- he gasped, feeling Desmond move to another spot on his neck.

"Fucking sexy," Desmond huffed quietly against pale skin. Shaun felt a shudder wrack his body and he arched against the talented hand, his own scrabbling against Desmond's white shirt, managing to weasel one beneath the cloth. "Beautiful." Desmond repeated. A flick of his wrist sent Shaun writhing again, and his fist tightened.

Shaun was seeing stars, gasping at the ceiling while Desmond marked his skin, his cock, his brain, with his presence. A hot mouth trailed up to his ear and Desmond drew it into his mouth, tonguing the lobe. Another clenching of his first and his strokes were so tight that Shaun gasped and bucked, trying to get as close to the assassin's devious hand as possible. His fingers scratched the skin on Desmond's back, trying to find purchase on the man. He couldn't think, he could barely breathe, how in the ruddy hell had Desmond gotten so good with his hands?

Fuck, Shaun thought viciously when Desmond began his faster, harder wanking. Desmond was talking to him, he thought fuzzily, words weaving in and out of his pleasure. "Don't even know how fucking hot you are, do you, Shaun," He was panting. "Glasses all fucked up, sweat," and he licked up a bead, "all over your skin. Jesus, my hand down your pants," Desmond bucked against Shaun's leg, pressing his jean-covered prick into Shaun's hip. "Fuck, fucking look at you, Shaun," He gasped and his grip on Shaun's prick was nearly painful, and Desmond bit Shaun's shoulder, not leaving a hickey but a bloody imprint of his teeth. He came harder than he had previous times with Desmond, and Shaun gasped, seemingly unable to draw oxygen.

When Desmond moved to claim Shaun's lips, he turned his head away and retreated the room, shifting his trousers and averting his eyes.


Shaun enjoys his solitude.


He is not hiding, no matter what Rebecca's sharp glances accused him of earlier. Shaun just preferred the company of Rudyard Kipling (upstanding Brit, that man) and Shakespeare over that of Lucy's (or Rebecca's, or Desmond's). He isn't reading, no matter how hard he stares at the page. Shaun finds himself staring at the spot on the bed where Desmond would lay, puzzled tightly against Shaun's back. Desmond hadn't been in at night in days, and, damn it all, Shaun was lonely. When the hell had that happened, voluntarily missing the git? He looked up from the spot on his bed and twisted so he could stare at that windowless wall, yearning for something other than stale air and suffocating thoughts.

Desmond does not come to Shaun that night. He managed to read three pages.


Shaun hates becoming victim to his desires, but he loves the trek to become that victim.


Shaun wasn't sure what time it was when he heard his door snk shut, but from how bleary he feels, folded pages of his book (damn it all, Shaun thought bitterly, staring at the creases) resting awkwardly on his chest, it can't be more than a few hours before dawn. Desmond was on top of Shaun in an instant, ignoring his stuttered protestations like the damned Yankee he is.

"Desmond wh-" was all Shaun managed to say before Desmond threw the book on his chest across the room (with a dismayed cry from Shaun, "that's a bloody classic, you pillock!") and his mouth was claimed in a burning kiss. Desmond's tongue explored and tangled in Shaun's mouth in the same way he did to Shaun's shoulder- same way he did to Shaun's prick. Shaun tried to shove the bloody idiot away, but his wrists were caught- in both of Desmond's hands. Well, bollocks,Shaun thought. Desmond was still kissing him.

"Fucking hell, Shaun," Desmond said when he relinquished Shaun, who jerked his arms from Desmond to straighten his glasses. "Fuck," Desmond repeats and then he presses his body down, keeping Shaun in place (in spite of his struggles), and kissed him again.

It was every bit of fire Shaun thought it would be, and it makes this thing more real. Shaun's arms go around Desmond's neck and the passion he tries to bank is swelling forward in a wave of emotion. Desmond's hands go under the tails of his shirt and trace his sides. When Shaun remembered himself, he grabbed Desmond's hair and pulled his mouth back, away from his. Affixing a proper sneer on his face, Shaun addresses the moron.

"What in the bloody hell are you doing, you tosser?" He said, in hopefully a menacing fashion. Shaun's arousal made it hard to think.

Desmond's scarred lips twisted in a grin, and Shaun pulled his hair harder, reveling in the grunt of pain. "I was seducing you, limey bastard, what did it fucking look like I was trying to do?" Desmond said in a half-growl, and the noise made Shaun's cock throb.

"I don't know why you do bloody anything," Shaun scowled, his expression as sour as his tone. Desmond laughed and Shaun tugged the short hair again.

"I thought I was being pretty damn obvious," He said, breathy. Shaun glowers this time, the tan face before him blurred over the rims of his spectacles. Out of the corner of his eye, Desmond's newly mended arm is raised and it traces Shaun's face, removing his glasses (Shaun can only hope they are placed where he can find them later). The hand traces gently, and Shaun's tight grip on short hair is loosened, and soon his own hands fell prone beside him on the bed.

Desmond, straddling Shaun's waist (even after he had muttered discomfort to the position), used both of his hands to trace the planes of the historian's face. Desmond's hands are dry, and Shaun can feel the callouses tracing his forehead, eyebrows, eyelids, cheekbones, nose, lips. They were everywhere, and they relaxed Shaun, much to his chagrin. Shaun was certain he was saying his inner dialogue out loud, mutters of pillock, bloody wanker, and useless Yankee assassin, because Desmond's lips were quirked up in a small smile.

Shaun wanted to punch the damn smirk off, but instead he ended up groaning more. Desmond cupped Shaun's jaw and kissed him, tracing Shaun's cheek with his thumbs. When he pulled away, Shaun felt mortified for trying to chase those lips.

"Knew you wanted me," Desmond said with a lecherous expression. Shaun, feeling vindictive, bucked his hips, grinding his groin against Desmond's. The man only stared down at Shaun with lust-filled (albeit, blurry,) eyes and ground back into Shaun. "Yeah, just like that," He groaned and Shaun berated himself for a plan that would obviously backfire.

"Get- get off of me," Shaun tried weakly, hoping that if he appeared as haggard as he felt, that Desmond would release him.

It didn't work.

Desmond simply began unbuttoning Shaun's shirt, kissing his sharp jawline, sucking on his neck. Shaun thought he would never be free of Desmond's marks, before he remembered who this was, and exactly what was going on. He shoved Desmond. Hard.

"Get off me!" He said with conviction this time, and Desmond actually teetered back some, hands bracing his weight behind his back. "I am not a toy," Shaun snarled. "You can't just come in here whenever you please and then toss me off only to-to bloody well ignore me the next day!"

He saw Desmond stare at him (once again, blurry, and that pissed Shaun off- he wanted to see those eyes narrowed). "You-you fucking hypocrite," Desmond began, anger rising, and Shaun felt very small at the thought of the impending explosion. "You goddamned tease, do you even fucking know what the hell you're doing to me?" This wasn't one of my more brilliant ideas, Shaun thought. Bollocks. "You fucking- you fucking sit at your desk all goddamned day, looking at me when you think I'm not watching to give me fucking bedroom eyes," Oh, tits, he didn't think Desmond noticed that. Bloody hell this was kind of embarrassing. "In the kitchen you stare so damn hard at my ass I can practically feel it, and before you leave to hole up in your goddamn bedroom you send me the most longing looks, and they make you look so fucking hot. Do you think I put my hand down your pants just for-for fucking fun?" As he ranted, Desmond cornered Shaun on the headboard, boxing him in with his arms, giving Shaun the strangest sense of déjà vu. Desmond was staring down his nose at Shaun, so close he could see him without his glasses. "I'm fucking doing all this because I thought you fucking saw me doing the exact same things back at you, you limey asshole," Shaun's breath caught at the words. No, he did not notice.

Without a second thought, Shaun grabbed Desmond by the face and pulled him closer to kiss him roughly, tongue prying open the other man's mouth, trying to convey everything. Desmond wouldn't have any of it, and in a sick (Shaun thought) turn of fate, Desmond grabbed his hair and pull back harshly. Shaun regretted not having his hair trimmed when Lucy offered.

"No," Desmond said, and he began to bite down Shaun's neck, marking him in a way that made Shaun's erection throb. He pressed himself into Desmond, but the grip on his hair was bloody painful, and Shaun tried to content himself with an angry hiss instead. A clipped bite to his collarbone and Shaun writhed. Desmond removed Shaun's shirt, though it didn't help to cool him in the room that was quickly becoming stifling. Shaun arched his back and held Desmond close to his chest. The teeth in those bites were suddenly harder and more fierce and Shaun mewled.

"Always knew you liked teeth," Desmond muttered before biting a nipple, making Shaun cry out. "I don't want you pretending this didn't happen later, asshole," he continued and Shaun pleaded for those hands to continue their feeling down his legs, for that mouth to return. Desmond looked up at Shaun from his position on the historian's chest. "I don't want you running away from the damn room as soon as you come,"

"Anything, oh god, anything, Des," Shaun groaned. "Never again," he agreed, but missed the way Desmond's lips twisted in a pleased smirk. He felt a hand on the small of his back, sliding down his trousers.

"Do you own any underwear, Shaun, fuck," and the mouth latched on to his belly, biting and sucking once more. Somehow he managed to weedle Shaun's hips from his trousers without even unbuttoning them. Shaun gasped a threat, the those better still be intact when I need them again threat, and his arousal pressed into the cloth of Desmond's shirt. He wondered if Desmond owned any other clothing other than what was already on him- Shaun recalled only the white shirt and blue denims the man wore. The cotton rubbed against the crown of his prick, feeling coarse and sexy, guarding the muscled skin that Shaun damn well knew was underneath. He felt a tongue in his navel, and Shaun smacked the back of Desmond's head ("Ow, you shithead,"), certainly not liking the feeling. "Do you just want me to shove my damn cock in you?"

Shaun managed a breathy growl, "I we had months of foreplay behind us, so yes," And he thought he sounded suitably submissive, but the sharp bite to his abdomen said otherwise. Ow, Shaun didn't recall his past affairs being this blasted painful.

"If that was foreplay then I'll probably walk away from this with my balls so fucking blue I won't be able to sit properly." Desmond said wryly. Shaun sneered, very funny, and he heard (more than saw) Desmond spit into his hand and a finger traced his entrance.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Shaun said, stopped Desmond in his ministrations. He was getting frustrated.

So was Desmond. "What?" He snarled.

"You are not putting a damn thing in me without lubricant or protection," Shaun said stiffly. He was deprived, but he wasn't stupid.

"You must have missed the last couple shopping trips because Lucy wouldn't buy condoms and lube upon pain of death," He said, and Shaun caught the blur throwing off its white shirt and unbuttoning its jeans. Desmond lifted Shaun's thighs and pulled him closer, his arse pulled close to the coarse denim.

"N-nasty bint, I always said," Shaun gasped. Desmond hmmed agreement and ground his hips forward into Shaun's bare skin- erection rubbing erection, jeans chafing skin- eliciting a gasp. Desmond continued slow thrusts. "S-she probably tho-ught that y-you would have co-me onto her- fuck, Des,"

"Me, but not you?" Desmond asked, sounding only half aroused rather than the full mast pressed into Shaun.

"Y-es, Lucy knows I'm gayer than a May pole," He returned, moving his hips in earnest. "She holds as much appeal as m-my mother,"

"A foxy lady," Desmond agreed, grunting and lifting Shaun's knees to rest in his elbows, pulling the man closer and leaning over his body. Shaun liked this position much more and held onto the headboard to help his rutting, giving Shaun more friction against the assassin. "Fuck, Shaun, I bet you're tight," Shaun's head rolled back onto the pillow and he panted. He was sure Desmond had an evil glint in his eyes when he asked, "Are you sure you don't want me to fuck you?"

Shaun arched his back, driving him further onto Desmond's lap, "Fuck, you damn-yes, " He gasped, and he heard Desmond spitting into his hand again, finger entering him almost immediately. It burned, but Shaun was so aroused at this point he didn't give two shits. Without wasting time, Desmond spat onto his hand again and another finger traced his hole before pushing in with the first. Pleasure raced up his spine.

"Sure you want lube?" Desmond teased, amused. Shaun made an annoyed sound in the back of his throat but still pistoning his hips onto those fingers. "Shit, you're tight,"

Another strangled groan, and Shaun was pissed that Desmond wasn't as affected as he was. Desmond's free hand splayed across Shaun's rear before squeezing tightly while a third finger was simultaneously added. "You have the most perfect ass I have ever seen." Desmond breathed, stretching his fingers inside of Shaun, "Sculpted by god," He withdrew his fingers some and spit into them again, lessening the burn barely.

"Jesus, Desmond," Shaun groaned throatily, staring at the face that was close enough to see almost clearly. Sweat dotted Desmond's forehead and rolled down his slightly crooked nose, a dry tongue swiped dry lips, and Shaun's fingers tightened on the headboard. "Fuck me, you tosser," And Shaun didn't realize he actually spoke the words until Desmond was spitting into his hand, slicking his erection, pressing the member against his arsehole. Shaun felt panicked as Desmond surged forward slightly, the head of his cock breaching the historian slowly.

"Fuck, loosen up- relax, dickhead," Desmond wheezed, sounding pained, and Shaun would've felt pleased at that if he wasn't trying to keep his breathing in control- fuck Desmond felt huge. "Jesus Christ you're going to give me a goddamn friction burn," Another inch pressed in and the familiar, burning pleasure shot through Shaun again.

"D-don't think th-that's possi-Des," Shaun hissed in pleasure as yet another inch was pressed inside him. Fuck it hurt, he thought that graduation (from University and from boarding school) taught him that spit was never good lubricant, and neither was blood or semen. But god, it felt so fucking good, and the muscles of his arms (what little there were, Shaun was ashamed to admit), tensed as he gripped the headboard with white-knuckles, further bracing himself for the intrusion. He closed his eyes tightly, and it wasn't long before Shaun felt the fly of Desmond's denims pressed into his arse and thighs.

Desmond wasted no time in lifting Shaun by his legs again, almost slinging them over his shoulders, before giving a tentative, shallow thrust.

Shaun moaned, loudly, using his arms to help him gyrate back, and fuck it still burned when Desmond reentered, but it felt so damn good, and maybe Desmond was going to get a friction burn, because it felt so tight, so delicious, so fucking sexy.

"Christ, Shaun," Desmond said, sounding strangled, thrusting again, and again, and again, Shaun meeting him arse-to-hip with each agonizingly slow grind. "You are so fucking perfect, god," He strained his neck and Shaun bent completely in half to accommodate Desmond so his lips could meet the assassin's, and Desmond started thrusting faster, and Shaun linked his arms around Desmond's neck to keep the bastard close.

"Ah, god, yes," Shaun gasped, stars flashing in his sight as the thrusts became more fluid. Desmond growled against Shaun's lips, kissing him again. Not wanting to lose the grip that Desmond had on Shaun's hips, he sacrificed one of the arms looped around a strong, tanned neck to grip his own erection that was throbbing mercilessly, caged between sweaty bodies. Desmond's thrusts were erratic at best, and Shaun could not find a rhythm to match in his own strokes, but fuck if it didn't feel every bit of wonderful he thought it would be.

Desmond's jeans began to sting Shaun's arse with how fast and disjointed his hips were moving, and Shaun squeezed his prick tightly with every stroke, and FUCK, Shaun thought, that final snap of Desmond's hips, and the assassin was coming, and Shaun fancied that he could feel it, hot and thick, filling him to the brim. It wasn't much longer before he was coming as well, all over his and Desmond's chest, and Shaun, who expected fireworks or some global catastrophe to happen before they got to this point, felt oddly disappointed, but sated.

Shaun's legs burned with the stretched position they were in over Desmond's shoulders, and his arse burned from the lack of lube (fuck you, Lucy, take that, Shaun thought) and when Desmond pulled out ("Tits, you wanker, bloody hurts,") and let Shaun straighten and relax, Shaun felt old, and he wanted a fag. He mumbled as much. Desmond kissed Shaun's temple and offered a soft smile; Shaun felt the cotton of Desmond's shirt (he'd recognize that cloth anywhere) on his thighs and chest, cleaning of come and sweat and possibly spit. Shaun's eyes were closed, but he could hear Desmond shucking his pants and when he joined the historian on the bed, Shaun actually cuddled (cuddled!) up close, slinging an arm over Desmond's chest.

"How's your arm?" Shaun mumbled sleepily (only it sounded more like ow's yer ahm), burrowing his face in a tan shoulder. Desmond tossed the comforter over their bodies.

"Working," Desmond said, bringing his newly-healed arm up to card through Shaun's hair. "God, you're gorgeous," Desmond breathed, gently kissing the top of Shaun's head. "Just as perfect and pissy as I thought you would be."

"Mm," Shaun closed his eyes and swatted Desmond's shoulder weakly after stretching to turn of the damn lamp (in spit of the the ache in his back), though he was unsure when it turned on. "How long have you been plotting this?" Which sounded like 'ow lon', because he was too content to even speak properly.

"Long enough," Desmond murmured in respond, threading his hands through Shaun's hair still. "Lucy wants me in the Animus first thing tomorrow, though I know where I'd rather be," A hand swatted Shaun's rear and he could hear Desmond leering.

"Piss off, Miles, 'm tryin' t' sleep." Desmond grinned and gripped Shaun's jaw, tipping it up slightly so he could seal his lips of Shaun's in a chaste kiss, filled with such longing and affection that Shaun felt his heart swell and he put as much feeling in the kiss as Desmond did.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Shaun," Desmond said quietly. Shaun just clung to Desmond closer, locking his legs with Desmond's.

Inhaling deeply, Shaun decided that maybe he wouldn't evict Desmond the next morning, that maybe he would let Desmond sleep with Shaun in the future.

He kissed Desmond's jaw and laced his pale hand with a calloused, tan one.

"Night, Des," He whispered, and he hid a smile in the skin of the assassin's shoulder.

Deleted scene!

"Borgia so had illicit relations with his men." Desmond argued, one that Shaun would not relent.

"Just because Catholics have a history of molesting little boys doesn't mean that he fondled your ancestor." Desmond turned a shade of green at that and Shaun felt a bit victorious.

evening, 16/05/10: minor edits to Shaun's Thoughts- they weren't separated properly.

evening, 31/05/10: minor edits in coding- I forgot to italicize some of the underscores.

night, 11/08/10: final edits, fixed the mixed tenses in the fic. Let me know if you come across any I missed.

A/N: I had a lot of fun with this. It was inspired by many many Des/Shaun fics, so if you see something familiar, note that I have taken inspiration from others. Also, I quote Shakespeare in here, because Shaun has such a woody for Elizabethan England. I tried to make Shaun as snarky and self-serving as possible (also in complete denial), and I hope I pulled that off- I wanted him to be a wimp when confronted by Desmond, but I didn't want him to be overly submissive, because that just pisses me off. If you noticed, my Shaun is country born and bred for prestigious and luxurious private schools and Uni beat out any cockney he may have had. When he's flustered he gets all country, I suppose. I like the idea of Shaun being pretty much kidnapped by Lucy/Abstergo for stumbling on... I don't know, some assassin conspiracy in history. I like the idea of Shaun denying assassins (no matter how much Lucy argues her theories), also.

I wanted more putting Shaun in his place, but... I actually like the banter. Maybe my next Des/Shaun will be "Putting the Cocky Asshole In His Place, as written and described by Desmond Miles." Which may actually have some merit. Hm, it would certainly be a welcome break from Shaun's point of view.

I was bouncing the idea of putting off sex until Des conjured lube, but decided fuck it all, this is fanfiction.

I was talking to Sara a lot through this, though most of my comments were "I THINK I CAN, I THINK I CAN," and "WHO COMES FIRST, THE FUCKER OR THE FUCKEE?"

I hope you enjoyed reading this- please review, even if it's only an unf unf unf.