The first time Desmond faints, Shaun does not go to Starbucks for a good three months.
It happened so quickly that he didn't even have time to contemplate the disgusting mass on the floor, much less think about how his brand new Converses were soiled to major death: All he perceived was a major hurl-fest of Kanki food items and Coke hitting his attire before the sickening thump of the idiot's head connecting with the ground—and by God, as a poor bloke helped him clean up the vomit and his spilled coffee, he swore to kill Miles for imagining a damn Templar Knight serving the frappuccinos.
He never hated the Bleeding Effect so much.
The second time Desmond faints, Shaun chucks his sunblock into the horizon.
Of course, the baboon of a Homo sapien had to give in to Lucy's request for another Animus session, right before going to the beach—the cursed beach, for Christ's sake!—in all his confused, hallucinating, and shameless glory: And as if Fate decided to shove her holy buttocks into his face, Desmond the Dolt, who believed he was the next Michael Phelps when he was actually permitting the presence of Altair to preside, began to sink, like a sumo wrestler in a kiddy pool. Perhaps, it was the annoyance of Rebecca's cow screams, because Shaun wasn't panicking, no, not at all, but the next thing he knew, he was fighting against the currents, dragging a very heavy piece of unresponsive meat onto the shore.
His throat had never been so sore.
The third time Desmond faints, Shaun cleans the entire cabin.
They were everywhere: on Baby, under Shaun's desk, in Lucy's underwear drawer, behind a giant chupacabra sign Rebecca couldn't give up, manifesting all of the nooks and crannies of their temporary residence. Quite surprisingly, the girls did not squish the vile filth, nor did they display signs of disgust or discomfort, instead getting an open can or a book and sweeping up the pests to lead them outside. It seemed as if the magnificent Hastings was left to resemble Iron Man, as he murdered each and every one of the bastards, his nights occupied by the need to wash off the endless amounts of guts and grime. The so-called assassin, however, managed to lose heart one day—why was he not surprised?—and ended up desynchronizing ante-session, his eyes rolling into the back of his head, as a behemoth of a cockroach ventured onto the 'comfy' area of his crotch.
He never wanted to go camping for the rest of his life.
The fourth time … was one he refused to recall.
End of story.
Or not, as five, in this case, was considered the official stigma for further bouts of madness—but it was a reaction that coerced Shaun to elevate his 'snark-side', as the females called it sans guilt, and to say the least, he was actually more complacent than the last few seconds: for how could he have not been, molding his hips over said being's, his hands gripping the material of the hoodie in carnal hunger. And he remembered the want, fuck, that tongue in his mouth, the two of them twisting and grinding on the bed, forgetting that this heated exchange was the first form of physical contact between them. Then, breaths, Desmond shucking his shirt as if that action was all he knew, him doing the same, groping for each other this way and that, until Shaun pulled down his fly and bared himself.
All it took was one incredulous look.
Before Desmond gaped at the source of outrage.
And the last time Desmond fainted, Shaun strode away with a smug grin on his face.
He never did mind a reaffirmation in that department.