I Know You Know (Ch. 5)
Title: I Know You Know (borrowed from a song by the excellent band "Empires," listen to their music here: http://www.weareempires.com/)
Chapter: 5/5
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Disclaimer: All characters and concept (c) Ubisoft
Rating: M for mature! That means only 18+ years old! If you're too young to vote, you're too young to read this!
Pairings: Shaun Hastings/Desmond Miles, bits of Ezio Auditore/Leonardo da Vinci, Ezio/Caterina Sforza, Ezio/Laura Boccanera. (Our boy Ezio sure gets around, doesn't he?)
Warnings: Fic contains spoilers for all three main-line games, including DLC. Also contains profanity, violence, and lots and lots of sex, though not until chapter 5. Hey, that's only one chapter away! Unfortunately you probably shouldn't just read the sexy parts because it also contains plot, though what that plot will end up looking like I'm not entirely sure.
Word Count: This Chapter 4861. Overall: 17133
Note: Originally this was going to be the longfic of foreverwriting, but then as I was reading it back I thought I might've started it too early. So as an experiment I started over, setting it entirely post ACB, and it worked a lot better for what I wanted to do. Meaning this is the final chapter of IKYK. I tried to end it in a good spot, though, so I hope it doesn't feel too incomplete. And I will be posting the new fic, as yet untitled, here, so watch this space for the real longfic of foreverwriting :)
Back down the main street they went, Shaun supporting most of Miles’ weight by ducking under his arm and letting him use his shoulders for balance. With that much contact, Shaun could feel him shaking like he’d been after waking from the dream-memory, with the occasional twinge or flinch at whatever pain he was feeling.
The desk clerk at the inn took one look at them and smiled. “Troppo bevuta, si?” She asked.
“Si,” said Shaun. “Non possiamo guidare. Ha una camera? Due lette.”
“Si si. Solo una notte?”
Shaun nodded. The clerk typed away on her computer for a minute, then handed him a card key. Good sign for the modern conveniences part of Miles’ request.
By the time he got Miles up the stairs to the inn’s second floor, the nice new shirt the girls had bought was nearly soaked with sweat. Negotiating the door was an adventure, as it was only wide enough for one person to pass through at a time, but finally they were in the room.
It was small, typically so for an Italian hotel, the two beds taking up nearly the entire space, but recently renovated, with energy-efficient bulbs in the lamps, a flatscreen TV, and a glassed-in shower and separate tub in the marble-floored bathroom. Miles made a beeline for the toilet, where he spent the next two solid minutes retching his guts out so hard Shaun thought he might turn inside out. The historian ran cold water into a glass and set it on the bathroom counter, then went to more thoroughly investigate the room. There were two courtesy bathrobes of fine Italian fabric in the wardrobe, and a well-stocked minibar was hidden under the desk. He took out one of the small bottles of ginger ale and checked on Miles, setting the soda next to the glass of water. Though the picture of misery, wrapped around the toilet like it was his best friend, the man managed a nod when Shaun asked if he was going to be okay, so he went to the room phone and dialed the payphone nearest the villa. Rebecca had rigged a line so that calls to that number were instead routed to her workstation. After ten rings, he was ready to hang up, but then there was the click of the receiver being picked up and Rebecca’s voice, slightly slurred, said “Aaaaaaay, where’d you guys go?”
“Listen, ‘Becca,” Shaun started.
“What? What’s up?” Immediately she sounded much more sober. Him using her nickname was their code for, “Something’s up but don’t tell Lucy.”
“Miles had an episode of the bleeding effect and it’s really hitting him hard. He says it’s because of the villa, it brings back memories for Ezio. So we’re spending the night in town. I need you to put some clothes and things in a backpack for us, and tell Lucy something. Maybe tell her he’s teaching me to climb buildings. Anyway tell her we’ll be back late. Leave the pack out front and I’ll come get it.”
“You sure hiding this is a good idea? Lu’d be fuckin’ pissed if she found out. It’s totally against the rules to split the team up, even if you are just across town.”
He knew Rebecca was right to be worried, but he couldn’t bring himself to match her concern. “No, I’m not sure at all, but you know what? I don’t care. Lucy might, might let him stay in town if we asked, and if you two came down here, but I wouldn’t put it past her not to make him stick around the villa anyway. You know how she is, everything must be done on schedule and according to protocol. But Miles doesn’t need protocol, he needs to not think about the villa, or work, if he can help it, to avoid triggering another episode. He asked for my help on this, ‘Becca, and now I’m asking for yours.”
There was a sigh on the other end of the line. “Oh, hell, Shaun. Fine. Your stuff’ll be by the front door.”
Shaun took one of the courtesy robes out and hung it on the hook on the back of the bathroom door. Miles had finished throwing up and was leaning on the counter, splashing cold water on his face. Shaun wrinkled his nose and said, “You should probably, and by that I mean definitely, shower. I’m running back up the hill to grab some stuff for us. Clean clothes and the like. Rebecca’s covering for us with Lucy. I figure if we sneak in sometime before dawn tomorrow we can just act like we were there all night.” Miles gave him a thumbs up and took a swig from the small bottle of mouthwash provided by the hotel.
Making sure to take the card key with him, Shaun jogged back up the hill to the villa. He hadn’t been lying about being a track star when he was younger, and he’d kept up his running regimen his whole life, finding time to run a few kilometers and do floor exercises every day with a strictness of routine rivaled only by the military. In the past few weeks he’d been letting it slide in favor of spending the time on work, but it still took only a handful of minutes for him to jog up to the villa, sneak in, grab the backpack, and jog back down to the inn.
The shower was running when he returned to the room, and he could hear humming coming from the bathroom, which after a few seconds of listening turned out to be “Speak Softly, Love,” from The Godfather. That was a good sign, it meant Miles had neither fainted nor turned into someone else while he was gone. He set the backpack on the desk chair and pulled out the things he’d brought, which included some extra-strength painkillers.
“Those for me?” A deep voice came from right behind him, and a tanned arm reached past to grab the bottle of pills. Shaun nearly jumped out of his skin. He hadn’t even heard the water turn off, and certainly hadn’t heard Miles cross the room. Like working with a bloody cat. “Oh, the good stuff too, nice.” Shaun turned around to see Miles, still damp from the shower, clad only in a towel, twist the top off the bottle and tip a pair of capsules into his hand. The welts across his torso from the dream-memory’s side effects were almost healed, so that if Shaun hadn’t known they were there he wouldn’t have noticed the few reddish spots still remaining. His eyes locked onto those muscles as they moved under tanned skin. Miles had continued his training, that much was obvious, as the little extra body fat he’d had in the warehouse had melted entirely away.
Then the man turned around and ooooh God, he hadn’t been kidding in the bar when he said he had a back piece. Shaun had gotten impressions of what it might be, catching glimpses of Miles’ workouts back in the warehouse, but this was the first he’d seen of it up close. A pair of golden eagle’s wings, rendered in stunning detail, spread from the inside edges of his shoulder blades and covered most of his upper back. The two small tattoos were visible as well, little black feathers inked low, very low, on either side. For a moment Shaun couldn’t help himself, his hand lifted and he wanted so badly to touch those wings. Then reality came crashing back in and he forced his arm back down, gripping the edge of the desk instead.
Surveying the things Shaun had brought, Miles grabbed the extra boxers from the stack of his clothes and pulled them on under the towel, tossing the fluffy white cover into the bathroom. Now Shaun could see the size of the bulge at the front of those shorts, which wasn’t helping him in the battle he was fighting, and rapidly losing, with his libido. He knew Miles was probably still feeling unwell, but hell, it had been months. In fact, nearly a year. There was not a damn thing he could do about the fact that his body was perfectly well aware that he was alone in a room with an attractive, nearly-naked man.
Miles turned back around and caught him staring, just for a moment, before he could tear his eyes away and focus resolutely on the wall. But then he realized that was probably suspicious too, so he started pulling his sweater off, figuring the sooner they were both in bed, in separate beds with the lights out, the better.
As he tugged the sweater over his head, a pair of large hands caught his wrists. “Shaun,” said Miles’ voice, muffled by the layer of wool between them.
“Yes?” Shaun said, his voice coming out in a higher register than he’d intended.
“Earlier, you said kissing me was the first thing that came to mind.” One hand disappeared from his wrists and found its way down, brushing lightly over his abs before taking hold of the bottom of his sweater.
“Y-yes,” Shaun squeaked, not quite sure whether this was really happening, or whether he’d fallen asleep suddenly and was now having an extremely vivid dream.
The hem of his sweater was pulled up until it no longer covered his face. “Has it come to mind before?”
“Posssssibly,” said Shaun, hissing the middle of the word as the taller man leaned in to plant the lightest of touches, no more than a butterfly’s landing, with his lips to the soft skin behind his ear.
“Now remember, Hastings, I can tell when you’re lying,” Miles rumbled in his ear.
“Yes,” Shaun said quickly, “yes it has.”
“And if I were to tell you the same thing has come to my mind?”
The kisses, each no more than a feather’s touch, were working their way down the side of Shaun’s neck. He wasn’t entirely sure his knees would stay solid much longer if this kept up. So he slid his arms out of the sleeves of his sweater, leaving Miles holding the empty fabric, and wrapped them around the man’s naked torso, taking time to slide his fingers over the contours of muscle and bone, gratified by the little shiver the motion elicited. “I’d say what took you so bloody long.”
Miles let the sweater drop and caught his hands as they headed downwards. “Oh, you know, kidnapped, brain used as a time machine, the usual.” Shaun started to laugh, but then Miles was kissing him and all his other thoughts went flying out of his head, his world contracted to the points of contact between them.
Kissing Miles was intoxicating, like taking a breath of air after being underwater for a few seconds too long, or drinking a sip of really, really fine wine after only ever having the cheap stuff. And, at the same time, it was exhilarating, like driving just a bit too fast down the freeway, or running outside in a thunderstorm to scream back at the sky.
Somehow, Shaun wasn’t sure how, they ended up on the bed nearest the window, Miles lying on top of him. The man’s hands slid under his t-shirt, working it upwards slowly, sliding over his ribs and up his arms. The American raised an eyebrow, “You’ve got some pretty good muscles on you, for a nerd,” he said.
“Kindly remember that I’m still an assassin, thank you very much. I may not actually go out and stab people, but I have to go through training just like all the rest.”
“Wow. Sorry to ruffle your feathers,” said Miles. “I just never think of you as doing anything but reading boring history stuff.”
“Oh, really? Not even this?” said Shaun, sliding a hand around the back of Miles’ neck and pulling him in for another kiss. The one remaining thought in Shaun’s head, brought on by the taste of mouthwash on Miles’ lips, annoying but persistent, broke into his concentration and he made himself pull back. “Miles,” he said, panting a little, “are you sure you’re up to this? You were in such a bad way, earlier…”
Miles actually considered the question, eyes unfocusing a little as he evaluated, and Shaun nearly kicked himself for ruining the best opportunity he was likely to get, well, ever, but to his eternal relief those beautiful rich brown eyes refocused on him and Miles nodded, grinning. “I’m feeling much better now. Being around stuff that’s from now, it helps a lot. And you’re not doing such a bad job of keeping me in the moment, yourself. So, for once in your life, just stop talking, all right?”
Shaun opened his mouth to reply and Miles put his finger to his lips, so he took it into his mouth and wrapped his tongue around it. Miles chuckled and reclaimed the digit, leaning in for another kiss. As Miles’ hands drifted down to his belt buckle, Shaun moved to help, but Miles stopped him, pinning his wrists above his head with one hand. With the other, Miles pulled the belt through its loops, and he was about to drop it on the floor when a mischievous look came into his eye. Quicker than Shaun could follow, he looped the leather around the historian’s wrists and tied the loose end securely to the wrought iron headboard of the bed.
“What are you on about?” Shaun protested, albeit weakly as now Miles was working on unbuttoning his pants.
“I figure,” those perfect teeth nipped at his collarbone, “you’ve been watching me,” Shaun’s breath hitched as the teeth found one of his nipples, “stuck in that damn chair,” the button finally came free and the zipper quickly followed. Miles tugged, and Shaun lifted his hips a little to slide out of his pants, “for months,” now Miles was sitting up, straddling his legs, one hand sliding up his abs.
“So now,” he continued, bending over to make a circle around Shaun’s bellybutton with his tongue, hot breath washing over skin making the historian’s back arch, “it’s your turn,” fingernails scratched lightly down his side, fingers hooking into the waistband of his boxers, “to not be able to move,” the American finished, looking up at Shaun with an absolutely wicked grin on his face.
It was all Shaun could do to keep from whimpering like a dog, he was so hard. “F-fair en-nough,” he managed.
“Glad you see it that way,” murmured the Most Frustrating Man in the World, having worked his way back up to nibble at Shaun’s earlobe.
This was getting to be too much. “Miles, p-please,” Shaun breathed, arms already starting to feel a bit sore from the involuntary tension he was putting against the makeshift restraint.
To his despair, Miles sat up, hands on his hips. “That’s not my name, Shaun. You don’t hear me calling you ‘Hastings’ all the time, do you?”
“God, Miles, please not now…”
“What’s my name?”
In any other situation, and maybe even five minutes ago, Shaun would’ve held onto his British Prep School form of address, but he was way past caring now. “Please, don’t stop…Desmond,” he begged.
“Ah, see, I knew you could get it,” Desmond grinned and bent down to kiss him on the lips, gently but thoroughly, and then drew back slightly to look Shaun in the eyes, one hand coming up to run through his hair as the other finally, finally went below the line of the panting historian’s boxers.
Fingers ghosted down the side of Shaun’s erection, each touch, light though they were, sending sparks of electricity up his spine. The hand left, but only for a moment, pulling his shorts down before returning to its previous position. Slowly, one by one, Desmond wrapped his fingers around, and when the last one was in place he gave a little squeeze that made Shaun gasp and buck his hips.
“God, you’re ready,” said Desmond, evil grin still in place. He started stroking, slowly, steadily, and even that small amount of motion was nearly enough to finish Shaun off it had been so fucking long. Desmond shifted his weight and sat up again. “I wanna see you,” he murmured, resting his free hand on Shaun’s stomach. His strokes got a little faster, a little stronger, and Shaun’s hands clenched into fists as his breathing sped up to match Desmond’s rhythm.
Desmond watched the historian’s reactions like a hawk, slowing down whenever it seemed like he was about to finish, until he had Shaun drenched in sweat and writhing against the blankets, hands wrapped around the iron of the headboard for purchase, arms shaking from the strain but not wanting it to ever, ever stop. So of course, just when he was about to finally come, it stopped.
Shaun’s eyes snapped open and he was getting ready to complain when he saw why Desmond’s hand had suddenly disappeared. The man was in the process of putting on a condom, where he’d gotten it Shaun couldn’t guess, but that wasn’t what was on his mind. What was on his mind was the size of Desmond’s erection. It had to be at least eight inches. As he finished unrolling the latex, Shaun protested halfheartedly, “I don’t know if I can handle that, Mi-Desmond, it’s been a while…”
“You can always say stop,” Desmond said, and with another of his too-fast-to-see movements, he hooked a leg and easily flipped the smaller man over so that he was kneeling, hands still securely tied to the headboard.
He pushed a finger, slick with lube from the condom package, into Shaun, going slowly just as he’d promised. “That okay?” he asked. Shaun nodded, teeth gritted against the burn. The first finger was joined by a second, and this time Shaun couldn’t help letting out a little hiss at the sensation. Desmond’s free hand traced down his spine, soothing. “Christ, you’re tight,” he said, “weren’t kidding when you said it’d been a long time, huh?”
Shaun shook his head, concentrating on relaxing around Desmond’s fingers. Desmond started to work on him, pushing in and pulling out in tiny increments at first, then bigger motions as he finally started to relax. When the third finger entered him, there was barely any burn at all and he was pressing back against Desmond’s hand. Obliging, Desmond curled his fingers just so, making Shaun arch his back and let out a long, low moan. “I-I don’t know if I can hold on m-much longer...” After a few seconds, the fingers withdrew and he felt Desmond’s tip press up against him. He steadied himself against the headboard, just in time, as with one thrust the man pushed his full length inside. “Ah, God!” Shaun yelped, muscles locking up for a second before he remembered to breathe. The preparation had spared him the worst of the pain, but there was nothing that could prepare a man to be fucked by eight inches after months of nothing at all.
Desmond froze, and asked, “You good?”
After a couple deep breaths, Shaun nodded. “Didn’t say stop, did I?”
He could hear the smile in Desmond’s voice as he replied, “Not in so many words, no.” He moved his hips forward a little and Shaun did his best to relax into the motion, swearing eloquently under his breath. Soon, desire overwhelmed hesitation and Desmond’s strokes lengthened, Shaun rocking back in counterpoint. They increased their rhythm together, without needing to say anything. The last of the burn faded into the background and Shaun soon found himself asking for more, his back curved, belt cutting into his wrists as his hands tried to move but couldn’t. Desmond leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Shaun’s torso, one hand stroking him in time to their breathing, the other sliding up his arm to overlay his grip on the headboard, breath tickling his ear.
Right at the end Desmond sank his teeth into Shaun’s shoulder, making the historian cry out, and then the rush of orgasm flooded in and Shaun could’ve sworn he blacked out for a second. He gasped and shuddered with each wave of pleasure, savoring every moment, every small sensation, the feel of Desmond’s fingers interlaced with his own, each holding on tight to the other’s hand.
When it was over they were both still for a few seconds, panting. Then, slowly, Desmond pulled out, keeping contact with a hand in the middle of Shaun’s back. Shaun heard the covers rustle and then a hand reached over his shoulder and untied the belt from the headboard, freeing his arms. He turned over to face Desmond as he rubbed at his wrists, chafed from the edges of the leather.
Desmond took one of his hands and planted a light kiss on the raw skin. “Sorry about that,” he said, kissing the other wrist as well.
“Small price to pay,” Shaun replied, still a bit breathless. “trust me.” He rolled his head back, easing the tension in his shoulders. Desmond leaned in and licked a bead of sweat from his exposed neck, making him shiver. “Not too much more of that, Desmond, unless you’re ready for another go,” he said, not entirely protesting.
Reluctantly, Desmond backed off, “Not tonight,” he said, and a sudden yawn caught him before he could finish his sentence. “You can probably tell why,” he said, shaking his head.
Shaun had to admit that his own body was now demanding sleep rather forcefully, the heavy feeling that had been behind his eyes for the last few days having made a stealthy return. “Haven’t been sleeping much, meaning not at all, am I right?”
Desmond looked surprised. “Yeah, how did you…ah, right. Guillaume. So the trick works for you too, huh?”
Nodding, Shaun sat up and stretched. “Been working myself into a stupor and grabbing an hour or two at a time. Which reminds me, I’ve two messages to send that can’t wait any longer.”
“Always work with you people. And here I was thinking I’d finally managed to get your full attention.”
“Oh, you have,” Shaun assured him. “But…well, this is what it’s like. Being an assassin, I mean, especially being a field historian like I am. There’s always someone out there waiting to hear from you, for one reason or another. You of all people should know that, Desmond. You’ve seen what it’s like to be the Mentor.”
With a sigh, Desmond got to his feet and sat on the other bed. “I know. It just…sucks. I’m starting to see that there’s literally no time to yourself in the Order. But I get it.”
Shaun got up as well, picking his pants up off the floor and fishing his radio out of the pocket. “It’s not always like that,” he said. “You’ve only seen it in three unusually fraught time periods: Altair’s, Ezio’s, and ours. Lu and Rebecca and I were all recruited years before Abstergo created the Animus, and things were calmer then.”
“You’ll have to tell me about it. I can’t imagine an assassin’s life ever being calm, even when things are just normal.”
“All right, for certain values of calm. Nothing like this, anyway. Speaking of which, I really do have to send those notes.”
“Sure.” Desmond went back into the bathroom and the sink started running.
Shaun winced. He knew the man was hurt that work would occur to him at such a time. In fact, he knew exactly how Desmond felt; he’d gone through the same thing when he was a recruit and first met Will, a field operative at the time. Even on nights that were supposed to be just for them, Will would sometimes slip out of the movie theater or restaurant, ostensibly to get a refill of his drink or use the restroom, and come back a few minutes later, slightly out of breath, or with his shirt rumpled where before it had been smooth. Shaun learned not to ask. And then, later, as he moved up the ranks on his way to becoming an Assassin in his own right, he learned why it was necessary to place personal life near the bottom of priority lists. Desmond may have had the vicarious experience of Ezio’s memories, but even that wasn’t comparable to actually living it, day by day, with all the little responsibilities that seemed trivial but, if unfulfilled, could lead to disaster for fellow members of the Order. And sometimes it came down to a choice between living with that on one’s conscience, or reneging on personal commitments and soothing the hurt feelings later. Which, while unpleasant and upsetting, was in the end no choice at all.
Dialing his radio to Rebecca’s frequency, Shaun grabbed the second robe from the closet and put it on. Even knowing she couldn’t see him, he would’ve felt weird talking to her naked. “This is Bayeaux for Sandhill, requesting a favor, over.”
“This is Sandhill. How’s it going, Bayeaux? Over.” She was sticking to codenames, which meant Lucy was around.
“Not too bad. Townshend is doing well, so we’re going to hang out in town a little longer. But I need a favor, I’ve left some work on my computer. Can you send a couple messages for me?”
“Sure.” As the tech expert assigned to the Italy/Abstergo missions, Rebecca knew everyone’s login information and sent regular reports back to the Mentor. They mostly consisted of the phrase “NTR,” Nothing to Report, but it was the one piece of protocol she stuck to rigorously of her own accord. IT security was extremely important to her, and as the one who programmed most of the Order’s computers, a point of personal pride as well.
“Great. They’re in my drafts. I owe you one.”
“No prob.” There were a few seconds of silence. “Hey, these were marked to be sent an hour ago. Why didn’t you call earlier?”
“I was…distracted.”
“Tsk, not like you to be late. Slipping, are we?”
“Sandhill, I don’t have to keep buying you chocolate gelato when it’s my turn to do the shopping.”
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, man. They’re on their way now. Hey, Lu, this is my-” Rebecca’s voice cut off.
“Bayeaux, this is Walden. Where the hell are you guys?”
“Didn’t Sandhill tell you? I bet Townshend I could beat him to the front door from the bottom of the steps, so now he has to teach me some of his climbing and such. We’ll be back in time to get some sleep, don’t worry.”
“Okay, fine. Just make sure you get back here pretty soon. I don’t like keeping us split up this long.”
“Sure thing. See you in the morning, Walden. Bayeaux out.” He switched his radio off before Lucy could reply.
Desmond had come back into the room while he talked to the girls, and was under the covers, pretending to be asleep. Shaun moved to stand over him. He had one last whim to indulge before trying for some sleep himself. He climbed in next to Desmond, the other man making room for him despite not turning to look at him. Reaching out, Shaun placed his hands on the man’s back, one over each wing, and stroked outward. The artistry was such that he almost expected to feel feathers instead of skin.
Sighing, Desmond turned over. With the light shining into them, Shaun could see flecks of gold in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know the work is important.”
Shaun shook his head. “I should have explained before. Normally I would have. But with everything you do so easily, casing the crowd at the tavern earlier, that jump off the cliff when we got here…I keep forgetting you’re actually still a recruit. You haven’t lived the life. And, well, until you…started things, I hadn’t realized you were…that is, I thought you…oh, bollocks, I’m going to need to start that sentence over.”
Laughing, Desmond said, “No, I get it. You thought I was straight, right? I’m not anything so traditional. One thing about staying off the grid, you end up hanging out with some pretty open-minded people. Made it easy to find stuff out about myself. I like girls, sure, and guys too. Nothing wrong with that.”
“Odd view for an American.”
Desmond shrugged, shifting to get more comfortable. “I’ve never been a normal American, so I wouldn’t know. But yeah, I get the feeling it’s not the majority feeling in the good ol’ US of A.”
“Shame,” Shaun yawned, reaching behind himself to turn off the lamp. “You Yanks are so strange. So much potential and so many wasted possibilities in one nation.”
“Yeah, well,” Desmond slid his arm under Shaun’s shoulders. “It’s a big country. Trust me, I’ve walked most of it.”
“’ave to tell me ‘bout it sometime,” Shaun murmured, sleep overtaking him fast now that the room was dark.
They fell asleep with hands linked, and for the first time in many nights, neither of them wondered who they’d wake up as in the morning.
Chapter: 5/5
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Disclaimer: All characters and concept (c) Ubisoft
Rating: M for mature! That means only 18+ years old! If you're too young to vote, you're too young to read this!
Pairings: Shaun Hastings/Desmond Miles, bits of Ezio Auditore/Leonardo da Vinci, Ezio/Caterina Sforza, Ezio/Laura Boccanera. (Our boy Ezio sure gets around, doesn't he?)
Warnings: Fic contains spoilers for all three main-line games, including DLC. Also contains profanity, violence, and lots and lots of sex, though not until chapter 5. Hey, that's only one chapter away! Unfortunately you probably shouldn't just read the sexy parts because it also contains plot, though what that plot will end up looking like I'm not entirely sure.
Word Count: This Chapter 4861. Overall: 17133
Note: Originally this was going to be the longfic of foreverwriting, but then as I was reading it back I thought I might've started it too early. So as an experiment I started over, setting it entirely post ACB, and it worked a lot better for what I wanted to do. Meaning this is the final chapter of IKYK. I tried to end it in a good spot, though, so I hope it doesn't feel too incomplete. And I will be posting the new fic, as yet untitled, here, so watch this space for the real longfic of foreverwriting :)
Back down the main street they went, Shaun supporting most of Miles’ weight by ducking under his arm and letting him use his shoulders for balance. With that much contact, Shaun could feel him shaking like he’d been after waking from the dream-memory, with the occasional twinge or flinch at whatever pain he was feeling.
The desk clerk at the inn took one look at them and smiled. “Troppo bevuta, si?” She asked.
“Si,” said Shaun. “Non possiamo guidare. Ha una camera? Due lette.”
“Si si. Solo una notte?”
Shaun nodded. The clerk typed away on her computer for a minute, then handed him a card key. Good sign for the modern conveniences part of Miles’ request.
By the time he got Miles up the stairs to the inn’s second floor, the nice new shirt the girls had bought was nearly soaked with sweat. Negotiating the door was an adventure, as it was only wide enough for one person to pass through at a time, but finally they were in the room.
It was small, typically so for an Italian hotel, the two beds taking up nearly the entire space, but recently renovated, with energy-efficient bulbs in the lamps, a flatscreen TV, and a glassed-in shower and separate tub in the marble-floored bathroom. Miles made a beeline for the toilet, where he spent the next two solid minutes retching his guts out so hard Shaun thought he might turn inside out. The historian ran cold water into a glass and set it on the bathroom counter, then went to more thoroughly investigate the room. There were two courtesy bathrobes of fine Italian fabric in the wardrobe, and a well-stocked minibar was hidden under the desk. He took out one of the small bottles of ginger ale and checked on Miles, setting the soda next to the glass of water. Though the picture of misery, wrapped around the toilet like it was his best friend, the man managed a nod when Shaun asked if he was going to be okay, so he went to the room phone and dialed the payphone nearest the villa. Rebecca had rigged a line so that calls to that number were instead routed to her workstation. After ten rings, he was ready to hang up, but then there was the click of the receiver being picked up and Rebecca’s voice, slightly slurred, said “Aaaaaaay, where’d you guys go?”
“Listen, ‘Becca,” Shaun started.
“What? What’s up?” Immediately she sounded much more sober. Him using her nickname was their code for, “Something’s up but don’t tell Lucy.”
“Miles had an episode of the bleeding effect and it’s really hitting him hard. He says it’s because of the villa, it brings back memories for Ezio. So we’re spending the night in town. I need you to put some clothes and things in a backpack for us, and tell Lucy something. Maybe tell her he’s teaching me to climb buildings. Anyway tell her we’ll be back late. Leave the pack out front and I’ll come get it.”
“You sure hiding this is a good idea? Lu’d be fuckin’ pissed if she found out. It’s totally against the rules to split the team up, even if you are just across town.”
He knew Rebecca was right to be worried, but he couldn’t bring himself to match her concern. “No, I’m not sure at all, but you know what? I don’t care. Lucy might, might let him stay in town if we asked, and if you two came down here, but I wouldn’t put it past her not to make him stick around the villa anyway. You know how she is, everything must be done on schedule and according to protocol. But Miles doesn’t need protocol, he needs to not think about the villa, or work, if he can help it, to avoid triggering another episode. He asked for my help on this, ‘Becca, and now I’m asking for yours.”
There was a sigh on the other end of the line. “Oh, hell, Shaun. Fine. Your stuff’ll be by the front door.”
Shaun took one of the courtesy robes out and hung it on the hook on the back of the bathroom door. Miles had finished throwing up and was leaning on the counter, splashing cold water on his face. Shaun wrinkled his nose and said, “You should probably, and by that I mean definitely, shower. I’m running back up the hill to grab some stuff for us. Clean clothes and the like. Rebecca’s covering for us with Lucy. I figure if we sneak in sometime before dawn tomorrow we can just act like we were there all night.” Miles gave him a thumbs up and took a swig from the small bottle of mouthwash provided by the hotel.
Making sure to take the card key with him, Shaun jogged back up the hill to the villa. He hadn’t been lying about being a track star when he was younger, and he’d kept up his running regimen his whole life, finding time to run a few kilometers and do floor exercises every day with a strictness of routine rivaled only by the military. In the past few weeks he’d been letting it slide in favor of spending the time on work, but it still took only a handful of minutes for him to jog up to the villa, sneak in, grab the backpack, and jog back down to the inn.
The shower was running when he returned to the room, and he could hear humming coming from the bathroom, which after a few seconds of listening turned out to be “Speak Softly, Love,” from The Godfather. That was a good sign, it meant Miles had neither fainted nor turned into someone else while he was gone. He set the backpack on the desk chair and pulled out the things he’d brought, which included some extra-strength painkillers.
“Those for me?” A deep voice came from right behind him, and a tanned arm reached past to grab the bottle of pills. Shaun nearly jumped out of his skin. He hadn’t even heard the water turn off, and certainly hadn’t heard Miles cross the room. Like working with a bloody cat. “Oh, the good stuff too, nice.” Shaun turned around to see Miles, still damp from the shower, clad only in a towel, twist the top off the bottle and tip a pair of capsules into his hand. The welts across his torso from the dream-memory’s side effects were almost healed, so that if Shaun hadn’t known they were there he wouldn’t have noticed the few reddish spots still remaining. His eyes locked onto those muscles as they moved under tanned skin. Miles had continued his training, that much was obvious, as the little extra body fat he’d had in the warehouse had melted entirely away.
Then the man turned around and ooooh God, he hadn’t been kidding in the bar when he said he had a back piece. Shaun had gotten impressions of what it might be, catching glimpses of Miles’ workouts back in the warehouse, but this was the first he’d seen of it up close. A pair of golden eagle’s wings, rendered in stunning detail, spread from the inside edges of his shoulder blades and covered most of his upper back. The two small tattoos were visible as well, little black feathers inked low, very low, on either side. For a moment Shaun couldn’t help himself, his hand lifted and he wanted so badly to touch those wings. Then reality came crashing back in and he forced his arm back down, gripping the edge of the desk instead.
Surveying the things Shaun had brought, Miles grabbed the extra boxers from the stack of his clothes and pulled them on under the towel, tossing the fluffy white cover into the bathroom. Now Shaun could see the size of the bulge at the front of those shorts, which wasn’t helping him in the battle he was fighting, and rapidly losing, with his libido. He knew Miles was probably still feeling unwell, but hell, it had been months. In fact, nearly a year. There was not a damn thing he could do about the fact that his body was perfectly well aware that he was alone in a room with an attractive, nearly-naked man.
Miles turned back around and caught him staring, just for a moment, before he could tear his eyes away and focus resolutely on the wall. But then he realized that was probably suspicious too, so he started pulling his sweater off, figuring the sooner they were both in bed, in separate beds with the lights out, the better.
As he tugged the sweater over his head, a pair of large hands caught his wrists. “Shaun,” said Miles’ voice, muffled by the layer of wool between them.
“Yes?” Shaun said, his voice coming out in a higher register than he’d intended.
“Earlier, you said kissing me was the first thing that came to mind.” One hand disappeared from his wrists and found its way down, brushing lightly over his abs before taking hold of the bottom of his sweater.
“Y-yes,” Shaun squeaked, not quite sure whether this was really happening, or whether he’d fallen asleep suddenly and was now having an extremely vivid dream.
The hem of his sweater was pulled up until it no longer covered his face. “Has it come to mind before?”
“Posssssibly,” said Shaun, hissing the middle of the word as the taller man leaned in to plant the lightest of touches, no more than a butterfly’s landing, with his lips to the soft skin behind his ear.
“Now remember, Hastings, I can tell when you’re lying,” Miles rumbled in his ear.
“Yes,” Shaun said quickly, “yes it has.”
“And if I were to tell you the same thing has come to my mind?”
The kisses, each no more than a feather’s touch, were working their way down the side of Shaun’s neck. He wasn’t entirely sure his knees would stay solid much longer if this kept up. So he slid his arms out of the sleeves of his sweater, leaving Miles holding the empty fabric, and wrapped them around the man’s naked torso, taking time to slide his fingers over the contours of muscle and bone, gratified by the little shiver the motion elicited. “I’d say what took you so bloody long.”
Miles let the sweater drop and caught his hands as they headed downwards. “Oh, you know, kidnapped, brain used as a time machine, the usual.” Shaun started to laugh, but then Miles was kissing him and all his other thoughts went flying out of his head, his world contracted to the points of contact between them.
Kissing Miles was intoxicating, like taking a breath of air after being underwater for a few seconds too long, or drinking a sip of really, really fine wine after only ever having the cheap stuff. And, at the same time, it was exhilarating, like driving just a bit too fast down the freeway, or running outside in a thunderstorm to scream back at the sky.
Somehow, Shaun wasn’t sure how, they ended up on the bed nearest the window, Miles lying on top of him. The man’s hands slid under his t-shirt, working it upwards slowly, sliding over his ribs and up his arms. The American raised an eyebrow, “You’ve got some pretty good muscles on you, for a nerd,” he said.
“Kindly remember that I’m still an assassin, thank you very much. I may not actually go out and stab people, but I have to go through training just like all the rest.”
“Wow. Sorry to ruffle your feathers,” said Miles. “I just never think of you as doing anything but reading boring history stuff.”
“Oh, really? Not even this?” said Shaun, sliding a hand around the back of Miles’ neck and pulling him in for another kiss. The one remaining thought in Shaun’s head, brought on by the taste of mouthwash on Miles’ lips, annoying but persistent, broke into his concentration and he made himself pull back. “Miles,” he said, panting a little, “are you sure you’re up to this? You were in such a bad way, earlier…”
Miles actually considered the question, eyes unfocusing a little as he evaluated, and Shaun nearly kicked himself for ruining the best opportunity he was likely to get, well, ever, but to his eternal relief those beautiful rich brown eyes refocused on him and Miles nodded, grinning. “I’m feeling much better now. Being around stuff that’s from now, it helps a lot. And you’re not doing such a bad job of keeping me in the moment, yourself. So, for once in your life, just stop talking, all right?”
Shaun opened his mouth to reply and Miles put his finger to his lips, so he took it into his mouth and wrapped his tongue around it. Miles chuckled and reclaimed the digit, leaning in for another kiss. As Miles’ hands drifted down to his belt buckle, Shaun moved to help, but Miles stopped him, pinning his wrists above his head with one hand. With the other, Miles pulled the belt through its loops, and he was about to drop it on the floor when a mischievous look came into his eye. Quicker than Shaun could follow, he looped the leather around the historian’s wrists and tied the loose end securely to the wrought iron headboard of the bed.
“What are you on about?” Shaun protested, albeit weakly as now Miles was working on unbuttoning his pants.
“I figure,” those perfect teeth nipped at his collarbone, “you’ve been watching me,” Shaun’s breath hitched as the teeth found one of his nipples, “stuck in that damn chair,” the button finally came free and the zipper quickly followed. Miles tugged, and Shaun lifted his hips a little to slide out of his pants, “for months,” now Miles was sitting up, straddling his legs, one hand sliding up his abs.
“So now,” he continued, bending over to make a circle around Shaun’s bellybutton with his tongue, hot breath washing over skin making the historian’s back arch, “it’s your turn,” fingernails scratched lightly down his side, fingers hooking into the waistband of his boxers, “to not be able to move,” the American finished, looking up at Shaun with an absolutely wicked grin on his face.
It was all Shaun could do to keep from whimpering like a dog, he was so hard. “F-fair en-nough,” he managed.
“Glad you see it that way,” murmured the Most Frustrating Man in the World, having worked his way back up to nibble at Shaun’s earlobe.
This was getting to be too much. “Miles, p-please,” Shaun breathed, arms already starting to feel a bit sore from the involuntary tension he was putting against the makeshift restraint.
To his despair, Miles sat up, hands on his hips. “That’s not my name, Shaun. You don’t hear me calling you ‘Hastings’ all the time, do you?”
“God, Miles, please not now…”
“What’s my name?”
In any other situation, and maybe even five minutes ago, Shaun would’ve held onto his British Prep School form of address, but he was way past caring now. “Please, don’t stop…Desmond,” he begged.
“Ah, see, I knew you could get it,” Desmond grinned and bent down to kiss him on the lips, gently but thoroughly, and then drew back slightly to look Shaun in the eyes, one hand coming up to run through his hair as the other finally, finally went below the line of the panting historian’s boxers.
Fingers ghosted down the side of Shaun’s erection, each touch, light though they were, sending sparks of electricity up his spine. The hand left, but only for a moment, pulling his shorts down before returning to its previous position. Slowly, one by one, Desmond wrapped his fingers around, and when the last one was in place he gave a little squeeze that made Shaun gasp and buck his hips.
“God, you’re ready,” said Desmond, evil grin still in place. He started stroking, slowly, steadily, and even that small amount of motion was nearly enough to finish Shaun off it had been so fucking long. Desmond shifted his weight and sat up again. “I wanna see you,” he murmured, resting his free hand on Shaun’s stomach. His strokes got a little faster, a little stronger, and Shaun’s hands clenched into fists as his breathing sped up to match Desmond’s rhythm.
Desmond watched the historian’s reactions like a hawk, slowing down whenever it seemed like he was about to finish, until he had Shaun drenched in sweat and writhing against the blankets, hands wrapped around the iron of the headboard for purchase, arms shaking from the strain but not wanting it to ever, ever stop. So of course, just when he was about to finally come, it stopped.
Shaun’s eyes snapped open and he was getting ready to complain when he saw why Desmond’s hand had suddenly disappeared. The man was in the process of putting on a condom, where he’d gotten it Shaun couldn’t guess, but that wasn’t what was on his mind. What was on his mind was the size of Desmond’s erection. It had to be at least eight inches. As he finished unrolling the latex, Shaun protested halfheartedly, “I don’t know if I can handle that, Mi-Desmond, it’s been a while…”
“You can always say stop,” Desmond said, and with another of his too-fast-to-see movements, he hooked a leg and easily flipped the smaller man over so that he was kneeling, hands still securely tied to the headboard.
He pushed a finger, slick with lube from the condom package, into Shaun, going slowly just as he’d promised. “That okay?” he asked. Shaun nodded, teeth gritted against the burn. The first finger was joined by a second, and this time Shaun couldn’t help letting out a little hiss at the sensation. Desmond’s free hand traced down his spine, soothing. “Christ, you’re tight,” he said, “weren’t kidding when you said it’d been a long time, huh?”
Shaun shook his head, concentrating on relaxing around Desmond’s fingers. Desmond started to work on him, pushing in and pulling out in tiny increments at first, then bigger motions as he finally started to relax. When the third finger entered him, there was barely any burn at all and he was pressing back against Desmond’s hand. Obliging, Desmond curled his fingers just so, making Shaun arch his back and let out a long, low moan. “I-I don’t know if I can hold on m-much longer...” After a few seconds, the fingers withdrew and he felt Desmond’s tip press up against him. He steadied himself against the headboard, just in time, as with one thrust the man pushed his full length inside. “Ah, God!” Shaun yelped, muscles locking up for a second before he remembered to breathe. The preparation had spared him the worst of the pain, but there was nothing that could prepare a man to be fucked by eight inches after months of nothing at all.
Desmond froze, and asked, “You good?”
After a couple deep breaths, Shaun nodded. “Didn’t say stop, did I?”
He could hear the smile in Desmond’s voice as he replied, “Not in so many words, no.” He moved his hips forward a little and Shaun did his best to relax into the motion, swearing eloquently under his breath. Soon, desire overwhelmed hesitation and Desmond’s strokes lengthened, Shaun rocking back in counterpoint. They increased their rhythm together, without needing to say anything. The last of the burn faded into the background and Shaun soon found himself asking for more, his back curved, belt cutting into his wrists as his hands tried to move but couldn’t. Desmond leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Shaun’s torso, one hand stroking him in time to their breathing, the other sliding up his arm to overlay his grip on the headboard, breath tickling his ear.
Right at the end Desmond sank his teeth into Shaun’s shoulder, making the historian cry out, and then the rush of orgasm flooded in and Shaun could’ve sworn he blacked out for a second. He gasped and shuddered with each wave of pleasure, savoring every moment, every small sensation, the feel of Desmond’s fingers interlaced with his own, each holding on tight to the other’s hand.
When it was over they were both still for a few seconds, panting. Then, slowly, Desmond pulled out, keeping contact with a hand in the middle of Shaun’s back. Shaun heard the covers rustle and then a hand reached over his shoulder and untied the belt from the headboard, freeing his arms. He turned over to face Desmond as he rubbed at his wrists, chafed from the edges of the leather.
Desmond took one of his hands and planted a light kiss on the raw skin. “Sorry about that,” he said, kissing the other wrist as well.
“Small price to pay,” Shaun replied, still a bit breathless. “trust me.” He rolled his head back, easing the tension in his shoulders. Desmond leaned in and licked a bead of sweat from his exposed neck, making him shiver. “Not too much more of that, Desmond, unless you’re ready for another go,” he said, not entirely protesting.
Reluctantly, Desmond backed off, “Not tonight,” he said, and a sudden yawn caught him before he could finish his sentence. “You can probably tell why,” he said, shaking his head.
Shaun had to admit that his own body was now demanding sleep rather forcefully, the heavy feeling that had been behind his eyes for the last few days having made a stealthy return. “Haven’t been sleeping much, meaning not at all, am I right?”
Desmond looked surprised. “Yeah, how did you…ah, right. Guillaume. So the trick works for you too, huh?”
Nodding, Shaun sat up and stretched. “Been working myself into a stupor and grabbing an hour or two at a time. Which reminds me, I’ve two messages to send that can’t wait any longer.”
“Always work with you people. And here I was thinking I’d finally managed to get your full attention.”
“Oh, you have,” Shaun assured him. “But…well, this is what it’s like. Being an assassin, I mean, especially being a field historian like I am. There’s always someone out there waiting to hear from you, for one reason or another. You of all people should know that, Desmond. You’ve seen what it’s like to be the Mentor.”
With a sigh, Desmond got to his feet and sat on the other bed. “I know. It just…sucks. I’m starting to see that there’s literally no time to yourself in the Order. But I get it.”
Shaun got up as well, picking his pants up off the floor and fishing his radio out of the pocket. “It’s not always like that,” he said. “You’ve only seen it in three unusually fraught time periods: Altair’s, Ezio’s, and ours. Lu and Rebecca and I were all recruited years before Abstergo created the Animus, and things were calmer then.”
“You’ll have to tell me about it. I can’t imagine an assassin’s life ever being calm, even when things are just normal.”
“All right, for certain values of calm. Nothing like this, anyway. Speaking of which, I really do have to send those notes.”
“Sure.” Desmond went back into the bathroom and the sink started running.
Shaun winced. He knew the man was hurt that work would occur to him at such a time. In fact, he knew exactly how Desmond felt; he’d gone through the same thing when he was a recruit and first met Will, a field operative at the time. Even on nights that were supposed to be just for them, Will would sometimes slip out of the movie theater or restaurant, ostensibly to get a refill of his drink or use the restroom, and come back a few minutes later, slightly out of breath, or with his shirt rumpled where before it had been smooth. Shaun learned not to ask. And then, later, as he moved up the ranks on his way to becoming an Assassin in his own right, he learned why it was necessary to place personal life near the bottom of priority lists. Desmond may have had the vicarious experience of Ezio’s memories, but even that wasn’t comparable to actually living it, day by day, with all the little responsibilities that seemed trivial but, if unfulfilled, could lead to disaster for fellow members of the Order. And sometimes it came down to a choice between living with that on one’s conscience, or reneging on personal commitments and soothing the hurt feelings later. Which, while unpleasant and upsetting, was in the end no choice at all.
Dialing his radio to Rebecca’s frequency, Shaun grabbed the second robe from the closet and put it on. Even knowing she couldn’t see him, he would’ve felt weird talking to her naked. “This is Bayeaux for Sandhill, requesting a favor, over.”
“This is Sandhill. How’s it going, Bayeaux? Over.” She was sticking to codenames, which meant Lucy was around.
“Not too bad. Townshend is doing well, so we’re going to hang out in town a little longer. But I need a favor, I’ve left some work on my computer. Can you send a couple messages for me?”
“Sure.” As the tech expert assigned to the Italy/Abstergo missions, Rebecca knew everyone’s login information and sent regular reports back to the Mentor. They mostly consisted of the phrase “NTR,” Nothing to Report, but it was the one piece of protocol she stuck to rigorously of her own accord. IT security was extremely important to her, and as the one who programmed most of the Order’s computers, a point of personal pride as well.
“Great. They’re in my drafts. I owe you one.”
“No prob.” There were a few seconds of silence. “Hey, these were marked to be sent an hour ago. Why didn’t you call earlier?”
“I was…distracted.”
“Tsk, not like you to be late. Slipping, are we?”
“Sandhill, I don’t have to keep buying you chocolate gelato when it’s my turn to do the shopping.”
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, man. They’re on their way now. Hey, Lu, this is my-” Rebecca’s voice cut off.
“Bayeaux, this is Walden. Where the hell are you guys?”
“Didn’t Sandhill tell you? I bet Townshend I could beat him to the front door from the bottom of the steps, so now he has to teach me some of his climbing and such. We’ll be back in time to get some sleep, don’t worry.”
“Okay, fine. Just make sure you get back here pretty soon. I don’t like keeping us split up this long.”
“Sure thing. See you in the morning, Walden. Bayeaux out.” He switched his radio off before Lucy could reply.
Desmond had come back into the room while he talked to the girls, and was under the covers, pretending to be asleep. Shaun moved to stand over him. He had one last whim to indulge before trying for some sleep himself. He climbed in next to Desmond, the other man making room for him despite not turning to look at him. Reaching out, Shaun placed his hands on the man’s back, one over each wing, and stroked outward. The artistry was such that he almost expected to feel feathers instead of skin.
Sighing, Desmond turned over. With the light shining into them, Shaun could see flecks of gold in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know the work is important.”
Shaun shook his head. “I should have explained before. Normally I would have. But with everything you do so easily, casing the crowd at the tavern earlier, that jump off the cliff when we got here…I keep forgetting you’re actually still a recruit. You haven’t lived the life. And, well, until you…started things, I hadn’t realized you were…that is, I thought you…oh, bollocks, I’m going to need to start that sentence over.”
Laughing, Desmond said, “No, I get it. You thought I was straight, right? I’m not anything so traditional. One thing about staying off the grid, you end up hanging out with some pretty open-minded people. Made it easy to find stuff out about myself. I like girls, sure, and guys too. Nothing wrong with that.”
“Odd view for an American.”
Desmond shrugged, shifting to get more comfortable. “I’ve never been a normal American, so I wouldn’t know. But yeah, I get the feeling it’s not the majority feeling in the good ol’ US of A.”
“Shame,” Shaun yawned, reaching behind himself to turn off the lamp. “You Yanks are so strange. So much potential and so many wasted possibilities in one nation.”
“Yeah, well,” Desmond slid his arm under Shaun’s shoulders. “It’s a big country. Trust me, I’ve walked most of it.”
“’ave to tell me ‘bout it sometime,” Shaun murmured, sleep overtaking him fast now that the room was dark.
They fell asleep with hands linked, and for the first time in many nights, neither of them wondered who they’d wake up as in the morning.