Fanfiction: Visitors (Gratuitous Wish-Fulfilment Edition) (Assassin's Creed)
SOMEONE IS WRITING FANFICTION FOR VISITORS. Someone is writing fanfiction for my Assassin's Creed fanfiction. This is so weird and I'm delighted.
Even better: someone is writing Visitors fanfiction with Shay/Aveline. Somehow I accidentally caught this 'ship (which there was literally no fanfiction for) while writing Visitors. They never canonically interact, but they could, theoretically; they were only born sixteen years apart. And there's definitely the potential for a really intriguing dynamic; they're kindred spirits in being pushed to doubt the Creed by their mentors, but they fight on different sides.
I'm glad someone else is carrying on the Visitors universe, because all my further ideas for it are unwritably ridiculous. I'm desperately trying to restrain myself from attempting Visitors (Gratuitous Wish-Fulfilment Edition): exactly the same concept, only everyone is constantly cuddling and falling asleep on each other. It would be terrible and deeply implausible. You don't know how much effort it took to keep myself from ending the 'traumatised post-hanging Ezio meets Desmond for the first time' scene with the two of them platonically bed-sharing. I keep going 'BUT SHAY'S TIMELINE OFFERS SO MUCH SCOPE FOR HUDDLING FOR WARMTH' and then having to drag myself away.
(I really want Shay to be warm. It's very important to me. I accidentally fell into freezing water in Rogue and couldn't find a way out and he froze to death and it was horrible.)
I'm not even a fluff writer most of the time, but apparently all I want to see from Assassin's Creed is this collection of mass-murderers snuggling up to each other.
And also Shay/Aveline. Seriously, I couldn't have ended up 'shipping two characters from the same game?
...aaaaand now I've written the below. Wow. This is embarrassing. I'm sorry that this journal has turned into nothing but weird self-indulgent AU fanfiction for a fandom none of you are in.
Title: Visitors (Gratuitous Wish-Fulfilment Edition)
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Shay Cormac/Aveline de Grandpré
Wordcount: 9,000
Summary: Visitors was a collection of scenes from a universe in which most of the Assassin's Creed protagonists kept meeting through involuntary time-travel. This is the same, only now they all cuddle and fall asleep on each other. Don't give me that look.
Notes: These side-stories may occasionally conflict with the established Visitors timeline. It's the gratuitous wish-fulfilment edition and everything is permitted.
“Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent.”
Altaïr looks up from the body. It’s Shay, in his Templar clothing. “He would have warned my target.”
“The way I understand it, a person doesn’t stop being innocent the moment they turn inconvenient,” Shay says.
Altaïr bristles. “And who are you to judge me, traitor? I’ve seen your Grand Master at work. He’s no kinder to his informants than I am.”
“I know,” Shay admits. “And I won’t pretend I like it. But he didn’t take your oath.”
Altaïr stalks towards him, then glances around at the sound of footsteps that aren’t his own. Best to be clear of this place before the guards come.
He clambers up onto the nearest rooftop and runs, careful to evade the gaze of the Acre archers. More than once he finds himself thinking longingly of the quieter rooftops of Damas. Shay keeps pace with him, of course, but at least he does it in silence.
Eventually Altaïr vaults into a rooftop garden, somewhere they can speak privately. He tires sometimes of the stares and mutters that come his way when he’s running or climbing or speaking to visitors.
Shay hesitates outside.
“Come in, or don’t,” Altaïr says, “but make a decision.”
After a moment, Shay twitches the hangings aside and climbs in. There’s little space, and they sit with their knees pressed together, looking at each other.
“Garnier is an inhuman man,” Altaïr says. “You heard what his spokesman told me. He takes healthy men and women, and he destroys them. His life is worth any price I have to pay to obtain it.”
“Aye, I heard what the herald said,” Shay says. “He begged you to stop Garnier. He said he was being forced to act as spokesman. You’d have set him free by killing the doctor, but you murdered him on the chance he’d warn the man he hates.”
Altaïr tenses, furious. “There were more lives than his at stake. I can’t take chances.”
Shay shrugs. “If you want to keep your oath, I’d say you have to.”
“The next time you come here, do not speak to me,” Altaïr says.
But Shay’s words prey on his mind. Later, in Jerusalem, he accosts a herald about the slaver Talal, and he hears what he has to say - and he lets him go. Even though the herald shows more loyalty to his master than the one he killed for Garnier. He lets him go.
The moment Altaïr enters Talal’s warehouse, the door slams shut behind him. Of course.
“Step into the light,” Talal invites him from above.
Altaïr looks warily at the shaft of light and sees, with a rush of fierce delight, that Shay has appeared there, frowning and shading his eyes.
“Am I allowed to talk yet?” Shay asks. “Or is this the next time for you as well?”
“You can speak,” Altaïr snarls, although he feels so ecstatic in his vindication that it’s hard to put all the anger Shay deserves behind it. “You can grovel for my forgiveness, in fact. You have thrown me into a trap.” He points at Talal. “You see, this is what happens when you spare informants!”
“An interesting bluff, but I know you came alone,” Talal calls. “Or did your master not see fit to send me a man with his wits?”
Shay blinks up at Talal. “Oh. That’s your target?”
“My target,” Altaïr confirms. “Who knew I would be here. Because I listened to you.”
“Is this a joke?” Talal demands. “I am not a man to be made light of.”
“You really spared someone because of me?” Shay asks.
“Against my better judgement,” Altaïr says. “And now you see the result.”
“Still,” Shay says. “Someone’s alive because of me, for once. I think I can feel good about that. How about you?”
“And if I die here because of it?” Altaïr asks.
Shay laughs. “We both know that won’t happen.”
Which is true, of course. Altaïr was frustrated when the door slammed shut, but not afraid; he knows he has the skills to survive this, whatever Talal has in store. Besides, he knows that someone will eventually erect a statue of him in an Italian villa, and he has yet to do anything that would explain that.
“Step into the light!” Talal bellows.
Altaïr steps into the light, beside Shay, and draws his sword. Talal’s men surround him, but he has faced worse odds than this. And he knows that Shay will warn him of unseen attacks, even if they serve different causes.
“Very well,” he says, grudgingly. “Perhaps informants do not have to die.”
But he takes to tying them up and leaving them in the bureau - blindfolded, of course - until his assassination is over, just in case. Malik hates it.
-
“I have no idea,” Rebecca is saying. “I kind of want to call it a Bleeding Effect, but I’m pretty sure Ezio’s never been in an Animus. He just keeps talking to people who aren’t there.”
“Maybe the Animus just isn’t loading models,” Lucy says. “It happened all the time at Abstergo.”
Rebecca groans. “I spent so long ironing out all the bugs. How are there always more?”
“You’re still not convinced?” a voice asks, low by Desmond’s ear.
Desmond jerks and looks around. Ezio. “What?”
“They see our conversations,” Ezio says, gesturing towards Rebecca and Lucy. “You still believe they never truly took place? You still believe this is only in your head?”
Yeah, maybe that’s hard to explain away. But...
“Maybe I just think I can hear them talking about it,” Desmond says, dropping his voice as Shaun wanders past to look at Rebecca’s screen. “I have no idea what’s real and what’s in my head any more.”
Ezio sighs theatrically. “Very well.”
They’re quiet for a moment.
“The first time we met was after my family’s murder,” Ezio says. “You tried to comfort me. Why would my pain matter to you, if you think I am not real?”
Desmond doesn’t know how to answer that. He felt responsible, he felt he should have been able to do something, even though he knows that the Animus can’t change the past. And in a way... it’s ridiculous, but in a way he’s come to think of his ancestors as friends, even if they lived hundreds of years before him, even if they can only ever interact in his head.
“This is the really creepy part,” Rebecca says. She presses a button on her computer.
“Ah, Desmond!” says Ezio’s voice through the speakers. “A pity; I had hoped to be the one visiting next. Rebecca and Lucy are very beautiful.”
For a moment, there’s absolute silence.
“Well, frankly, I’m offended to be left out,” Shaun says.
Lucy looks a little flustered. “Uh, is it... is it possible that...” She takes a deep breath. “Is it possible that Desmond’s thoughts are somehow getting mixed up with Ezio’s speech in the Animus?”
Ezio bursts out laughing.
Desmond sits there in frozen horror, his face burning. He can’t believe he ever thought of Ezio as a friend.
-
“You are spending too much time in the Animus.”
“I know,” Desmond mutters, pressing the heels of his palms over his eyes. “My mind’s a wreck. But what am I supposed to do? We’re on a schedule here.”
“I speak of a more pressing concern,” Ezio says.
“More pressing than my brain leaking out my ears, or more pressing than this end-of-the-world thing?”
“More pressing than either,” Ezio says. “Your companions have been enjoying each other’s company. Because you spend all your time in the Animus, you are left out.”
There is a pause.
Desmond lets his hands drop. “You, uh. You mean they’ve been having really good conversations, right?”
Ezio smirks. “Caterina Sforza is the finest conversationalist I know. I doubt any conversations they are having can compare to hers, but I’m sure they are enjoyable enough.”
Okay, Desmond’s not going to think about Ezio’s ‘conversations’ with Caterina Sforza. Those were some very awkward things to live through in the Animus. But the alternative he’s being offered to think about isn’t much better.
“All three of them?” Desmond asks.
Ezio smiles indulgently at him, as if Desmond is a small child getting the birds-and-the-bees talk for the first time and Ezio, because that’s just the kind of parent he is, has jumped straight into explaining threesomes. “You truly hadn’t realised?”
There’s no way. Okay, he kind of suspected there might be something between Shaun and Rebecca, what with Rebecca’s MP3 player turning up on Shaun’s nightstand. But Lucy? There’s just no way.
Wait.
“You’re worried I’m being left out?” Desmond asks. “You think I need to, uh.” Take part? Dive in? Somehow, everything suddenly sounds obscene in his head. “Involve myself?”
“Well, it might make visits more worthwhile,” Ezio says, with a shrug. He gestures around them, at the wrecked sanctuary, at the power cables trailing across centuries-old statues. “Your surroundings are... startling, at first, but they rarely change. If there could occasionally be interesting things to see...”
“Oh, my God.”
“Hey, Desmond!” Rebecca calls, waving, as she comes down into the sanctuary. Desmond starts and tries not to look guilty, even though he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be guilty of. “Should have the next set of memories ready for you in a few minutes, okay?”
Desmond nods and makes a vague noise by way of answer, because he’s terrified that he’ll just blurt out what’s running through his mind if he attempts anything more articulate.
Shaun and Lucy follow her down the stairs. But they’ve just been having a meeting. They have a lot of meetings without him. Because he’s in the Animus all the time, obviously, it’d take too long to catch him up on everything.
“Shaun strikes me as the sort of man who is intimidated by two women,” Ezio comments, watching with his arms folded.
“Imagine that,” Desmond mutters.
“Your presence would be welcomed, I am sure.”
Desmond grits his teeth. “Stop. Talking.”
“What’s that?” Rebecca asks absently, dropping down into her seat.
“Nothing,” Desmond says. “Just talking to myself.” He has to look away from her as he says it and finds himself looking at Lucy instead. Worse. He looks at Shaun. He looks at the statue of Altaïr, and even that doesn’t help; all he can picture is Altaïr showing up for the ‘interesting sight’ Ezio alluded to.
And suddenly he realises he has a bigger problem than being unable to look his teammates in the eye. He can literally never have sex again. He’s already lost the ability to sleep nude, ever since he woke up naked in the middle of Jerusalem and nearly startled Altaïr into botching his assassination. He can’t face the possibility that one of his ancestors will show up when he’s with someone and, in Ezio’s case, probably stand there giving tips. He can’t do it.
“Oh,” Rebecca says. “Looks like the next memory’s just a visit to the Rosa in Fiore. Might be a weird one. You want to skip it?”
For one miserable moment, Desmond actually considers telling her to run it anyway. It’s the closest he’ll ever get again.
“Yeah, skip it,” he says. “Thanks.”
“Such miraculous technology,” Ezio says, with a despairing shake of his head, “and yet you let it go to waste.”
-
Haytham edges cautiously towards the far side of the theatre, listening to the Beggar’s Opera below. He isn’t here to take in the music, of course, but he needs to remain aware of it; if the singing suddenly stops, it’s likely the performers have glanced up and seen him crossing the stage.
When the singing does stop, though, it proves to be the least of his worries.
The entire theatre has vanished around him. Haytham finds himself crouching unnecessarily for balance; the narrow beam beneath his feet is now a solid floor. His new surroundings are dark and cavernous, illuminated in places by a strange blue light. His target is nowhere to be seen.
Haytham stands carefully, testing the mechanism of the blades at his wrists, and looks around.
There’s a man watching him.
“Uh, hey,” the man says. Haytham takes a step towards him to check his reaction. Unguarded. “I was wondering when this’d start. Haytham, right? I’m Desmond. You already know the drill, or-?”
Haytham seizes Desmond by the throat.
“You are going to tell me where I am and how I came to be here,” he says very softly in Desmond’s ear, as Desmond chokes and clutches at the hand around his neck. “You are not going to cry out or do anything that might alert any friends of yours to our conversation. Do we understand each other?”
Desmond, his eyes wide, nods very quickly. Haytham loosens his grip.
“We’re Assassins,” Desmond gasps out, once he’s steadied himself enough for speech. “We’re on your side.”
Haytham, who almost ran him through at the first two words, pauses. These are Assassins who believe him to be an Assassin? From the hidden blades, he supposes. But then how do they know his name, and why kidnap him? “That isn’t the information I asked for.”
“Okay, okay. Just...” He pulls feebly at Haytham’s hand again. Haytham withdraws it, but flicks out his hidden blade, making sure that Desmond sees the movement.
Desmond takes a deep breath.
The tale he spins is nonsense, every word of it. He claims to be Haytham’s descendant in the future (a far-flung descendant, Haytham reassures himself, disquieted by the scruffiness of this young man claiming to be of his blood), and he says he’s been experiencing Haytham’s memories through a device called an ‘Animus’, and here he hesitates.
“And... please don’t be offended,” he says, with a nervous glance at Haytham’s wrist, “but I’m pretty sure I’m imagining you right now.”
Interesting. “You think I’m imaginary, and yet you fear me?”
Desmond shifts uncomfortably. “I can’t be sure my mind’s not dedicated enough to this whole illusion thing to make me stab myself in the neck.”
“Humour me,” Haytham says. “Assume, for the moment, that I exist. What would this mean for me?”
Desmond shrugs. “This, basically. Sometimes you’ll just show up here. I’m the only one who can see you. Or I might appear in your time, and you’ll be the only one who can see me. And I guess you’ll probably meet the others.”
“The others?”
“Altaïr. Ezio. Maybe you’ve heard of them.”
That Altaïr and Ezio? Surely not. He’s been wondering whether he should kill Desmond, whether that would prevent the unwelcome displacements he’s apparently now expected to accept, but perhaps he should leave things for a while, see what transpires. If he truly can meet Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad... it’s an interesting prospect, at the very least. He knows the value of information from the past better than most.
“You’ll go to them or they’ll come to you,” Desmond is saying. “And they sometimes talk about some other guys, so you might meet them as well. I guess maybe they’re people I haven’t met in the Animus yet.”
Haytham nods, barely listening. Something is beginning to stir in his mind.
Haytham has vague recollections of meeting strange people and finding himself in strange places as a boy. The encounters stopped when his father died, and he’s always put them down to imagination: the wild fantasies of an understimulated child. He missed the loss of them, when he found the time to miss them amongst his other losses. But now he is an adult, with his own concerns, and this time-travel business, however novel or edifying, seems likely to prove an inconvenience.
“How do I return to my own time?” he asks. “I was rather in the middle of something.”
“It’ll happen when it happens,” Desmond says. “Shouldn’t be a problem, though. You’ll be back at the same point you left; no one will notice you were gone. Uh... but you looked like you were balancing on something. When you showed up here, I mean.”
“I was.”
“Okay. Then, uh... just don’t forget that’s where you’ll be when you go back. Ezio keeps complaining about us making him fall off buildings.”
“Oh, excellent,” Haytham says. “I foolishly thought my life was difficult and dangerous enough already. Now that I’ve received the gift of constant distraction, I wonder how I ever managed without it.”
“Sorry,” Desmond mutters. “But it’s not so bad, once you get used to it.” He hesitates, his eyes flicking to Haytham’s wrist again. “Just... try not to kill anyone. We’re all Assassins. And these guys are kind of important to me.”
There it is again: the conviction that he’s an Assassin. Perhaps, if Haytham is now routinely to be plucked out of his life and deposited in unknown locations full of his enemies, it’s a misconception worth encouraging.
“It’s a little early in our acquaintance for promises,” Haytham says, “but I’ll make an effort to leave them alive.”
-
“Sorry,” Shay says. “You picked a poor time to come visiting.”
There’s light coming in from some distance above, from the hole Shay left when the ground decided to open up under his feet. The walls of the cave he’s found himself in are smooth, too smooth to climb. He can see his breath in the air, although there’s no need for that to tell him how cold it is.
At least it isn’t snowing any longer. Small mercies.
“Gist’s heading back to the ship for a rope ladder,” Shay says, sitting down on flat cold stone. “Till then, looks like the big task is staving off frostbite.”
Edward sits next to him. “There must be pleasanter places to serve your cause, surely.”
“We can’t all spend our days in the Caribbean,” Shay says, although at times like this he has to wonder why not.
The cold is already beginning to bite. He’s been constantly on the move for the twenty minutes or so they’ve spent working their way inland - why couldn’t he have trapped himself closer to help? - and he’s worked up a light and unwelcome sweat. But the chill’s not as bad on his left side, the side where Edward is sitting.
“I can feel the warmth from you,” Shay murmurs. “How is that possible? You’re not here.”
Edward shrugs. “We’ve always felt solid, and that’s no stranger. I’m not here, and yet I can feel the cold. And I’m speaking to you. If you’re only now realising there’s something odd about this visiting business, I don’t know what to tell you.” He pulls Shay’s glove off and sets about rubbing some life back into his hand. “But this is something we can use. If we stay close, maybe we can carry you through this.”
“You’ll be making me complacent,” Shay says. “I don’t know how this works. I’ll be sitting here feeling snug, and meanwhile for all I know my fingers are freezing off.”
“For now, I’d settle for thinking I’m warm. You’re not the only one who’d benefit.”
“They’re not your fingers. Your fingers are swanning happily around Havana or someplace.” But he lets Edward shift closer to him, all the same.
They’re curled up together against the wall when someone else comes to join them.
“Ah, Desmond!” Edward calls cheerfully.
“Oh. Whoa! Sorry. Uh... sorry. I’ll...” Desmond looks around, faltering as he obviously takes note of the lack of exits. “I can... face the wall?”
“You’d be more use over here,” Shay says.
Desmond turns scarlet. “What?”
Shay shrugs. “If you’re trying to keep the heat in, three bodies are better than two.”
“Oh, right.” Desmond looks again at Shay and Edward, for the first time since he appeared, and some sort of comprehension appears to dawn. “Thanks, but... I don’t know. It’ll be weird next time we meet. Won’t it?”
There are people Shay would hesitate to share warmth with, he supposes. It would be strange to be so close to the Grand Master, or a woman he didn’t know intimately. Or an enemy, he almost thinks, before remembering that Desmond is an Assassin. “In what way?”
“I don’t know.” He gives an awkward shrug. “I guess it’ll probably be weird already, now that you’ve said it.”
“Well, if our relationship’s tainted either way,” Shay says, “might as well be warm for now.”
A smile flits across Desmond’s face. “I guess that makes sense.”
He ends up pressing himself against Shay’s right side; Edward thinks it’s best for Shay to be in the midst of them, just in case they really are doing something to stave off frostbite, as Shay’s the only one in physical danger here. Desmond is tense at first, but he seems to relax a little after a while. But only a little. It’s hard to avoid tensing up in this cold.
It’s better, certainly, but they could do with a few more visitors.
As Shay thinks it, one appears, and he mentally curses himself for not being more specific. Ezio. They could do with Ezio. Ezio would very happily join them, he’s sure, and Shay would feel able to invite him in freely.
“You’ve managed to trap yourself?” Aveline asks, looking around.
“Why d’you assume I trapped myself?”
Aveline looks at him.
“I’m not saying I didn’t,” Shay admits. “I’m saying you’re being unfair.”
“Do you have a plan?” she asks. “Is someone coming for you? What date is this? If we could contact Haytham-”
“It’s fine. Gist’s coming with help. Just have to survive until then.”
She smiles. “Well, I’m glad to see you’ve found a way to shield against this cold.”
Should probably at least extend the invitation. Wouldn’t want to seem discourteous.
Shay clears his throat.
“Don’t know if a lady would be happy in here,” he says, “but you’re welcome to join us.”
Aveline laughs. “A lady will survive. My best gown has a man’s life-blood all over it. I think I’m past worrying about social taboos.”
She tries to press herself between Desmond and Shay, but she obviously takes note of the way Desmond freezes up and she backs out. She ends up settling between Shay and Edward instead. Shay tries to stay still, doesn’t want to brush against her accidentally in a way that makes her think he’s taking advantage, but she actually tucks herself under his arm.
After a moment she wriggles up even closer to him, settles her back against his chest. Shay feels his face could be used as a signal beacon. Edward has started to laugh.
“You know, Monsieur Cormac, you should take off your coat,” Aveline says. There’s a touch of laughter in her voice as well. “Your warmth would come through more strongly. As a courtesy to a lady, of course.”
“You’re trying to torment me,” Shay says, quietly.
“I’m trying to stay warm,” she says. “Tormenting you is a happy accident.” She rests a hand on his shin, so casually he can almost believe it’s without thought. Shay shivers, and not from the cold.
Desmond has shifted away slightly. “Uh, what’s going on?”
“I’ve seen her like this with other Templars,” Edward says, watching with interest, “and, going by those occasions, I’d say she’s about to cut Shay’s throat.”
Aveline smirks and says nothing.
It’s definitely a possibility that’s flickered across Shay’s mind. She wouldn’t, would she? They’ve known each other so long now that he feels they’re friends, of a sort, even if they fight on different sides. But he’s gutted too many friends himself to trust that makes him safe.
“Fine,” Desmond says. “Kill each other if you have to. Just... keep your clothes on. Please. I’ve seen enough of... I’ve seen enough.”
“You hear that?” Shay asks Aveline. “The man dictates it. Coat stays on, I’m afraid.”
Aveline gives a feigned sigh. “Very well. At least I have his blessing to kill you.”
“Uh, I... you know, I didn’t mean that,” Desmond says. “Don’t kill each other.”
Aveline takes off her hat and sets it on her knee, with more care than needed; it can hardly be damaged if it isn’t really here. She tilts her head back against Shay’s collar and closes her eyes.
He’d thought Aveline was able to end a visit at will. Perhaps he was wrong? Surely he must have been wrong.
Time passes, and no sign of Gist. Desmond ends up shuffling closer again, fortunately; huddling for warmth doesn’t really work when you’re a foot apart.
Shay thinks Aveline might have fallen asleep; her breathing has evened, and she’s starting to slip to one side. He rests his arm across her stomach to keep her held against him.
“A warming sight,” Edward says, amused. “Peace between the two orders at last.”
“I’ll find no peace like this,” Shay says. But he keeps his voice low, so as not to wake her.
He looks up, seeing movement, and his breath catches. He’d know that man from a mile away.
The newcomer’s eyes sweep the group and settle on Shay, who is suddenly very aware that he’s been found in a pile of Assassins.
“Uh,” Shay says. “Hello, Grand Master.”
A moment passes.
“There’s room,” Shay offers.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Haytham says. “No. Absolutely not.”
-
Desmond is dragged way too abruptly out of Connor’s first in-person meeting with Haytham. He sits up in the Animus, rubbing his head in annoyance; he knew they’d meet up at some point, and he’s been looking forward to seeing how it goes.
“Sorry,” Rebecca says. “But this is bugging me. They’re talking like they’ve met before. Haytham knows Connor is his kid. How? I’ve scanned the whole of Connor’s memory for Haytham’s genetic signature, and this is definitely the first time they talk.”
Desmond considers the answers available to him. One: silence. Two: ‘Well, actually, I keep hallucinating that my ancestors are visiting me through some kind of time-travel, and that they keep visiting each other, and now I’m pretty sure I’m hallucinating that you’re asking me about it, because there’s no way it can actually be true.’
He goes with silence.
“Shaun?” Rebecca calls. “Come look at this footage.”
That’s when Desmond realises that someone else is there, in the temple. He hadn’t really registered the third figure, figured it was his dad, but of course his dad’s in Cairo. It’s Haytham. But dark-haired, younger than he is on the screen.
Desmond tries to discreetly draw him away, out of earshot of Shaun and Rebecca. “Hey, I don’t know if you should be seeing this.”
“It seems I’ll have to see it sooner or later,” Haytham says.
“Yeah, but... I don’t know, is it good to know your future?”
“I already know my son, long before I’m apparently to meet him,” Haytham says. “And even longer before he’s apparently to murder me.”
Desmond freezes. Connor is going to kill his father?
What’s the right thing to say? ‘Sorry your son is going to murder you in the future-past’? They definitely don’t make sympathy cards for this.
“Sorry,” Desmond says. “I - sorry. I didn’t know.”
“All it means is that I failed to kill him first, and for that I have only myself to blame,” Haytham says. “But I can’t imagine there are any greater surprises awaiting me.”
“Yeah,” Desmond says. “Yeah, guess not. If you want to watch, go ahead.”
Haytham raises his eyebrows. “How good of you to give me permission. It’s almost as if you think you could have stopped me.”
“See, as far as I can tell, he didn’t even know Ziio was pregnant,” Rebecca is saying as they walk back to the Animus setup, Desmond looking uneasily at Haytham. “He told Franklin he wanted a kid. I think he’d have tracked Connor down earlier if he’d known, maybe raised him himself.”
Haytham sighs. “Yes, perhaps,” he murmurs. “Connor was already an Assassin when I first met him, so I knew any household of ours would never be a happy one. But there’s nothing to be gained from dwelling on what might have been.”
It’s... not something Desmond was expecting to hear from him. He almost wants to say something - he’s not sure what - but there’s no way Shaun and Rebecca won’t hear.
“Can we worry about this later?” Shaun asks Rebecca. “I want to see how Connor reacts to this arsehole.”
“Oh, indeed?” Haytham asks, coldly.
Desmond immediately checks to make sure he’s not wearing his hidden blades, just in case Haytham tries to possess him.
“Let’s see,” Haytham murmurs, his eyes darting over the screen. “A church... snow... and of course meeting Connor in person, I suppose that’s notable... yes, I think I can remember this.”
Before Desmond can ask what he’s thinking, Rebecca shrugs and says, “Well, I can’t work it out. Maybe they’ll explain how they know each other later. Ready to pick the memory back up, Desmond?”
Desmond glances at Haytham.
“Don’t mind me,” Haytham says. “I’ll stay and watch.”
Well, okay. It’s not like Haytham can do any damage by possessing Desmond’s body when it’s strapped into the Animus.
Desmond settles down, and a moment later he’s looking out through Connor’s eyes at his father. Every muscle in Connor’s body is tense.
The older Haytham, by contrast, seems perfectly relaxed. He looks around at nothing Desmond can see, and then says, “Yes, I think this is the time.”
“What time?” Connor asks.
“We have an audience, Connor,” Haytham says. “Desmond and his friends from the future.”
“The Animus?” Connor asks, taken by surprise.
“What the fuck?” Rebecca mutters through Desmond’s earpiece.
Haytham raises his voice. “Rather a personal moment, don’t you think? Wouldn’t you say it’s impolite to intrude on a father’s first meeting with his son? But of course Shaun Hastings would never be such a... what was it? An ‘arsehole’?”
“Rebecca,” Shaun says, “please tell me you reprogrammed this just to make me uncomfortable. You’ve very much succeeded, incidentally. Well done.”
“I have no idea what the fuck is going on,” Rebecca says.
“You see, now they’ll be trying to explain this away,” Haytham says, pacing back and forth. “Animus sabotage, or interference from Desmond’s thoughts.” Rebecca, who was halfway through suggesting exactly that, falls suddenly silent. “But no, Shaun. This is Haytham Kenway, Templar Grand Master of long before your time, informing you that it’s a little rich for you, of all people, to cast judgement on someone’s personality.”
“Can you stop it?” Shaun asks, his voice slightly higher-pitched than usual.
“Are you kidding?” Rebecca asks. “You don’t want to see where this is going?”
Haytham pulls a short dagger from his hip, and Connor takes a step back, gripping the handle of his tomahawk. Haytham catches the movement and rolls his eyes.
“I’m not going to fight you, Connor. There will be plenty of time for that later.” He runs his hand over one of the wooden beams running up the wall. “This building is abandoned,” he says, apparently to himself. “I don’t know how well-preserved it will be in the future, but I’m prepared to expend the effort, just in case.”
And he gets to work.
Later, they’ll visit the church in Desmond’s time, or what’s left of it, and establish that, yes, one of the beams does have ‘Shaun Hastings needs to mind his own business’ carved neatly into it, with a little flourish underneath.
Shaun won’t sleep for a week.
Desmond will sit with his head in his hands and try and try and try to convince himself he’s imagining things. So long as he doesn’t start believing his encounters with his ancestors are real, he can’t be that crazy. Right?
-
Desmond slams back into his own body in the middle of Abstergo, breathing hard and covered in blood. He looks around at once to see who possessed him. He hadn’t noticed a visitor around, but to be fair he’d been kind of distracted by worrying about his dad and, oh, yeah, the billion security guards who are now lying dead at his feet.
It’s Haytham.
No, seriously, it’s Haytham.
“Thought we had an arrangement not to take each other over,” Desmond says, trying to laugh, trying not to sound like he’s freaking out, failing at both.
“Yes, well, rules must be bent in desperate situations,” Haytham says. “We were about to lose you.”
“I can fight,” Desmond says. “That’s kind of what this Animus thing is about, remember? Giving me the skills of my ancestors?”
“You may have the ability, but you lack the conviction. You hesitate before every kill. Surely you’ve realised. When you face enemies in these numbers, hesitation is fatal.”
It’s true. He knows he wouldn’t have been able to take all these guys down; he knew it before Haytham took over, and a part of him still hasn’t caught up and realised he’s lived through it. The Animus can teach him techniques, but there’s a big difference between ‘killing’ someone in the Animus and doing it in real life. If Desmond kills someone in the Animus, he’s just re-enacting something that happened centuries ago. If Desmond kills someone as himself, they’re dead. Because of him.
“So I’m meant to believe you just stepped in to save my life?” Desmond asks. He can’t look down at the bodies; he feels sick. “You know these are your guys, right?”
“It’s regrettable, yes,” Haytham says. “But you are working to save the world, aren’t you? I have no intention of standing back and watching all the Templars have achieved undone in a few short centuries.”
Huh. It’s still weird as hell that a Templar Grand Master just rescued him from a bunch of Templars, but maybe it makes sense. Desmond knows, from watching him work with Connor, that Haytham is prepared to put ideological differences aside for a common cause.
Thinking of Connor and Haytham makes him think of his own father. He glances behind him, toward the room where they think he’s being held.
“Yes, yes, go and save him,” Haytham says, impatiently. “And good luck to both of you. God knows you’re the only chance in our little group for a father-son story to end well.”
-
To be honest, Edward has dreamt before about Kidd - about Mary - cornering him in his cabin. Somehow, though, the look in her eye was never quite so frightening in his imagination.
“You’ve been keeping secrets,” she says. “I want to know what they are.”
For a moment, he thinks she’s talking about those dreams. “Rather defeats the purpose of a secret, doesn’t it, if I tell you? What makes you think I’m hiding anything from you, anyway?”
“You keep talking to people who aren’t there.”
“Open and unhidden,” he says. “The only reason I haven’t told you the full story is that you’d never believe me.”
“You can’t know that if you don’t give me the chance,” she says. “Maybe it’ll be a load of rum-sodden nonsense, but I can’t judge that until you tell me. Besides, you’ve got all my secrets already.”
“I didn’t ask for them!” Edward protests. “You can’t use that against me!”
“I can use what I like,” Mary says. “’Case you hadn’t noticed, we’re pirates. We’re not known for playing fair.”
“Ah, if only she lived in my time,” Ezio murmurs. Edward looks sharply over at him; he hadn’t noticed his arrival. “I would recruit her in a heartbeat.”
“She’s already an Assassin, remember?” Edward asks. Ezio has shown up a few times before when Edward’s been working with Mary, and he’s always seemed very taken with her.
“Both my secrets in one sentence,” Mary says. “It’s good to know my private business is in such discreet hands. So who d’you think you’re talking to now?”
Right. If she wants her credulity tested, he’ll test it.
“A man from Italy,” Edward says. “An Assassin, actually, like you. He lived two hundred years ago.”
Mary snorts. “Right, should’ve guessed. And this two-hundred-year-old Assassin’s invisible, is he?”
“Only when he’s here. And not to me.” And he launches into an explanation of the ‘visiting’ concept, or what little he understands of it, becoming more aware with every word he says of how absurd it sounds.
Mary looks sceptical, which, truth be told, isn’t a great surprise. “And there’s no way I can see these ‘visitors’?”
“Not that we know of,” Edward says. “Although, actually...”
He casts Ezio a glance. For some reason, he finds himself reluctant to introduce Mary to him. He’d prefer Aveline. Or Connor, or Desmond. But Ezio’s the one who’s here.
“Actually what, Kenway?” Mary asks, impatient.
“Actually, there might be a way you can talk to them. They can sort of... speak through me.”
Ezio lights up at once. “It would be my honour to meet the young lady.”
This is definitely a mistake. But it’ll have to happen now; Mary’s got that look that means she’s interested, and Edward knows she won’t let this go before her curiosity is satisfied.
“All right.” He nods to Ezio, and a moment later he finds himself standing outside his own body, invisible to Mary, only able to watch what’s going on.
Ezio bows and speaks with Edward’s voice. “Ezio Auditore da Firenze. A pleasure.”
Shock flashes across Mary’s face. It’s a stronger reaction than Edward was expecting at this stage; he knows she’s too shrewd to believe this isn’t just Edward inventing a name.
But the surprise is swiftly followed by suspicion. “You’re speaking English,” she says.
“Yes, I suppose I must be,” Ezio says. “Two of our friends have tested this. Aveline and Connor. She can understand his native language when she visits, but not when they meet in person. If she visits Connor’s father and Connor is present, she can understand only the languages the father knows.”
“Convenient,” Mary says, her eyes narrowing. “You’ve done more research than I’d have credited you with, Kenway, but if you think you can use Ezio Auditore to manipulate me, you’re not the friend I thought you were.”
“She knows you?” Edward asks, startled.
“Well, I’m sure I could still manage Italian, if I made the effort,” Ezio says, and he launches into a lengthy ramble that means absolutely nothing to Edward.
There’s silence for a moment after he’s finished.
“Maybe you never told me you knew Italian,” Mary says. “Or you could just be spouting nonsense. I don’t have any magical translation powers, see.” But the scorn’s less sharp in her voice.
Ezio sighs. “She is a difficult one,” he says to Edward.
“You’re telling me,” Edward says.
“Less of the ‘she’, if you don’t mind,” Mary says. “Never know who might be listening.”
“My apologies.” Ezio turns back to Edward. “You could wait for a visit from Altaïr. Perhaps Arabic will convince our friend.”
“Altaïr?” Mary demands, glancing from Ezio to the spot he’s looking at, even though she won’t be able to see Edward. “Altaïr? Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad? I’m meant to believe you have some sort of miraculous connection with Ezio and Altaïr? Why you? Why would they choose you? You’re not even an Assassin.”
“We did not choose him, I assure you.”
“Oh, thanks,” Edward mutters.
Ezio takes Mary’s hand in his - Edward’s - own. She tenses, but she doesn’t pull away.
“If I had my choice,” Ezio says, “I would have picked someone like you. You are a fine Assassin, dedicated and skilled.” He drops his voice, tracing patterns on her palm with Edward’s fingers. “And beautiful too, of course, which is always an advantage.”
It’s uncomfortable to watch. Mary looks like she’s fighting not to laugh rather than giving in to Ezio’s charms, at least, but that’s small comfort when she believes Ezio to be Edward.
“I am still here, you know,” Edward says.
“Yes, Edward, you are beautiful as well,” Ezio says, not taking his eyes off Mary.
“So you’ve swapped places?” Mary asks. “That’s how this works? You’re in Edward’s body, he’s turned into the one I can’t see?”
“Indeed,” Ezio says. “You believe us?”
“Starting to. Italian’s one thing, knowing about you and Altaïr’s one thing, but this?” She nods down at their hands. “Kenway’s no stranger to flirting, but he wouldn’t dare try it with me.”
“Then Kenway is a fool,” Ezio murmurs, “and all the better for us.”
Mary grins wickedly. Edward is feeling very, very uneasy about the way this is going.
“Can we switch back?” he asks. “Seems we’ve achieved our goal.”
“Edward wishes to know if he can return to his body,” Ezio says.
“He can wait,” Mary says. “I’m not finished with you yet.”
Ezio raises his eyebrows. “Oh?” he asks in a charged tone that should definitely never be directed at Mary in Edward’s voice, or at least not when Edward isn’t the one using it.
He’s still holding Mary’s left hand, but she takes her right and rests it on Ezio’s shoulder. Edward’s. Ezio’s. This is confusing. Edward is trying very hard to focus on the confusion, rather than the action itself.
“Can Kenway feel that?” Mary asks.
Ezio shakes his head. “He can feel nothing that happens to his body while he is outside it.”
“But he can see us.”
Ezio glances over at Edward and starts to laugh. Maybe Edward isn’t doing so well at controlling his expression as he’d hoped. “He is certainly watching, yes.”
Mary directs a very deliberate smirk in Edward’s direction. This woman is a monster. “Well, it’s not every day you get the chance to kiss Ezio Auditore. How could I refuse?”
Edward hates himself for it, but he can’t make himself look away. All he can think about is how that’s his back Mary’s digging her short-clipped nails into, those are his lips she’s meeting with her own, and it’s outrageously unfair that he can’t even fucking feel it.
For a moment he’s terrified that it’s going to go further, but Mary catches Ezio’s hands as they drift to her belt and whispers something in his ear, and that’s something. That’s something.
Jesus, he can’t believe this is happening. Why did it have to be Ezio?
They eventually break off, after what feels like several years, and Edward suddenly finds himself in his body and Mary is right there. He jerks back. She laughs.
“Welcome back,” she says. “Interesting business, your visitors.”
Slightly too interesting, in Edward’s opinion.
“Kidd,” he says. His own voice sounds strange in his ears, after hearing it misused by Ezio. “Can Ezio and I have a moment alone?”
“Oh, Ezio’s still here?” She raises her voice. “Good to meet you. Maybe we’ll talk again.”
Ezio blows her a kiss she won’t see.
“Kidd,” Edward says, almost pleading.
“I’m going,” she says. “But come and find me next time Altaïr visits. Always wanted to meet him as well.” She winks at him and leaves.
Edward stares after her. She wouldn’t, would she?
He shakes his head. There are more than enough unwelcome images in there already without adding any more.
When he turns back, he finds Ezio watching him, smiling slightly. “You wish to speak to me?”
Edward opens his mouth and finds there are no words behind it. He closes it again.
“If you want her,” Ezio says, “I believe you have a chance.”
“Oh, yes?” Edward asks, bitterly. “Why’s that? Because she’s willing to kiss long-dead famous Assassins when they look like me?”
“Did you hear what she said to me when I tried to undress her?”
Edward shakes his head. Being reminded of that is not improving his mood towards Ezio.
Ezio smirks. “Don’t expose too much, she said. Let’s leave some surprises for Kenway.”
Edward stares at him. “She really said that?”
But Ezio has disappeared.
“She really said that? Those words? Ezio!”
-
“Your visits are always a pleasure, naturally,” Haytham calls above the crash of cannon fire, “but I’m a little busy for hospitality at the moment. I’m sure you’ll understand.”
Desmond looks around, trying to push down the panic in his chest. It’s still hard to get it through his head that he’s not physically here, he’s not in any real danger. Cannons, he thinks, and Fort George, and then shit, Fort George-
“Oh, shit,” Desmond breathes. “Haytham, I think this is-”
He cuts himself off. Yeah, Haytham already knows that Connor is going to kill him, but maybe it’d be best not to give him anything more specific than that.
But Haytham nods, walking briskly (to meet Connor, to meet his death). “This is when it happens. I know.”
“You don’t have to fight him,” Desmond says. He knows it’s hopeless. He’s already seen it in the Animus, he knows the past can’t be changed, he knows this conversation isn’t even real, but - he has to try, doesn’t he?
“My duty is clear, even if the outcome is already set,” Haytham says. “I hope I don’t strike you as a man who shirks his duties.”
“Then...” There has to be something he can do. Haytham may be a Templar, but he’s helped Desmond before. And he’s one of them. “Let me take over.”
Haytham stops short and laughs. “Take over my body? Forgive me, but that would explain why Connor gets the better of me.”
“Just... at the end,” Desmond says. “So you don’t have to feel it yourself.”
It occurs to him as he’s speaking that maybe it’s not a great idea to be in someone else’s body when they’re dying. He doesn’t know how this works. But it’s the only thing he can offer.
Haytham gives him a strange look, careful, analytic.
“I’d prefer to be alone with my son,” he says, eventually. “But I appreciate the thought.”
“Okay,” Desmond says. And then, absurdly, even though they both know the outcome already, even though he doesn’t want Connor to die either, he hears himself saying, “Good luck.”
-
Shay walks swiftly, taking back alleys and side-streets. Dorian had a son, no older than ten, and it weighs on Shay’s mind, seeing the boy at the palace, knowing how his life was about to change. But he knows it’s right that he saw him. Any action has consequences. If he loses sight of that, he’ll be no better than Achilles.
Hard to believe he has the box at last, after a decade and a half of searching. If he can just keep it safe until he reaches the outskirts of the city-
There’s no warning cry, no sound at all but the whipping of coattails through the air, and he looks up barely in time to see the Assassin dropping before he’s slammed to the cobbles. There’s a blade at his throat - he’s surprised it’s not through his neck already - and he’s cursing his stupidity, and-
“Shay?”
Her voice stops his struggle as effectively as any gunshot. “Aveline?”
He hasn’t seen her this young in a while. There are many exceptions, of course - he still visits Desmond, who died far younger than he deserved, and only last month he received a disconcerting visit from the Grand Master as a child - but usually their ages stay more or less in step. She must be about thirty, about...
About the age she’d actually be now.
He can’t feel the usual tingle of visitation.
No. It isn’t possible.
“Are you - are you here?” he asks. “Here, in Paris? Here?”
Her eyes widen. “You’re not visiting?”
It can’t be true.
“You told me we’d never met in person,” he says, barely able to speak above a whisper. “Or... you’ll tell me.”
She stares at him for a moment longer, and then she starts to laugh. “I don’t doubt it. If you could see the look on your face, you’d understand why.”
He’s still half-sure he’s dreaming. Any moment now, he’ll wake and Charles Dorian will still be alive and he’ll have to walk past that young boy to slay his father again.
But he’s still here, lying in a Paris alleyway, Aveline pinning him with her lovely knees, her hidden blade at his throat.
He draws breath. Carefully. “If I’m permitted to stand...”
It’s their code; if her response contains the word understanding, this is Aveline from after their relationship took an... unanticipated turn, and he can take her in his arms without fear of alarming or offending her. But her only response is to retract her blade and step away, with a little sarcastic flourish.
She’s here at last. Aveline, his Aveline, real and laughing and beautiful. They could spend as long as they like together, never torn apart at the whim of visitation. However good Aveline is at controlling her departure, she can’t stay forever, and he knows she wouldn’t want to if she could; she has her own life, in her own time. But this is her time, and she’s here.
And he can’t touch her. He can’t touch her.
He gets to his feet, slowly, rubbing the back of his head. “Could’ve said hello less violently.”
“Or more,” she says.
He knows full well why the Assassins would have an interest in this place, and he knows why they would send her specifically - she knows the language, after all - and yet he still asks. “What brings you to Paris?”
She raises her eyebrows in mock surprise. “Oh? And I thought perhaps you were involved in this Templar plot I was sent to stop. It’s good to know you’re here by coincidence.”
“Are you going to kill me?” he asks.
He doesn’t ask if she’s going to try to kill him. He knows he can’t fight her. If she’s decided to kill him, he’ll die here.
“Dorian is dead,” she says. “The damage is done.”
But she seemed prepared to kill when she dropped on him from above. It’s a relief to know his life means something to her, that he’s more than just the enemy even now.
“As there’s no point in conflict,” she says, stretching, “would you like to show me around the city? I could act as translator for you.”
His heart trips over itself for a moment before he realises her intention. Of course. She’s planning to steal the Precursor box from him. It’s dangerous to stay in her company.
It’s a risk he’ll take.
-
Desmond’s always slept better with someone else in the bed, but it’s unsettling to slowly realise you’re not alone when there’s nobody else who should logically be in the same bed as you. He opens his eyes and sees loose blond hair in the darkness, and for one gut-clenching moment he thinks it’s Lucy.
“Edward?” he hisses. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Edward rolls onto his back with a groan, pressing the back of his wrist to his forehead. “Sleeping, until a moment ago,” he mumbles.
“In my bed?”
“Came visiting. Tired. Wasn’t going back,” Edward says. “Bed’s more comfortable than the floor. I didn’t think you’d object, after our bonding session with Shay.”
Desmond hesitates, but he’s too tired himself to argue. And he does sleep better with company.
“Fine,” he says, shifting to face the wall. The hotel bed is huge, at least, and there’s space between them. There were only two rooms left, a double and a twin, and Shaun and Rebecca took the twins. Desmond’s dad is scoping out the stadium where the power source should be.
It’s only just starting to lighten when Desmond next wakes, and the amount of space seems to have fallen substantially. There’s a warm body pressed up against his back, a hand resting on his shoulder. He half-twists around, meaning to tell Edward to stay on his own side of the bed, and... oh. It’s Ezio. Of course it’s Ezio. He wasn’t even there during the mass collapse of personal space boundaries in that freezing cave, but of course Ezio showed up and saw them both in the bed and decided to invite himself in.
He debates waking Ezio up and getting him to move away, but... where to? Edward is behind him. Maybe Desmond can shuffle further towards the edge of the bed, give all three of them more space to sleep?
He looks back at the side of the bed and feels himself flush. He hadn’t realised Aveline had joined them as well. It’s easy to miss things when you’re being spooned by the leading cause of death in Renaissance Italy.
Desmond raises his head - carefully, trying not to disturb Ezio - and looks around the room, to check if he’s going to have to cope with any more imminent bedmates. Altaïr is curled up on the floor by the door, as if he’s guarding them from anyone who might come in. Somehow, the sight makes Desmond smile.
He starts when another person appears by the bed. Ezio grumbles against his back.
“Sorry,” Shay whispers, before apparently taking in the scene. “You lot look comfortable.”
“Come to join the slumber party?” Desmond asks, keeping his voice soft.
“Come to join the what?”
Desmond gestures around the bed. “Everyone’s decided they’re sleeping here, apparently. I’m starting to think it’d be easiest to just go along with it. You tired?”
Shay frowns, shifts a little, hesitates. “There’s only space next to Aveline. And barely.”
“I don’t think she’d mind,” Desmond says. He wouldn’t invite Haytham to lie next to her, or indeed into his bed in general, but Aveline seems comfortable enough with Shay. “But you could ask her.”
Shay shakes his head. “I’ll sit. Thanks all the same.”
It’s a relief, in a way; there’d barely be space to breathe with five people in here. Which makes Desmond wonder why, exactly, he invited Shay in in the first place.
But it’s... reassuring, maybe that’s the word for it. Feeling Ezio’s warmth. Hearing Aveline’s quiet breathing, and Edward’s soft snores. Just... being surrounded by people.
He spends so much time in the Animus, watching his ancestors speak to other people, unable to communicate with anyone himself. He gets along with Shaun and Rebecca, but he always feels like they’re holding themselves a little distant from him. He’s always kind of had the feeling they’re afraid to get attached in case the Bleeding Effect takes over and he Subject Sixteens all over the walls. His dad is... well, his dad.
Maybe it’s a little lonely. Maybe he needs this.
Part Two
Even better: someone is writing Visitors fanfiction with Shay/Aveline. Somehow I accidentally caught this 'ship (which there was literally no fanfiction for) while writing Visitors. They never canonically interact, but they could, theoretically; they were only born sixteen years apart. And there's definitely the potential for a really intriguing dynamic; they're kindred spirits in being pushed to doubt the Creed by their mentors, but they fight on different sides.
I'm glad someone else is carrying on the Visitors universe, because all my further ideas for it are unwritably ridiculous. I'm desperately trying to restrain myself from attempting Visitors (Gratuitous Wish-Fulfilment Edition): exactly the same concept, only everyone is constantly cuddling and falling asleep on each other. It would be terrible and deeply implausible. You don't know how much effort it took to keep myself from ending the 'traumatised post-hanging Ezio meets Desmond for the first time' scene with the two of them platonically bed-sharing. I keep going 'BUT SHAY'S TIMELINE OFFERS SO MUCH SCOPE FOR HUDDLING FOR WARMTH' and then having to drag myself away.
(I really want Shay to be warm. It's very important to me. I accidentally fell into freezing water in Rogue and couldn't find a way out and he froze to death and it was horrible.)
I'm not even a fluff writer most of the time, but apparently all I want to see from Assassin's Creed is this collection of mass-murderers snuggling up to each other.
And also Shay/Aveline. Seriously, I couldn't have ended up 'shipping two characters from the same game?
...aaaaand now I've written the below. Wow. This is embarrassing. I'm sorry that this journal has turned into nothing but weird self-indulgent AU fanfiction for a fandom none of you are in.
Title: Visitors (Gratuitous Wish-Fulfilment Edition)
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Shay Cormac/Aveline de Grandpré
Wordcount: 9,000
Summary: Visitors was a collection of scenes from a universe in which most of the Assassin's Creed protagonists kept meeting through involuntary time-travel. This is the same, only now they all cuddle and fall asleep on each other. Don't give me that look.
Notes: These side-stories may occasionally conflict with the established Visitors timeline. It's the gratuitous wish-fulfilment edition and everything is permitted.
“Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent.”
Altaïr looks up from the body. It’s Shay, in his Templar clothing. “He would have warned my target.”
“The way I understand it, a person doesn’t stop being innocent the moment they turn inconvenient,” Shay says.
Altaïr bristles. “And who are you to judge me, traitor? I’ve seen your Grand Master at work. He’s no kinder to his informants than I am.”
“I know,” Shay admits. “And I won’t pretend I like it. But he didn’t take your oath.”
Altaïr stalks towards him, then glances around at the sound of footsteps that aren’t his own. Best to be clear of this place before the guards come.
He clambers up onto the nearest rooftop and runs, careful to evade the gaze of the Acre archers. More than once he finds himself thinking longingly of the quieter rooftops of Damas. Shay keeps pace with him, of course, but at least he does it in silence.
Eventually Altaïr vaults into a rooftop garden, somewhere they can speak privately. He tires sometimes of the stares and mutters that come his way when he’s running or climbing or speaking to visitors.
Shay hesitates outside.
“Come in, or don’t,” Altaïr says, “but make a decision.”
After a moment, Shay twitches the hangings aside and climbs in. There’s little space, and they sit with their knees pressed together, looking at each other.
“Garnier is an inhuman man,” Altaïr says. “You heard what his spokesman told me. He takes healthy men and women, and he destroys them. His life is worth any price I have to pay to obtain it.”
“Aye, I heard what the herald said,” Shay says. “He begged you to stop Garnier. He said he was being forced to act as spokesman. You’d have set him free by killing the doctor, but you murdered him on the chance he’d warn the man he hates.”
Altaïr tenses, furious. “There were more lives than his at stake. I can’t take chances.”
Shay shrugs. “If you want to keep your oath, I’d say you have to.”
“The next time you come here, do not speak to me,” Altaïr says.
But Shay’s words prey on his mind. Later, in Jerusalem, he accosts a herald about the slaver Talal, and he hears what he has to say - and he lets him go. Even though the herald shows more loyalty to his master than the one he killed for Garnier. He lets him go.
The moment Altaïr enters Talal’s warehouse, the door slams shut behind him. Of course.
“Step into the light,” Talal invites him from above.
Altaïr looks warily at the shaft of light and sees, with a rush of fierce delight, that Shay has appeared there, frowning and shading his eyes.
“Am I allowed to talk yet?” Shay asks. “Or is this the next time for you as well?”
“You can speak,” Altaïr snarls, although he feels so ecstatic in his vindication that it’s hard to put all the anger Shay deserves behind it. “You can grovel for my forgiveness, in fact. You have thrown me into a trap.” He points at Talal. “You see, this is what happens when you spare informants!”
“An interesting bluff, but I know you came alone,” Talal calls. “Or did your master not see fit to send me a man with his wits?”
Shay blinks up at Talal. “Oh. That’s your target?”
“My target,” Altaïr confirms. “Who knew I would be here. Because I listened to you.”
“Is this a joke?” Talal demands. “I am not a man to be made light of.”
“You really spared someone because of me?” Shay asks.
“Against my better judgement,” Altaïr says. “And now you see the result.”
“Still,” Shay says. “Someone’s alive because of me, for once. I think I can feel good about that. How about you?”
“And if I die here because of it?” Altaïr asks.
Shay laughs. “We both know that won’t happen.”
Which is true, of course. Altaïr was frustrated when the door slammed shut, but not afraid; he knows he has the skills to survive this, whatever Talal has in store. Besides, he knows that someone will eventually erect a statue of him in an Italian villa, and he has yet to do anything that would explain that.
“Step into the light!” Talal bellows.
Altaïr steps into the light, beside Shay, and draws his sword. Talal’s men surround him, but he has faced worse odds than this. And he knows that Shay will warn him of unseen attacks, even if they serve different causes.
“Very well,” he says, grudgingly. “Perhaps informants do not have to die.”
But he takes to tying them up and leaving them in the bureau - blindfolded, of course - until his assassination is over, just in case. Malik hates it.
-
“I have no idea,” Rebecca is saying. “I kind of want to call it a Bleeding Effect, but I’m pretty sure Ezio’s never been in an Animus. He just keeps talking to people who aren’t there.”
“Maybe the Animus just isn’t loading models,” Lucy says. “It happened all the time at Abstergo.”
Rebecca groans. “I spent so long ironing out all the bugs. How are there always more?”
“You’re still not convinced?” a voice asks, low by Desmond’s ear.
Desmond jerks and looks around. Ezio. “What?”
“They see our conversations,” Ezio says, gesturing towards Rebecca and Lucy. “You still believe they never truly took place? You still believe this is only in your head?”
Yeah, maybe that’s hard to explain away. But...
“Maybe I just think I can hear them talking about it,” Desmond says, dropping his voice as Shaun wanders past to look at Rebecca’s screen. “I have no idea what’s real and what’s in my head any more.”
Ezio sighs theatrically. “Very well.”
They’re quiet for a moment.
“The first time we met was after my family’s murder,” Ezio says. “You tried to comfort me. Why would my pain matter to you, if you think I am not real?”
Desmond doesn’t know how to answer that. He felt responsible, he felt he should have been able to do something, even though he knows that the Animus can’t change the past. And in a way... it’s ridiculous, but in a way he’s come to think of his ancestors as friends, even if they lived hundreds of years before him, even if they can only ever interact in his head.
“This is the really creepy part,” Rebecca says. She presses a button on her computer.
“Ah, Desmond!” says Ezio’s voice through the speakers. “A pity; I had hoped to be the one visiting next. Rebecca and Lucy are very beautiful.”
For a moment, there’s absolute silence.
“Well, frankly, I’m offended to be left out,” Shaun says.
Lucy looks a little flustered. “Uh, is it... is it possible that...” She takes a deep breath. “Is it possible that Desmond’s thoughts are somehow getting mixed up with Ezio’s speech in the Animus?”
Ezio bursts out laughing.
Desmond sits there in frozen horror, his face burning. He can’t believe he ever thought of Ezio as a friend.
-
“You are spending too much time in the Animus.”
“I know,” Desmond mutters, pressing the heels of his palms over his eyes. “My mind’s a wreck. But what am I supposed to do? We’re on a schedule here.”
“I speak of a more pressing concern,” Ezio says.
“More pressing than my brain leaking out my ears, or more pressing than this end-of-the-world thing?”
“More pressing than either,” Ezio says. “Your companions have been enjoying each other’s company. Because you spend all your time in the Animus, you are left out.”
There is a pause.
Desmond lets his hands drop. “You, uh. You mean they’ve been having really good conversations, right?”
Ezio smirks. “Caterina Sforza is the finest conversationalist I know. I doubt any conversations they are having can compare to hers, but I’m sure they are enjoyable enough.”
Okay, Desmond’s not going to think about Ezio’s ‘conversations’ with Caterina Sforza. Those were some very awkward things to live through in the Animus. But the alternative he’s being offered to think about isn’t much better.
“All three of them?” Desmond asks.
Ezio smiles indulgently at him, as if Desmond is a small child getting the birds-and-the-bees talk for the first time and Ezio, because that’s just the kind of parent he is, has jumped straight into explaining threesomes. “You truly hadn’t realised?”
There’s no way. Okay, he kind of suspected there might be something between Shaun and Rebecca, what with Rebecca’s MP3 player turning up on Shaun’s nightstand. But Lucy? There’s just no way.
Wait.
“You’re worried I’m being left out?” Desmond asks. “You think I need to, uh.” Take part? Dive in? Somehow, everything suddenly sounds obscene in his head. “Involve myself?”
“Well, it might make visits more worthwhile,” Ezio says, with a shrug. He gestures around them, at the wrecked sanctuary, at the power cables trailing across centuries-old statues. “Your surroundings are... startling, at first, but they rarely change. If there could occasionally be interesting things to see...”
“Oh, my God.”
“Hey, Desmond!” Rebecca calls, waving, as she comes down into the sanctuary. Desmond starts and tries not to look guilty, even though he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be guilty of. “Should have the next set of memories ready for you in a few minutes, okay?”
Desmond nods and makes a vague noise by way of answer, because he’s terrified that he’ll just blurt out what’s running through his mind if he attempts anything more articulate.
Shaun and Lucy follow her down the stairs. But they’ve just been having a meeting. They have a lot of meetings without him. Because he’s in the Animus all the time, obviously, it’d take too long to catch him up on everything.
“Shaun strikes me as the sort of man who is intimidated by two women,” Ezio comments, watching with his arms folded.
“Imagine that,” Desmond mutters.
“Your presence would be welcomed, I am sure.”
Desmond grits his teeth. “Stop. Talking.”
“What’s that?” Rebecca asks absently, dropping down into her seat.
“Nothing,” Desmond says. “Just talking to myself.” He has to look away from her as he says it and finds himself looking at Lucy instead. Worse. He looks at Shaun. He looks at the statue of Altaïr, and even that doesn’t help; all he can picture is Altaïr showing up for the ‘interesting sight’ Ezio alluded to.
And suddenly he realises he has a bigger problem than being unable to look his teammates in the eye. He can literally never have sex again. He’s already lost the ability to sleep nude, ever since he woke up naked in the middle of Jerusalem and nearly startled Altaïr into botching his assassination. He can’t face the possibility that one of his ancestors will show up when he’s with someone and, in Ezio’s case, probably stand there giving tips. He can’t do it.
“Oh,” Rebecca says. “Looks like the next memory’s just a visit to the Rosa in Fiore. Might be a weird one. You want to skip it?”
For one miserable moment, Desmond actually considers telling her to run it anyway. It’s the closest he’ll ever get again.
“Yeah, skip it,” he says. “Thanks.”
“Such miraculous technology,” Ezio says, with a despairing shake of his head, “and yet you let it go to waste.”
-
Haytham edges cautiously towards the far side of the theatre, listening to the Beggar’s Opera below. He isn’t here to take in the music, of course, but he needs to remain aware of it; if the singing suddenly stops, it’s likely the performers have glanced up and seen him crossing the stage.
When the singing does stop, though, it proves to be the least of his worries.
The entire theatre has vanished around him. Haytham finds himself crouching unnecessarily for balance; the narrow beam beneath his feet is now a solid floor. His new surroundings are dark and cavernous, illuminated in places by a strange blue light. His target is nowhere to be seen.
Haytham stands carefully, testing the mechanism of the blades at his wrists, and looks around.
There’s a man watching him.
“Uh, hey,” the man says. Haytham takes a step towards him to check his reaction. Unguarded. “I was wondering when this’d start. Haytham, right? I’m Desmond. You already know the drill, or-?”
Haytham seizes Desmond by the throat.
“You are going to tell me where I am and how I came to be here,” he says very softly in Desmond’s ear, as Desmond chokes and clutches at the hand around his neck. “You are not going to cry out or do anything that might alert any friends of yours to our conversation. Do we understand each other?”
Desmond, his eyes wide, nods very quickly. Haytham loosens his grip.
“We’re Assassins,” Desmond gasps out, once he’s steadied himself enough for speech. “We’re on your side.”
Haytham, who almost ran him through at the first two words, pauses. These are Assassins who believe him to be an Assassin? From the hidden blades, he supposes. But then how do they know his name, and why kidnap him? “That isn’t the information I asked for.”
“Okay, okay. Just...” He pulls feebly at Haytham’s hand again. Haytham withdraws it, but flicks out his hidden blade, making sure that Desmond sees the movement.
Desmond takes a deep breath.
The tale he spins is nonsense, every word of it. He claims to be Haytham’s descendant in the future (a far-flung descendant, Haytham reassures himself, disquieted by the scruffiness of this young man claiming to be of his blood), and he says he’s been experiencing Haytham’s memories through a device called an ‘Animus’, and here he hesitates.
“And... please don’t be offended,” he says, with a nervous glance at Haytham’s wrist, “but I’m pretty sure I’m imagining you right now.”
Interesting. “You think I’m imaginary, and yet you fear me?”
Desmond shifts uncomfortably. “I can’t be sure my mind’s not dedicated enough to this whole illusion thing to make me stab myself in the neck.”
“Humour me,” Haytham says. “Assume, for the moment, that I exist. What would this mean for me?”
Desmond shrugs. “This, basically. Sometimes you’ll just show up here. I’m the only one who can see you. Or I might appear in your time, and you’ll be the only one who can see me. And I guess you’ll probably meet the others.”
“The others?”
“Altaïr. Ezio. Maybe you’ve heard of them.”
That Altaïr and Ezio? Surely not. He’s been wondering whether he should kill Desmond, whether that would prevent the unwelcome displacements he’s apparently now expected to accept, but perhaps he should leave things for a while, see what transpires. If he truly can meet Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad... it’s an interesting prospect, at the very least. He knows the value of information from the past better than most.
“You’ll go to them or they’ll come to you,” Desmond is saying. “And they sometimes talk about some other guys, so you might meet them as well. I guess maybe they’re people I haven’t met in the Animus yet.”
Haytham nods, barely listening. Something is beginning to stir in his mind.
Haytham has vague recollections of meeting strange people and finding himself in strange places as a boy. The encounters stopped when his father died, and he’s always put them down to imagination: the wild fantasies of an understimulated child. He missed the loss of them, when he found the time to miss them amongst his other losses. But now he is an adult, with his own concerns, and this time-travel business, however novel or edifying, seems likely to prove an inconvenience.
“How do I return to my own time?” he asks. “I was rather in the middle of something.”
“It’ll happen when it happens,” Desmond says. “Shouldn’t be a problem, though. You’ll be back at the same point you left; no one will notice you were gone. Uh... but you looked like you were balancing on something. When you showed up here, I mean.”
“I was.”
“Okay. Then, uh... just don’t forget that’s where you’ll be when you go back. Ezio keeps complaining about us making him fall off buildings.”
“Oh, excellent,” Haytham says. “I foolishly thought my life was difficult and dangerous enough already. Now that I’ve received the gift of constant distraction, I wonder how I ever managed without it.”
“Sorry,” Desmond mutters. “But it’s not so bad, once you get used to it.” He hesitates, his eyes flicking to Haytham’s wrist again. “Just... try not to kill anyone. We’re all Assassins. And these guys are kind of important to me.”
There it is again: the conviction that he’s an Assassin. Perhaps, if Haytham is now routinely to be plucked out of his life and deposited in unknown locations full of his enemies, it’s a misconception worth encouraging.
“It’s a little early in our acquaintance for promises,” Haytham says, “but I’ll make an effort to leave them alive.”
-
“Sorry,” Shay says. “You picked a poor time to come visiting.”
There’s light coming in from some distance above, from the hole Shay left when the ground decided to open up under his feet. The walls of the cave he’s found himself in are smooth, too smooth to climb. He can see his breath in the air, although there’s no need for that to tell him how cold it is.
At least it isn’t snowing any longer. Small mercies.
“Gist’s heading back to the ship for a rope ladder,” Shay says, sitting down on flat cold stone. “Till then, looks like the big task is staving off frostbite.”
Edward sits next to him. “There must be pleasanter places to serve your cause, surely.”
“We can’t all spend our days in the Caribbean,” Shay says, although at times like this he has to wonder why not.
The cold is already beginning to bite. He’s been constantly on the move for the twenty minutes or so they’ve spent working their way inland - why couldn’t he have trapped himself closer to help? - and he’s worked up a light and unwelcome sweat. But the chill’s not as bad on his left side, the side where Edward is sitting.
“I can feel the warmth from you,” Shay murmurs. “How is that possible? You’re not here.”
Edward shrugs. “We’ve always felt solid, and that’s no stranger. I’m not here, and yet I can feel the cold. And I’m speaking to you. If you’re only now realising there’s something odd about this visiting business, I don’t know what to tell you.” He pulls Shay’s glove off and sets about rubbing some life back into his hand. “But this is something we can use. If we stay close, maybe we can carry you through this.”
“You’ll be making me complacent,” Shay says. “I don’t know how this works. I’ll be sitting here feeling snug, and meanwhile for all I know my fingers are freezing off.”
“For now, I’d settle for thinking I’m warm. You’re not the only one who’d benefit.”
“They’re not your fingers. Your fingers are swanning happily around Havana or someplace.” But he lets Edward shift closer to him, all the same.
They’re curled up together against the wall when someone else comes to join them.
“Ah, Desmond!” Edward calls cheerfully.
“Oh. Whoa! Sorry. Uh... sorry. I’ll...” Desmond looks around, faltering as he obviously takes note of the lack of exits. “I can... face the wall?”
“You’d be more use over here,” Shay says.
Desmond turns scarlet. “What?”
Shay shrugs. “If you’re trying to keep the heat in, three bodies are better than two.”
“Oh, right.” Desmond looks again at Shay and Edward, for the first time since he appeared, and some sort of comprehension appears to dawn. “Thanks, but... I don’t know. It’ll be weird next time we meet. Won’t it?”
There are people Shay would hesitate to share warmth with, he supposes. It would be strange to be so close to the Grand Master, or a woman he didn’t know intimately. Or an enemy, he almost thinks, before remembering that Desmond is an Assassin. “In what way?”
“I don’t know.” He gives an awkward shrug. “I guess it’ll probably be weird already, now that you’ve said it.”
“Well, if our relationship’s tainted either way,” Shay says, “might as well be warm for now.”
A smile flits across Desmond’s face. “I guess that makes sense.”
He ends up pressing himself against Shay’s right side; Edward thinks it’s best for Shay to be in the midst of them, just in case they really are doing something to stave off frostbite, as Shay’s the only one in physical danger here. Desmond is tense at first, but he seems to relax a little after a while. But only a little. It’s hard to avoid tensing up in this cold.
It’s better, certainly, but they could do with a few more visitors.
As Shay thinks it, one appears, and he mentally curses himself for not being more specific. Ezio. They could do with Ezio. Ezio would very happily join them, he’s sure, and Shay would feel able to invite him in freely.
“You’ve managed to trap yourself?” Aveline asks, looking around.
“Why d’you assume I trapped myself?”
Aveline looks at him.
“I’m not saying I didn’t,” Shay admits. “I’m saying you’re being unfair.”
“Do you have a plan?” she asks. “Is someone coming for you? What date is this? If we could contact Haytham-”
“It’s fine. Gist’s coming with help. Just have to survive until then.”
She smiles. “Well, I’m glad to see you’ve found a way to shield against this cold.”
Should probably at least extend the invitation. Wouldn’t want to seem discourteous.
Shay clears his throat.
“Don’t know if a lady would be happy in here,” he says, “but you’re welcome to join us.”
Aveline laughs. “A lady will survive. My best gown has a man’s life-blood all over it. I think I’m past worrying about social taboos.”
She tries to press herself between Desmond and Shay, but she obviously takes note of the way Desmond freezes up and she backs out. She ends up settling between Shay and Edward instead. Shay tries to stay still, doesn’t want to brush against her accidentally in a way that makes her think he’s taking advantage, but she actually tucks herself under his arm.
After a moment she wriggles up even closer to him, settles her back against his chest. Shay feels his face could be used as a signal beacon. Edward has started to laugh.
“You know, Monsieur Cormac, you should take off your coat,” Aveline says. There’s a touch of laughter in her voice as well. “Your warmth would come through more strongly. As a courtesy to a lady, of course.”
“You’re trying to torment me,” Shay says, quietly.
“I’m trying to stay warm,” she says. “Tormenting you is a happy accident.” She rests a hand on his shin, so casually he can almost believe it’s without thought. Shay shivers, and not from the cold.
Desmond has shifted away slightly. “Uh, what’s going on?”
“I’ve seen her like this with other Templars,” Edward says, watching with interest, “and, going by those occasions, I’d say she’s about to cut Shay’s throat.”
Aveline smirks and says nothing.
It’s definitely a possibility that’s flickered across Shay’s mind. She wouldn’t, would she? They’ve known each other so long now that he feels they’re friends, of a sort, even if they fight on different sides. But he’s gutted too many friends himself to trust that makes him safe.
“Fine,” Desmond says. “Kill each other if you have to. Just... keep your clothes on. Please. I’ve seen enough of... I’ve seen enough.”
“You hear that?” Shay asks Aveline. “The man dictates it. Coat stays on, I’m afraid.”
Aveline gives a feigned sigh. “Very well. At least I have his blessing to kill you.”
“Uh, I... you know, I didn’t mean that,” Desmond says. “Don’t kill each other.”
Aveline takes off her hat and sets it on her knee, with more care than needed; it can hardly be damaged if it isn’t really here. She tilts her head back against Shay’s collar and closes her eyes.
He’d thought Aveline was able to end a visit at will. Perhaps he was wrong? Surely he must have been wrong.
Time passes, and no sign of Gist. Desmond ends up shuffling closer again, fortunately; huddling for warmth doesn’t really work when you’re a foot apart.
Shay thinks Aveline might have fallen asleep; her breathing has evened, and she’s starting to slip to one side. He rests his arm across her stomach to keep her held against him.
“A warming sight,” Edward says, amused. “Peace between the two orders at last.”
“I’ll find no peace like this,” Shay says. But he keeps his voice low, so as not to wake her.
He looks up, seeing movement, and his breath catches. He’d know that man from a mile away.
The newcomer’s eyes sweep the group and settle on Shay, who is suddenly very aware that he’s been found in a pile of Assassins.
“Uh,” Shay says. “Hello, Grand Master.”
A moment passes.
“There’s room,” Shay offers.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Haytham says. “No. Absolutely not.”
-
Desmond is dragged way too abruptly out of Connor’s first in-person meeting with Haytham. He sits up in the Animus, rubbing his head in annoyance; he knew they’d meet up at some point, and he’s been looking forward to seeing how it goes.
“Sorry,” Rebecca says. “But this is bugging me. They’re talking like they’ve met before. Haytham knows Connor is his kid. How? I’ve scanned the whole of Connor’s memory for Haytham’s genetic signature, and this is definitely the first time they talk.”
Desmond considers the answers available to him. One: silence. Two: ‘Well, actually, I keep hallucinating that my ancestors are visiting me through some kind of time-travel, and that they keep visiting each other, and now I’m pretty sure I’m hallucinating that you’re asking me about it, because there’s no way it can actually be true.’
He goes with silence.
“Shaun?” Rebecca calls. “Come look at this footage.”
That’s when Desmond realises that someone else is there, in the temple. He hadn’t really registered the third figure, figured it was his dad, but of course his dad’s in Cairo. It’s Haytham. But dark-haired, younger than he is on the screen.
Desmond tries to discreetly draw him away, out of earshot of Shaun and Rebecca. “Hey, I don’t know if you should be seeing this.”
“It seems I’ll have to see it sooner or later,” Haytham says.
“Yeah, but... I don’t know, is it good to know your future?”
“I already know my son, long before I’m apparently to meet him,” Haytham says. “And even longer before he’s apparently to murder me.”
Desmond freezes. Connor is going to kill his father?
What’s the right thing to say? ‘Sorry your son is going to murder you in the future-past’? They definitely don’t make sympathy cards for this.
“Sorry,” Desmond says. “I - sorry. I didn’t know.”
“All it means is that I failed to kill him first, and for that I have only myself to blame,” Haytham says. “But I can’t imagine there are any greater surprises awaiting me.”
“Yeah,” Desmond says. “Yeah, guess not. If you want to watch, go ahead.”
Haytham raises his eyebrows. “How good of you to give me permission. It’s almost as if you think you could have stopped me.”
“See, as far as I can tell, he didn’t even know Ziio was pregnant,” Rebecca is saying as they walk back to the Animus setup, Desmond looking uneasily at Haytham. “He told Franklin he wanted a kid. I think he’d have tracked Connor down earlier if he’d known, maybe raised him himself.”
Haytham sighs. “Yes, perhaps,” he murmurs. “Connor was already an Assassin when I first met him, so I knew any household of ours would never be a happy one. But there’s nothing to be gained from dwelling on what might have been.”
It’s... not something Desmond was expecting to hear from him. He almost wants to say something - he’s not sure what - but there’s no way Shaun and Rebecca won’t hear.
“Can we worry about this later?” Shaun asks Rebecca. “I want to see how Connor reacts to this arsehole.”
“Oh, indeed?” Haytham asks, coldly.
Desmond immediately checks to make sure he’s not wearing his hidden blades, just in case Haytham tries to possess him.
“Let’s see,” Haytham murmurs, his eyes darting over the screen. “A church... snow... and of course meeting Connor in person, I suppose that’s notable... yes, I think I can remember this.”
Before Desmond can ask what he’s thinking, Rebecca shrugs and says, “Well, I can’t work it out. Maybe they’ll explain how they know each other later. Ready to pick the memory back up, Desmond?”
Desmond glances at Haytham.
“Don’t mind me,” Haytham says. “I’ll stay and watch.”
Well, okay. It’s not like Haytham can do any damage by possessing Desmond’s body when it’s strapped into the Animus.
Desmond settles down, and a moment later he’s looking out through Connor’s eyes at his father. Every muscle in Connor’s body is tense.
The older Haytham, by contrast, seems perfectly relaxed. He looks around at nothing Desmond can see, and then says, “Yes, I think this is the time.”
“What time?” Connor asks.
“We have an audience, Connor,” Haytham says. “Desmond and his friends from the future.”
“The Animus?” Connor asks, taken by surprise.
“What the fuck?” Rebecca mutters through Desmond’s earpiece.
Haytham raises his voice. “Rather a personal moment, don’t you think? Wouldn’t you say it’s impolite to intrude on a father’s first meeting with his son? But of course Shaun Hastings would never be such a... what was it? An ‘arsehole’?”
“Rebecca,” Shaun says, “please tell me you reprogrammed this just to make me uncomfortable. You’ve very much succeeded, incidentally. Well done.”
“I have no idea what the fuck is going on,” Rebecca says.
“You see, now they’ll be trying to explain this away,” Haytham says, pacing back and forth. “Animus sabotage, or interference from Desmond’s thoughts.” Rebecca, who was halfway through suggesting exactly that, falls suddenly silent. “But no, Shaun. This is Haytham Kenway, Templar Grand Master of long before your time, informing you that it’s a little rich for you, of all people, to cast judgement on someone’s personality.”
“Can you stop it?” Shaun asks, his voice slightly higher-pitched than usual.
“Are you kidding?” Rebecca asks. “You don’t want to see where this is going?”
Haytham pulls a short dagger from his hip, and Connor takes a step back, gripping the handle of his tomahawk. Haytham catches the movement and rolls his eyes.
“I’m not going to fight you, Connor. There will be plenty of time for that later.” He runs his hand over one of the wooden beams running up the wall. “This building is abandoned,” he says, apparently to himself. “I don’t know how well-preserved it will be in the future, but I’m prepared to expend the effort, just in case.”
And he gets to work.
Later, they’ll visit the church in Desmond’s time, or what’s left of it, and establish that, yes, one of the beams does have ‘Shaun Hastings needs to mind his own business’ carved neatly into it, with a little flourish underneath.
Shaun won’t sleep for a week.
Desmond will sit with his head in his hands and try and try and try to convince himself he’s imagining things. So long as he doesn’t start believing his encounters with his ancestors are real, he can’t be that crazy. Right?
-
Desmond slams back into his own body in the middle of Abstergo, breathing hard and covered in blood. He looks around at once to see who possessed him. He hadn’t noticed a visitor around, but to be fair he’d been kind of distracted by worrying about his dad and, oh, yeah, the billion security guards who are now lying dead at his feet.
It’s Haytham.
No, seriously, it’s Haytham.
“Thought we had an arrangement not to take each other over,” Desmond says, trying to laugh, trying not to sound like he’s freaking out, failing at both.
“Yes, well, rules must be bent in desperate situations,” Haytham says. “We were about to lose you.”
“I can fight,” Desmond says. “That’s kind of what this Animus thing is about, remember? Giving me the skills of my ancestors?”
“You may have the ability, but you lack the conviction. You hesitate before every kill. Surely you’ve realised. When you face enemies in these numbers, hesitation is fatal.”
It’s true. He knows he wouldn’t have been able to take all these guys down; he knew it before Haytham took over, and a part of him still hasn’t caught up and realised he’s lived through it. The Animus can teach him techniques, but there’s a big difference between ‘killing’ someone in the Animus and doing it in real life. If Desmond kills someone in the Animus, he’s just re-enacting something that happened centuries ago. If Desmond kills someone as himself, they’re dead. Because of him.
“So I’m meant to believe you just stepped in to save my life?” Desmond asks. He can’t look down at the bodies; he feels sick. “You know these are your guys, right?”
“It’s regrettable, yes,” Haytham says. “But you are working to save the world, aren’t you? I have no intention of standing back and watching all the Templars have achieved undone in a few short centuries.”
Huh. It’s still weird as hell that a Templar Grand Master just rescued him from a bunch of Templars, but maybe it makes sense. Desmond knows, from watching him work with Connor, that Haytham is prepared to put ideological differences aside for a common cause.
Thinking of Connor and Haytham makes him think of his own father. He glances behind him, toward the room where they think he’s being held.
“Yes, yes, go and save him,” Haytham says, impatiently. “And good luck to both of you. God knows you’re the only chance in our little group for a father-son story to end well.”
-
To be honest, Edward has dreamt before about Kidd - about Mary - cornering him in his cabin. Somehow, though, the look in her eye was never quite so frightening in his imagination.
“You’ve been keeping secrets,” she says. “I want to know what they are.”
For a moment, he thinks she’s talking about those dreams. “Rather defeats the purpose of a secret, doesn’t it, if I tell you? What makes you think I’m hiding anything from you, anyway?”
“You keep talking to people who aren’t there.”
“Open and unhidden,” he says. “The only reason I haven’t told you the full story is that you’d never believe me.”
“You can’t know that if you don’t give me the chance,” she says. “Maybe it’ll be a load of rum-sodden nonsense, but I can’t judge that until you tell me. Besides, you’ve got all my secrets already.”
“I didn’t ask for them!” Edward protests. “You can’t use that against me!”
“I can use what I like,” Mary says. “’Case you hadn’t noticed, we’re pirates. We’re not known for playing fair.”
“Ah, if only she lived in my time,” Ezio murmurs. Edward looks sharply over at him; he hadn’t noticed his arrival. “I would recruit her in a heartbeat.”
“She’s already an Assassin, remember?” Edward asks. Ezio has shown up a few times before when Edward’s been working with Mary, and he’s always seemed very taken with her.
“Both my secrets in one sentence,” Mary says. “It’s good to know my private business is in such discreet hands. So who d’you think you’re talking to now?”
Right. If she wants her credulity tested, he’ll test it.
“A man from Italy,” Edward says. “An Assassin, actually, like you. He lived two hundred years ago.”
Mary snorts. “Right, should’ve guessed. And this two-hundred-year-old Assassin’s invisible, is he?”
“Only when he’s here. And not to me.” And he launches into an explanation of the ‘visiting’ concept, or what little he understands of it, becoming more aware with every word he says of how absurd it sounds.
Mary looks sceptical, which, truth be told, isn’t a great surprise. “And there’s no way I can see these ‘visitors’?”
“Not that we know of,” Edward says. “Although, actually...”
He casts Ezio a glance. For some reason, he finds himself reluctant to introduce Mary to him. He’d prefer Aveline. Or Connor, or Desmond. But Ezio’s the one who’s here.
“Actually what, Kenway?” Mary asks, impatient.
“Actually, there might be a way you can talk to them. They can sort of... speak through me.”
Ezio lights up at once. “It would be my honour to meet the young lady.”
This is definitely a mistake. But it’ll have to happen now; Mary’s got that look that means she’s interested, and Edward knows she won’t let this go before her curiosity is satisfied.
“All right.” He nods to Ezio, and a moment later he finds himself standing outside his own body, invisible to Mary, only able to watch what’s going on.
Ezio bows and speaks with Edward’s voice. “Ezio Auditore da Firenze. A pleasure.”
Shock flashes across Mary’s face. It’s a stronger reaction than Edward was expecting at this stage; he knows she’s too shrewd to believe this isn’t just Edward inventing a name.
But the surprise is swiftly followed by suspicion. “You’re speaking English,” she says.
“Yes, I suppose I must be,” Ezio says. “Two of our friends have tested this. Aveline and Connor. She can understand his native language when she visits, but not when they meet in person. If she visits Connor’s father and Connor is present, she can understand only the languages the father knows.”
“Convenient,” Mary says, her eyes narrowing. “You’ve done more research than I’d have credited you with, Kenway, but if you think you can use Ezio Auditore to manipulate me, you’re not the friend I thought you were.”
“She knows you?” Edward asks, startled.
“Well, I’m sure I could still manage Italian, if I made the effort,” Ezio says, and he launches into a lengthy ramble that means absolutely nothing to Edward.
There’s silence for a moment after he’s finished.
“Maybe you never told me you knew Italian,” Mary says. “Or you could just be spouting nonsense. I don’t have any magical translation powers, see.” But the scorn’s less sharp in her voice.
Ezio sighs. “She is a difficult one,” he says to Edward.
“You’re telling me,” Edward says.
“Less of the ‘she’, if you don’t mind,” Mary says. “Never know who might be listening.”
“My apologies.” Ezio turns back to Edward. “You could wait for a visit from Altaïr. Perhaps Arabic will convince our friend.”
“Altaïr?” Mary demands, glancing from Ezio to the spot he’s looking at, even though she won’t be able to see Edward. “Altaïr? Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad? I’m meant to believe you have some sort of miraculous connection with Ezio and Altaïr? Why you? Why would they choose you? You’re not even an Assassin.”
“We did not choose him, I assure you.”
“Oh, thanks,” Edward mutters.
Ezio takes Mary’s hand in his - Edward’s - own. She tenses, but she doesn’t pull away.
“If I had my choice,” Ezio says, “I would have picked someone like you. You are a fine Assassin, dedicated and skilled.” He drops his voice, tracing patterns on her palm with Edward’s fingers. “And beautiful too, of course, which is always an advantage.”
It’s uncomfortable to watch. Mary looks like she’s fighting not to laugh rather than giving in to Ezio’s charms, at least, but that’s small comfort when she believes Ezio to be Edward.
“I am still here, you know,” Edward says.
“Yes, Edward, you are beautiful as well,” Ezio says, not taking his eyes off Mary.
“So you’ve swapped places?” Mary asks. “That’s how this works? You’re in Edward’s body, he’s turned into the one I can’t see?”
“Indeed,” Ezio says. “You believe us?”
“Starting to. Italian’s one thing, knowing about you and Altaïr’s one thing, but this?” She nods down at their hands. “Kenway’s no stranger to flirting, but he wouldn’t dare try it with me.”
“Then Kenway is a fool,” Ezio murmurs, “and all the better for us.”
Mary grins wickedly. Edward is feeling very, very uneasy about the way this is going.
“Can we switch back?” he asks. “Seems we’ve achieved our goal.”
“Edward wishes to know if he can return to his body,” Ezio says.
“He can wait,” Mary says. “I’m not finished with you yet.”
Ezio raises his eyebrows. “Oh?” he asks in a charged tone that should definitely never be directed at Mary in Edward’s voice, or at least not when Edward isn’t the one using it.
He’s still holding Mary’s left hand, but she takes her right and rests it on Ezio’s shoulder. Edward’s. Ezio’s. This is confusing. Edward is trying very hard to focus on the confusion, rather than the action itself.
“Can Kenway feel that?” Mary asks.
Ezio shakes his head. “He can feel nothing that happens to his body while he is outside it.”
“But he can see us.”
Ezio glances over at Edward and starts to laugh. Maybe Edward isn’t doing so well at controlling his expression as he’d hoped. “He is certainly watching, yes.”
Mary directs a very deliberate smirk in Edward’s direction. This woman is a monster. “Well, it’s not every day you get the chance to kiss Ezio Auditore. How could I refuse?”
Edward hates himself for it, but he can’t make himself look away. All he can think about is how that’s his back Mary’s digging her short-clipped nails into, those are his lips she’s meeting with her own, and it’s outrageously unfair that he can’t even fucking feel it.
For a moment he’s terrified that it’s going to go further, but Mary catches Ezio’s hands as they drift to her belt and whispers something in his ear, and that’s something. That’s something.
Jesus, he can’t believe this is happening. Why did it have to be Ezio?
They eventually break off, after what feels like several years, and Edward suddenly finds himself in his body and Mary is right there. He jerks back. She laughs.
“Welcome back,” she says. “Interesting business, your visitors.”
Slightly too interesting, in Edward’s opinion.
“Kidd,” he says. His own voice sounds strange in his ears, after hearing it misused by Ezio. “Can Ezio and I have a moment alone?”
“Oh, Ezio’s still here?” She raises her voice. “Good to meet you. Maybe we’ll talk again.”
Ezio blows her a kiss she won’t see.
“Kidd,” Edward says, almost pleading.
“I’m going,” she says. “But come and find me next time Altaïr visits. Always wanted to meet him as well.” She winks at him and leaves.
Edward stares after her. She wouldn’t, would she?
He shakes his head. There are more than enough unwelcome images in there already without adding any more.
When he turns back, he finds Ezio watching him, smiling slightly. “You wish to speak to me?”
Edward opens his mouth and finds there are no words behind it. He closes it again.
“If you want her,” Ezio says, “I believe you have a chance.”
“Oh, yes?” Edward asks, bitterly. “Why’s that? Because she’s willing to kiss long-dead famous Assassins when they look like me?”
“Did you hear what she said to me when I tried to undress her?”
Edward shakes his head. Being reminded of that is not improving his mood towards Ezio.
Ezio smirks. “Don’t expose too much, she said. Let’s leave some surprises for Kenway.”
Edward stares at him. “She really said that?”
But Ezio has disappeared.
“She really said that? Those words? Ezio!”
-
“Your visits are always a pleasure, naturally,” Haytham calls above the crash of cannon fire, “but I’m a little busy for hospitality at the moment. I’m sure you’ll understand.”
Desmond looks around, trying to push down the panic in his chest. It’s still hard to get it through his head that he’s not physically here, he’s not in any real danger. Cannons, he thinks, and Fort George, and then shit, Fort George-
“Oh, shit,” Desmond breathes. “Haytham, I think this is-”
He cuts himself off. Yeah, Haytham already knows that Connor is going to kill him, but maybe it’d be best not to give him anything more specific than that.
But Haytham nods, walking briskly (to meet Connor, to meet his death). “This is when it happens. I know.”
“You don’t have to fight him,” Desmond says. He knows it’s hopeless. He’s already seen it in the Animus, he knows the past can’t be changed, he knows this conversation isn’t even real, but - he has to try, doesn’t he?
“My duty is clear, even if the outcome is already set,” Haytham says. “I hope I don’t strike you as a man who shirks his duties.”
“Then...” There has to be something he can do. Haytham may be a Templar, but he’s helped Desmond before. And he’s one of them. “Let me take over.”
Haytham stops short and laughs. “Take over my body? Forgive me, but that would explain why Connor gets the better of me.”
“Just... at the end,” Desmond says. “So you don’t have to feel it yourself.”
It occurs to him as he’s speaking that maybe it’s not a great idea to be in someone else’s body when they’re dying. He doesn’t know how this works. But it’s the only thing he can offer.
Haytham gives him a strange look, careful, analytic.
“I’d prefer to be alone with my son,” he says, eventually. “But I appreciate the thought.”
“Okay,” Desmond says. And then, absurdly, even though they both know the outcome already, even though he doesn’t want Connor to die either, he hears himself saying, “Good luck.”
-
Shay walks swiftly, taking back alleys and side-streets. Dorian had a son, no older than ten, and it weighs on Shay’s mind, seeing the boy at the palace, knowing how his life was about to change. But he knows it’s right that he saw him. Any action has consequences. If he loses sight of that, he’ll be no better than Achilles.
Hard to believe he has the box at last, after a decade and a half of searching. If he can just keep it safe until he reaches the outskirts of the city-
There’s no warning cry, no sound at all but the whipping of coattails through the air, and he looks up barely in time to see the Assassin dropping before he’s slammed to the cobbles. There’s a blade at his throat - he’s surprised it’s not through his neck already - and he’s cursing his stupidity, and-
“Shay?”
Her voice stops his struggle as effectively as any gunshot. “Aveline?”
He hasn’t seen her this young in a while. There are many exceptions, of course - he still visits Desmond, who died far younger than he deserved, and only last month he received a disconcerting visit from the Grand Master as a child - but usually their ages stay more or less in step. She must be about thirty, about...
About the age she’d actually be now.
He can’t feel the usual tingle of visitation.
No. It isn’t possible.
“Are you - are you here?” he asks. “Here, in Paris? Here?”
Her eyes widen. “You’re not visiting?”
It can’t be true.
“You told me we’d never met in person,” he says, barely able to speak above a whisper. “Or... you’ll tell me.”
She stares at him for a moment longer, and then she starts to laugh. “I don’t doubt it. If you could see the look on your face, you’d understand why.”
He’s still half-sure he’s dreaming. Any moment now, he’ll wake and Charles Dorian will still be alive and he’ll have to walk past that young boy to slay his father again.
But he’s still here, lying in a Paris alleyway, Aveline pinning him with her lovely knees, her hidden blade at his throat.
He draws breath. Carefully. “If I’m permitted to stand...”
It’s their code; if her response contains the word understanding, this is Aveline from after their relationship took an... unanticipated turn, and he can take her in his arms without fear of alarming or offending her. But her only response is to retract her blade and step away, with a little sarcastic flourish.
She’s here at last. Aveline, his Aveline, real and laughing and beautiful. They could spend as long as they like together, never torn apart at the whim of visitation. However good Aveline is at controlling her departure, she can’t stay forever, and he knows she wouldn’t want to if she could; she has her own life, in her own time. But this is her time, and she’s here.
And he can’t touch her. He can’t touch her.
He gets to his feet, slowly, rubbing the back of his head. “Could’ve said hello less violently.”
“Or more,” she says.
He knows full well why the Assassins would have an interest in this place, and he knows why they would send her specifically - she knows the language, after all - and yet he still asks. “What brings you to Paris?”
She raises her eyebrows in mock surprise. “Oh? And I thought perhaps you were involved in this Templar plot I was sent to stop. It’s good to know you’re here by coincidence.”
“Are you going to kill me?” he asks.
He doesn’t ask if she’s going to try to kill him. He knows he can’t fight her. If she’s decided to kill him, he’ll die here.
“Dorian is dead,” she says. “The damage is done.”
But she seemed prepared to kill when she dropped on him from above. It’s a relief to know his life means something to her, that he’s more than just the enemy even now.
“As there’s no point in conflict,” she says, stretching, “would you like to show me around the city? I could act as translator for you.”
His heart trips over itself for a moment before he realises her intention. Of course. She’s planning to steal the Precursor box from him. It’s dangerous to stay in her company.
It’s a risk he’ll take.
-
Desmond’s always slept better with someone else in the bed, but it’s unsettling to slowly realise you’re not alone when there’s nobody else who should logically be in the same bed as you. He opens his eyes and sees loose blond hair in the darkness, and for one gut-clenching moment he thinks it’s Lucy.
“Edward?” he hisses. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Edward rolls onto his back with a groan, pressing the back of his wrist to his forehead. “Sleeping, until a moment ago,” he mumbles.
“In my bed?”
“Came visiting. Tired. Wasn’t going back,” Edward says. “Bed’s more comfortable than the floor. I didn’t think you’d object, after our bonding session with Shay.”
Desmond hesitates, but he’s too tired himself to argue. And he does sleep better with company.
“Fine,” he says, shifting to face the wall. The hotel bed is huge, at least, and there’s space between them. There were only two rooms left, a double and a twin, and Shaun and Rebecca took the twins. Desmond’s dad is scoping out the stadium where the power source should be.
It’s only just starting to lighten when Desmond next wakes, and the amount of space seems to have fallen substantially. There’s a warm body pressed up against his back, a hand resting on his shoulder. He half-twists around, meaning to tell Edward to stay on his own side of the bed, and... oh. It’s Ezio. Of course it’s Ezio. He wasn’t even there during the mass collapse of personal space boundaries in that freezing cave, but of course Ezio showed up and saw them both in the bed and decided to invite himself in.
He debates waking Ezio up and getting him to move away, but... where to? Edward is behind him. Maybe Desmond can shuffle further towards the edge of the bed, give all three of them more space to sleep?
He looks back at the side of the bed and feels himself flush. He hadn’t realised Aveline had joined them as well. It’s easy to miss things when you’re being spooned by the leading cause of death in Renaissance Italy.
Desmond raises his head - carefully, trying not to disturb Ezio - and looks around the room, to check if he’s going to have to cope with any more imminent bedmates. Altaïr is curled up on the floor by the door, as if he’s guarding them from anyone who might come in. Somehow, the sight makes Desmond smile.
He starts when another person appears by the bed. Ezio grumbles against his back.
“Sorry,” Shay whispers, before apparently taking in the scene. “You lot look comfortable.”
“Come to join the slumber party?” Desmond asks, keeping his voice soft.
“Come to join the what?”
Desmond gestures around the bed. “Everyone’s decided they’re sleeping here, apparently. I’m starting to think it’d be easiest to just go along with it. You tired?”
Shay frowns, shifts a little, hesitates. “There’s only space next to Aveline. And barely.”
“I don’t think she’d mind,” Desmond says. He wouldn’t invite Haytham to lie next to her, or indeed into his bed in general, but Aveline seems comfortable enough with Shay. “But you could ask her.”
Shay shakes his head. “I’ll sit. Thanks all the same.”
It’s a relief, in a way; there’d barely be space to breathe with five people in here. Which makes Desmond wonder why, exactly, he invited Shay in in the first place.
But it’s... reassuring, maybe that’s the word for it. Feeling Ezio’s warmth. Hearing Aveline’s quiet breathing, and Edward’s soft snores. Just... being surrounded by people.
He spends so much time in the Animus, watching his ancestors speak to other people, unable to communicate with anyone himself. He gets along with Shaun and Rebecca, but he always feels like they’re holding themselves a little distant from him. He’s always kind of had the feeling they’re afraid to get attached in case the Bleeding Effect takes over and he Subject Sixteens all over the walls. His dad is... well, his dad.
Maybe it’s a little lonely. Maybe he needs this.
Part Two