Collection of Drabbes
Notes: Ill, in pain and wondering is it me, and here I am writing drabbles. Better to live in fantasy than nothing at all, hm? Enjoy them. Assassin's Creed. Shaun/Desmond, since I was in the mood for Shaun's snarky bitchiness.
"You have one hour to live," Desmond murmurs into the curve of Shaun's sweaty neck, "what would you do?"
Shaun's brain can't wrap around the concept of 'breathing', let alone around deep introspective analysis into his final moments. He grunts, and hopes Desmond will take that as answer.
It seems to work, and then Desmond asks again, and Shaun is too tired to push him out of bed and onto the floor. The points are raised against him, too, as Desmond is trained to resist, to counter-strike, to win. Shaun's trained to type really, really hard and really, really fast.
Killing someone doesn't take skill, just luck.
"Shaun?"
"I'd remove your tongue and live the rest of my fifty nine minutes in uninterrupted bliss and silence," Shaun says, but his bark doesn't have a bite. Shaun's tired. It shows when that slow, smooth voice goes a bit higher - just an octave or so, but enough to make the ear bleed.
Desmond wishes he'd just talk to him instead of defaulting to sarcastic. "Shaun," he asks, quietly, and without really asking.
Shaun presses his face into the pillow. Long fingers knot in the sheets. "Walk in the rain," Shaun mumbles, with fabric hiding his words, his face.
Stroking a broad hand down that narrow back, Desmond crawls uninvited atop the skinny (Shaun prefers to call himself 'svelte') historian and hides his face in the back of Shaun's neck.
"You're crushing my ribs," Shaun complains, but it's only because he's Shaun. "Don't bloody move, or I'll knock your arse to the ground. What would you do if you had an hour to live?"
What he really wants to say is I'd sit in the rain, by you, to hear you bitch. "I'd go back in time and apologize to my high-school sweetheart. It really wasn't her. It was always me." And Desmond smiles, because that's easy to say, and the rain thing is so difficult, so difficult. Anyway, it's just a stupid game.
"Liar," Shaun yawns, and leaves Desmond wondering how Shaun always knows.
. . .
There are about fifty different types of tea in the cupboard, and Desmond only knows the name to three of them. Being an Assassin doesn't require knowing how to make tea.
He throws a bag into a cup, pours in hot water, adds in three teaspoons of sugar. He takes it to the work-room where Shaun still taps at his computer, and sets it by his hand.
Code-dazed, the historian looks up and mumbles, "s'that coffee?"
"Tea." Desmond leans in for a kiss hello. Shaun leans back as though he was struck.
"Don't drink tea," Shaun answers wearily, in the voice of a man who's said it too much before, "Tea's for the girls. I drink coffee."
'But you're British' is precisely what's on Desmond's mind, and Shaun seems to read it in the way Desmond looks at him.
Shaun growls.
"Next time you ask me for food, I'll bung a hamburger in the blender and hit puree," Shaun rakes his fingers through his hair, wincing as the overhead lights burn his closed eyes.
"Hard to think you don't drink tea when you use words like 'bung'," Desmond comments, and absorbs Shaun's lazily slap. That blond head rolls against his shoulder, tired and heavy.
That clever face always looks so unhappy when its not stuck three inches away from a computer screen.
Desmond lowers his head and kisses his forehead.
He grabs the mug and leaves - and when Shaun looks up again, about a half hour into the next line of code (and three paragraphs into his 'what's wrong with that man?' diatribe), a mug of coffee steams quietly between Italian translation books and a copy of Slaughterhouse Five.
"You have one hour to live," Desmond murmurs into the curve of Shaun's sweaty neck, "what would you do?"
Shaun's brain can't wrap around the concept of 'breathing', let alone around deep introspective analysis into his final moments. He grunts, and hopes Desmond will take that as answer.
It seems to work, and then Desmond asks again, and Shaun is too tired to push him out of bed and onto the floor. The points are raised against him, too, as Desmond is trained to resist, to counter-strike, to win. Shaun's trained to type really, really hard and really, really fast.
Killing someone doesn't take skill, just luck.
"Shaun?"
"I'd remove your tongue and live the rest of my fifty nine minutes in uninterrupted bliss and silence," Shaun says, but his bark doesn't have a bite. Shaun's tired. It shows when that slow, smooth voice goes a bit higher - just an octave or so, but enough to make the ear bleed.
Desmond wishes he'd just talk to him instead of defaulting to sarcastic. "Shaun," he asks, quietly, and without really asking.
Shaun presses his face into the pillow. Long fingers knot in the sheets. "Walk in the rain," Shaun mumbles, with fabric hiding his words, his face.
Stroking a broad hand down that narrow back, Desmond crawls uninvited atop the skinny (Shaun prefers to call himself 'svelte') historian and hides his face in the back of Shaun's neck.
"You're crushing my ribs," Shaun complains, but it's only because he's Shaun. "Don't bloody move, or I'll knock your arse to the ground. What would you do if you had an hour to live?"
What he really wants to say is I'd sit in the rain, by you, to hear you bitch. "I'd go back in time and apologize to my high-school sweetheart. It really wasn't her. It was always me." And Desmond smiles, because that's easy to say, and the rain thing is so difficult, so difficult. Anyway, it's just a stupid game.
"Liar," Shaun yawns, and leaves Desmond wondering how Shaun always knows.
. . .
There are about fifty different types of tea in the cupboard, and Desmond only knows the name to three of them. Being an Assassin doesn't require knowing how to make tea.
He throws a bag into a cup, pours in hot water, adds in three teaspoons of sugar. He takes it to the work-room where Shaun still taps at his computer, and sets it by his hand.
Code-dazed, the historian looks up and mumbles, "s'that coffee?"
"Tea." Desmond leans in for a kiss hello. Shaun leans back as though he was struck.
"Don't drink tea," Shaun answers wearily, in the voice of a man who's said it too much before, "Tea's for the girls. I drink coffee."
'But you're British' is precisely what's on Desmond's mind, and Shaun seems to read it in the way Desmond looks at him.
Shaun growls.
"Next time you ask me for food, I'll bung a hamburger in the blender and hit puree," Shaun rakes his fingers through his hair, wincing as the overhead lights burn his closed eyes.
"Hard to think you don't drink tea when you use words like 'bung'," Desmond comments, and absorbs Shaun's lazily slap. That blond head rolls against his shoulder, tired and heavy.
That clever face always looks so unhappy when its not stuck three inches away from a computer screen.
Desmond lowers his head and kisses his forehead.
He grabs the mug and leaves - and when Shaun looks up again, about a half hour into the next line of code (and three paragraphs into his 'what's wrong with that man?' diatribe), a mug of coffee steams quietly between Italian translation books and a copy of Slaughterhouse Five.