Flu
Title: Flu Fandom: Assassin's Creed.
Author: write_rewrite
Rating: G.
Pairings: Shaun/Desmond.
Warnings: Pure fluffiness.
Notes: For themulletbullet, a sehr excellent Shaun roleplayer. May have several other parts.
Summary: Shaun is sick.
Shaun Hastings was ill.
This would not be an easy day.
It was nothing against the Brit in particular (or, rather, it was not just one something, but a whole slew of somethings that added up to a great, big capital letter Something, possibly in the form of Shaun strangling a persistant Desmond over medicine) but his normally sparkling attitude was even more tarnished when -- as a misfortunate Rebecca had found out this morning -- the minions of The Flu were setting up a base camp in Shaun's throat.
The Brit was draped over his desk like Hamlet over the grave. A pile of slowly-growing notes were the only testimony that Shaun actually stayed alive, though it could also mean that he had died and was finally putting his madcap organizational method to death with him, and filing notes like a sane person.
Desmond's trip into the Animus had been fraught with running around to doctors' stalls and inquiring about symptoms. One particular helpful medical professional had mentioned the use of a live frog down the throat as being helpful, but Shaun had stamped on that idea with a 'where will we get a live frog in the middle of the city anyway?'
Thus, the current situation was this:
Shaun Hastings had enough lemon tea to drown himself in.
Desmond Miles was hovering over him to make sure that he didn't drown himself.
Lucy Stillman and Rebecca Crane were privately considering renaming Desmond to Desmirella and giving him a pair of glass slippers, or a lovely nurse's outfit, which would definitely make Shaun want to drown himself in lemon tea.
Not that he was against it now but, well, it would up those suicidal tendencies a tad. He quite liked Desmond looking like a rough-and-ready bloke. Like a real bruiser, watch-your-back-he's-a-nasty-one, look-at-me-twice-and-he'll-give-you-a-black-eye kind of rough. Unshaven, close cropped, six foot two of muscle and anger. Oh, yum.
Those sodding glass slippers wouldn't get an 'oh yum' from him, not unless they were used as impractical knives to cut strawberries.
Desmond's fingers worked at the sore, tight muscles on the back of his neck, thumbs rubbing away the Flu aches. The warmth of the Assassin's body against his back was enough to make him crack a smile; the big, bad bruiser with the customary tribal tattoo was an utter puppy-dog. All smiles. Mildly loopy, but then, it was hardly a picnic being Desmond.
"I am relatively certain, Desmond, that I am hardly likely to get better with a massage,"
"Keeps you nice and calm and not liable to eat Rebecca if she looks at you wrong," Desmond retorted smartly, leaving Shaun with no choice but to reach back and pinch his thigh. Being weak as water had not affected his grabbing abilities, otherwise there would be a great mess over his poor laptop.
Remarkably, Desmond did not squeak underneath the tyranny of his grandmother impression, and merely kissed the back of his head.
Americans, Shaun decided, were slightly masochistic. "Isn't there a little something you should be doing? Saving the world from the end times, perhaps, or did you decide to listen to a toothless man from South Carolina who said that the good will be swept into Heaven?"
"If there's any place after this, I sure won't end up in Heaven," Desmond's arms slid around his neck like a scarf, crossed over his chest at the wrist. That tattoo of his was mere inches away. "Why would a bartender go to heaven? Only good people go to heaven. I'd be out of a job. I'd have to take up knitting or something."
Shaun chuckled, promptly reminded that it was an Unwise Decision for a sick man. "You can set up a stall giving platitudes, you're good at that. Or a massage parlour."
"Why'd you be stressed in Heaven?" Desmond wanted to know, and Shaun sighed and kissed his wrist, with the tattoo warm beneath his mouth.
"Obviously because you'd be there," he said, and shooed the Assassin away so he could smile fondly at him in peace and solitude. And then have another cup of tea.