Chapter Text
"What am I looking for?"
"An Isu artifact, Desmond," Shaun answered in an overly-aggrieved tone, one that suggested Desmond's existence exhausted him beyond the limits of human comprehension.
"I know that, smartass. What does it look like?"
"No idea," Rebecca's voice cut in quickly, more than familiar with the pattern Desmond and Shaun's bickering typically followed. "Intel just got us a location, not much else. But I've got a feeling you'll know it when you see it. You're the expert, right?"
Desmond snorted. "Yeah. Right."
While it felt like Desmond's mission to recover every bit of First Civilization tech ever conceived, he was grateful, at least, to be exploring the depths of a gleaming high-rise instead of some dank, dark cave. Desmond had no problem getting his hands dirty, never had, but caves, man. They were always creepy.
Even better, Dubai at night was bracingly cool, so he didn't have to endure the punishing heat of the daylight hours during his mission, a heat that seemed to seep into every building no matter how well ventilated. The skyscraper was nearly emptied this time of night and the upper-most levels were residential. Desmond ducked out of camera sight-lines and crawled through vents whenever possible, avoiding the occasional staff or security guard.
Most of the time, First Civ tech was buried in some ancient ruin or hidden in plain sight, displayed in a museum, but occasionally one popped up as it had here, in the private collection of someone too rich for their own good, blowing big money on the black market for Isu artifacts for the sheer novelty of their design.
Must be nice, Desmond mused, dropping in from a ceiling vent into a lavish private office. Or, maybe not. I am stealing it.
His earpiece crackled to life. "Check for a safe, it might be hidden."
"No need." Desmond's eyes had been drawn to it almost the moment he'd glanced around the room, and a mixture of relief and alarm shot through him when he spotted the P.O.E. perched innocently on the desk in a thick glass case. "Guys. It's another Apple."
"Now that is interesting." Desmond could almost hear the click of computer keys as Shaun updated their database. "And here we thought we'd located all of them."
"Apparently not." Desmond approached the desk, warily eyeing the case for any kind of alarm system. "How did it take so long to find this? Didn't the guy use it?"
"Seems like it was sold to him as good luck charm," Rebecca said, voice slightly distracted as she consulted her notes. " I don't think he ever actually touched it."
Desmond shook his head. "Amazing." All this power, and the guy uses it as a paperweight.
Well. It made Desmond's job easier.
The glass wasn't a sealed case, just thick and heavy enough that the weight of it alone kept it secure. Desmond lifted the glass and set it aside with a heavy thump, paused for a brief moment to stare at the Apple, perched harmlessly on its stand.
Wariness made Desmond's fingers hesitate just shy of touching it. His high concentration of Isu DNA made him perfect for retrieving P.O.E.s, but he never knew when one was going to react to him. It was about a fifty-fifty chance that whatever artifact he touched didn't throw up some crazy light show, or decide to share with him the centuries of knowledge it contained, or try to tempt him to use it, and he was getting really sick of passing out randomly, of seeing his modern reality bleed away and mesh disjointedly with fifteenth-century Rome.
But as dangerous as they were, it was significantly more so for anyone else. If Desmond could secure P.O.E.s and save a fellow Assassin from a sudden bought of madness, or even instant death, he'd suffer any discomfort.
Desmond placed his hand on the Apple—
And nothing happened. He sighed in relief.
"I got it."
"Great. Rendezvous at the extraction point and we'll—"
Running footsteps picked up just behind him. Desmond tensed in alarm and he twisted, shoving the artifact behind him and out of sight—
A hand darted inside his hood, gripped the back of his neck in a motion of intense familiarity. He only got the barest glimpse of excited, triumphant blue eyes—so light a color they were nearly clear—when he found himself pushed with enough force his feet nearly left the ground.
A sound escaped him, surprised and alarmed.
"Desmond? What's going o—"
His earpiece was ripped away, tossed with a tinny clatter somewhere across the room.
"Wait—!"
His back slammed into the wall and then he was being kissed, hot and passionate and with the force of a hurricane. Roaming hands traveled over his sides and chest, squeezed at his hips as a wicked tongue dipped into his mouth, caressing Desmond's with the small metal ball that topped the rod that pierced it.
F-Fuck.
It was so wrong, beyond wrong, but there was no denying the talent on display here and Desmond sank into the grasp, unable to withstand the sheer intensity of the lust that was being lavished on him.
Minutes, hours, he wasn't sure, passed before he was finally allowed to breathe. His eyes fluttered open as he panted and the first sight he saw was a smug smirk.
"Daniel," Desmond sighed, groaning. "You're so bad at your job, man."
"Are you kidding me?" Daniel squeezed his waist, grinning. "I've got you right where I want you."
"Jesus." Desmond rubbed a hand over his face. He was blushing and he hated it. "This is so fucked."
"Aw, is baby having a morality crisis?"
Desmond scowled. Unsurprisingly, the sight just made Daniel's grin widen.
"I'm seriously going to kill you."
"Yeah? I'd love to see you try."
The thing about Daniel was that he was seriously unstable; Desmond searched his eyes and couldn't escape the feeling he meant that.
He switched tactics. "You're supposed to kill me."
Daniel hummed, eyes falling from Desmond's to roam over the rest of his face, his torso, gaze lingering in a way that made Desmond feel like he wasn't wearing anything at all.
"I will," Daniel reassured absently, placating. "Later."
"That's what you said last—"
Daniel kissed him again, nudged a leg between Desmond's thighs. He caged Desmond's head between his forearms and spent a good long while exploring every inch of his mouth, of making Desmond feel every inch of their bodies where they were pressed together.
"You talk too much," Daniel murmured.
This is how it starts:
It had been another mission, one that felt like countless others. The stakes were higher, sure, when things like Pieces of Eden were involved, but they were all ultimately the same.
Go in. Accomplish the mission, by whatever means possible. Get out.
And it had gone perfectly smoothly—at first. He'd snuck into the Templar base, used his secondary sight to crack the safe, and secured the Apple. Transport was on its way, he'd been virtually scott-free—right up until he heard the cock of a gun behind him.
"So you're Desmond Miles."
No amount of layering could hide the muscles this guy had, a body suited for combat in every possible way, stance screaming: I'm going to fuck you up. And it wasn't the piercings on the guy's face that spelled trouble. That was more than apparent in the deadly aim with which he held his gun, the way his blank, unfeeling eyes didn't match the insouciant smirk on his lips.
"You're not what I expected," the guy said. He rolled his shoulder in a careless motion, though his gun never wavered. "But I guess I can't expect too much from the Assassins these days."
"Holy shit," Rebecca's voice sounded more concerned than Desmond was comfortable with. "Desmond, voice-match just confirmed it: that's Daniel Cross!"
Oh...Oh, shit.
Of course, Desmond knew all about the Templar's poster child, could even admit more than a passing curiosity in meeting the guy.The two of them were in the same boat, after all.
Desmond was the only person able to use the artifacts they found, the only one whose synch nexus was high enough to properly utilizing the animus for any substantial length of time. Through him, the Assassins were finally turning the tide of the conflict, prying Isu artifacts out of the Templar's hands and recovering new ones before the Templars could snatch them up. Not to mention, with centuries of experience under his belt, Desmond's skills within the Brotherhood were unparalleled, making him their most capable agent by default.
Then there was Daniel Cross, the traitor, who'd murdered the Mentor before Desmond's father, who'd once been cornered by a team of ten Assassins and had killed them all single-handedly. If their intel was good, and they had every reason to believe it was, he had a synch rate nearly as high as Desmond's and with the skills he'd gained, trained every Templar that was inducted within their Order since his re-induction. Among the Assassins, he'd gained the nickname Reaper because there hadn't been a single incursion to date where there wasn't at least one casualty when he was involved.
In a way, it was like they were fated to meet. And kill each other, of course.
"Yeah, well, my cape's at the cleaners. Sorry to disappoint."
"A sense of humor, huh? Surprising." His eyes brightened with an excitement that would have been childish if not for the malicious shine to them. "If only we had more time together... Makes me wonder how long you could keep up the stand-up routine."
"A while, probably," Desmond answered easily, shifting the artifact a little more behind his leg. Cross's eyes immediately dropped to track the movement. Shit. "It's a coping mechanism. Comes out when I talk to assholes."
Cross's smirk widened.
"Oh, this is gonna be fun."
The fight had been quick and brutal. Desmond had taken cover from the first few gunshots, but Cross had no problem closing the distance between them and taking Desmond on in hand-to-hand combat. It was clear he had been trained to kill first, ask questions later, and Desmond had been forced to play defense as he blocked a brutal flurry of body shots and kicks.
He'd been vaguely aware of Shaun and Rebecca in his ear, voices urgent as they told him who knew what, but all of his focus was on Cross, knew without a doubt that the moment his attention strayed for even the barest instant, he would be dead.
When Desmond managed to turn a block into a quick uppercut to Cross's unprotected jaw, Cross cursed and retreated a few steps, a smirk tugging on his lips.
"Not bad," he admitted. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes lazer-sharp as he watched Desmond. "Been a while since I actually had to work for it."
Desmond found himself returning the smile, just slightly, heart racing with adrenaline. With the kind of experience he had under his belt, he found the feeling to be entirely mutual.
"You probably say that to all the Assassins."
Cross chuckled, cracked his knuckles with ominous, deadly promise. "I really don't."
It was obvious they were evenly matched, and there was never a moment when Desmond felt as if he'd gained the upper hand. And maybe the fight would have ended in mutually assured destruction—if not for the instant Desmond, ducking from a blow, noticed Cross's quick hand darting out to swipe the Apple from his grip.
His only thought had been, No, and he'd yanked it back, but he realized his mistake too late, knew that holding a P.O.E. with intent was just asking for trouble.
It glowed, every carved symbol and seam a vibrant, brilliant gold, and he felt the familiar rush of breath-taking power rushing through his system, begging to be used.
The sensation was as unsettling as it was familiar, but he hadn't expected the way Cross reacted to it.
Most people just fell to the ground, unconscious or dead, but familiar glyphs glowed on the skin of Cross's temples and he groaned, crashed to his knees to cradle his head as his body shook with minute tremors.
"Not now," he muttered through gritted teeth, "Fuck. NOT NOW!" He shook, crumpled even further in on himself, strings of unintelligible words falling from his lips in disjointed fragments; Russian, maybe?
Desmond froze, shocked by the sheer novelty of the situation. Cross didn't react to the Apple like most people—he reacted like Desmond.
Holy shit. He's Bleeding.
Which meant Cross was an Animus test subject, just like him. That knowledge—Desmond didn't know what to do with it.
"Desmond? Desmond, are you okay?"
Panting, Desmond's eyes darting between Cross and the Apple.
The smart thing would have been to kill Cross, put him out of his fucking misery. But Desmond looked at him, delirious and pained, and felt an overwhelming kinship, in a way he never had before. The thought of executing Cross when he was in the grip of a Bleed, vulnerable and suffering, didn't sit right with him.
He...he had to do something. He had to try.
Slowly, deliberately, Desmond reached for his earpiece and turned it off. Rebecca and Shaun's voices cut out mid-sentence, leaving him in the ringing silence of the room, punctuated only by his and Cross's harsh breathing and the faint, coaxing murmur of the Apple, ever tempting Desmond to use it more.
Cautiously, Desmond approached, knelt by Cross's shaking form.
"Cr—Daniel. It's gonna be okay," he soothed quietly, raising the Apple. "I'm gonna fix this."
Daniel heaved a bitter laugh and when he spoke, he'd managed to cobble together enough sanity to force English from his mouth.
"There's no fixing this, idiot."
God. How many times had Desmond thought exactly that, had bleakly viewed the future as nothing more than a descent into insanity? Right now, the picture Daniel made, lost and bitter and hopeless, was like looking in a damn mirror.
Desmond brought the Apple up between them, felt the surge of power as it glowed. "Watch me."
It was always strange, using an artifact. Strange because it didn't feel strange, even though he knew it should. But it was almost instinctual, reflexive, to just let the power flow through him, to make his wishes manifest and coax the artifact to obey.
There were no words, only thoughts, intentions, orders. Stop this. Fix it.
The Apple reached for the resonance within Daniel, showed Desmond the horrifying, raw landscape of his mind, all jagged edges of memories and ancestors fit to bursting in his mind, all demanding their due, all vying for control of a body that didn't belong to them.
Oh, Daniel. It felt weirder than anything else, to pity a Templar, yet here he was.
The Apple couldn't destroy individual memories; its power was absolute and would simply erase everything that made Daniel Daniel if he tried. Instead, Desmond just—tucked them away, coaxed the extra people and memories away into little golden boxes, convinced them that was where they'd belonged this entire time.
There was no way to tell how much time had passed. Desmond only knew when he'd blinked open his eyes, his legs were sore from kneeling, his body felt utterly drained, and all he wanted was to sleep for the next month.
In front of him, Daniel heaved a heavy, shuddering sigh and slowly straightened, enough to raise his head from the floor. With wide, marveling eyes, he held up his hands, looked at his palms like he'd never seen them before. His blue eyes rose, traced over the room with naked wonder.
"You..." His eyes finally fell on Desmond, staring at him with an intensity that made his heart freeze. "You made them go away. They're gone."
Desmond's shoulders sagged; it worked. Thank god. He'd definitely been bluffing about 'fixing' Daniel, and it was a relief to know he hadn't somehow managed to break his mind.
"Good."
Before Daniel could do more than blink, Desmond crashed the Apple over Daniel's head, caught himself with a shakily, hastily-thrown-out arm as Daniel collapsed to the ground.
Shit. Desmond had never done anything like that before; it had been a long time since he'd felt this drained from using an artifact.
He gave himself a moment, just a second, as he tried to catch his breath and still the trembling of his arms and legs, all the while resisting the urge to join Daniel in his nap. With a shaky hand, he turned his earpiece back on.
"Guys?"
"Desmond, oh thank god—" Rebecca sounded boneless with relief. "What happened?! We suddenly lost you."
"The Apple reacted to Cross. Must have done something to the connection."
"I see... And Cross? What about him?"
Desmond stared down at Daniel. In repose, he looked so different. Without his air of near-manic arrogance and belligerent taunting, he just looked...exhausted. Desmond understood, in a way he felt down to his bones.
He licked his dry lips. "He got away."
Rebecca made a low noise of understanding. "That's too bad. And the artifact?"
"Got it here, don't worry."
"Good. Doesn't look like any alarms have been tripped," Rebecca murmured, "And I don't see any reinforcements, but that doesn't mean they aren't coming. Get out of there, Desmond."
Desmond shoved the artifact into his backpack. "Don't have to tell me twice."
He threw the bag back over his shoulder but hesitated, sparing Daniel one last glance.
Not killing him was a mistake he was probably going to regret, but if he had the chance, he knew he'd do it all over again.
Good luck. Then Desmond pushed any thoughts of Daniel away and ran.
Desmond had thought he'd feel guiltier. Daniel was a murderer and the biggest threat to the Assassins in recent memory. He'd killed countless Assassins and Desmond had still stayed his blade, as if there was a single ounce of innocence left in him.
But there was no denying the connection they shared, the trauma only someone who'd been in the animus could possibly understand. Daniel's level of skill suddenly made a lot more sense and Desmond wondered how many sessions he'd had to endure to get that far.
Based on how quickly he'd sunk into a Bleed, Desmond was willing to bet a lot.
No matter the blood that stained Desmond's hands, the blood he intended to stain them with in the future, he refused to sacrifice his own humanity for the cause. It was very likely that he and Daniel would meet again, that the encounter would simply pick up where they left off until one of them was dead, but he'd face that uncertainty with a clear conscience.
It was on that resolve that Desmond reflected when Daniel found him a few weeks later.
Desmond and his team were in New York for the month and he'd been walking the familiar streets of his old life, too caught up in the rush of nostalgia to realize he was being followed until a bruising grip locked around arm and shoved him into an alley. He'd been slammed against a brick wall and had met Daniel's sharp blue eyes, felt the warning press of a gun against his side.
Maybe I'm an idiot.
"Uh. Hey, man. Long time no see," Desmond said, hoping to prolong his life by a few extra seconds by annoying Daniel.
Daniel glared at him, face unsettlingly grim.
"Why did you do it." It wasn't a question, and Desmond blinked. But Daniel could only be referring to one thing.
"I..." Desmond sighed. "I don't know, man. 'Cause I know how shitty Bleeds are? Because it was kind of my fault?" Desmond shrugged. "I don't know. I just did."
Daniel's eyes bore into his, searching, and his frown tightened imperceptibly, as if he were trying to discern the truth behind what Desmond had said. But there was nothing to find, the truth was all he had.
As the silence dragged and an ominously unpainted van didn't pull up, Desmond ventured to say, "Did it. Uh. Did it help?"
Daniel kept staring at him. His brows drew together.
"...Yeah," he said, reluctant and suspicious. "For a while."
Desmond startled. "What, you're Bleeding again?"
Daniel huffed, the first hint of the man Desmond had met a few weeks ago, careless and brash. "I Bleed all the fucking time. But after you did—whatever you did, I didn't Bleed for weeks. I'd...forgotten what it was like to hear myself think," he admitted.
It was Desmond's turn to stare. "...Jesus," he breathed, horrified.
He had his fair share of experience with the Bleeding Effect, but distance from the animus, not to mention his slow mastery of P.O.E.s, had helped him pull himself back from the brink of insanity. But to live as Daniel did? Bleeding constantly, still expected to carry out missions and train recruits and stay sane? It was the first time he felt truly intimidated by Daniel.
Something cracked in Daniel's expression and a bit of suspicion leaked out of it. Desmond felt the gun ease up, though it didn't leave entirely. Still, he was glad for even a little distance.
Daniel's gaze was still searching, but it lacked the insistent probing of before.
"Hm. You really just did it out of the kindness of your heart, didn't you? No wonder the Assassins are almost wiped out."
Desmond bristled.
"Fuck you—"
"But I guess I've been rude," Daniel interrupted, and a smirk pulled at his lips, mischievous enough Desmond was instantly suspicious. "I guess I should be thanking you."
"You really don't—"
Daniel fisted a hand in his hoodie, yanked Desmond close—and kissed him.
"MMPHGH?!" Desmond managed.
Daniel only pressed harder, reached up to grab a fistful of hair at the nape of Desmond's neck, and pulled.
Desmond gasped and Daniel's tongue shoved its way into his mouth, stroked inside like he owned it before he coaxed Desmond's to twine with his. Desmond jerked, felt himself flush from the cool sensation of metal against the roof of his mouth.
It wasn't a nice kiss. It was hard and rough and filthy as fuck. It was also incredibly hot.
Daniel pulled back once it felt like he'd stolen every bit of air out of Desmond's lungs. Desmond had blinked his eyes open, unsure of when he'd shut them, and gaped at Daniel, flushing anew when Daniel watched him back with half-lidded eyes and an absent lick of his lips.
"I'll be seeing you, Desmond," Daniel promised, and then he just—stepped back and strode out of the alley. He was swallowed by the ever-packed New York crowd in an instant and was gone.
Desmond stared. Slowly, he sank into a crouch and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes.
"What the fuck?!" he whispered furiously to the concrete, trying not to have a panic attack. "What the FUCK?!"
This is how it starts.