Sleeping has become the equivalent of an Olympic sport. Fitting three grown men (or rather, two men and one overzealous, demon hunting teen, as Alex likes to point out) into one bed is a fight to the finish. Alex, though he is loath to admit it, cuddles in his sleep. He tends to latch onto the closet victim and ensnare them in his grasp, with or without the creepy black tendrils. Desmond chalks it up to his lack of human contact after his infection. Alex ends up holding Dante out the window of their apartment whenever the teen laughs at him about it (not that the drop would do much harm to the boy anyway). Dante, much like his conscious self, is a chaotic tornado. Sometimes he needs space, sometimes he burrows close, most of the time he falls out of the bed from all his twisting, turning and shoving (he swears it’s Alex’s fault but neither of the others have actually caught the virus in the act yet). Desmond is the happy medium and normally takes the middle spot, to separate the two extremes. But sometimes he wakes up at night, screaming and thrashing over phantom losses, images of Ezio’s brothers or Altair’s family flashing through his head as the Bleeding Effect runs its course. On nights like those gentle kisses and murmured comforts flows from either side of the bed, to sooth the young assassin back into peaceful sleep. And in the morning they always awake to find themselves all entangled, unable to discern which limb belongs to whom and whose hand has found its way where.
“Come on guys,” Desmond interjects, shoving arms between the two men and attempting to pry them apart, “We’re in a public place, is the macho stare down really necessary?”
Dante grunts, a smirk wriggling its way across his bruised face. Alex isn’t much better, glaring through slit eyes at the dark-haired teen. Both are reluctant to be the first to break contact and Desmond can almost taste the tension in the air. “Please, not right now? I have to come back to this shop every week! People know me here!” He struggles with pulling the two towards a more secluded part of the grocery store, where there won’t be as many prying eyes. The young assassin can already see the old lady from down the street peering at them from behind her enlarged bifocals.
“How ‘bout this? You both can pick one if you promise to stop making a scene?” he pleads, a hint of desperation lacing his voice. Both pairs of eyes flicker his way and back again before Alex backs off, followed soon by a grinning demon hunter. Desmond heaves a sigh of relief, running a hand through stubbly hair. He pulls open the first freezer door he can find and peers inside, “Alright, one carton of strawberry sundae for Dante and one plain vanilla for Alex.” The assassin begins to shut the glass door when a black tendril silently creeps its way past him and retrieves a small container of coffee flavored ice cream. Alex tosses the box to Desmond who just manages to catch it before it slips to the floor. “Don’t forget you,” the virus mutters quietly, hooking a finger in one of the assassin’s jean belt loops. Desmond feels the faint burn of a blush rise on his cheeks before leaning in for a quick peck on the man’s chin. Not to be forgotten, Dante leans in close, impatiently waiting for his own kiss which is promptly given.
“But seriously you guys, this is the last time I take either of you shopping with me.”
Just sayin; he so deserved it. Grandpa should know better then to mess with gramps.
What if Altair could swim and it was just Desmond who was having a hard time of it? By the time he switched to roaming Ezio’s life, he had learned enough from drowning to swim? And this whole time, we’ve been blaming Alty without question?
I feel like a shit human being if this is true.
This isn’t the Protocreed fic I talked about (maybe) posting before, but I’m listening to cheesy, sad music and just read the Alex Mercer wiki page so I’m inspired. Constructive criticism is appreciated, but don’t be too harsh since I have a hell of a time writing these two in character.
OMG OMG OMG MORE PLEASE!!
I had never planned to write more to this really, but since you asked so nicely ;):
Desmond tensed, knowing it was highly unlikely he would get out of the way in time, and, despite himself, slammed his eyes shut in preparation for the blow. When it never came, he cracked open one eye to see the lethal edge of the blade less than an inch from his flesh, trembling slightly. Alex stood, poised, before him, the strange something back in his gaze as it raked over Desmond, leaving the assassin feeling frozen and oddly exposed in the acrid night air. Even if he could bring himself to strike, the hidden blade would be less than a mosquito bite to Alex.
Suddenly, Alex regained his arm and strode forward, reaching out to snag the front of Desmond’s shirt and yanking him close.
“Alex, what are you—?”
Before he could finish, Alex’s lips were on his, hot and insistent, tongue all but demanding entry as his hands came up to cup Desmond’s face and hold him in place as he devoured him. Desmond barely managed to suck in enough oxygen during the onslaught. This must be what it feels like to be under siege, he thought dizzily.
When Alex finally (Deep breaths, Desmond, deep breaths) drew back, his eyes were blazing in the flickering light of the ever-spreading fire as they bored into Desmond’s and he leaned his forehead against his before whispering against Desmond’s lips,
“I want you gone. I don’t ever want to see you again. I do, and you’re dead. Understand?”
“Alex, I—” Alex’s grip tightened threateningly, “—ow, I understand!”
They stood in silence then, the only sound the crackle of flames from the burning city and the occasional scream of agony, which made Desmond wince as Alex’s eyes darted to take in the reaction. Finally, he spoke,
“I love you.”
Desmond laughed, a harsh, humorless sound that further irritated his parched throat before replying, “I’m not even sure you know what love is, you maniac.”
Alex shrugged, gently brushing their lips together once more, and released him, moving backward toward the ledge of the building, gaze never leaving Desmond’s face as he did so. Desmond drank him in just as greedily, determined not to forget a single feature. Whoever said that losing love was better than never having love at all was a fucking idiot, he decided. This hurt way more than it should. Lucy’s death had seemed like a cakewalk in comparison, and Alex wasn’t even dying.
“Get out of here, you psycho,” he called, feeling his chest constrict and his eyes sting, “Blackwatch isn’t the only thing you have to worry about anymore. You’re going to have every peace-keeping organization in the world on your trail. Including the assassins.”
A look of true pain crossed Alex’s face then before reforming into grim determination as he turned and dived into the inferno below, disappearing before Desmond could move to properly look out over the wreckage of what had once been one of the world’s most renowned cities.
The sound of a helicopter’s blades slicing the air brought his head around to see one heading for him, no doubt, having been commandeered by Rebecca via some type of program she’d insist on explaining to him even though he wouldn’t understand a word.
Desmond sighed and looked out again in hopes of catching a glimpse of a dark-hooded figure dashing about to escape the blaze. If the others happened to see how his eyes had teared up, he would just blame it on the smoke.
Everyone in Brohood keeps making fat jokes about Desmond lol
Ezio looks so cool sitting by the statue
DO NOT disrespect your elders Desmond >:( SCARY shit happens when you do
OOO EEEES DESMOND