Chapter Text
Desmond woke on the floor of the temple and immediately wished he'd actually died.
He screamed.
Alone, confused, and radiating pain from every pore of his very being, it wasn't so much a conscious decision as a visceral, instinctive reaction.
The others hadn't left, apparently, or were still close enough to hear his agonized cries. He could barely think for the fire boiling his blood, but he remembered feeling the vibrations of running footsteps, hearing indistinct voices, high pitched and fraught with worry.
The pain reached a crescendo when he felt a grip on his arm, and then blissful darkness swept over him in the next moment, unplugging him from harsh, cruel reality.
When he woke the second time it was to the sterile, artificial surroundings of the Animus.
Of course. Desmond was getting a little sick of the solution to any of his problems being 'slap him in the Animus', but he supposed their resources were limited.
He rose to his feet slowly, surprised to feel faint aches in his body. The Animus was all mental, but maybe even it couldn't protect him from the effects of the Apple. When Desmond reached out a hand to brace himself, he froze, sucking in a sharp breath.
His right the hand, the one he had last seen gripping the apple, was almost unrecognizable.
The burns...they were bad and distinctly other. Desmond quickly shed his coat and shirt, shocked to see the marks traveling all the way up to his shoulder. Script, very similar to the glyphs he'd hunted for in Renaissance Italy once upon a time, were branded into his skin. He touched them, but only felt a phantom pain. Inwardly, he quailed. He didn't even want to imagine how badly they must feel in reality.
Ooookay...that's there. That's something I have now.
"What the fuck?" Desmond asked any God benevolent enough to answer him.
And then, like some cosmic joke, Shaun said, "Desmond?"
"Shaun?"
"Oh, fucking—Thank God."
Desmond smiled. His fondness for Shaun was difficult to explain but easy to bask in now. After all, the last time he'd seen Shaun, he'd thought it would be for the last time.
"Miss me?"
Shaun laughed, a sound Desmond realized he'd never heard before. It sounded a little hysterical.
"Yes, well," the sound of an unsteady cough, "I already miss the silence, I'll admit that much."
Desmond's smile grew, and he opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted.
"Desmond! Oh my God, you scared the shit out of us!"
Reality was slowly becoming more concrete, and Desmond could feel something akin to panic blooming in his chest. He was still alive, and it was beginning to really sink in. His eyes went to his arm, now forever marked with the evidence of his intended sacrifice.
"Yeah, I think I know the feeling."
Silence rang for a beat, and then a new voice came.
"Son."
Unbidden, a lump jumped to Desmond's throat. In front of Shaun and Rebecca, he could pretend he was fine. But his dad...something about a parent's presence just made Desmond want to break down.
Steeling himself against the urge to burst into tears, Desmond took a deep, calming breath.
Voice subdued, he said, "Dad."
Rebecca spoke next. "Your vitals are holding surprisingly well, so I think it's safe to pull you out. Ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
There came the familiar pull as his surroundings bled away into darkness, and then Desmond was blinking harshly, suddenly exhausted. The glowing screen of the animus retracted to the side of the chair he was in, and his vision was replaced by three wide-eyed, staring faces.
Desmond managed a chuckle and a weak wave of his unscathed hand. "Hey."
Rebecca laughed, the sound more akin to a choked sob. Shaun shook his head, the exasperation in his eyes tinged with a stronger, deeper emotion, and his father's shoulders fell a bit as the tension drained out of him. It could have been the exhaustion talking, but Desmond would swear he saw tears in all their eyes.
Rebecca was on him in the next second, wiry arms winding around his shoulders. Desmond grunted in surprise and she only tightened her grip, burying her face in his neck.
"I'm so glad you're here," she whispered fiercely.
The lump came back, bigger than before. Desmond couldn't respond because in the next moment, his father was there, large hand cupping the back of his head and angling it so that their foreheads touched.
The display of emotion was shocking, but not nearly as shocking as his next words.
"I'm proud of you, Desmond. You did well."
They were words Desmond hadn't even realized he'd been aching for until he'd heard them. Blindsided, he stared at his father's face, but William's eyes were screwed shut tight, mouth pressed thin into a grimace, like the force of his relief was painful.
Reeling, Desmond was completely defenseless when Shaun's hand slipped into his own. He couldn't look at him since his father's grip held his head hostage, but he had no problem hearing him.
"Welcome back, mate. And..." Shaun's hold tightened. "Thank you, for what you did back there."
Desmond was almost glad he couldn't see Shaun. All of this emotion, all of this attention on himself—that in itself was overwhelming, but gratitude? From Shaun?
Desmond was barely holding it together. His near-death experience, the new marks on his arm, and now this? How was he supposed to be strong and unflinching in his duties if they were trying to break him down at every turn?
Desmond's eyes fluttered closed and he allowed himself this moment, to soak in the love and support of his friends and family. By all accounts, he shouldn't even be here, but he was going to cherish every second while he could.
The explanations—what there was to be found—came later once a few eyes had been dried and many throats had been cleared.
Desmond had been out for nearly two months, brain kept active by the Animus. Assassins were only growing more sparse as time passed, but there were still enough in the shadows to send reports back. And ever since Desmond's attempted sacrifice, they'd gotten bizarre. Definitely more interesting.
For one, each and every Piece of Eden ever recovered, be it by the Assassins or Templars, was out of commission. William had even brought over Desmond's own, but it was true. The metal was faded to a dull grey and didn't resonate whatsoever when Desmond touched it. For all intents and purposes, it was a glorified paperweight.
It was obviously connected to Desmond, but how, or why, remained to be seen.
"What about Juno?" Cold dread made Desmond's hands tighten into fists over the blankets of the bed he'd been relocated to.
"Nothing," Rebecca said. Her dark eyes shared the same worry. "She's been as quiet as this thing," she said, flicking the Apple.
While Assassins and Templars hardly needed a reason to kill one another, the driving force of their conflict had been abruptly and ruthlessly extinguished. There would never be peace between the two, not while the other existed, but a weird sort of limbo had sprung up. The Templars master plan for worldwide dominion had been obliterated overnight. They were scrambling, and the Assassins were using the time wisely, to attack and recover themselves in turn.
It was the closest to boring the hidden war had ever gotten.
As a result, Desmond was rewarded some recovery time himself. He had physical therapy, partly for his comatose state and partly because of his burned arm. That kept him busy for a few weeks, but it didn't last long, especially with his Dad gone back to headquarters. He'd never been one for idleness and he felt as good as he'd ever feel, all things considered. His arm had been his biggest concern, but aside from some weakness, he still had complete motor control. He tended to keep it covered since people stared, but it was hardly a hindrance day to day. Even the pain had faded to a manageable amount.
Besides, part of his rehabilitation was catching up on current events, and he'd learned all about this Conduit Initiative going on in Seattle. Conduits had always fascinated Desmond. He'd never met one, of course, since they all tended to either get locked up or went underground, but he felt a kinship to them. It was probably weird, but he understood how it felt to be alone, isolated, to have to hide a part of yourself in case the strangers around you turned to enemies. Besides, for a lonely kid growing up in South Dakota, the thought of people with superpowers, fighting for their freedom, had been infinitely more inspiring than one of the hundreds of lectures his dad had given him on the history of the Assassins. It was part of the reason why he eventually left; they'd taught him that no one would just give him his freedom. He had to take it.
And now these Conduits were finally given a chance to walk freely, to seek a fresh start, running from a dark past and trying to better themselves—Desmond had been there, had lived it, and if he was going to be banned from missions for the foreseeable future while he "recovered", he didn't see why he couldn't help others in the meantime.
"Hero complex," Shaun had muttered. Desmond pretended not to hear him.
Nonetheless, Rebecca and Shaun followed Desmond when he made the move from the underground bunker they'd hidden him in. He'd worried he'd have to fight more to relocate to a big city, but his dad had rubber-stamped him with hardly a blink.
Apparently, Desmond's usefulness had diminished significantly in the Templars eyes without Pieces of Eden to discover and exploit. While he'd still have to be careful not to be spotted on camera, he didn't need to check his shoulder every few seconds.
That was probably the best news he'd received in far too long, and he was eager to sink back into the familiarity of losing himself amongst a sea of strangers.
But things would never be the way they were before. Desmond wasn't unchanged by his experiences. The Bleeding Effect was hardly a thing of the past. He still saw phantoms, and he still had to focus at times to make sure the language that left his lips was English.
He tired more often. Randomly, without reason, he would simply have to...sit down and breathe. It was as if his body hadn't gotten the memo that he actually wasn't dying. And his arm ached at times, a sudden soreness as if to remind him once more of that scorching, merciless heat that seared him from the inside out.
Shaun and Rebecca treated him differently. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing, just weird. Shaun's comments weren't quite so biting, his eyes openly warm when he looked at him. Rebecca was more affectionate, slinging an arm around his shoulders or playfully bumping hips. Desmond couldn't control the helpless, confused expression he'd adopt when they pulled something like this, but it only seemed to incite this behavior more.
Perhaps watching a friend die had left scars of its own. His heart ached for them and he tried to look happy and alive when they were around, like he couldn't feel a deep weariness weighing him down at every moment and phantom grief didn't plague him randomly and absolutely.
Despite all this, Desmond smiled the day they arrived in Seattle in a beat-up, nondescript van. They'd all hopped out when they'd reached the industrial apartment they'd soon call home, stretching in the rain.
"Of course it's raining," Shaun said, frowning heavily.
Desmond held out a hand, his burned one, and watched the warm water splash on his palm and trickle between his fingers. He smiled.
"I've got a good feeling about this."
Shaun made a derisive noise. "Spoken like a true optimist."
Desmond grinned, turned to Shaun so he'd get the full effect of his obnoxious expression.
"Damn straight."