Assassin's Creed 1. Chapter 1

A/N: I'm testing this style of writing. Don't know if I'll keep it though since I'm so used to past tense. Hopefully, it goes well. ^^

Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed.

* * *

Binary Duality  
_Chapter 1_

* * *

Sometimes, Altair feels that he is not alone in his mind.

The Syrian assassin is both consciously and unconsciously aware of the slight pressure in his mind. When he thinks about it, attempts to reach out for the alien entity, his mind shifts elsewhere, whisking away the curiosity that had been there prior and he forgets all about it until the cycle repeats itself. So, Altair maintains a balance between conscious awareness and naivety.

It is...a weird feeling; intrusive, but not uncomfortably so. He first feels _it_ when he was in Solomon's Temple with Kadar and Malik. It had started slowly, as if waking for the first time and cautiously pulling at the edges of his consciousness with the strength of a newborn kitten. At the time, he had ignored the sensation, his mind preoccupied in completing his objective fast and efficiently to give it much thought. He was in control, moving with the grace of a master assassin that he was, but there was the nagging feeling of being a spectator in his own skin at the same time because the thing had begun to _learn _within the recesses of his mind_._

The presence in his mind persists in its hungry curiosity for weeks, and before Altair knows it, the presence is ingrained in him, a limb that his mindscape has accepted for its own. The transition happens so effortlessly and seamlessly that Altair does not realize it until far later when it truly begins to matter.

Altair is adaptable, and as so grows somewhat used to the presence in his mind. Living with it is an out of body experience of a sort. He imagines it like he is in a dream, passively observing, but he is acutely aware of all that is happening, calculating and relaying what and when to act, like he is...guiding the presence sharing his body. Altair remembers times wherein, for a split second, he forgets how to throw his knives or stealthily pickpocket individuals. (The latter had caused him more than enough grief, having caused a generous amount of city guards to give chase not seen since the time he had truly been a novice.) The slips are fortunately brief, fleeing moments.

It is days later when he also notices a change in him. More particularly, its...influence- no not that, _its_ _feelings _in his mind. During interrogations, there is hesitance before the kills, a strong feeling of admonishment and reluctance radiating like waves down his chest where before there had been blank acceptance in the past. Then his blade sinks into their flesh and the other's feelings disappears, but leaving a sour taste in his mouth in its wake.

Altair begins to notice a pattern of when it is at the strongest at the forefront of his mind as well. During missions and assassinations, it greedily watches through his eyes, taking in and watching the proceedings play with a thirst. When Al Mualim returns his weapons to him piece by piece after every successful assassination, he senses both its curiosity and interest; making him almost fondly think of a kitten pawing at the tools of his trade.

Altair finds that it is at its weakest during his down times. When all is calm and he is given rest after each successful assassination of the nine given to him, the presence retreats, dimming in his mind to a low hum, and Altair is grateful for having a moment in time of absolute respite from the confusing, otherworldly duality within his character.

And strangely, as time goes by, Altair grows to not mind the other_._ If anything, he comes to like it as it accompanies him in his journey, wordlessly offering silent support and just _being there. _It stays with him for a long time; through all nine assassinations, through the betrayal of Al Mualim, and the witnessing of the other locations of the Pieces of Eden, before it rests as it always does after a long mission.

But it doesn't come back.

The _other _does not wake after the usual time lapse and Altair knows that he should feel relieved that he now has the semblance of normality in his mind, but instead Altair feels like a bucket of cold water has doused his skin, sinking through the bone into the very marrow of his being-

The silence is deafening.

-because Altair realizes that he is in too deep now. He had grown used to _it _in his mind- _its_ curiosity and prodding reproaches as he went about his days. _Its _sudden departure illogically rattles his nerves and Altair knows with a clarity that he lost a part of himself-a limb had been removed, like Malik's arm, but _deeper_ than that.

And it drives him crazy.

For days after that, Altair is a beast. The change is noticeable to the brotherhood and they are appropriately cautious to not provoke their prowling predator of a Mentor and incite its rage upon them. Even Malik, though no longer holding amnesty towards Altair, is wary, inwardly worried and suspicious that the other Syrian may do something foolish. Instead, he watches the other assassin, keeping tabs on Altair and wondering what has gotten into the usually calm and collected man.

His brothers in arms usually came back with small reports on Altair's behavior. He is harsher, they say; unruly. Malik cannot but agree. Though he sees that Altair is obeying the Creed, he is doing so within the farthest extent with a thrum of agitation laying dangerously close beneath his skin.

One day he confronts Altair and it is there that he truly sees with his own eyes the extent of Altair's conduct and its consequences. It is after an interrogation on the evening of the third day of Altair's strange behavior. Malik had watched from above as Altair followed the normal route of interrogation: stalk, beat, and extract, before the inevitable 'silencing'. The gasping body staggers to the ground, and Malik notices silently that the force of execution done was far more appropriate for that of a large mammal than a stocky orator.

Malik makes his presence known and lands behind the older man. He keeps his voice low when he speaks. They are at the bazaar of Jerusalem, behind some busy shops and the walls separating the rich and poor district of the great city, but that does not grant any safety.

After all, an unstable assassin was a dangerous assassin.

Malik had never been one to beat around the bush, and plainly asks directly the question that had been on everyone's mind. The sudden tenseness in Altair's shoulders is noticeable and his head careens slowly over his shoulder, hood drawn down so Malik doesn't see his eyes. He can see the lower of his face though.

_'He's thinner.' _Malik thinks when he sees a slight hollowness is in the curve of his face and also notices some rare stubble as well. Malik looks up when Altair speaks, and he speaks in a terse tone that is strange on the man he knows-or, _used _to know. It sends unease down Malik's spine and elicits a feeling of wariness within him that is horribly familiar with Solomon's Temple.

The answer he gets is one he fears.

_"My friend...I think I am going crazy." _

Altair raises his eyes and the look those amber give him are strikingly familiar.

It reminds him of the look in his own eyes after he saw Kadar cut down before him. Desperation, grief, rage...all swirling chaotically in a tightly controlled hold.

Malik doesn't talk to him about it again after that, but then again he doesn't know what to say to him. With Kadar, Malik had been able to cope with his loss with anger at Altair. It was easy to blame what had happened on the other Syrian and mourn afterwards. But in this case... Malik decides to leave him be.

Days pass and Altair's behavior does not stop. Sleep becomes hard to come by and though his performance as Mentor and Assassin does not decline, it is obvious to those frequently around him that his health-both mental and physical-is. When Altair does manage some sleep, he awakes to a gnawing feeling on the edges of his consciousness that leaves him to stare at the ceiling for the remainder of the hours of darkness.

Then one night, sleep...oddly comes peacefully to him.

* * *

_He dreams of a beautiful gold woman. Her brows crinkle with an elusive smile, and points to a location to a holographic globe of the earth..._

* * *

Then Altair knows what he must do.

* * *

The next morning finds Malik...in a state of utter confusion. Never did he expect Altair to pop up quite literally in his Bureau looking well rested than he had been in days and an apology for his behavior on his lips.

Malik is too shocked by Altair's sudden mood switch to fully understand what is going on, only able to nod numbly at a hastily given request and watch disbelievingly as Altair flashes a smirk at him before sprinting off. For a moment, Malik can only stare at Altair's retreating back with wide eyes, before shaking his head incredulously. He doesn't dare question what just happened, only glad that things seemed to have patched themselves over.

There had been a determination to his step after all. Malik had seen conviction and a fervor in Altair's amber orbs that had replaced the former fury and agitation and it filled him with great relief. He didn't seem like the only one who felt the same way because the other assassins, when they made their way to his bureau, expressed their thankfulness and seemed to release a collective sigh of relief.

It is only later that Malik remembers the retrieval mission request that Altair had asked of him, crinkled and forgotten in his hand. He opens the folded note and what he reads makes his brows furrow.

"...Coordinates?"

* * *

High above the city, Altair leans back against his perch on the tallest building of Jerusalem. His head feels clearer than it had in days and as he breathes in the crisp morning air, the master assassin settles for a brief rest-

In his lap, the Apple of Eden pulses almost reassuringly.

-and dreams of a boy named Desmond Miles.

* * *

_nikaris_


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I think I'm getting the hang of this writing style. Never using it again for other stories though. I miss past tense.

* * *

Binary Duality  
_Chapter 2_

* * *

It's not the first time that Desmond knows he's being watched. In all actuality, he's quite used to it; living at the Farm had made him inclined to that as the compound had very much exuded the very aura of paranoia and everyone acted as if they were being constantly watched. To Desmond, they always seemed to walk around on eggshells. He knew why, of course. Contrary to popular belief, Desmond had never really been entirely naive about his family's... heritage. He knew some things, like how they were... 'Assassins'. Desmond had always pegged them and the people in the Farm as crazy because of that fact, chalking them up to being disillusioned and such, but now...after steadily learning the truth and understanding with a clarity...

_'Who is the fool now?' _His mind whispers, reminding him of the things he learned on the Abstergo terminals. _'You thought they were conspiracy freaks, but they were always right.'_

Unbidden, a memory of his mother surfaces.

* * *

_He is 14. _

_A hand cards through his hair, and his eyes look up to the face of a hardened, yet beautiful woman of Native American descent. Her words are soft, mere whispers compared to the cold and gruff tone of his father's from the other room who was discussing plans with other members of the compound. _

_"We do what we must, Des. We must be strong. All that we do. All that your father and I do is for you. It is for the best." She pauses, words escaping her how to explain how to possibly clarify the sacrifices she is willing to give for a peaceful world for her precious one. How could a mother explain the symbolisms of what she does for the sake of this love and care for her son? A sad look crosses her face as she senses the disquiet from her son and wraps her arms around her boy. "All this unease will be worth something, Des, I promise." _

* * *

_'But it isn't.' _Desmond thinks back, mind refreshing between the memories of Masyaf and the Farm. _'They were suffocating down there. They were dying.' _

If his family and all the people down at the farm were Assassins...then they were all dying out. It was as obvious as the morning sun. Masyaf had been a powerful city where Assassins lived without fear in daylight. But the Farm...the Farm had never been like that. The Farm had never been free. How could they be free when they were sought out? Hunted?

_Exterminated. _

_'It was a pathetic existence.'_

Desmond had always hated everything the Farm represented: a cage of paranoia and desperation. The very atmosphere had been suffocating when he was a kid, making him skittish and anxious. The feeling did not abate when he grew older, and only fueled his desire to break free to an almost desperate degree. Back then, he would have given up anything to escape the place, if not to release the ball of tension and _need to feel _inside him.

So he did

He left.

And he never regretted it. How could he?

* * *

_He'd run so far. His breath makes faint puffs in the cold, spring air and he chances a glance behind him, knowing that no one at the Farm could possibly still be awake outside at this hour, but giving into the paranoia anyways. The only thing he sees are the rapidly shrinking trees that towered over the stone compound of The Farm as the distance between him and them increased. A light flickers on in one of the windows of the buildings between a couple of the trees and Desmond gives a burst of speed, encouraging his legs to run faster and hoping that the flat terrain would not give away his form if someone were to look outside in his direction._

_It's cold as he runs. The air bites at the exposed skin of his midsection as the loose unzipped sweatshirt he wears flutters with the pull of the offending wind and his speed, but despite that, Desmond can't bring himself to care. All that registers in his addled brain and nerves is the adrenaline coursing through his veins and just the intense feeling of _**feeling**. _The knot that had been his chest for so long is released, eliciting a hypersensitivity all across his body, and he soaks the incoming stimuli like a drug. Desmond takes it all in with his heart pounding in his chest with exhilaration-or is that exhaustion? He trips over his own feet as the mounting euphoria growing in him takes root and floods his mind. His forearms break his fall and the smell of uncut grass tickles his nose. _

_And suddenly he's laughing. A great, uncontrollable and loud laugh devoid of humor escapes his throat and he turns over to his back, enduring the brief split from sanity he's having. The fresh air, the wide, expanse of unrestricted land, and the deep blues and blacks of the night sky stretches overhead with none of the compound's light poles obstructing the stars' glow..._

_And he doesn't know when it starts, but he starts crying sometime during his break and he swings an arm to cover his eyes in a weak attempt to hide the tears..._

_...because it is the most goddamn beautiful thing he's ever seen._

* * *

And from then on, he'd tried his best to keep his freedom safe. He used fake names, made sure to move from place to place frequently, and to leave no tracks.

_'But I got lazy, didn't I?' _

Desmond's eyes harden at the thought, golden eyes darkening to a indiscernible russet.

_'I was such an idiot to buy Sasha.' _The former bartender thinks, and the sigh he gives holds a mix of weariness and frustration at himself. The motorcycle in question had been an impulse buy. It was used and an old model, but... she ran _good. _Desmond knows that he should feel like she was an idiot buy, but he can't bring himself to hate or regret getting her.

A smile tugs at the corners of Desmond's lips fondly. With her, he practically _flew _down highways making that deliciously addictive adrenaline feeling course through his veins like that first night those years ago...

For a moment, Desmond is desperate for that taste of freedom again and suddenly he is back there.

* * *

_Cold, nipping air, tension freeing calm, limitless skies._

* * *

But then he opens his eyes, and there is no sky. A steel ceiling meets his gaze and suddenly the long forgotten feeling of restriction and suffocation is back, and Desmond's heartbeat accelerates fitfully.

The knot in his chest begins to form again.

And it is only because Desmond savagely forces his distress down does that keep him from breaking down and having a panic attack then and there. He takes long, deep breaths, attempting to calm his beating heart to normal before the surveillance cams in his room can see his instability and send someone into his room.

It is when his heart finally does calm that the weariness that he's kept at bay envelopes him and seeps into his bones. He shifts on the stiff Abstergo provided bed and lifts an arm to rest over his tired eyes, fully intending on taking Lucy's advice to rest. Following a long day of reliving Altair's memory of the Pieces of Eden locations and narrowing escaping execution with Lucy's help, a respite from worries was more than needed for his psyche.

His eyelids droop, eager to succumb to some much needed sleep...

But then a torrent of emotions slams into him, and his mind recoils as his body seizes at the intense and forceful surge of-

* * *

_Realization. Fear. Anger. __**Frustration**__. _

* * *

Amber eyes flash before his eyelids, holding all sorts of emotions that Desmond can barely pinpoint on one, before disappearing altogether and leaving a troubling feeling in the pit of his stomach.

A groan escapes Desmond when he realizes with a sinking heart that he wouldn't be getting any pleasant sleep any time soon. He could only assume this is what Lucy meant by the side effects of the 'bleeding effect,' because those eyes...they had been distinctly Altair's.

He could recognize those amber orbs anywhere.

And it wasn't the first time he'd seen them either.

Involuntarily, he feels heat rush to his face when he thinks by to the _first _time he'd seen Altair's eyes.

He had been showering, embarrassingly enough. At that time, he had already been cautious and self conscious because of the single ever watching surveillance camera stationed in the bathroom. Add in the fact that the shower stall was made of transparent glass...

There had really... been _no_ need for a surveillance cam in the bathroom. He had ranted about its purpose there as much to Lucy and Vidic when he'd first caught sight of the blinking thing on the first day of his imprisonment. All he had gotten for explanation was a brief flush from Lucy and an unaffected and unimpressed stare from Vidic before they both ushered him into the Animus.

In the end, he just pegged them both (as well as the entire industry of Abstergo) as perverts.

(Funnily enough, the biggest thing that bothered him about it was that they didn't even _try _to be discreet about their near obsessive surveillance of his welfare.)

From then on, Desmond had tried to shower as quickly as possibly whilst simultaneously trying to shield his...bits...from possible prying eyes. A feat which was noble in its attempt, but he really doubted it did any good. He gave up on the second day of his imprisonment, mind made up to sue Abstergo if images of himself ever surfaced on the web.

He had been about to open the shower stall door when instead of a his face reflected in the glare of the transparent surface, he saw the faint image of a certain Syrian staring back at him. He had yelped and jerked back, his back consequently digging against the shower knob with enough force to leave a purple bruise.

There had been other times he'd seen more illusions. After perhaps the fourth or fifth time he'd seen traces of Altair, he'd gone straight to Lucy wanting answers and questioning his sanity.

* * *

_"You...saw Altair?" Lucy's fingers halt in their rapid movement over the computer terminus of the Animus. _

_Seeing the blonde woman's confusion, Desmond murmured a sound of affirmative, legs swinging over the length of the Animus to casual sit on it. _

_A contemplative look crosses her face and for a split second, Desmond is startled when he sees a blue aura surround her before it disappears abruptly, making him frown and blink several times confusedly. _

_"That...is odd. You haven't been in the Animus for too long." Lucy mumbles, and her voices trails off into low mutterings that Desmond can only decipher bits and pieces of, especially since they have a certain scraggy scientist marching his way towards them. _

_"Lucy, what is the meaning of this? Get Mr. Miles back into the Animus." Vidic is precise as always, nose held high and complete with a no-nonsense tone of voice dripping with disdain and impatience. _

_"Warren, I think we may need to cut back Desmond's time on the Animus-" Lucy starts, but is cut off with sputtering from her mentor. _

_"What, what, what? Ms. Stillman, we are working on borrowed time! Mr. Miles spends enough time in his room as it is!" _

_"Hey! I don't-" _

_"Desmond, please." Lucy interjects, when Vidic turns to her charge with a glare. _

_There is a retort on the tip of Desmond's tongue, but he sighs and backs down at Lucy's plea. _

_Vidic 'hmphs' in a way only he could. Lucy ignores him in favor of sending Desmond a helpless look, before succumbing to the other scientist's demands and asking him to reenter the Animus. _

_Desmond does so with barely hidden disdain for the situation and lies back down, ignoring the way Vidic seems so pleased. The screen protracts in an arc over his head and as he is loaded in to the last saved memory, Desmond feels a scrap a paper pushed into the palm of his hand and the look that Lucy gives him overhead. He fists the paper out of view as he sees Vidic walk around the Animus out of the corner of his eyes. _

_"__**Loading most recent memory**__..." _

* * *

The note had been a torn page from what he could only assume was a document depicting the pros and cons of Animus use. Specifically, the consequence known as the Bleeding Effect. Where Lucy had found the window of opportunity to tear the page out and hand it to him discreetly with Vidic right there was lost to him, but he was grateful nonetheless for the one clear answer he was able to get from her.

He'd read the content of the note in the confines of his room with his back to the surveillance cams. From what he read, the Bleeding Effect was basically a disorder caused by prolonged exposure to the Animus and the mind unable to cope with the barrage of two people's worth of memories.

_'Which then makes ya go batshit crazy in no time flat!' _Desmond let his arm fall from his eyes in resignation. The most recent bout of illusion had also been the strongest one he'd had too. He knew from what he read in Lucy's emails that symptoms varied from subject to subject, but he could only guess that for him, the stronger the vision, the closer he was to losing his mind.

_'Fabulous. One step closer to Crazy Town. Population: Me.'_

* * *

It is perhaps hours later when Desmond wakes up from a fitful nap that he thinks that he is losing his mind. A dull ache ebbs behind his eyes and when he finally opens them, first thing he sees is a terrifying shade of red.

And there is red _everywhere. _The walls and floors are covered with them, all spread in a terrifying parody of wall art that for a moment before common sense registers in his mind, Desmond thinks he's in hell. His breaths come out in gasps as the discernible symbols on the walls seems to pulse with every breath he takes.

His throat closes as he is about to call for Lucy, and for a panic stricken moment, Desmond knows that he is going insane-

-Because everything looks so small now-so constricting with the all air heavy that Desmond begins to choke as the onset of claustrophobia poisons his mind.

_And then he hears the voices. _

* * *

_"Altair, are you sure about this?"_

_"I need this, Malik."_

* * *

"A-Another mem-m-mory?" Desmond gasps out and groans as a wave of dizziness hits him hard, making him roll over to his side too far and fall off the bed. He catches himself against the floor and hisses as the steel burns against his skin.

He swallows shakily, his head thrumming and aching.

Then, images course his mind.

And it is all too much.

Images and stimuli flash through his mind, each and every one of them telling a story of-_'Altair's, or is it my?' _memories and histories; all contradicting, and fast, and sad, and _distressing._ He sees-

* * *

_He's eleven when he sees his father being executed by the Saracens. His father, Umar-__**no, that isn't right. His father is William and he is ALIV-**_

* * *

_He sees Abbas, his best friend, grieve for his father, but he doesn't know that he committed suicide in front of him and he wants to go tell him but Abbas is angry; tries to choke him-__**Abbas, who is a Abbas. He doesn't have any best frie-**_

* * *

_He's failed and Kadar is dead and Al Mualim is there- his father figure is disappointed and he sees the flash of a dagger before it-_

* * *

Desmond's eyes snap open_-when did they even close-_and he has enough in him to stagger towards the attaching bathroom-_why won't the goddamn door open fast enough?!-_and empty the contents of his stomach into the toilet.

* * *

_"You don't even know what this will do to you."_

_"I know it will work."_

* * *

His eyes are glazed, a faint sheen of sweat is smeared across his forehead and his hands slip from its grip of the porcelain -_oh god please stop-_ as another wave of affliction and unbalance assaults his senses.

Desmond feels a phantom hand on his shoulder, but when he manages a wavering glance back, he sees no one. His mind says otherwise though, putting pictures in his head...

* * *

_Malik places his hand on his shoulder, a look of resignation but also happiness in his dark eyes. _

_"I wish you luck then, brother. May you find what you seek." _

* * *

"Not real...not real...not real..." Desmond whispers to himself, trying to calm his erratic heart and mind. "C'mon Des. Your name is Desmond. Not Altair. Not real, _not real, not real..._" His words slip into Arabic easily, and when he realizes this, the gulps of air he's taking suddenly isn't enough. "Oh god, oh god, oh god."

* * *

_"-k you, for all of this, my friend." _

* * *

Because the walls are closing in on him. The red markings that he'd tried to keep out of mind are bearing down on him and he _really can't goddamn calm down causeheknow'she'sgoingcrazy._

* * *

_"Safety and peace, Malik."_

* * *

The intervals between are getting shorter. The memories are clearer. The voices are stronger.

* * *

_"Safety and peace, Altair."_

* * *

A whimper escapes the prone body on the tiled floor and he calls out weakly for someone. _Anyone_.

* * *

And then, there is a silence. The chaotic storm in Desmond's mind dampens and mutes to a dull, phantom ache. The only sound filling his ears are his gasps for air and panting.

Then, there are hands, cold in contrast against his cheeks, but feeling _so good_ against his flushed skin.

At this point, Desmond has given up. He doesn't care if this is another hallucination. All he wants his peace and safety-a respite from all of this, and if all his safety mechanisms can come up with is physical comfort like this, then hell, he isn't complaining.

_"I have you, fledgling." _

He knows this voice.

The hands remove themselves from his skin and a frustrated whimper escapes Desmond when he feels the unwelcome loss. The hands return though to the nape of his neck, carefully lifting his head from the ground as an arm curls around his waist and raises him up.

The next thing Desmond knows, he's surrounded by the oddest scent. It's not...unpleasant. There is the smell of sweat and the earthiness of dirt, with an underlying aroma of spices, but also like...

_Crisp air, like that night. Almost exactly like that night. _

And like a remedy, Desmond can feel his limbs sag, a sense of relief enveloping his entire body.

He groggily feels his hallucination's breath tickle the tips of his hair, and curiously, he tilts his head up.

And even under the shadows that the white cowl could provide, nothing could shield those distinct eyes.

A brilliant amber to fevered gold.

Desmond's lips moves, forming a name, but the man silences him with a quiet shush and runs a hand through his hair. The man shifts, encouraging the younger more to the envelope of safety his body can provide and Desmond is pliant in his arms, eyelids rapidly feeling heavy.

As if sensing his exhaustion, the man-_Altair-_his mind coos, tucks his head underneath his chin.

Altair's scent was stronger now.

Desmond was beginning to think this was _perhaps _not a hallucination.

_"Rest, Desmond." _

And Desmond obeys, able to catch the next words before he slips into blackness.

_"My habibi..." _

* * *

A/N: Thank you all for reviewing. I thought that I had meandered my way into a dead fandom, but I suppose not! I was surprised to find you all liked this! It gets me excited to write more now that I have people interested. XD So, thank you again for your praises and kind words.

_nikaris_


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: In which we take a look at Malik's tale.

Disclaimer: This author does not own Assassin's Creed.

* * *

Binary Duality  
_Chapter 3_

* * *

_Malik is not an idiot. There are many things he calls himself, but idiot will never be one. If anything, Malik is realistic. So when he finally gets an explanation from Altair after retrieving the precious cargo from the coordinates requested on that paper, Malik is rightfully skeptic._

_"You mean to tell me...that a __**dream**_ _told you to use this?" _

_Altair had to be crazy to be actually considering this. Malik had seen the prowess of the Apple of Eden when Al Mualim had used it to brainwash his brothers. To use this Piece of Eden without complete knowledge of its functions was downright idiotic! _

_Altair doesn't take the bait, instead focusing his attention on the metal orb. It is of a different color than the one retrieved from Solomon's Temple. While that Apple of Eden had a pallor of gold and brass, the one that he had retrieved was a stunning silver. Even after possibly years of enduring the elements' wrath, it seemed not to have a single blemish. _

_Altair holds the Piece of Eden almost reverently, Malik notices, and the one armed man ignores the pang of unease when he looks at it. Distrust for the object burns in his gut. When he'd dug it out of the hoodoos of the Negev Desert, he'd wanted nothing more than to destroy the blasted thing. _

_Malik wasn't naive. He knew these supposed Pieces of Eden were powerful things. He didn't know where they came from, and nor did he care, but the thing he did know for sure was that they would only cause ruin if found in the wrong hands. Malik did not believe that Altair would use them for greed, but the other Syrian's life had a time limit. It would inevitably be passed on to others and Malik didn't have high expectations for the item's future possessors to be noble because these sorts of items were temptation in solid form. When he'd dug it out, he had heeded well to his instincts and made sure not look at it for long or touch it directly, instead opting to carry it in burlap and hidden from view, lest be enraptured by its thrall. Unbidden, Al Mualim's face flashes before his eyes and he ruthlessly squashes the images down with a snarl. _

_With great power came great responsibility, after all, which is why they were best destroyed. _

_Malik knew that Altair did not share his believe for its destruction though. Or at least, he had, but hadn't been able to go through with it, just as Al Mualim had predicted in his dying breath. _

_A sigh escapes the Bureau Leader and for a moment, everything seems so surreal. The things he thought he knew before were in such contrast to what he knew now. The dichotomy is disconcerting and for that, Malik mourns for that simpler time when he believed in God and before he'd ever heard of the Pieces of Eden. In all honestly, it...troubles him that the world he lives in is like this._

_But at the same time, he is grateful. For though his heart had broken at the revelations, his eyes had opened. Malik didn't think he'd give it up either because no matter how much his soul wanted things to go back to the way things were, there could be no running from the truth. _

_As if sensing his disquiet, a hand finds its way to rest on his shoulder. It is a comforting weight and when he looks up to its owner, he sees Altair staring at him, a frown etched on his face. _

_Malik shrugs the hand off almost angrily. For whatever reason, he doesn't know why. He catches the hurt look that crosses the other Assassin's eyes and it fills him with a spiteful sort of satisfaction._

_"I do thank you for retrieving it, Malik-" Altair starts, and Malik waves it off with a hand. _

_"It is not a problem. What I have concerns over is what you really plan on doing with it. You cannot expect me to believe that this Piece of Eden will help you in your endeavor to... find whatever you are looking for." The last part is said with a hint of scorn, and Altair catches it without a pause. _

_"You are angry."_

_"Of course, I am angry! You are leaving us all for a little quest! You are our leader, Altair! Our Mentor!" Malik yells, anger he didn't know he had been holding being released. "What do you leave behind? A leaderless Brotherhood! You leave your responsibility! Do you even know how foolish you sound?! Whatever you think was in your head, it was a ghost! It is not __**real**__!" _

_"__**Desmond **__is real!" Altair growls out, anger incited, and Malik leans back, inhaling deeply. His voice takes an almost mocking tone. _

_"It has a name now? Have you gone and started naming all your stray apparitions?" _

_A flash of white signals Altair's snarl. "You misunderstand Malik! This is no game I play! I just...I.." The anger leaves completely, words abandoning him and Malik marvels at the rare instance of seeing his usually confident brother so utterly...uncertain. Altair shakes it off though, eyes resolute. "I cannot merely explain this feeling, Malik. I just need him back. It sounds foolish I know, and I admit it is a...selfish endeavor, but..." _

_Remnants of Kadar and a caged Altair flickers through mind, and Malik releases both an angry and tired sigh in the end, feeling a lot older than he really is because he __**does **__understand. He knows what Altair means. _

_He would after all...do anything to have Kadar back if it were possible. If Altair felt as strongly as he did about this, then...who was he to keep the man from pursuing peace of mind? _

_Malik regards the burlap sack on the countertop, the brown material hiding the brilliant shine of its prized cargo and he rakes his gaze away from it to Altair's hooded face. _

_"You are a fool."_

_Altair's mouth curves into a smile of teeth. "And you are going to miss me."_

_Malik returns the rebuke with a grin, voice light. "Yes. You are my brother; my friend and rival. Of course, I will lament your absence, even if you are a fool." Then, he grew serious. "When will you use it?" _

_The meaning is clear between them: When will you go?_

_Altair inclines his head, considering the lights that filtered into Malik's Bureau through the gratings overhead. It is midday. _

_His head begins to throb._

_"Later. Tonight, perhaps. I need to settle things in Masyaf. The Rafiqs and others will need to be aware of the new Leader and make the preparations." _

_Malik hums, taking out a large journal and doing a mental check in his head on the supplies he would have to order for the Jerusalem Assassin sanctuary. They were running out of throwing knives. He would have to ask Rauf for those. "Oh? Decided already, have we?" _

_"Yes. You will take over the Order." _

_"Oh, that seems-excuse me?" Malik blinks, hand stilling over the parchment of the report. "Me?" _

_Altair smiles. "Of course I would have you be Leader in my stead. There is no other I would trust. Your wisdom exceeds your age, and your perception is invaluable."_

_"I..." Malik is speechless. _

_"You accept?"_

_"I..." The one armed man swallows. "Yes, it will be done." _

_"I trust you, Malik. You will guide the Order well. I'm sure the others will agree." Altair is sure of it._

_"Indeed." Malik mumbles almost in a daze, before collecting himself when he hears the distinct sound of boots landing on the stone of the main chambers. A hooded head pops questioningly through the door of the Bureau Leader chambers, and Malik leans down to collect the book of assassination statuses. "Leave me. I have matters to attend." _

_Altair nods, and moments later, he is off. _

* * *

_When Altair leaves Malik, he is suitably surprise, but thankful that their exchange had gone so well. Yet, at the same time, he is concerned about the welfare of his friend. The last couple of weeks had been stressful. With the matter of Al Mualim, the Pieces of Eden, and especially his behavior (which at the thought, causes him to wince inwardly) it was understandable for Malik to be on edge and resistant to change since so many things had already changed the past month. _

_Malik's words had hurt when he had accused Altair of running away from the responsibilities of the Order as Mentor, but they were not lies-not entirely, because he __**was **__running from them. Altair was not scared of being Mentor, nor did he not want the position of Mentor. He loved the Order with every fiber of his being, and there was little that was more important to him than it. _

_And this...__**was **__more important to him. _

_**Desmond **__is important to him. _

_When Altair reflects on it, he truly does not know when this...infatuation... with the boy had begun. When that woman had appeared in his dreams, showing him the globe of the world so similar to the one the Apple had shown him after Al Mualim's defeat, and pointed at a location, he had known with certainty in his gut that her guidance should be heeded. The dream had been a fleeting one. He never fully saw the features of her face, only able to catch her elusive smile. He knew that in that reality of dreamscape, she had been intensely beautiful, almost otherworldly so. And yet..._

_'It could have been a trap.' His mind had whispered to him a day after the dream. Because he had not been able to see the entirety of her features, there was no telling if her intentions were pure. 'The Apple could be influencing you to collect more of it—for more of its power-to perhaps let it __**consume**__ us.' _

_But then, the next night after the first dream and as if attempting to erase his doubts, he has another dream._

* * *

He looks around, and Altair knows that he must be in another world. He surely is. Everything looks so... abnormal.

He is in a room, devoid of color and sparse in furnishings. Everything looks to be incased in metal and Altair gets the feeling that this place is less of a living space than a prison room. It only fuels his thoughts when he sees the doors of the room to be sealed shut, and Altair knows without testing that it would not open from the inside.

For a fact, Altair knows he is dreaming. And yet, he cannot but notice how...realistic the dream is. The metal chair he sits on feels real enough to his assumed apparitional form (a blonde woman had walked in and altered the drawers of towels earlier but she hadn't even acknowledged him at all) and the smell of artificial air had burned his nose.

Altair plays with the idea that this is a vision-of the future maybe— but gives up in favor of regarding the thing that captured his attention the moment the—_'Dream? Vision?'— _had started.

Or rather, the _person _that slumbered naively still on the bed, who was oblivious to his scrutiny.

The youth... looked to be near identical to him. There were some minor differences, but the resemblance was uncanny; even down to the scar down their lips that for a moment, Altair thinks he is having an out of body experiences and it is him lying on the bed, until the boy groans in his sleep, brows wrinkling as if perturbed by something in his dreaming.

Altair tells himself that the other's voice is a higher pitch than his own to distract himself from acknowledging the pleasurable feeling the groan elicits within him.

The youth takes a deep breath and shifts, lithe body stretching in an enticing manner that Altair trails keenly with bright eyes.

_"So you've been in my head."_ Altair murmurs. He doesn't know how he can immediately sense this as true. This is the boy that had been in his head-the entity that had been with him through the most confusing and important days of his life. Altair cocks his head to the side curiously. _"I wonder, why? For what reason were you with me?"_

The amber of his eyes finds the youth so easy to look at, Altair thinks idly, but not in a bad way. The Syrian does not know how long he has been watching the boy so similar to himself sleep. Time did not seem too important in this instance and nor did he care. Altair is too occupied with observing and watching over the boy, marveling the gentle raise and fall of his chest and the little hums he now and again emits.

Something burns in his mind, a yearning ebb reaching out for something it has lost, but Altair doesn't notice.

The boy's lips open slightly and Altair cannot help but come forward to kneel on the side of the bed. He sees white and a teasing pink and the Syrian without a thought reaches out with a hand, fully intending to brush his fingers against the slightly chapped lips—

The door slides open.

—only to be met with vivid gold.

And Altair's reflexive turn of his body to regard their newest visitor in that split second of eye contact breaks.

They may share some physical aspects, but Altair knows that neither he nor anyone else could mimic that unique shade of mineral.

The stunning gold stares into his own amber that for a moment, Altair swears that he sees a spark of recognition in the boy's—_'Desmond. His name is Desmond.' _His mind tells him eagerly, as if it had known all along—eyes before it disappears when their visitor speaks.

And it is a grating and aggravating sound, full of petulance and contempt that reminds him of Robert. When Altair stands to regard the newcomer, the instant dislike seems second nature.

The person he sees is of an aged man dressed in odd white garbs. The man is old, hair graying and wrinkles over his forehead and face. He is frowning and he regards the Desmond with a contempt that irks Altair, immediately making the master assassin's hackles rise. If he'd been able to use his Eagle Vision now, he was sure that he would have seen the telltale red aura of malicious intent.

He doesn't seem like the only one who dislikes the older male because Desmond seems to mirror his expression, lips curling in displeasure and eyes narrowing in frustration.

Altair couldn't help but find it utterly endearing.

The youth is shorter than him, Altair notes, with skin fairer than his own. When the other stands, Altair trails behind the two as they walk through the door and into a much larger room.

There are strange devices lining the walls of the expanse and for some reason, they fill him with a sense of unease. However, he does not pay attention to the little details of his environment. Instead, his attention is drawn towards the center of the room where a strange bed-like furnishing is featured in the middle of the room and the same blond girl he'd seen enter Desmond's room earlier, stood.

She wears her hair in a bun and is dressed nearly the same as the old man minus the white robe. The feeling he gets from her is...confusing. The way she carries herself is of a kind heart and good intentions, but at the same time, he can't help but feel suspicious of her.

While the three converses, Altair is pleasantly surprised when he recognizes that the language they speak is an odd form of Anglo-Saxon English.

His musings, however, are interrupted when the old man speaks, and gestures at the strange bed. It is then that Altair finally registers that the chrome colored dais was to serve another purpose than sitting.

There were raised waves on the bed-like thing, and odd blue lighting lines it. Along the head area and spinal regions were curious round hole-like structures.

It's an odd contraption and the Syrian frowns. _'What...in the world...?'_

Altair looks up when he hears Desmond give a miserable sound and moves to lie down on the contraption and for a brief, but frightening moment, Altair is seized with a sudden feeling of wrongness and trepidation. The dream/reality warps around him and he fears that Desmond is lying on a torture device. Images of spikes or other sharp objects ready to pierce the delicate skin and stain the loose white garb he wears with a sickening red-

And Altair reacts faster than he's ever had and reaches for Desmond, fully intending to wrench the younger away from the machine, but as his hand closes around Desmond's arm-

* * *

_He wakes. _

* * *

_And when he does, Altair doesn't know where he is. He is sunk back to the days of when he was a beast; rabid with the reigniting aching feeling of missing an important piece of himself that before, had been dampened._

_And all the while, he's murmuring Desmond's name as if a prayer. _

_The relapse is brief before he glues himself back together and for a brief minute, he condemns the boy that is making him like this-for making him feel crazy in one second and at peace the next. The feeling does not last long though. How could he when seeing the boy had granted a sense of __**rightness**__ and comfort that he'd been missing for the longest time?_

_Altair isn't sure what the dream is supposed to mean. He doesn't know if it is his mind playing tricks on him, or it is that otherworldly woman's doing, but strangely, Altair chooses to believe that the dream means something-that it is significant. After all, his instincts had never led him astray. _

_And nor did a simple dream ever ease the tension that had been brewing in his body for so long. _

_Unbeknownst to him, his eyes soften almost indiscernibly when he remembers the fair shade of gold, only to wince as an ache begins to form in his head, making the dagger he'd been throwing up and down casually clatter to the floor. _

_Altair pockets his throwing knife and massages his temple to ease the discomfort. The ache wasn't painful per se. It was more annoying than painful as it assaulted him in the most random of times. Well, at least it used to. The intervals between each episode of headaches had shortened as the days passed, and now he was lucky if he got two hours of peace uninterrupted. It had started ailing him ever since he had been ejected from that strange dream and Altair had a suspicion that the two had a chance of being related. _

_Behind the mullion glass of Masyaf's fortress, an eagle shrieks at the dying sun, and Altair sheathes the rest of his weapons in their proper holsters. _

_He has a gut feeling that he will need them. _

* * *

_"And so it is time." _

_Malik's words sound so final when Altair arrives in the outskirts of Damascus. When he says it, it is with sand on his tongue and a parched mouth. _

_"Indeed, my friend." _

_A silence stretches between the two but it is not an uncomfortable one. It is one of tranquil-a serenity that can only be shared between two brothers. The night falls on them with a blanket of stars overhead while its winds tug at the hems of their robes._

_The aura of calm betrays the frenzied beating of their hearts. _

_Even though he knows it's pointless and he already knows the answer, Malik still asks. _

_"Altair, are you sure about this?"_

_A firm nod. "I __**need**__ this, Malik." The Piece of Eden unravels in Altair's hands as he speaks. The silver metal contrasts starkly against Altair's tanned skin. _

_'What a tiny little thing it is,' Malik thinks idly. 'Such a small thing so capable of changing everything. Or is it perhaps us that are so perceptible to change?' _

_Altair looks up, eyes shining underneath his hood. "You are worried." It's a fact. _

_Malik makes a noncommittal sound. _

_"You don't even know what this will do to you." _

_And Altair answers him, eyes knowing and voice soft as the Piece of Eden begins to glow between them. _

_"I know it will work."_

_Same, stubborn Altair. A chuckle escapes him then. Malik was really going to miss this friend. His humor fades to a sigh and Malik places his hand on his shoulder, a look of resignation but also happiness in his dark eyes. _

_The Piece of Eden pulses strongly, its ethereal light increasing with every passing second. _

_"I wish you luck then brother. May you find what you seek." Malik pauses, retracting his words confidently. "May you find __**who **__you seek."_

_The hand on Altair's shoulder squeezes tightly, expressing all of Malik's hopes and well wishes to him. _

_"I will keep it safe, Altair. The Apple you leave me and the Order." _

_"I expect nothing less." And Altair beyond a doubt believes that Malik will make a strong, reliable leader for the Order. _"_Thank you, for all of this, my friend."_

_The light envelopes Altair, a brilliant radiance that imitates the brightest star—_

_"Safety and peace, Malik."  
_

—_Malik chokes when everything sinks in and he truly realizes that he is going to miss Altair-his idiotic rival, friend, and brother. _

_"Safety and peace, Altair."  
_

_And it is there, under the Damascene moon, that Altair disappears. _

* * *

A/N: I am very much touched by everyone's positive reviews of this story. It fills my heart with such bliss! It is good to know that you find my writing enjoyable, especially since it is my first time writing in this tense and way. It's grown on me now so just maybe I will use it for other stories.

Thank you again for all your kind words. Next chapter...will give us a more proper meeting for Desmond and Altair. See you then. ^^

_nikaris _


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: This was a difficult chapter to write. I am however, glad how it turned out. It also doesn't help that Guild Wars 2 has taken a lot of my time and that class is about to start relatively soon. So, letting you all know: updates in between chapters will vary and fluctuate depending on workload.

Disclaimer: The author does not own Assassin's Creed.

* * *

Binary Duality  
_Chapter 4_

* * *

Altair is aware of many things when the Piece of Eden whisks him away. He is aware of the array of bright white light, warmth spreading through his body from the source in the palm of his hands, and the familiar ignition of the pain in his head. Yet, none of them are not as significant as the feeling of leaving Damascus.

He knows the exact moment when he's left his homeland. The land of Syria had always held a comforting hand over him, and in the moment that it leaves him, Altair is hit with a sense of loss.

The near sorrowful feeling doesn't last long though as the next thing he is aware of is an eerie pallor of white all around him. Glyphs of some sort materialize and dematerialize in thin air around him, shifting like sounds of clattering sea shells and then Altair hears a booming voice.

_**What do you want?**_

The voice reverberates in the white expanse. It is distinctly male, filtered in a monotonous drone that is strange to his ears. The voice speaks again but this time it is as if many others have joined it.

_**What do you seek?**_

This is his chance, and Altair tries to work his mouth but his vocal cords do not obey him. In fact, he realizes with rising alarm that his body is still, held in place by some invisible force that the master assassin struggles to keep the pangs of panic at bay. Something brushes against his mind and Altair grits his teeth at the sensation, the pain already in his head flaring angrily at the intrusion. Altair can feel the strange force hesitate, as if sensing his discomfort with surprise before realization settles into its consciousness.

_**You are that one... One of Minerva's... **_

The invisible force that holds him disappears and just as Altair gets his bearings, the world dims indiscernibly. It begins to move, shifting for a great plight.

_**It starts... For Desmond...**_

Altair's attention peaks at that, his body abuzz and tensing at the mere name. What did it want with _what was his?!_

_**Son of Adam...**_

A ringing begins in his ears.

_**Do not fail us!**_

Altair goes to protect his eyes as the final words are accompanied with an intense flare of light-

-And then all the Syrian feels is panic-an intense fear that he had not felt since he had been a child. It is near stifling and with the added ache in his head, Altair is nearly brought down to his knees but he resists it. There is no reason for him to feel fear, he tells himself, hating the feeling intensely.

_**'No, no, no, no, no, no...' **_

His emotions were treacherous! He was _not_ afraid!

_**'I'mgoingcrazyohgodnonononono...'**_

No, wait...this... wasn't _his_ fear, the revelation dawns on Altair as a voice starts to accompany the thoughts. It's a familiar voice, one that has haunted his dreams.

_"...Desmond?" _He calls out.

_**'Ohgodohgodohgodohgod!'**_

Terror laces the boy's voice and Altair is incensed to action, searching frantically for the direction of Desmond's voice, _so that he could rip whoever was causing __**his habibi's **__distress to shreds-_

-but all he sees is that unnatural white around him. Everywhere he looks there is nothing but that unnatural, blinding-

_**'Anyone...?!' **_

**-**And then Altair sees it; a blue, man shaped mist and his gut screams at him to _reach like his life depends on it. _

And when he does, there is an explosion of color before his eyes.

But as fast as it happens, everything stops. The pain in his head is gone and the wailing terror dims as if soothed by a balm.

And then Altair is there. The grays of metal walls are familiar to him and he realizes that he's in _that_ dream, except...everything is _real._ There is strange white light overhead and the air has that same artificial smell to it, except now it is laced with the scent of _sickness. _

The source becomes clear to him when he hears a whimper that aches his chest, and there before him is the prone form of _**Desmond **_and Altair's body goes into automatic.

The need to _comfort/relieve/reassure_ is strong and before Altair knows what he is doing, he is ushering the younger into his arms, murmuring words of reassurance under his breath and holding his precious cargo protectively.

And though everything feels so alien and _wrong-_

This felt right.

* * *

_'So that dream was true...' _

Altair kneels before Desmond, watching over the younger man curiously and intently under hooded eyes. His knees are bent like a tightly coiled spring, both ready to pounce into action but also formed in a relaxed, casual manner. Altair's hand plays over the youth, memorizing the lines of Desmond's face and features. The caress is delicate as it runs along the hairline down to the length of the pale neck, stroking the exposed vulnerability almost tenderly.

He's exactly as he'd dreamed, Altair notes, and marvels at the familiarity of his features when he easily sways the younger man's face towards his for closer inspection. The other does not resist his urgings, so deep under the blanket of exhaustion and unconsciousness that he is.

_'So similar and yet...He is so different.' _Altair remembers the behavior of the boy when he had been an entity in his head and the corner of his lips quirk upwards fondly, before falling when Desmond flinches.

The younger man sleeps with a troubled expression, lips curled into a slight frown, distressed even in his dreams that Altair wants nothing more than to wake the boy up and ask what troubles him so, but resists the urge. No matter how many answers he wants, Altair...is strangely inclined not to wake Desmond, if not to give him a couple more moments of peace.

And that in itself was strange. Altair had always prided himself in being in-the-know. He didn't like walking in the dark so to say, and whilst in normal circumstances he would have demanded these crucial answers...for this, he was less than willing.

_"You are making me soft." _Altair murmurs to the youth, and he finds that it doesn't bother him too much. With Desmond, he always found himself acting differently.

Another whimper escapes the youth and Altair grows worried. His hand retreats from its exploration of the other's skin and moves to his forehead, grimacing when he feels the warmer than normal temperature.

Sighing, the Syrian shifts in his kneel beside the bedside, intending to get up to explore the room for any means to cool the fever, but as he does, something grabs onto his robe.

Or rather _someone, _because when he looks back, there are bright eyes searching his own.

Desmond is awake.

And Altair sees his eyes, the stunning gold even heightened in fever. They are tapered in misery, and Altair can tell that the other is barely even coherent as they seem to waver in and out of focus. The sight is such the very image of vulnerability that Altair's breath is nearly taken away, making an odd emotion burn in his chest.

Desmond mumbles something in that language that Altair cannot understand. He mumbles it over and over as the Syrian stays still above him before...

Desmond's tongue slips.

...and Altair's mouth opens in surprise when he hears Arabic fall from the Desmond's lips. They are accented, influenced from Desmond's native language, but nevertheless, it is coherent and it sounds like music to his ears.

_"Stay." _Desmond says and his voice is feeble; pleading, and evoking a strong-_so very strong_ emotion in Altair. The hand on the hem of his garb threatens to fall as Desmond struggles to maintain eye contact._ "Stay, stay, stay. Don't go." _A pink tongue comes out to moisten slightly chapped lips and Altair watches the action intently, before bring his gaze up to see Desmond's features pinch._ "Hurts."_

And how can Altair say no to that?

He kneels back down, one gloveless hand stroking Desmond's flushed skin reverently and threading the hand that had reached for him with his other.

_"I will stay. Rest, fledgling. Shhh..." _

Altair's amber irises are the last thing Desmond sees before his eyes flutter close.

* * *

The world is a heavy fog when Desmond comes to. It is a thick feeling-like wading through water with tired legs. His limbs ache and there is a grogginess and nauseous sensation that is familiar to him, akin to the feeling of waking up after a hangover. It reminds him of the first time he had alcohol and at that memory, Desmond mentally pushes down the embarrassment of _that _fiasco.

His movements are sluggish as he shifts and groans on the stiff Abstergo-brand bed, mind collecting and pulling itself out of the lull of sleep and into wakefulness. As he does, a pain pulses in his head, before retreating, making him wince.

_'Jeez...what happened to me...?' _Desmond peels his eyes open and groans them back shut when the lights overhead burn into his retinas. _'Ow...' _

As befuddled as his mind is, Desmond still knows the routine. He is aware enough of his surroundings to know that he is still in Abstergo, most likely in his room with the impending about to happen. So, he waits for the inevitable; for the hiss of the doors to his room to slide open and Vidic come in to belittle him and drone on about his stupid _New Order_. Desmond is all too ready for that. As he groans and lifts himself to one elbow, there is even a scathing comment ready on his lips, fueled by his undesirable haggard state, but he stops when he hears it; something rustling over him.

It is a quiet, clanging sound, like steel reverberating against each other and _Desmond knows this sound._

Desmond's eyes snap open, body locking up. The florescent lights above flare angrily into his pupils at the sudden action, making the world blur and his stomach flop uneasily before his vision blends to a sharp clarity. Then Desmond sees it-that unmistakable shade of ocher.

The hooded figure before him tilts its head. _"Desmond?"_

Desmond feels the back of his eyes burn suddenly. _'Al...tair...?' _

And then it all comes rushing back.

The writing on the wall.

The phantom images.

The voices in his head-

_"Desmond?" _

-which are suddenly _real. _

"Oh-h no..." _'No, no, no, no, no!' _

His vision flares suddenly, and everything is that horrifying shade of red again. The panic he had felt before comes back at full force. His heart beats so frantically that Desmond _knows _that he is going to have a heart attack because _holy shit he's seeing Altair in front of him and that must mean that he's REALLY-!_

He feels hands gripping onto his arms and through the cloud of terror blooming in his mind, Desmond wonders if it is the Altair-apparition that is holding him or Abstergo employees restraining him.

He doesn't know which one he prefers.

_"Desmond? Desmond!" _

There is a pounding in his ears.

The arms are shaking him, trying to rouse him out of whatever that grips his mind, but he pliant in their hands. His head follows the urgent movement like a rag doll and panic and nausea bubble in his chest at the action. In his eyes, all he can see is a mass of overwhelming blue-_'Like a monster.'_- in front of the laughing red symbols in the room.

The small keens that escape him are foreign to his ears, like that of a distressed bird. He kicks out then, trying to dislodge the horrifying image over him, but the hands hold firm, pinning his wrists down over his head and pressing down on either side of his legs to keep him from struggling.

And Desmond thrashes at this, panicked whimpers escaping his lips because _he hates being restrained like this and he can't stand this feeling of being so vulnerable and helpless. _He suddenly remembers his first day at Abstergo and how Vidic had threatened to put him in a coma to if he didn't do what they wanted, and he screams at that, automatically assuming that _this was it-_

But then something brushes against his nose and there is a weight over his left shoulder. Desmond breathes in almost instinctively, taking in the scent of-

_Spices, sweat, earth, crisp air. _

His heart stops.

* * *

_"I have you, fledgling." _

* * *

_'Oh...' _

Warm air tickles his ear then, eliciting a shudder through his frame. Around him, everything seems to dim. The red markings are not so disruptive anymore and the pounding in his ears are a low thrum now. Desmond squints and makes out that the hazy figure above him has slightly sharpened features now to that of a person, not a monster.

_"Desmond, LISTEN to me." _

"A-Ah ha?" He had not realized that the other had been speaking to him.

The figure above shifts, and Desmond can feel them palming both his wrists with one hand over his head while the other moves down to cup his cheek. The touch is cool, and Desmond can feel a roughness of it scratch pleasantly across his cheek bones.

_"Calm yourself, Desmond. Hush. Clear your mind." _The Syrian's voice takes on a soothing tone and Desmond's heart eases slightly, the pounding in his eyes lessening in intensity by a fraction. _"Your Eagle Vision is manifesting for the first time. The burning will pass." _He feels the Altair-apparition move his hand upward to cover his eyes, leaving a trail of a tingly sensation in its wake._ "Even your breathing, habibi." _

Altair's unique scent teases his nose and Desmond breathes in deeply, letting the hints of it cloud his mind. The chattering sounds that he had been emitting ceases to light gasps and his breathing calms. Above him, Altair lets out an approving noise.

Slowly, Desmond can feel the burning sensation abate.

_"Very good. Open your eyes."_

Altair's hand falls away and Desmond obeys.

And it is then that Desmond meets Altair Ibn-La'Ahad face to face.

* * *

The impending bout of disbelief, shock, and panic is not entirely unexpected.

When Altair had released him, the youth had jumped up and away, skirting as far back on the bed as he possible could. They are polar opposites at this point-one jittering and chattering nonsensically on the head of the bed while the other sits cross-legged on the foot, aloof and the very picture of calm.

Desmond's arms are shaking, Altair notes, and since it is the only thing holding the youth up, his whole frame shakes with him.

"Okay. Obviously, you are right here right now. But that can't be right, because well, your aren't supposed to. I mean, being here-1000 years technically, into the future. Nope. Nope. Nope." Desmond tries to take a calming breath, looking from Altair to anywhere else in the room, but can't seem to stop freaking out. "This is not happening. You are...what-I mean, how is this even _possible?!_ 'Cause...'cause...Holy _shit._"

A nervous laugh escapes Desmond and for the n_th _time, he wonders why everything seems to happen to him. Assassins and Templars, he could take, but now ancestors from the past?

'_Fantastic!'_

The former bartender groans, and it is one of misery and a weariness that drags from his throat. Without meaning to, Desmond takes another glimpse of man-who-should-not-be-here and promptly blanches.

The Syrian assassin is cocking his head, and Desmond is well acquainted enough with Altair's habits from his memories to know that that, along with the slight curve of his mouth, means that the other is laughing at him.

Almost instinctively, Desmond feels his lips curl and he huffs in annoyance, giving the other a baleful look. "What are you laughing about, huh? Half of this is your fault, ya know! Of _course, _I would have to be your great descendent, carrying some stupid Assassin bloodline. Why couldn't you be a normal guy, huh? Like those thugs? They were cool." (Technically not as cool as Assassins, Desmond admits inwardly, but they were extremely helpful back then.)

If anything, Desmond's reproach seems to elicit the opposite effect, making the other's mouth curve even more in amusement and making Desmond throw his hands up in defeat.

Altair allows another tiny grin. _"You forget that I cannot understand your native tongue, fledgling." _Not that he doesn't enjoy Desmond's aggravation and exaggerated movements. They was oddly endearing.

Desmond stops, comprehension filling his eyes. Altair had been speaking Arabic and Desmond could somehow understand him. The same however, did not seem the same on the other hand. He opens his mouth and closes it a couple times, remembering something suddenly. "I...spoke Arabic, I think. Before, when I..." He trails off, flushing when he recalled what happened in the bathroom when he was delirious. He licks his lips briefly and tries recollecting the unique syllables of the language. It takes a few attempts, each one eliciting an amused sound from Altair, before he finally manages a tentative, _"Hello?"_

It is at the moment when Desmond looks up proudly that he realizes that Altair is a _lot _closer to him than he was before. Sometime during his struggle to capture the other's language, Altair had steadily stalked forward towards him on his hands and knees until he was over Desmond. An approving nod answers him at the correct pronunciation and Desmond is close enough to see a hint of teeth from the accompanying smile.

_"Hello, Desmond."_ Altair murmurs, and it elicits a shiver from Desmond. The assassin's amber eyes shine underneath his hood and Desmond is suddenly struck with the need to see Altair's face. Never once had he seen Altair remove his hood from the memories the Animus unlocked and involuntarily, Desmond gives into the curiosity.

A hand reached out almost hesitantly out and as if knowing what the younger man wanted, Altair inclines his head a miniscule, offering no resistance.

The hood falls down and as his hand numbly drops, Desmond can't find it in himself to look away.

It's the first time that he has the honor of seeing Altair's face uncovered and Desmond is rightly shocked at how the other's face nearly matches his own. It is almost surreal, like looking through a warped mirror, but the difference is there. Altair's hair is a shade lighter and slightly longer if not shaggier, than his own dark locks. And his face- it's sharper, and somewhat more angular than his own.

Desmond's eyes trail down and when he sees the scar on the other man's lips-the same one mimicked on his own face-he swallows down the strange unease rising in his throat.

Altair seems to pick up on his distress but misinterprets it.

_"Templar agent. I was but a novice then." _

Desmond blinks, and nods numbly. _"Oh. Mine was..." _He says, but starts when he feels Altair raise a hand to brush and inspect the blemish, the Syrian's eyes focused and intense. Desmond swallows thickly, suddenly feeling his throat close and face flush. _"Um..."_

Altair's fingers trail down from Desmond's scarred lips and down to rest on the underside of his chin. Desmond's mind blanks and he feels his heart suddenly in his ears, both aware and unaware of what was happening.

_'What...?'_

Altair's face is moving closer to his, a curious but also wicked look in his eyes. He can feel the older man's breath brush against his own and just as Desmond's lips part in silent surprise-

The door hisses open.

* * *

A/N: To everyone who reviewed, favorite-d, and put an alert on my story, thank you very much for your interest and kind words! I am touched by your affections for this story and just wanted to let you all know how much that matters to me. So, thank you, thank you. ^^

'Till next time!

_nikaris_


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: This is, indeed, a late chapter. Yet, its extra long, so that's got to make up for something, yes?

In retrospect, school is incredibly time consuming if you choose all science classes for a quarter. I've been wanting to get this chapter out weeks ago (to keep with the whole pattern of updating every 10 or so days) but it seems that that is for naught since my workload is incredibly heavy. Also coupled with the fact that my best friend is moving away, grief is on the forefront of my mind since well, it interferes with my want for permanence. :(

Upside, at the least that gives more reason for road trips.

* * *

Binary Duality_  
Chapter 5_

* * *

It is a gasp that tears them apart.

Desmond doesn't know who makes it at first. All he is aware of is Altair's sudden disappearance that leaves him cold with the Syrian's scent fleeting in the air, before he meets a startled pair of blue eyes.

Lucy stands at the door way, sporting a deer in the headlights look that Desmond knows that is also mimicked on his face. She looks frazzled, stray strands of blond hair loose from her usual bun, and the gob smacked look on her face only added to the frazzled air she had around her. Her mouth opens, and just as Desmond is about to sputter out a mindless excuse there is a flurry of white, and Altair is upon her.

He sees the shine of Altair's hidden blade before Lucy disappears behind his tall frame and it is enough to rouse Desmond from his shocked state to jump up and stumble towards the master assassin. He gets there in time to see a bit of red slide down Lucy's neck from the blade that is pressed against her skin.

"Oh my god, oh my god..." Desmond hears her murmur.

_"Altair! No! Let her go!" _Desmond yanks on Altair's arm, but the man is unyielding, mouth curled in a thin line with narrowed eyes. _"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" _

"Desmond? Desmond, that-that is Altair, isn't it? Altair _is here-?!_" She gasps as the blade digs slightly deeper, the glaring amber eyes boring into hers and darkening when she spoke. "O-Oh-!"

_"She is a Templar." _Altair's eyes narrow._ "She works for that old man that imprisoned you here." _

_"Old man?" _Desmond blinks, and connects the dots, pushing back the curiosity of how Altair knew of his predicament._ "You mean Vidic? Well, yes, sort of but-she doesn't really! She's on OUR side. For the Assassins!" _

"Tell...tell Altair to let me go, Desmond. Desmond, _please hurry. _I'm here to get you out. I promise. Do you understand me?" Lucy's voice is a strained calm when she speaks, and Desmond is immensely relieved that the scientist isn't struggling against the Master Assassin. "I am here to get you out. But we don't have much time."

_"What does she say?" _Altair asks in suspicion.

"_She's here to get me-us-out. Out of Abstergo." _Desmond's grip on Altair's arm tightens, and he pins the older man with a determined look._ "Let her go, Altair." _He says firmly, and Desmond can see Altair hesitate; distrust still churning in those hard eyes.

Desmond stares at Altair steadily, gold eyes narrowing into a steely harvest, before...

_"Trust me." _

A second passes.

Finally, Altair's resolve wavers, and the blade retracts almost reluctantly.

When it does, Lucy nearly collapses to the ground if not for Desmond catching her in time. She takes deep breaths, shaking from the adrenaline wracking her body, and it is then that Desmond notices the blood stains on her shirt. The stains are too low on her clothes to have been from Altair's blade and for a moment, Desmond panics, mind jumping to conclusions. Had she been attacked? He had seen Vidic's men take Lucy the day before. Did _they _do it?!

_"Lucy, what-"_

"Desmond." She interrupts forcefully, and it's the first time that Desmond truly sees how stressed the younger woman seems to be. She gives him an impatient look, gaze flickering towards Altair with an unknown emotion briefly before landing back on him. "L-look. I don't understand what the hell is going on here with you and A-Altair, and _whatever,_ but right now, I can't afford to care right now. We wasted enough time. We need to get out of here." In sudden burst of motion she is up and through the door, beckoning Desmond to follow.

Obediently, Desmond does, Altair following closely behind into the open area where Lucy is fiddling with the Animus.

From the corner of his eyes, Desmond sees Altair tilt his head around the area, examining machines with a slight air of apprehension, but also curiosity that the former bartender can't help but feel amusement for. _'Well, in all technicality, he IS in the future.' _Desmond thinks, and grins slightly, feeling something akin to eagerness well up inside him. He _really _doesn't know why his ancestor in in this time with him but while he _was_... it would be sort of fun to show him some new things of the 21st century.

Perhaps he'd even like to go on a ride on his motorcycle with him.

The Animus starts up before them and Desmond feels, rather than sees, Altair stiffen behind him when the device begins to hum, but before he can question Altair's unease, Lucy speaks up.

"Get in."

_"What? Now? I thought you said we needed to get going?" _

There is a pause when Lucy blinks, before she sighs and gives him a blank look. "English, Desmond."

A second passes before Desmond bows his head briefly in embarrassment, ignoring the slight grin that he gets from Altair at the action. "_Oops, I mean-_" He licks his lips. "The Animus? Now? I thought you said we needed to get going?"

She sighs at this. "Look, we have maybe 10 minutes. _Maybe. _Before they figured out what I've done. If we're not out of here and on the road by then, there will be no other opportunity. That is why before that, I _need_ you in the Animus to get one last memory-"

"But we already finished Altair's memor-"

"Desmond!" Lucy gives him a withering look, mouth pressed in a line. "I will explain everything later. I _promise _you. But I need you to trust me now. Get in the Animus."

"I...okay, okay."

He steps forward, intent on getting in the Animus before he feels his arm being grabbed and Altair sp him roughly around with a snarl. _"What are you doing going back in that-that thing?" _

Behind him, Lucy scowls. "Desmond! Get in the Animus!"

Desmond tugs at his arm, but Altair holds firm, amber eyes narrowed into slits underneath his hood.

_"Let go, Altair. I need to!"_

Altair's grip tightens, and Desmond is surprised when he sees the undercurrent of strain in the master assassin's eyes with...

Desmond blinks curiously. Was that worry?

_"I would rather you not."_

"Desmond!" Lucy yells and Desmond yanks his arm out from Altair.

_"What..? Ok, look, trust me. I will be fine. Besides the occasional headache and everything, the Animus is harmless!" _Desmond thinks about the Bleeding Effect but holds his tongue. _"It'll only be a couple minutes." _Desmond says calmly, and slides his arm out of Altair's grasp. _"'sides, I trust Lucy."_

"Desmond, _**come on!**_**" **

**"**Okay, okay!" Desmond pretends to not notice the displeased frown on Altair's face.

And within a couple clicks from Lucy's terminal, he is in a memory.

* * *

**SUBJECT 17: DESMOND MILES**

**SUBJECT 16: /CONFIDENTIAL/**

**SEARCHING FOR RELEVANT MEMORY DATA...**

**MEMORY MATCH FOUND.**

**ACCESSING MEMORY...**

**SUBJECT 17: DESMOND MILES.**

* * *

_"I don't trust you._"

His voice is clear and it cuts through the tense silence that he and the blonde are in. The woman glances up from the terminus she is typing on when he speaks, acknowledging him, but her eyes are uncomprehending.

_"I don't trust you." _Altair repeats, and again, the woman-'_Lucy'-_Desmond had called her, flicks her eyes up again, before they return downward. He walks around the Animus-around the body lying in a trance inside the contraption, to the blond haired woman. The clattering of her fingers against the terminus of the Animus hides his quiet footsteps as he stealthily makes his way around.

The clattering seems increase when he gets close, and Altair can see her tense up, shoulders standing rigid as he comes closer. Nervousness seems to overtake her as her fingers slip now and then and she has to re-type more of the commands.

_"I don't trust you." _Altair says again, but this time it is into the shell of her right ear, and the action elicits a more violent reaction from her. She jerks up, her elbow shooting out behind herself to catch him in the stomach, but he catches it in time and pins it behind her back roughly, making her yelp.

She yells at this, the words unintelligible to his ears and he finds that the Anglo Saxon English variation sounds better coming from Desmond than from her. He twists her arm roughly, careful not to break the appendage, but to deliver some amount of pain and discomfort. A pained groan escapes her but he pays no mind.

_'The Creed, you idiot!' _A voice in his head yells at him suddenly, and Altair is amused when he realizes that it sounds just like Malik. He can see his friend in his mind's eye, a scowl aimed at him firmly on his face as he cites their creed. _'Never harm an innocent!' _

And she was, wasn't she? She was innocent in that she had never done anything directly to hurt him, _or _Desmond.

At least, not _yet._

Altair knows it is foolish of him to assume the worst in the girl. After all, she had Desmond's trust. But... that was the problem. Though Desmond had said one thing, his own eyes had said another. Even with Desmond's assurance that she was 'on their side,' Altair was still cautious; wary.

After all, his eagle vision when he had activated it had hazed her in a indiscernible _red. _

And his sight never lied.

As an assassin, he valued trust. There were only a select few that he deemed trustworthy, but to hear Desmond say that he _trusted _this woman-

Inadvertently, his gaze strays to Desmond lying in the Animus, so very vulnerable to the world around him.

-it gave him a sense of unease.

It would be so easy to snap her neck. He can feel, somewhere inside him, that it is the right thing to do. A voice in his head encourages him to, whispering in the name of good intentions, but refusing to give reason. She _means _something in all of this, he can tell, yet Altair can't help but think that her presence in all of this is _so very wrong._ As if...

_**'She spells disaster.'**_

_"Desmond says he trust you, Lucy." _Altair begins, and he can feel the woman shudder at the sound of her name, filling him with a sense of morbid satisfaction. He continues, his voice a mere murmur. _"He may hold you in high regard, but I do not. So know this: if any harm befalls Desmond... " _

Lucy grunts in pain as Altair's grip tightens to an almost crushing pressure, the Syrian's amber eyes darkening to a dark auburn.

_"I will end you."_

* * *

It is a good nine minutes exactly when Desmond is ejected from the Animus. When he does, the sense of vertigo that hits him is hard to overcome. It's a sea-sickness kind of feeling unfamiliar to his prior sessions with the Animus and he is incredibly thankful when Altair helps him out of the Animus and lets him lean on the other briefly as he tries to steady his legs and collect his bearings.

"That...was a really weird memory." Desmond murmurs, and groans when his stomach flips. "And different."

He opens his eyes from their clenched state and blinks when he feels it-a tension in the room. The golden eyed former bartender looks from Altair to Lucy, wondering why the air seemed so thick.

"Am...I missing something here?"

For a split second, Lucy's knuckles turn white as Altair's head inclines, before she gives a negative.

"No. Nothing. I got what we need." Lucy says, showing him the disk with a flick of her wrist before quickly pocketing it. "Let's go."

A groan escapes Desmond at that. "I'm going to need a second." He really doesn't expect to get one though, and is proven right when Lucy voices a rejection and opens the double doors on the other side of the room. She runs outside, and with a sigh, Desmond jogs after her, Altair right by his side.

* * *

The actual 'escape' from Abstergo is a quiet affair.

Well, sort of.

"So, we're really getting out of here, huh?"

Silence.

"Abstergo's got some real fucked up interior decorating."

Silence.

"Lucy?"

_"You babble when you are nervous, fledgling." _Altair, who had been trailing behind him, remarks in amusement and Desmond irks, feeling his face flood with color. He ducks his head down, trying to will the redness down, but when he steals a glance up and sees the quirk in the corner of the older male's mouth, his flush only intensifies.

_"S-Shut up." _Desmond refutes in embarrassment, but Altair's grin only grows.

_'Great. I look like an idiot now.' _Desmond thinks, and inwardly groans at the thought.

Altair was correct in his assumption of course, over his tendency to babble when he was nervous. Desmond had never been a good talker. Sure, he had grown in a somewhat close-knit community on the farm (and by default, that should have made him relatively sociable within the community) but it had been difficult to make friends when he had been one of the youngest on the Farm and coupled with the fact that he had been an awkward child...

_'Thank you, God (or whatever deity up there; I don't really care) for blessing me with the gift of verbal diarrhea.' _

Desmond sighs.

_'Fuck.' _

Unconsciously, Desmond's gaze flickers towards Altair, observing the other silently out of the corner of his eyes.

Altair walks with sure steps, Desmond notices with a slight jealousy. His posture is straight-regal almost, and shoulders flared back in a way similar to that of a stalk. Everything about the man seemed to radiate control and power, and Desmond knows this to be no illusion. In Masyaf, Altair had been a famous assassin. He was a master after all, feared and admired to Templars and Assassins alike.

In retrospect, Desmond knows that he should feel cautious around the man. He knew first hand of what Altair is capable of, and yet...

Desmond remembers the moment of weakness he had had in the bathroom. There had been a care in those amber orbs when Altair had held onto him. There had been a gentleness in his touch.

And that in itself was so...out of character. In the memories, Altair had _never _been like towards anyone. If Desmond had to guess, it was like...

_'Like he knows me personally.'_ It would make sense. Altair had even known his _name. _

But that whole idea was _impossible_. Altair had never even _met _him before today!

_'Just what in the hell is going on here?!_

"Hey! Hey, you're not supposed to be out here!" A male's voice rings out, breaking Desmond out of his reverie and he looks up to see two security guards run towards them, only to be hindered by a glass pane door.

_'What the-Security?!' _

"Open this door!"

"I'm calling this in!"

_"Guards?" _Altair inquires, hand moving to reach into the pouch strapped to his waist for his throwing knives, but Desmond pulls the Syrian forward when Lucy gets the opposite door open.

"We have a breach in the research wing!"

The three are able to make it around the corner when two more guards appear at the end of the hall with batons in hand.

"There they are!"

Lucy moves forward then, steps precise and arm up to block an incoming strike-

"Don't let them-_aaagghh!"_

-but before Lucy can even reach them, the two are on the ground, blood pouring from the knives piercing their throats.

_"H-Holy shit!" _Desmond yells and Lucy is also shocked, looking at Altair almost angrily, before she seems to remember herself and urge them onward.

* * *

"So...question." They are in the elevator now, having narrowly dodged a patrol of guards when they had ducked into the transport. "It's been egging me for a while now, but those cameras in my room..."

"Uh, no, Desmond." Lucy coughs into her hand and looks away. "We never saw you naked."

It takes a moment for Desmond to remember where _that _came from and when he does, he reddens again, earning a curious glance from Altair. "Not about that! I mean, I've...been out of my room a couple times after some Animus sessions. How come I never got into any trouble?"

"Oh." Lucy blinks. "I rigged them to loop old footage. So your late night excursions..." Her eyes travel to Altair for a moment. "...and other things, are unrecorded."

"Other...?" Desmond's eyes widen. "OH."

Altair, who has been watching the conversation closely, tilts his head curiously when he sees the nearly shy glances that Desmond gives him.

_"What are you embarrassed about, Desmond?" _Altair asks but Desmond shakes his head, looking anywhere but in his direction with a growing red hue on his face. He hides his embarrassment in a cough before turning to Lucy.

"You're good." Desmond compliments, and the blonde can't help the small softening of her eyes when Desmond grins. "I guess that means that Abstergo has no idea that Altair is here."

"Nope. He's a wild card at this point." A strange passes her blue eyes then, making Desmond frowns slightly in confusion, before the elevator doors slides open with a bell sound.

"Come on." Lucy speaks, and as she rounds them both around the corner, Desmond can feel Altair's attitude change like a sudden chill.

_"Altair?" _Desmond asks in concern, but then he realizes what had gotten the master assassin in such a cold state when he finally notices the things inside the cubicles on the floor.

"Those... are a lot of Animuses."

And there were. There were probably a hundred Abstergo brand Animuses packed onto the floor, neatly organized as to ensure maximum productivity in the least amount of space. It just screamed efficiency, and as the three began to tread through the maze of machines, Desmond swallowed down his disquiet at the sight as Lucy led them through the maze.

He can imagine this area on a busy day. Countless people-_'people like me, maybe?'-_ushered into the machines and coupled with the enclosed space of each cubicle... Desmond can't imagine the claustrophobia.

_'With such little space, how could the subjects ever...' _But then Desmond remembers.

* * *

_It is the first day._

_He had been like a caged animal at this point. Having been kidnapped and unceremoniously dumped into a strange machine that messed with his head had not done well to his already adrenaline-pumped self, and if not for the knowledge of two brawny security personnel outside the double doors, Desmond would have attacked. _

_Instead, he fixes the old man with a withering glare, mouth pulled down in a snarl. "I am not going back in there!" _

_The man, however, is not intimidated as his work aid-the blonde woman-watches almost passively. _

_"Then we'll induce a coma and continue our work. When we're done, you'll be left to die." Vidic laughs then, his lips quirking almost sardonically. "Truth be told, the only reason you're still conscious is because this approach saves us _time._"_

_How cold his voice had been._

_"...You're insane." Desmond murmurs, quiet and resigned. He has enough common sense to know that one could never deal with people like this and win. _

_Vidic just inclines his head. _

_"So, what is it, Mr. Miles? Live, or die?"_

* * *

_"Desmond?" _A shoulder brushes his own, breaking him out of the little memory, and when the former bartender looks over, he can see Altair's frown, amber eyes creased slightly in calculation at his prior despondency. In front of them, Lucy is still leading them, oblivious to their silent exchange.

_"It's nothing." _Desmond says, but his eyes stray to the Animuses around them, gold irises steely.

Altair follows his gaze_. "...You've never...?" _

_"I was cooperative."_ Desmond says, and Altair suddenly understands.

From the corner of his eyes, Desmond can see the man's fist clench.

* * *

"Alright. We're clear." Lucy says when they finally make it through the floor. She slides a card through enters in a series of numbers into the keypad before swearing. "I thought this card would work. It must be working on a separate system and I don't have the code."

As if knowing that something had gone awry, Altair frowns and looks around the area, searching for any alternate routes.

Lucy, who had noticed the master assassin's action, sighs and turns to Desmond with hands on her hips. "He's not going to find anything, you know. No alternate routes or anything. The place is sealed shut unless you have the codes." She points to the windows high above. "Anything breaks? Alarms. We're screwed if they _do _come on and the only way to get through all of this is with those codes!"

Desmond sees her beckon towards the keypad with a scowl and for a moment something flashes before his eyes. His lips pull to a frown as his head pounds for one beat as the back of his eyes thrum into a familiar feeling, before he sees it-reality turning to a myriad of blues-_'My Eagle Vision.' _Desmond comprehends-and the keypad standing starkly with red imprints.

Unbeknownst to him, his eyes had turned into twin pools of molten gold. Altair and Lucy however, catch the change, expressions of surprise and the other with delight, on their faces respectively.

There are four numbers with red imprints, Desmond sees, and on the third attempt of the combination, he gets it right, making the door slides open obligingly, much to Lucy's growing amazement.

"How...How did you do that?" She asks, mouth open in astonishment but before Desmond can answer, there is a rustle of metal and rapid footsteps.

"There they are!" The pair of guards that they had been evading in the maze yell, and what happens next happens too fast.

Before Desmond can even blink, a guard is dead on the ground before making even two steps towards them.

The guard's companion yells, a looks of horror etched on his faces as Altair retracts his hidden blade from the first guard's throat and just when the Syrian is about to turn to finish him, the guard scrambles and pulls something out that has Desmond's body seizing into action.

A gun pointed straight at Altair.

Desmond's legs are moving before he even realizes it. From behind, Lucy is yelling something to the guard, but Desmond can't hear her because all that flies through his mind is his instincts screaming at him to move; to do something-_anything. _

The gun is shaking in the guard's hand, mimicking the shake in the guard's voice as he tells Altair to stay away.

But Altair doesn't understand.

_'Get down! Stand down!' _The words are stuck in Desmond's throat though and the terror he feels all of the sudden is stifling.

And for an odd moment, Altair's stance seems to hesitate, before he shakes his head firmly.

He crouches, and leaps forward, hidden blade sprouting forth.

The guard pulls the trigger.

And two things seem to happen at once.

* * *

A gunshot pierces the air.

A body crumples to the floor.

* * *

There's a ringing in Desmond's ears.

When the gun goes off, the sound is the only thing that really registers in his mind. He'd seen action movies before-seen and heard how loud firearms could be, but they all paled in comparison to what they _actually _sounded like.

The initial shot is like a clap of thunder. That was one thing that Hollywood got right, but Desmond reflects that the sound of a gunshot doesn't echo in a room as much as he expected to. It echoes, sure, but its only for a second, and it doesn't stay like that. No, it morphs into a rattling sound that _shakes_ the entire room. The tremor is like a cold resonance, but the air warms at it from the energy it gives off, wafting forth a lingering scent of gunpowder.

_'Weird.' _Desmond thinks suddenly, because though the air had gotten warm, he feels oddly cold.

And numb.

_"...Desmond?" _

Desmond blinks, and it is then that that he finally realizes that he is on the ground over a wide eyed master assassin. Altair is underneath him, cradled under the arches of Desmond's arms with only his elbows to support him. His amber eyes are wide and Desmond realizes airily that somewhere in between the gunshot and him pulling the other down, Altair's white hood had fallen down to around his neck to reveal his fully shaken expression. Then, it all rushes back to him, and painstakingly-_obsessively,_ alert golden eyes sweep down the older man's body, frantically looking for any hint of red, but when he sees none, he just about sags, shuddering in relief.

_'He's...okay.'_

A voice yells from behind, and he is dazedly aware that it is a call of his own name before the sound of hurried footsteps filter into his brain and Lucy is kneeling beside him with a gun in her hand. She is saying something, tone frantic and panicked with an expression of horror on her face, but Desmond can barely hear her through the ringing in his ears. He is more interested in the gun in her hand.

Desmond doesn't need to touch it to know that it has been recently fired. Heat emanates from the firearm and when Desmond looks forward, he sees the guard lying on the floor in a growing pool of blood.

_'The gunshot was from Lucy?' _Desmond wonders, but that seems wrong because he can see the gun in the guard's hand and he can smell it too-the waft of gunpowder- coming from it. If Lucy shot the guard, then why...?

But then it becomes clear when he finally hears what Lucy is saying.

"-my god, oh my god. This wasn't-I-we have to stop the bleeding-!"

"Bleeding...?" Desmond says numbly. Did she mean the bleeding effect? Frowning, he follows her panicked gaze down and then he realizes-

_'Oh.'_ Desmond thinks dazedly. '_**That **kind of bleeding.' _

A wave of dizziness hits him then when he sees the crimson blossoming across the white of his jacket. The adrenaline that had been coursing through his body leaves him and it is then that the pain comes-a burning sensation from his arm that spreads and infects his body. He sways for a moment, body going into shock, but Altair catches him, holding him steady with a gloved arm pressed firmly against the rapidly reddening white of his clothing and a similarly horrified look on his face.

From there, comprehension comes slow to Desmond. There's a clamminess to his skin, his body sweating and making the cold he's feeling feel even colder.

All the while, the Syrian is murmuring something, but it is said far too quick for Desmond to even understand. He manages to catch a few words, but they make no sense to him. It makes him wonder if Altair is saying a prayer for him, and the thought makes him chuckle for some reason.

Desmond's eyes waver for a moment, a tandem of specks blurring and dancing across his vision, but when they finally focus, they find Altair's irises easily. What he sees makes him frown though, for the ambers are wide with a fear and alarm that doesn't look right on the older man.

"Oh god, Desmond! I tried to shoot before he did, but-but-I-!" Lucy's voice roll over him and it's accompanied by a pounding in his ears. He can tell that the calm front that she had been trying to keep up is failing though, her panic increasing to a near hysteria with every passing second. "You're losing a lot of blood. Oh god, did it hit an _artery?!_"

Desmond shudders all of the sudden, but this time when Lucy and Altair speak, they sound like they are speaking through a tunnel, and he's at the other end of it.

He feels really cold now.

His eyes feel heavy, but just before they can fully close, Altair shakes him, rousing him to wake with a wild look in those wide orbs that are strangely familiar and has Desmond feeling sluggishly anxious.

Desmond's eyes waver, threatening to slip him into an enticing sleep, but this time he feels a hand slap his cheek firmly.

_"Do not close your eyes!" _Altair urges, body taunt with strain and voice strangely clear through Desmond's addled mind. Through the weak flutter of his bleary eyes, Desmond can see that the hand that had struck him was stained and wet.

The ringing gets louder in his ears.

He's getting awfully tired of hearing it.

"No, no, no! Stay awake, Desmond! I told you I'm going to get you out of here and I _will!" _

His eyes are blurring. They don't focus again.

"Altair! Get him up, _now_! We have to-oh _god..._"

* * *

A beat, and then...

...something _snaps _inside him.

* * *

And before their voices dim into an eerie, horrible, muteness-there, in the hazy fog of his mindscape, he swears that he can hear Altair scream clearly in his mind.

Then, he knows nothing more.

* * *

A/N: I hope you all thoroughly enjoyed this chapter. Again, I wish to express my gratitude and mass thanks to people who have reviewed, fav-ed, and alerted my story! I appreciate everyone's support and your compliments and words _do _encourage me to keep writing despite these stresses I'm experiencing. So, thank you all very much. ^^ You are all awesome.

Until next time!

_nikaris_


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Seeing as it is Veteran's Day on Monday, I now have a three day weekend, which means more time to do assignments _and _ample time to write. Frankly, I am pleased beyond belief. The quarter is also nearing its end, so, finals will be coming which will further delay the next chapter of this story. Winter Break on the other hand…

In this chapter, we meet Shaun and Rebecca.

Disclaimer: The author does not own _Assassin's Creed. _

* * *

Binary Duality  
_Chapter 6_

* * *

Altair remembers the first time he killed a man.

_It had been in a fit of rage when it had happened. _

He had been young at the time, which wasn't a novelty. A novice's first kill was usually at a young age. It was their way after all.

As assassins, they had all been trained to kill. They were taught diverse tools, maneuvers, and strategies to end a life. To be an assassin, blood was currency and the Creed; their merchant. So naturally, being able to kill was something that had to be done in a moment's notice and without remorse.

_'And yet how contradictory it is,' _Altair reflects airily, _'when we are also taught to respect life.'_

_He can remember how his blade had gutted the man-how he had stood over the twitching and gurgling mess at his feet. The man had died a slow death, bleeding out until there was not enough life-giving blood to sustain him any longer in his suffering, and all the while, Altair had been a spectator; observing the event with an eerie fascination akin to that of a child. And he had been one at the time, hadn't he? At the age of eleven, he had been a killer-a good three years younger than the average age assassins-to-be were. _

_Behind him, a young girl is face down, still and unmoving against the wall of the alley. She is dead; clothing ripped and blood seeping from the wound on her chest not by his hand._

After all these years, Altair can remember her.

_She had been a pretty, little thing, making a living by selling fruit in Acre. Altair had never talked to her, having only seen her selling fruits on the side of the marketplace whenever he passed through the city, but nevertheless, she had been significant, a stitch that just stood out. _

_Once, she had mistaken him for a lost child, not the assassin-to-be that he was. Given, he had probably looked the part, as when the first time he had met her, he had been in a part of Acre that had been unfamiliar to him. She had given him an apple accompanied by a nice smile, before he had run off when she had tried to ask a city guard to help him find his parents. _

Crime had always been a norm in the cities. There was no discrimination of it in any district either. When he had been young, he had begun to stop the violence. He had done them without lethality though, because despite knowing that eventually, he would have to kill, there had been a small part of him that had wanted to extend what innocence he had left for just a little longer. Regardless of being an Assassin trainee, Altair had always tried his best to subvert the harassment of innocents in that way, but one could only do so much.

He remembers it well; the pain he had felt-

_How sad it had been to meet her again like that. _

-and the rage that had _consumed_.

The memory is a hazy one, scarce in details but vibrant in the feelings it coaxes out of him, and for one rare moment, he can feel it; a raw, churning and rumbling ache deep in his chest. It is a feeling that first surfaced in the aftermath of his first kill-a replica of the shadow that had enveloped him when he came back from Solomon's Temple empty handed.

And as Altair sits in the back seat of the modern moving transport, body curled around his limp, precious cargo, the numbness he feels relents enough for a minute for him to identify the feeling.

_Failure._

* * *

Altair opens his eyes, and the world that he had muted ebbs back into consciousness.

It is morning. Sunlight shines through the perfect glass panes of the many windows lining the walls, filtering a ray of warmth across the wooden floors. There are no more rushing sounds of the metal, horseless chariots, signaling that their location was outside the city walls signaling a quieter environment which Altair is immensely grateful for. The alien bustling of mechanical contraptions had unnerved him-unsettled him, nearly, and the physical distance from the newness of this world was a godsend.

From outside, something screeches-a bird calling its kin, and under normal circumstances, the master assassin would have breathed a little easier, reminded that though the world he is in is different, there are some aspects of it that stay the way he remembers them to be no matter the era, but instead, he feels no significant relief.

How could he, especially when the consequence of his failure laid injured before him?

Altair's lips move against his threaded fingers, murmuring a name, but no sound escapes them. Even as he sits on the chair beside the makeshift bed, seemingly relaxed to the untrained eye, there is a tension along his body like that of a bow, taunt in the hands of an archer.

The room is silent, but to the Syrian, it is not. He can hear it in his ears; the echo of the dual cracks that had pierced simultaneously through the air the day before. In his mind, the memory replays over and over: the thunderous clap, the wide whites of eyes-

'_Get down! Stand down!' _

-Desmond's blood.

Altair's eyes harden; fingernails digging into the flesh of his gloveless-_it had been so slick with that precious red-_flesh.

The strange monitor hooked to Desmond makes an erratic beeping sound, making the green zigzagging line dance fitfully from its previous steady beat. Altair is unfamiliar with its purpose, but he can surmise that the machine was made to measure Desmond's status; every sound almost mimicking the beat of a heart.

Immediately, the master assassin closes his eyes to calm himself, taking a deep breath to will away his anxiety and to his relief, the monitor slows, making the beeping sound return to its former steady state.

Altair realizes how strange it is that even unconscious, Desmond seemed to...respond to him, in this way. Almost as if—

'Like when he was with me— before.' Altair thinks, thoughtfully.

The thought doesn't displease him though.

Slowly, Altair reaches out; a hand brushing against the flesh of the younger's face. The skin is cool underneath his fingers, smooth and unblemished, but it is also pale-unnaturally so.

Altair knows that he has to change. The world that he is in-a place where he can only hypothesize as the 'future'- is different from his own. It is just as dangerous, if not more so than his own time's, but that was the problem though, wasn't? For though he could hold his own back in his homeland, here... he was outdated; obsolete. What he knew back in Masyaf wasn't nearly as effective in comparison to this age's deadlier weapons.

In the land of this time, he is crippled.

The Syrian releases a breath that he does not know he had been holding. His free hand—the one not stroking Desmond's skin—tics, twitching in an eagerness to act.

_'Yes...' _Altair hums, amber eyes closing resolutely. _'It is time for change.'_

* * *

When Shaun Hastings had signed up with the Order, he already knew what role he was to play. He was never meant for field work. He had the utmost minimum combat training-only enough to protect himself, but his strength did not lie in brawn. No, his strength lied in what he could do with knowledge. He was the team's information handler; their historian, their analyst, their hacker.

_'Not,'_ Shaun thinks sourly, _'a bloody doctor.'_

Of course, he had once played with the idea of an occupation in the medical career. (This was before he had gotten interested in conspiracies and computers.) The idea of a becoming a doctor or scientist had been an enticing one. He certainly had the intelligence for it, but in the end, he had ended up dropping it.

And as he surveys the scene in front of him, he remembers exactly why he had decided to do so.

Patients and their baggage.

Or in this specific case, the baggage being the patient's guard dog—

Shaun twitches involuntarily when sharp, ochre eyes flicker towards him briefly.

-who had _teeth_.

The Englishman lets out a sigh, leaning his tall frame against a support beam in the hideout's loft.

'_Lucy…'_ Shaun inwardly groans, squeezing the bridge of his nose. _'What have you done?'_

Shaun had expected the escape to be clean and quiet. He had told Lucy over and over that it was imperative that the job be an easy in and out one. How hard was it to get a simple bartender to the Hideout in one piece?

But no, Desmond Miles had instead been delivered to them nearly bleeding to death and accompanied with an assassin from the Middle Ages.

Lucy had never mentioned their... guest... in the emails she'd corresponded to them with, so either she had kept it a secret ('which makes me reevaluate her competency.' Shawn thinks) or... the Syrian's appearance was a recent one that even Lucy hadn't been aware of until the last minute. Whether the master assassin's arrival was a good or bad thing, he couldn't judge absolutely quite yet, but so far... the man was a menace.

_For Queen's sake, he did NOT sign up for this!_

_'And not only that, but it happens at the LEAST convenient time.'_ Shaun meant, of course, the status of their current living arrangement. The Hideout had never meant to be a permanent house of operations for the rag tag Assassin team. It had been planned as a temporary place for reconnaissance and a recuperation station after the eventual rescue of one Desmond Miles.

'_But that's shot all to hell now, isn't it?'_ Shaun frowns. At most, at most, they had less than a week's worth of time before predicted discovery from Abstergo. Hiding from the corporation's trail grew harder with every passing day, and though the Brit hated to admit it, his skills could only do so much to buy them time-time that they would have to try to make more of due of Desmond's injuries.

Too lost in his thoughts, the bespectacled man doesn't notice a presence behind him until he feels an arm rest against his shoulders from a certain raven haired woman.

"Aww, why the long face, Shaun?" The woman's voice is relaxed, and Shawn doesn't have to look to know that it is accompanied by an easy smile.

"Rebecca." Shaun acknowledges. He shrugs her arm off and straightens, stretching his neck from side to side until there is an audible crack.

Rebecca Crane is all teeth when she grins at him, taking the physical rebuff in exchange for rebuking him by knocking her shoulder against his playfully. "How are ya holdin' up?"

As she had expected, Shaun's mouth curls, an annoyed expression on his face that she is all too familiar with since the first time she met him.

"Oh, I'm peachy. I just removed a bullet from a gunshot wound using online tutorials and limited medical supplies anyone can buy at a Boots. I am bloody fantastic!" He hisses.

"Oooh. Sarcasm!" Rebecca giggles, and pats his back with a force that belied her smaller stature. "Good job on that by the way!"

"Yeah, yeah." Shaun grumbles with a huff. The leg he is favoring goes numb and he shifts his posture slightly to the other.

There is a silence, where all that Rebecca and Shaun can do is watch the quiet scene before them from a distance.

It is really an odd sight, in retrospect-out of place and just plain odd. But then again, it's not every day they get to witness a piece of history before them.

The white clothed man—_Altair Ibn-La'Ahad_, Shaun's analytical mind supplies—sits on one of the few wooden chairs in the room. His back is facing the window; elbows resting on his knees and fingers curled together under his chin. For a second, the man shifts, a grimace appearing across what little they could see of his face from underneath his hood, and Shaun doesn't have to look at Desmond to know that the same grimace mirrored his pale face.

'_Shoulder strain caused by wound-sore muscle most likely from bullet extraction.'_ Shaun's mind reasons, but the brunet knows better than that. His eyes narrow, never leaving the odd pair. If that occurrence had happened once, Shaun wouldn't have thought much of it, but for the past couple hours of when he had come to check up on the two, he'd noticed that the strange pattern had been consistent—too frequent to be mere coincidence.

The Syrian seems to Shaun's scrutiny and moves his head slightly, meeting Shaun's eyes squarely with barely hidden annoyance, but this time, the Brit doesn't flinch from the amber stare.

Because Shaun knows that something is going on with this picture, and for reasons he cannot source or decipher, he knows that it's significant. That's probably what bothers him the most. As someone who relied and collected information, the sudden lack of it was... disorienting.

He doesn't like it.

"Have you seen Lucy?" Shaun asks quietly, breaking eye contact to acknowledge the raven haired woman beside him.

"Gone. Went to burn the car." There is a pause where Shaun feels a weight against his arm. It's comforting but hell, if he is going to admit that out loud. "He's been there quite a while." Rebecca notices, voice almost subdued.

"Hasn't moved an inch since Desmond stabilized." Shaun tells her shortly.

Rebecca whistles. "Talk about commitment." She laughs. "But then again, the guy traveled what, a good thousand years ago for the kid."

Shaun raises a fine eyebrow. He had caught that implication that she thought the Syrian's presence was intentional. "How do you figure that?"

"Call it a hunch." Rebecca shrugs with a grin. "You don't see people traveling through time for kicks-"

"-Or at all since it's impossible." Shaun retorts. "I don't think you understand the limitations of reality in this situation, Becca."

"Limitations? Please. Nothing's impossible." She says simply. Shaun opens his mouth to refute, but gives a second later. He knows she's right.

There were Pieces of Eden in the world, after all-many, many Pieces of Eden with enormous powers beyond imagination that defied reality. Time travel would barely be considered something impossible with such objects in the world.

And all their known locations were sealed in Desmond Miles' genetic memories.

And they had been so close to losing him.

"He could have died, you know." Shaun's voice is low, an inkling of disquiet underlying his words.

Rebecca hums; acknowledging. "But he didn't. Lucy was quick and you were efficient."

There is a pause where Shaun seems to consider his words, before shaking his head.

"I hacked into the Abstergo databases. I saw the security tapes, Rebecca. It was his fault. They would have made it out much more discreetly, but Altair aggravated the whole bloody nest."

"He didn't know." She gives him a crooked grin then. "Altair Ibn-La'Ahad." Shaun notices how Rebecca seemed to test the name on her tongue. "For a guy who's what, a good thousand years in the future, he couldn't have known not to bring a knife to a gun fight, you know."

Logically, she has a point, but it doesn't negate Shaun's ire.

The raven haired woman seems to notice her friend's less-than-pleased expression and grins widely. "What? You don't like him already? He hasn't said a word since he got here! That's gotta be a new record for the 'people-I-don't-like' streak!"

"I have good reason!" Shaun growls out. "He ruins our careful planning and nearly offed me!"

"He did?" Her eyes widen. "What did ya do?"

Shaun's face twists into an annoyed expression. "I was just putting an IV into Desmond and the next thing I know, there's a knife in the wall by my head!"

"Ah, I was wondering where that hole came from."

"You're missing the point! He almost killed me!" Shaun snarls. "Wouldn't stop growling like a bloody dog until I moved away." He sighs then, and it's a heavy one, accompanied by a hand rubbing his eyes tiredly as if all his energy had been sucked out.

There's a familiar clicking sound of a door closing from the Hideout's work quarters.

"That must be Lucy." Shaun says. "You…keep a watch over them. I need to talk to her." _Alone_. The last part is implied, and Shaun doesn't need to look behind him as he left the loft to know that Rebecca understands.

* * *

Sometimes, Rebecca feels that Shaun thinks too much.

The man was always analyzing; always digging for answers. It wasn't a bad thing, per se. If anything, Shaun's conviction and determination had been admirable and had been one of the many things that had drawn her to him. Even when he had been younger, Shaun had shown aptitude for research and the likes. His strength, indeed, was his thirst for knowledge.

Yet, it had also been his downfall.

For the Englishman had been too overzealous in his work- dug too deep, made connections to close to home, and had _foolishly publicized it _ that _they_ had noticed and felt the need to step in. They could have very nearly killed him if she not intervened.

But that had not necessarily been a bad thing, because their dabbling had also led Shaun to come to her.

Rebecca knows that Shaun is right though—that Altair's appearance and subsequent consequence broke their plan majorly. They were at a crossroads as to what to do now because of it, but if she were honest with herself, she would admit that she really wasn't worried at all.

Because maybe, she thinks, it isn't so much of a bad thing. She doesn't voice it to Shaun, but she has a feeling—a strong one— that tells her that Altair's presence is a good thing.

It hadn't looked that way before of course. When she'd been given word to expect an unmarked white car soon at their warehouse hideout, Rebecca had been ecstatic-excited to see her long absent and deep undercover friend after so many years of being apart. Seeing two shaking and blood stained people at the door holding an unconscious Miles had not been what she ever wanted to see though.

She blinks, and in that brief second, she hears it.

* * *

_"Do you see that?"_

_"It's the car! C'mon, we gotta greet Lucy and our new friend!" _

_"Uh huh, just don't get too-wait... what is that?"_

_"Huh?"_

_"Rebecca...get the first aid." _

_"What are-oh my go-!"_

_"Rebecca, NOW! GET THE FIRST AID KITS!"_

* * *

And then many things had happened afterwards. The front door hadn't stood a chance when the white clothed figure nearly smashed the wood off its hinges, the boy that they had been expecting strewn on his back, limp and unmoving.

Between Lucy obsessively trying to stop the bleeding and Shaun scrambling for tools inside the first aid kits whilst simultaneously requesting supplies from his contacts with his phone cradled between his shoulder and neck, no one had noticed the man that had accompanied Lucy.

But Rebecca had.

Even now, Rebecca can hear the memory of the man's stricken murmurings. She had not needed to research the dialogue to know that they were prayers.

Rebecca closes her eyes, breathing in deeply before exhaling.

But everyone was ok now.

And really, to her, that was all that mattered.

A hooded head lifts to watch her intently as she makes her way around the makeshift hospital bed to lean against the window to get a closer look at Altair and Desmond. Rebecca doesn't miss the way the man's body language shifts from possessiveness to protectiveness as he regards her.

"You care about him a lot, don't you?" Rebecca asks. She knows that she won't get an answer from him, but it doesn't faze her. "I kinda wonder why, you know? Have you even met him before? I doubt you've had. One thousand years is quite a while, after all."

The raven haired woman's voice is light when she speaks, and she sees Altair's wariness abate slightly. He's evaluating her, reading her body language and intentions with oddly molten amber eyes ('the infamous Eagle Vision!' Rebecca thinks with intrigue) before fully relaxing, signaling that he had deemed her not a threat.

"I wonder why you are here. Do you even know, I wonder?" He tilts his head at her, which brings an amused smile to her face.

Despite Shaun's earlier aggravation of their unexpected gust, Rebecca found the man to be rather... cute.

Not in the appearance sort of way, of course. She had not gotten the chance to see the Syrian without his hood, but rather, she found his mannerisms endearing. The way he sat so vigilante at Desmond's side, it reminded her of...

Her eyes soften.

…her Bull; the little terrier pup that slept by her feet every night and never failed to scurry his tiny self to her even when she had been frequently admitted to the hospital for sprains and fractures from her first hobbies. He'd been with her for so long. Playing with her, comforting her, protecting her, before _they_...

_Inhale. Exhale. _

If Altair notices her lapse, he doesn't show it.

He really does remind him of Bull.

"The world's a dangerous place now." Rebecca murmurs, eyes straying to their unconscious charge. "Different. Strange. On the verge of something big and bad that I sometimes think we can't beat.

_'December...'_ Rebecca's mind reels. It's soon-too soon. _'December, December...' _

She tries to laugh, but it comes out as a wistful sigh.

"I wonder if you would be able to help us."

The man blinks, and for a moment that has Rebecca startled and questioning if he _did_ understand her, his head inclines.

It's reminiscent of a nod.

* * *

"Lucy."

The blonde haired woman looks up at the call of her name, and at seeing who it is, grins tiredly. It's strained, and Shaun makes a mental note to buy more tea soon. The woman looked like she needed it badly.

"Shaun." She nods, acknowledging.

"The car...?"

"Cleaned out and gone." Lucy hums. She passes him and Shaun can smell the strong scent of smoke emanating from her. She sits at the desk they had given her and leans back in her chair for a moment, exhaling deeply, before opening her eyes. "How's Desmond?"

"Stable. I had a friend come over and check him over. He said that Desmond should be fine, and should wake soon enough."

"That's good. I notice that the equipment...?"

"You wouldn't believe what are stashed in these old warehouses." Shaun smirks, and Lucy can't help but crack a small grin of her own. Eventually the carefree moment ends, and they sober, the atmosphere getting serious.

"So...when were you going to tell us about Desmond's 'friend?'"

"I didn't know about him until after Vidic was done with Desmond." Lucy says quickly. "The man nearly killed me if not for Desmond." Her hand unconsciously comes to rub at the faint line on her neck, and Shaun makes the connection signaled with a raise of eyebrows.

"I can relate." Shaun says, which elicits a raised eyebrow from the woman.

"Oh? Has he been causing problems?"

"Hmph. Only if it's in regards to Desmond. The guy seems to take himself as his personal bodyguard or something."

"Or something." Lucy hums thoughtfully.

"They seem...very close." Shaun says lamely. "

"It's weird. There wasn't anything at all that could have pointed to anything like this happening. Brain specs were normal, minimum signs of the Bleeding Effect, and he maintained his sense of self. I made sure that he didn't spend long in the Animus and end up like-" Lucy stops, eyes going cold all of the sudden before it is gone as fast as it had come, and she backtracks. "No, this was not Animus-caused."

"Rebecca and I speculated the use of his Apple..." Shaun starts, but is cut off by Lucy.

"No. The Piece of Eden that Altair got from the Mentor was not able to do such thing. His could control minds and distort reality. Its function couldn't have done something as big as time travel."

"So he found another Piece then."

"It's… likely. He knew where the locations of the other items were. Maybe he found one and accidentally found himself in this time."

"Rebecca doesn't happen to think so. She thinks it was intentional." Shaun refutes. "Like he meant to come here."

"Shaun, he wouldn't even have known who Desmond was. The chances of that happening are-" She stops, remembering an earlier conversation with Desmond.

"Lucy?" Shaun frowns.

"Actually..." The blonde begins, "A while ago, Desmond told me that he saw flashes of Altair sometimes. I thought he was just experiencing some Bleeding symptoms but, I suppose..."

"There must be a connection between those two instances then because I _know _that one is affected by the other." Shaun speculates. "Have you observed them together? Whenever something happens to Desmond, it affects his ancestor too."

And it did make sense, Lucy knows. The moment that Desmond had passed out after the guard shot him, Altair had gone absolutely _mad. _She shivers at the memory, remembering how the man had more or less _slaughtered _his way out of the building when they had been met with more security. Despite the violence, Lucy had not minded-having been too desperate and adrenaline-stricken to handle them herself, or to let alone _care._ The Syrian had been a killing machine and at one point, she had been so certain that he would have turned on her as well if it had not been for Desmond's good favor towards her.

Mentally, yes, Desmond's injury had distressed Altair, but _physically..._

_'He favored his left arm the whole time.' _Lucy remembers idly. An idea spins in her head, but she pushes it to the back of her mind. "Have you received word from William yet?"

"Not yet. My calls have been bounced. I think he may have burned his phone."

"Hm... he'll be frantic when he hears." Lucy admits, wincing with Shaun at the thought. A distressed Mentor was never a good thing.

And a distressed Mentor's _wife _was _worse_.

"What do we do now?" Lucy asks finally.

"Now..." Shaun murmurs, crossing his arms. "We wait."

* * *

A/N: Once again, thank you all who have reviewed, fav-ed, and alerted my story! I am always pleased when you all get involved with what is happening in this story. It's awesome. So, thank you for your kind words, praises, and especially well wishes to overcome my stresses. I appreciate them a lot.

On a side note, the term, _'burned' _in this story does not always literally mean 'burning' with fire (even though in some parts, there is fire involved.) Mainly, I use the term _'burning' _as a slang to mean 'destroying evidence.'

Next chapter, Desmond wakes.

'Til next time!

_nikaris_


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: This chapter too, was rather difficult to write, and it came out different than how I wanted it to be, but I can't say I'm not pleased on how it came out. It made me realize a couple things about the characters that I feel like will contribute greatly to the storyline in the future. So, without further ado, enjoy chapter 7.

* * *

Binary Duality

_Chapter 7_

* * *

Altair knows when Desmond wakes before anyone else does.

The room had been relatively quiet at the time, with only the sounds of typing from the other room and hypnotic beeping from the medical apparatuses to occupy the would-be silence. Similarly, outside was silent as well, the lull of the approaching night sky quelling the clamors of the modern transport to a more subdued reverberation.

He had been lost in his thoughts at the time when he feels Desmond wake. Altair isn't a fool. He knows that he is physically, if not even mentally, exhausted after all that is happened, but despite knowing that he should rest, he cannot bring himself to. There is restlessness in his bones, the gears in his head turning too fast to simply relax and accept the calm of sleep.

At first, he had merely been too busy to feel _it. _He is compiling a mental profile of the brown haired man-_'Shaun,' _the raven haired woman had called him—making a note of the man's apparent dislike of him and general sourness. (It oddly reminds him of Malik, which brings a slight grin to his face.)

He just begins to move onto his observations of the dark haired woman when _it _nudges at him again, but this time, Altair comprehends it; registers it as something distinctly and significantly _familiar_. His mind freezes, instantly zeroing in on the source in his mind, wishing, longing, _hoping _that the feeling is from _it—_from when Desmond had been _with him_ on his journey to realize the _Assassin's creed. _

And it is.

_It's _there. The presence-no, _it _has a name now, _Desmond _is there. Altair can feel him-the entity stretching out like a sigh of a pleased feline from its very long nap. The sensation is so familiar that for a moment, Altair is reminded of the many times he'd awaken from his rest in Malik's Bureau with the presence nudging at him readily, but this time he can think and _remember _it, rather than experiencing its usual elusive tendency on his mind.

The revelation is _very gratifying _and Altair cannot help the rush of pleasure it brings him.

And when he looks over at Desmond, Altair marvels how the younger man is unconsciously mimicking the waking presence in his mind—stretching out on the pillow with little sighs.

"_Awake, Desmond." _Altair murmurs, the exhaustion gone from his face to make room for a barely veiled excitement. _"Awake, habibi!" _

And as if granting his wish, the younger man's head moves side to side on the pillow, slight moans escaping those pale lips. Then, the youth's eyes crinkle.

And Desmond wakes.

* * *

'_I'm really getting tired of waking up like this.' _Desmond groans inwardly.

By 'like this,' he meant the overbearing knowledge of waking up in unknown locations and having absolutely no control over his state of being, which at that very moment, was _not_ pleasant.

He feels…he doesn't really know the right word for it, actually. It's a mix of sluggishness and unease, hopped up with a feeling of lightness, which Desmond _dearly _hopes is not the effects of being drugged. There's a agitation in his body though, but he gets the feeling that if he tries to move too hastily, the nausea he's feeling in the pit of his stomach will no doubt make itself known.

The next thing he notices is a quiet beeping sound overhead. It reminds him of heart monitors in hospitals, but he knows that he isn't in one. He had had his fair share of hospital visits (fights had happened _a lot _in the _Bad Weather_) before and the one thing that had stood out the most to him when he had been in one was the almost sickeningly doused smell of antiseptics and the blinding of white. Yet here, that scent was missing. Instead, when he dazedly looks around, he is met with russet, wooden furnishings and the light hue of moonlight shining through an array of windows. A lethargic, but cursory sweep around the room lets him know that he is in a wide living area of sorts, decorated with architecture of pillars and arches that is reminiscent of...

Desmond's brows furrow. _'Rome?' _The moment he thinks it though, a pain goes through his head, making him wince. _'Jeez…what happened to me…?' _

His head rolls to the side, complacently taking in more of his surrounding, before he sees it-a set of startling hawk-like eyes staring right at him.

And in that instant, Desmond is frozen, wondering who the man watching him so intently is, before he sees the man's mouth move and catching a glimpse of that recognizable scar.

Then it all comes back to him.

* * *

_Thunder. Heat. Abstergo. _

_Altair. _

* * *

Desmond jerks, and the motion pulls at the muscle in his injured arm, forcing a strangled cry from his throat and startling Altair.

"Ow, ow, ow,, ow OW!" The former bartender hisses over the cursing of the older man, clutching at the appendage with an eye squeezed shut. _'Oh yeah... Shot. Right. That.'_

When the pain finally dies down to a dim throb, Desmond chances a glance at the older man and what he sees makes him blink in surprise, pain suddenly forgotten.

Was the great _Master Assassin _aka _Mentor _of the Masyaf Assassins _fussing _above him_? _

In all definitions of the word, the Syrian perhaps _was. _The man's ever present hood was down, giving Desmond full view of the normally elusive man's face-which was positively in _panic. _It did not seem to help that the slight bags underneath his eyes (which Desmond noticed in alarm) even further accentuated the frantic look of his eyes.

He had never seen the Master Assassin like this.

"_Are you in pain? Are you in need of the healer?" _Altair is speaking fast and it takes Desmond a moment to actually understand the words coming out of his mouth before shaking his head in a negative.

"_No, no! It's fine! I think I just-" _Desmond says, but Altair cuts in, talking fast, but in a low tone of voice that has Desmond wondering just _when _the man had last slept. The best that Desmond can guess is that he had probably been out for one-two days tops. Had Altair...

Desmond gives a wide eyed look of surprise to the muttering man.

...stayed by his side the entire time?

_"Altair?" _Desmond calls, but the man is still mumbling; agitation clear in his movements, and sighing, Desmond calls his name again, clearer and with more force. Immediately, the older man stops, quiet and still with strained eyes trained on Desmond. _"Hey, relax. I just jostled it a little." _

"_I see." _The ambers close, turning away from him while a deep breath escapes the Syrian that makes the master assassin's shoulders loosen. Yet despite all this, Desmond can still see the concern etched the other's eyes as they attempt to peer at him almost discreetly.

Desmond pretends that the slight fluttering sensation he's feeling in the pit of his stomach is from the drugs.

_"So, uh." _Desmond coughs, suddenly feeling awkward. He pointedly looks away from Altair when he sees a glint of amusement in those amber depths. _"Where are we?" _

_"A safe house, I believe. The woman brought us here."_

_"A safe house?" _Desmond casts another imploring look to his surroundings._ "I suppose there are others here too?" _Lucy was good, but as Desmond admired the wrappings around his arm, he honestly doubted that she had the medical capabilities to patch him up like this.

Altair nods, a near thoughtful expression fitting across his face. _"Yes, two others."_

_"Oh." _Desmond hums. Restlessness getting to him, the former bartender shifts, testing his damaged arm gingerly and biting the inside of his cheek to hold in another hiss of a pain. Desmond is well aware of Altair's eyes on him-watching his every move with an intensity that has Desmond self-conscious of himself, but firmly keeps his eyes from meeting the gaze in favor of inspecting the damage.

The white bandages that had been tightly wound around his injury is slightly pink, possibly from his earlier rougher movements, but Desmond is relieved that at least it isn't hurting as much anymore.

_'Yep. Getting shot ain't sunshine and daises.' _The ache makes itself known when he tries to shift his shoulders to get a chink out of his neck. _ 'Note to self: invest in bullet proof vests.' _

From the corner of his eyes, Desmond sees Altair cock his head slightly to the side, a curious expression on his face that has Desmond both confused as to what is causing it and to just the overall gesture itself. It was... so unlike the Altair that Desmond had seen in the Animus.

But then again... he had never really _truly_ known Altair now, had he? It had all been in the Animus. He had only seen snippets of the man's life, just merely a month in his ancestor's timeline. It was hardly enough time to actually know the other man. Desmond didn't know Altair and Altair didn't know him.

At least, Altair _shouldn't. _

For Altair knew his name-knew his face. How was such a thing possible when the Animus sessions were one-sided?

At least... they were, weren't they?

The question is on the tip of his tongue, but the moment it begins to leave his lips, something red and white catches his eyes.

_His hoodie!_

A quick glance down reaffirms that he is only wearing his black shirt.

He lets out a forlorn sigh at the mere sight of it splayed out over the nearby table. The thing had been old and cheap with one of its sleeves slightly longer than the other and the cuffs of it grayed from use. Desmond knew that he should have gotten a new one a long time ago (he certainly had the money to from his job) but in the end, he never had the heart to throw it out or replace it.

It had been a gift, after all.

But from his vantage point, all he can see is it in an even more pitiful state. Its sleeve is bloodied and ripped with the stitches and cotton cut clean when he was probably being treated. The color of it was even more grayed, and from the bloodstains splotchy in odd places on the material, Desmond could tell that it had also been used to clean him off hastily.

Slowly, and favoring his wounded arm, Desmond swings his legs over the makeshift hospital bed. Altair is at his side in an instant, silently offering an arm and shoulder that Desmond nods at him gratefully for.

After testing the stability of his legs, Desmond moves to reach for what is left of his jacket. Altair is next to him as he does, quietly helping the younger man reach his goal. Just as Desmond is a hairsbreadth away, a wire slips from the skin of his chest and then the sound of a patient flat lining blares, shocking both men and making Desmond lose his footing.

_'Oh, this is going to hurt.'_ Desmond thinks when he sees the floor rushing to him and squeezes his eyes shut, body bracing rigidly for the impending pain and impact.

But it doesn't come.

Instead, all he feels is nice warmth and a pair of arms around his frame, supporting him from what otherwise would have been a rather painful splat to the ground. But it's not only that. Altair's scent is strong around him, tickling his nose and eliciting a feeling in Desmond's chest that has him hypersensitive and skittish. For a guy that had been in the 21st century for a good couple days, the smell of the Arabian world was still fresh on him, radiating such a feeling of _home _that startled Desmond when he could _see _it so clearly in his mind—the images of Altair's homeland running across his corneas before he could blink and claim his vision again.

'_What…?' _

And when Desmond looks up, Altair's eyes are bright to him, burning with something that makes it suddenly hard for Desmond to think straight. But then the emotion in them shifts, withdrawing back inwardly to ease into a familiar amusement that makes Desmond flush.

Altair moves then, straightening up so that Desmond is no longer hanging off his frame, but rather leaning back now with merely Altair's arm curled around the small of his back for support. _"For an assassin…" _Desmond can't help the shiver that runs up his body at Altair's low _purr_._ "You are rather clumsy." _

A reddish hue blooms from Desmond's face, and Altair cannot help the twitch of his lips at the sight of it. Desmond seems to scowl at him through the embarrassment; shoulders' jerking up in a manner that Altair is amused to realize that Desmond looks like that of a bristling cat.

"_Hey! I'm not even a—"_

"What the _bloody hell _do you think you're doing?!"

In unison, Desmond and Altair whip their heads to the door on the other side of the room, eyes wide with surprise to meet the three pairs of the newcomers—all with varying expressions incredulity.

In a moment of self-consciousness, Desmond is then intensely aware of how he and Altair must look to them in their…questionable position with him basically _flush _against the elder man.

Face burning, Desmond coughs, quickly disentangling himself from Altair, before moving his eyes to regard their spectators.

"Um…hi?"

* * *

"Well, awesome to see you're awake now!" The raven haired woman chirps once Desmond is settled back in bed with a reproachful Brit muttering in annoyance under his breath.

"Bloody idiot, going up and about when you could have ripped stitches... " Shaun murmurs as he inspects Desmond's injury with a scowl, to which Rebecca sends a apologetic look to the former bartender. "Really! Look at this!" The man barks. "You've gone and done it!" Desmond winces when he feels the other man pick at the sensitive skin of the wound. "Blooming berk..."

"Al here, and Luc were getting worried!" Desmond lifts an eyebrow up at the girl's nickname for Altair." And don't mind Shaun here. If he barks at ya like that, it means he likes ya!" Rebecca whispers conspiratorially.

"Ah...yes. Um, thanks for patching me up." Desmond pauses, looking at them tentatively.

"Me? Naw, that was all Shaun!" Rebecca says, before her eyes widen. "Oh, you probably have no idea who we are! I'm Rebecca Crane. This is Shaun Hastings. And you already know Lucy here!"

"And you guys are…?"

"Assassins, of course!" Rebecca says, smiling widely. "And, that's all of us!" She stops for a moment, glancing at Altair unsurely.

"Oh, uh. This is Altair. Ancestor from a thousand years ago...?" Desmond tries, to which Rebecca laughs. Having heard his name, Altair glances up briefly, before returning back to watch Shaun dab and scrutinize Desmond's arm.

"We figured as much, Desmond. Lucy told us about him." Rebecca says. Next to the girl, Lucy has her arms crossed, lips thinned to a thoughtful line. "But not all the details."

"Not like I knew much. I was just coming to break Desmond out of his room and the next thing I know, Desmond has a new...friend." Lucy gives Desmond a meaningful look, which Desmond pointedly ignores.

"A new friend, who seems to be making everything _extremely _difficult to us." Shaun cuts in. "Have you all seen the news?"

Rebecca startles, eyes widening. "What news?"

"Turns out Abstergo can't keep _everything _hush hush after your little escape." The Englishman says. "So, they are under some heat from the media-good for us, by the way, _but-" _Shaun takes the remote sitting on the table and flips on the old TV sitting on the corner of a dresser by the bed. "-we are too."

The moment that the box alights, Desmond can feel-rather than see- Altair startle behind him. For reasons that Desmond doesn't know, he knows that Altair is feeling wary and curious of the little box portraying all these scenes from Abstergo. A deep curiosity probes at Desmond in his mind, and too caught up with the TV news story, Desmond doesn't notice when he begins to subconsciously answer mentally what a 'TV' was.

And nor does he discern the sudden understanding and interest in Altair's eyes.

_"We are live on the scene of where a devastating tragedy took place." _The woman with a microphone bearing the station logo says as she walks along the sidewalk of a familiar company building. _"Just mere days ago, a deadly shooting broke out here in Abstergo Industries, where many employees were murdered-from what our sources say- by an unidentified male and his female accomplice." _

"Oh boy." Rebecca moans over Lucy's sudden cursing as they are shown rough sketches of a hooded Altair and a detailed one of Lucy's face.

_"No names of the suspects have been released yet, but they are considered armed and dangerous. Our sources say that the two were involved in the kidnapping of one Desmond Miles, a patient that the pharmaceutical company had been working with to develop medications for worldwide ailments. The public is urged to come forth with any information relating to the suspects, and Abstergo is asking for any information relating to Desmond Miles for a considerable monetary reward."_

A detailed sketch of Desmond is on the screen when Shaun pauses the program, making Desmond wince.

"So, as you now can see," Shaun says as he walks in front of the TV and crosses his arm. "That stunt in Abstergo there has Lucy and Altair both pegged as wanted fugitives and Desmond-the most sought out man in Rome." The Englishman clasps his hands together. "Good job. Absolutely fantastic. Now, I'm going to skip the post-congratulatory fanfare to ask, do you _know _how difficult this makes _everything?!_"

"What Shaun means, Desmond," Lucy cuts in, her voice weary over Shaun's rambling about needing fake ID's, "is that we need to know the truth about Altair-the whole how, why, and when."

"Your guess is as good as mine." Desmond shrugs. "Why didn't you guys ask him?"

Rebecca laughs. "We could only get so far with Google's Arabic to English translation translator! Arabic has changed in the past thousand years, ya know! And besides, when we tried to ask him, he wasn't too..." Rebecca considers the word. "...forthcoming with answers."

Desmond glances at Altair out of the corner of his eyes. The older assassin's arms are crossed, and he was studying their conversation intently-

The former bartender frowns.

-too intently for someone who did not understand lick of English.

"We figured that you might have known why." The mechanic continues. "He's pretty attached to you-"

"Try bloody _glued _to you. Blasted man was on you like a dog to a bone." Shaun huffs, much to Desmond's embarrassment.

"Which, was adorable, by the way." Rebecca remarks while patting Desmond's shoulder. "So, we need you to ask him, since Lucy says you know fluent Arabic thanks to the Bleeding Effect."

"Now, preferably." Lucy says curtly. "We don't have much time here, and the faster we know what we're dealing with, the better we'll be."

"I'll try." Desmond says, and turns to Altair.

And he does, which Lucy, Rebecca, and Shaun take great interest in watching with apt attention. From the way Desmond's voice seems to shift when speaking Arabic to the how Altair turned his whole attention to focus the former bartender, the three observed it all quietly and closely.

But perhaps what was most interesting to note was the fact that the moment Desmond spoke to Altair, the Syrian assassin's voice had held a lot less bite than it had had when they had tried speaking to the man. If anything, the man had seemed just a minuscule more… affectionate.

'_How curious.' _Shaun thinks, copper eyes calculating behind his glasses.

"He says he used a Piece of Eden to get here." Desmond reiterates slowly, breaking eye contact with Altair, who withdrew back to a lonesome posture.

"Ha! I knew it!" Rebecca declares proudly. "He _did _come here for-!"

"We don't know that yet." Shaun says irritably, eyes narrowing, before turning to Desmond. "Ask him why."

"Come here for who?" Desmond asks in regards to Rebecca but Shaun all but growls at him.

"Just ask him the bloody question!"

"Fine, fine, jeez." Desmond sighs, before turning to Altair. _"They ask why you came here to this time." _

Altair inclines his head, regarding Desmond silently and the others with nary an expression. He opens his mouth, but then closes it just as quickly, mouth set in a firm line that defies their question.

For a moment, Desmond thinks that Altair is angry, because the amber of Altair's eyes are bright with an emotion that Desmond cannot decipher, but for reasons he cannot fathom, he somehow knows that it isn't anger that drives the Syrian's silence. It's something else, something that looks no, _feels _like the other is…

_'What...' _Desmond wonders,_ 'are you _confused_ about?' _

"Perhaps we should continue this another time." Lucy speaks softly. She feels like they're intruding on something deep that she, Rebecca, and Shaun have no business being privy with. "It is getting late. We'll talk about this in the morning."

* * *

When Rebecca and Shaun leave, Lucy lingers behind, fingers grasping the doorknob loosely before she closes the door in front of her, which gains Desmond's and Altair's attention.

"Lucy?"

"Desmond… I need to talk to you for a moment." She pauses, shooting Altair a pointed look. "Alone."

"You realize he can't understand English though, right?" Desmond says with a brow raised, but Lucy just shoots him an impatient look which Desmond just sighs to. He glances at Altair, but from what he sees, the man has no intention of moving from his spot. "And…I doubt I can get him to move otherwise."

Lucy's lips thin, meeting Altair's glare head on, but she relents, if not reluctantly.

"I told you back in Abstergo that I'd explain everything. And I will." The blonde woman steps up, arms crossed with a frown marring her face. "There was a reason for the escape, Desmond."

"Figures." Desmond mutters under his breath.

"We need your help."

"For what? Another treasure hunt through time?"

"Abstergo's gonna replace their Apple of Eden. The map your ancestor found guarantees it. The other Assassins…" She swallows thickly. "They'll do what they can, where they can but… We're losing this war, Desmond. The Templars are too powerful. And every day, more of us die."

"I still don't see where I fit into things."

"We're going to train you—turn you into one of us." And Desmond's heart stops, the statement ringing in his ears.

_Turn you into an Assassin._

* * *

"_Get up, Desmond! You can last a little longer! Up! You have to increase your endurance!" _

"_But Dad, I—"_

"_It's for your own good, so GO, NOW."_

* * *

Desmond shakes his head. "What?! No, no… I'm not good at this. Even if I was, it would take months—years, even!"

"Not with the Animus." Lucy gives a rueful grin. "Not with the bleeding effect. You already know Arabic thanks to your ancestor."

"Wait…" Desmond thinks back, remembers the memory of that baby's cry. "So, Ezio…"

"If you can follow in his footsteps, you'll learn everything he did—just like he did. Years of training absorbed in a matter of days."

Desmond stills. "You broke me out of Abstergo and brought me here just to make me an _Assassin_?" The word is hissed out with a touch of anger that surprises Lucy and provokes a frown from Altair.

'_Did I say something wrong?' _"There's more to it than that, but—"

"No."

Lucy pauses, eyes wide at the short emission and Desmond's suddenly sharp gold eyes _glaring _at her.

"No. Lucy." Desmond's voice is low, tight with something that makes Lucy's heart ebb. "You broke me out of that hellhole just to _work _for you?! For this stupid _war _between the Assassins and Templars?!"

And at that, Lucy bites back, blue eyes shining angrily. "It is _not_ stupid! Do you even know what Abstergo will do with the Pieces of Eden?! They're going to launch a rocket into space and take away everyone's freedom and free will with it! They're going to take away our rights for their _perfect world!_"

"And why the hell should I be part of this, huh?! This has _nothing _to do with me!"

"It has everything to do with you! You are the _link _to the Pieces and we need you to find the Pieces before the Templars do!"

"You already have Altair's map! It's all there in that disk you gave to Rebecca!" Desmond argues. He doesn't notice Altair set a hand on his shoulder, squeezing slightly in warning.

"It's not enough!" Lucy yells. "Only _you _can help us! We're running out of time! After everything you've been through, don't you _want _to stop the Templars?"

"I _never _wanted any of this!" Desmond jeers, and the way the words are squeezed out of him paralyzes Lucy; startles Altair. "I never _wanted _any part of this! I never _wanted _to be born into this _goddamn _sorry excuse for a life that had already decided that I would be _fucked_ from the start!"

"I can't believe how selfish you are!" Lucy shrills, eyes narrowing crossly. "The whole world is at stake here! And you know what; you don't have a _choice—!"_

The room goes quiet.

And as if realizing what she had just said, the blonde's eyes widen in horror, mouth gaping. "No, Desmond, I mean—! I take that bac—"

"Get out."

"Desmond, please, I—!"

"Get out!_ Leave me ALONE!" _The thick, angry, Arabic slices her ears and the only thing Lucy can do is run—flee from the betrayal apparent in Desmond's eyes and the murderous expression on Altair's face.

* * *

The silence could be deafening in the room.

"...Did you hear that?"

"I think Uruguay heard that."

"Very funny." A roll of eyes before there is a pregnant pause. "What do we do if Desmond doesn't want to be a part of this? The kid... _does _have a choice...right?"

"It's...complicated."

"Complicated? That's a 'no,' isn't it?"

The man is silent.

"...If Lucy can't convince him..." They both know what that would mean. "We aren't like Abstergo. We aren't the bad guys."

"Good and Evil are opposite points on a circle, you know. Greater good is just halfway back to Bad." A pause. "Get some sleep, Rebecca."

"...G'night, Shaun."

* * *

A/N: Once again, I would like to thank you all for supporting this story and I. I really appreciate it and it gives me a fantastic feeling to know that you all are enjoying my writings. It's hard to believe that a story that started out with only a handful of reviews at first gained...well, love, so fast. So, thank you, thank you!

I have also gotten a question about whether or not Lucy will be cannon in this story, and the answer is yes. Lucy, indeed, will be cannon in this story. I intend for this story to stay (relatively) close to the actual games, so the important element and plot twists of the game will more than likely stay the same. Also, the question as to what 'habibi' means-it's a term of male endearment. More on this will be also slightly explained in the next chapter!

Oh, and to that reviewer who had described the ah, trunk idea in chapter 5. I, indeed, _had _originally wrote that out to happen, but the story got out of hand with Desmond being shot by that guard. Instead, that certain thing will happen in my next story, which, assuming good weather and will, will be uploaded in a week.

Alright, so, closing! This is not a xmas update, but it's a New Years one! So, Happy New Years, everyone! Let us have a fantastic 2013!

Until next time!

_nikaris_


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: In which, Desmond compromises.

Disclaimer: The author does not own Assassin's Creed.

* * *

Binary Duality  
_Chapter 8_

* * *

Desmond is glad that Altair is usually a silent person.

When Lucy had scurried off, Desmond had been expecting the Syrian to say something—anything about what had transpired. Instead, the man had retreated as Lucy had done, hand retracting from his shoulder that had Desmond unconsciously missing the comforting weight, but he knows that the separation was merely to give space to him rather than to escape from him.

And for that, Desmond is grateful. He doesn't expect Altair to understand. The man probably had his own agenda to fulfill. Why else would he be here?

Rebecca had had the right idea when she said that Altair had come all this way for _someone_, and really, who could it be but for him. Why else would the guy have appeared in his room in Abstergo?

'_Definitely not to hang out and enjoy the scenery.' _Desmond thinks, but it lacks bite.

He's just…really tired.

Desmond can feel Altair's eyes on him. He doesn't know if they're judging, or if they are pitying and empathetic. Frankly, he doesn't care what the man thinks, since his mind is more preoccupied on the memories that Lucy's words had drawn out from him—

Desmond breathes in deeply, gold eyes dimming.

—recollections that _scraped_ at his nerves.

* * *

_**Turn you into one of us.**_

* * *

"_Desmond, you're lagging behind!"_

"_But dad…" _

"_No buts! Your training should be in the forefront of your mind, and you must be prepared! It's for your own good!"_

* * *

_**The Templars are winning. And every day, more of us die.**_

* * *

"_What? What happened…? I see. Send Maria and James my condolences." _

"_The Southern East Coast team…?" _

"_Gone. John said that—Desmond? What are you doing here? You should be training—"_

* * *

_**You don't have a choice!**_

* * *

"_Live, or die, Mr. Miles?"_

* * *

"_Fledgling?" _It is to Altair's call that breaks Desmond out of his reverie. He looks up and the man is there, face grim, but Desmond can't see any pity or disdain in Altair's eyes. Instead, the man's ambers are carefully blank, if not slightly purposeful as they wander from him to the side. "_I find that fresh air clears the mind."_

Desmond follows Altair's gaze to the open window sill across the room and can't help feeling suddenly light. He nods his acquiesce easily; eagerly.

"_Okay." _

Altair grins just slightly.

* * *

"_I noticed, earlier… You looked tired." _

Altair blinks from his scrutiny of the city, surprise showing slightly at Desmond's sudden admission.

"_It…didn't look like you slept all that much." _Desmond continues, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "_Ah…and I probably took the only bed. Sorry." _

"_No, it is fine." _Altair considers it. _"Sleep does not come easily to me." _

Desmond kicks his feet, scraping the rubber of the sole of his sneaker against the concrete of the warehouse's walls. They were on the roof of the 'Hideout' that Rebecca had called in her explanation of the three's temporary place of operations. The Hideout was in an isolated location, consisting of a pack of abandoned warehouses just on the outskirts of the Italian capital. The roof of the Hideout didn't offer a fantastic view, but it did serve their needs well. The fresh, slightly sweet, air was like a sip of fine wine to Desmond, and it did well to soothe his frazzled nerves.

"_Oh." _The clouds of his breath were visible in the cold air, but instead of feeling its raw effects, Desmond just felt invigorated; skin touched with goose bumps that had his body thrumming with energy. _"A lot in mind?" _

Altair just hums, a steady visible mist escaping him as he does so. _"Many. This world is…strange. A future I am certain of, yet fear some aspects of. I find myself intrigued, though. It's… unnerving… but fascinating." _

"_It'll do that to ya." _Desmond chuckles lightly. _"You probably have a lot of questions. Ask away." _

'_I'm just surprised you haven't tried to force them out of me, yet.' _Desmond thinks to himself.

As expected, Altair nods eagerly, a keen expression on his face. _"Tell me everything."_

"_That's a heavy order." _Desmond laughs, but he hadn't expected any less.

Eager to get his mind off things, Desmond relents, and begins his story. He doesn't leave much out, but neither does he go into too much detail into the events that had occurred since his kidnapping. He tells Altair about working at the _Bad Weather _to that fateful day when he'd been drugged and dragged to Abstergo to locate the map of the 'Pieces of Eden.' That bit of information makes Altair apprehensive, but he keeps quiet as Desmond explains the function of the Animus and what it had allowed him to do.

"_So that was indeed you I felt."_ Altair murmurs understandingly with just the slightest tone of appeasement that makes Desmond blink.

"_Wait—you were aware of me the entire time?"_

"_I was." _Altair just replies simply. He doesn't elaborate, but there's no missing the softening of his eyes. _"Continue." _

Desmond's eyes narrow at Altair, but he concedes. By the time Desmond had reached the end of his tale where Lucy had saved him from being executed after finding the 'map,' a pregnant takes place, making Desmond acutely aware of how parched his throat suddenly felt.

Curiously, Desmond looks at Altair, trying to gauge his reaction from the brief history lesson, but the Syrian's face was as nonchalant as ever, despite the slight crinkling of his brow. But that look in his eyes…

Desmond isn't fooled. He knows this countenance from his ancestor's memories: Altair is planning something.

It makes his stomach drop.

"_What do you want from me?" _

Altair seems to jerk; blinking for a short moment in surprise.

"_Pardon?" _

Desmond sighs, resigned. _"Everyone wants something from me, it seems. The Templars kidnaps me for my genetic memories. The Assassins want me for some world-wide adventure to stop the Templars. And then, with you showing up…" _Desmond runs a hand through his hair, giving a little nervous laugh._ "If the pattern fits, well, then I can only guess that you want something from me as well." _The younger looks down, licking his chapped lips anxiously before regarding Altair._ "So, what is it?"_

"_You are quick to judge, fledgling." _Altair observes, but does not correct Desmond's assumption. "_You do not consider yourself an Assassin?" _

"_Me? No—I mean, I was at one point though, I think. When I was younger and living at the Farm, I was in-training to become one. The farm is like… a mini-Masyaf, sort of." _Desmond explains lamely at Altair's questioning expression. _"Back then, I went along with it because my parents wanted me to, but everyone was so packed full of crazy because really, Assassins? Templars?" _He shakes his head._ "It was fucking ludicrous and I realized that I didn't want any part of that. I still don't." _The last part is said quietly and meant only for him, but Altair manages to catch it if just the slightest of alarmed looks elicited is anything to go by.

There is an instant of uncomfortable silence between them and in that moment, Desmond starts to regret saying anything in the first place when what he says finally catches up with him. _'Stupid.'_ Desmond berates himself, visibly flinching. '_You got a master assassin here whose life is dedicated to the Assassins Order and you just called his affiliations and life ideals stupid. Fantastic.' _

He _really_ needed to stop babbling. It gave him less chances of verbal diarrhea and inciting murderous rage of a master assassin who more than likely was about to shank him.

Oddly enough though, it doesn't come. Rather, when Desmond risks a quick glance to Altair, the older man is staring at him contemplatively, a thoughtful frown marring his face as he regards Desmond with piercing eyes.

"_You truly did not want any of this?" _

Desmond shakes his head and turns upwards to view the night sky above them. He could see the stars very clearly. With the lights of the city miles away from their location, the little sparks above shined like diamonds on velvet.

"'_Course not." _The brunet sighs._ "I didn't ask to be kidnapped and made into a guinea pig for Abstergo's ends." _

"_What do __**you **__want, then?" _

The question is said clearly in his ears and Desmond jerks when he sees Altair crouched closely next to him, head tilted inquiringly. _"What do I want?" 'Well, preferably personal space and a hot shower with no Abstergo-brand Perv Cams sound great right about now.' _Desmond wants to say, but he doubts he should let _that _out lest he annoy the other.

He opens his mouth to answer the expectant Syrian, but falters when he realizes…

The question stumps him.

…what _did _he want?

When he had been 16, he had wanted to get out of the Farm—to actually _feel _something for a change and be out of that oppressive atmosphere. That quest had led him to New York and the _Bad Weather _where he had been quite happy.

Did he want to go back to the way things were? He had loved his job as a bartender at the barand had made fast friends out of his co-workers, (which was significant since he had been incredibly awkward at that time.) He had a pretty decent apartment considering the area of the city and was living relatively comfortably. But… that corner of the universe had never really been _home, _even when he had decided that New York was where he was going to finally settle.

And then life had hoisted him back into these whole Assassins versus Templars mess again and all Desmond really felt was… _trapped. _

"_I want to be free." _Desmond says finally and without thinking.

Altair is quick to respond. _"You are not constricted in any way, though." _

"_No, not free like that." _Desmond looks away, clearly embarrassed if the crawling red color and scowl across his face is any indication. It brings a slight grin to Altair's face but it fades when Desmond's expression turns somber.

"_Free like…" _Desmond trails off, struggling to find the words to convey his meaning before his attention is brought upwards when he hears a cry from above.

A bird soars overhead; the sound of its feathers fluttering filled the cold air before it loudly called to its brethren and disappeared after a couple powerful beats of its wings.

Altair doesn't miss the way Desmond's eyes followed the hawk intensely, a deep longing in those golden hues.

And then Altair understands. A surprised look crosses his face, before it turns into one of intrigue and delight. An idea formulates in his mind.

'_Little bird, wanting to fly…'_

"_Fledgling..." _

"_Stop calling me that." _Desmond says suddenly.

"_Would you prefer something else?" _Altair teases with an amused curl of his lips._ "Would you rather me call you, novice? Eaglet? Habi—?" _Altair stops, but it's too late because the mere syllable of the word had caught Desmond's attention.

"_That word: 'Habibi.'" _Desmond stares at him imploringly, pulling his legs up and hugging them to his chest._ "I've heard you call me it before but I can't understand it. What does that mean?" _

Altair snaps his mouth shut, eyes cast away in almost abashment.

"_It's not bad is it?" _Desmond has to ask with a wince.

"_It's not bad." _Altair replies hesitantly, before shaking it off, pulling off an almost indifferent demeanor. _"It is merely a term of endearment to another male in my language." _

"So… like brosive or broski." Desmond mutters to himself. For some reason, he can imagine Altair and Malik bumping fists and posing manically with a 'Broskis forever!' banner in the background, which elicits a snort from him.

"_Broski?" _Altair asks curiously.

"_Oh, those are just some more creative nicknames for 'brother' that people have come up wi—. " _Desmond says off-mindedly before his breath stops in his throat. He snaps his attention to Altair, who has an inquiring look on his face. "I…I said that in English. What the fuck, you can understand English?! Why the hell didn't you say anything about it?!"

"_You are mistaken, fledgling. I cannot understand your native tongue. You, however, I can understand." _At the younger man's stunned look, Altair continues. _"When you spoke with the others, while I could not directly understand their words, I could… feel what you felt when they were speaking."_

And felt he had. The onslaught of _fear/betrayal/anger _had been thick and especially troubling to Altair when Desmond had spoken with the blonde woman. Every lick of negative emotions that Desmond had felt had mirrored themselves right onto Altair until he had forced his own mind to calm down from the thrall.

"…_You're kidding me." _

"_I do not 'kid.'" _Altair says tersely, as if insulted. _"It is just as how I felt your pain when you were injured."_

"_Whoa, whoa, whoa. What do you mean you 'felt' my pain? You mean this?" Desmond pats his arm, but the moment he does it does he see Altair's eyes twitch just so faintly in time with the irritated stinging the wound produces upon his own arm. "...Oh." _

Maybe it was a fluke! Desmond does it again, harder this time, but between his own hisses of pain, he could also hear the hitch in Altair's breath, along with the narrowing of eyes.

"_Desmond…" _Altair says warningly, and immediately, the younger male's hand drops, at a loss for words.

This was really happening.

'_Okay, so I have some sort of… mental link with Altair?' _The brunet swallows thickly, hand running through his hair in nervous habit. All this info he was getting... it was all really hard to digest at one time.

For a moment, Altair moves to say something, but then thinks better of it, and instead folds his legs from their crouched position on the asphalt.

There is a sound of shoes scrapping across concrete, before Desmond suddenly feels a shoulder brush against his own. Altair doesn't look at him when he settles next to him. Rather, the man is quiet, as if granting Desmond a semblance of silence for him to gather his scrambled thoughts (which Desmond is extremely grateful for.)

The stillness between them isn't uncomfortable, Desmond finds, as he relaxes. It's strange. He'd pictured a get-together with his ancestor would have been a whole of a lot more uncomfortable featuring attempted murder and an excessive dose of running, most likely between him and his ancestor. So, it's rather odd that it had turned out like this.

Desmond burrows his head into his arms.

He isn't complaining though. It just meant fewer problems for him—not that the problems he _did _have now were any walk in the parks.

First, Altair… and now the issue with Lucy…

Desmond sighs. He doesn't know what to do. There were really only two options for him at this point: Go along with Lucy and become an Assassin, or…

"_Are you going to run?" _

Desmond turns his head slightly, flicking an eye open to meet the other's gaze, before he groans and turns away. _'Meddling ancestor…'_ The idea is still enticing though.

"_Stop looking into my head. It's creepy."_

"_It doesn't quite work like that," _Altair informs him patiently,_ "but that is not how I know."_

Curiosity gets the better of Desmond and when he gives in to regard Altair, the man's amber eyes are focused intently onto his own gold.

"_It is in your eyes." _Altair says simply, but he doesn't stop there. _"It is in your voice—in every gesture of your body." _Each word that Altair says makes the hairs on the back of his neck raise, eliciting Desmond's defenses and making his eyes narrow at the man warningly. _"You want to run." _

Altair says nothing to the dark look given to him from the younger man. He does nothing at all, despite knowing that he had essentially cornered a rabbit.

Desmond is just about to snarl at the man, a biting remark on the tip of his tongue, when he sees something in Altair's eyes that gives him pause. It's familiar, and it makes him pause for a second to contemplate his words.

"_You… considered the same, didn't you?"_

Altair closes his eyes, breathing out a calm, steady stream. _"A very long time ago."_

"…_What made you reconsider?"_

"_You come to find that… yes, you can run away. But eventually…" _Altair looks at him then, his eyes a shade of intense ochre. _"You'll run out of places to run to." _

The message is foreboding. It bothers Desmond, making his Adam's apple bob anxiously and fear course through his veins. His eyes flutter, a near hitch in his throat that signals the beginning of the incoming torrent of panic and _what-ifs. _

But then there is a pressure on his shoulder, squeezing firmly and urgently, and when he looks up—sees Altair _there_ with him in silent vigil… the tight knot in his chest suddenly doesn't feel as unbearable.

Because there's something in Altair's eyes that Desmond realizes that he hasn't seen or been familiar to in a very long time—and it _comforts_ him.

There's no guarantee he will get the freedom he so craves, Desmond knows; no promise in Altair's gaze that will promise him his one wish, but _something significant _is there.

And then, everything is somehow _okay_.

So, despite being anxious, jittery, so _goddamn afraid,_ Desmond breathes in… and takes his first leap of faith.

* * *

"Well, bugger." Shaun says under his breath the moment he spots a pair of figures in the Hideout's loft as he passes the doorway. The hot tea crashes against the ceramic mug and spills slightly down the white glaze as the Brit comes to a sudden stop to stare.

The young Miles is back in the makeshift hospital bed, but despite it being so early (just a little after sunrise, when Shaun checks his watch) the brunet is awake, fiddling with something white in his hands. Desmond's companion, however, seemed to be asleep. Altair was sitting on the chair by Desmond with his arms crossed and head tipped ever so slightly to the side. Had Shaun been a less observant man, he would have pegged the Syrian to be peacefully asleep considering the rise and fall of the white robed man's chest. Shaun _isn't_ though, so he catches a glimpse of Altair's sharp eyes opening for a split second when he detects the Brit's presence before they close again to rest, as if no longer deeming him a threat.

'_The ever present guard dog at his best.' _Shaun thinks before making his presence known to the less observant male in the room.

"You're still here." As Shaun had expected from such a rookie assassin (_'If he can even be called that.' _Shaun huffs inwardly,) Desmond twitches in surprise at his voice.

"Well, it's not like I have anywhere else to go." Desmond says cheekily, but doesn't engage in any conversation with the Brit. Rather, he is more focused on the fabric on his lap and the disobedient thread of string. "Stupid thing… Get in the freaking hole."

Shaun raises an eyebrow at the low mumbling. "Can't blame us for expecting it though, especially after the row you had with Lucy last night."

Desmond hums.

"…You know, she did not mean what she said last night." Shaun says, before taking a long sip from his mug. His eyes do not leave Desmond though, nor do they miss the second-long hesitance of Desmond's fingers.

"She meant what she said." Desmond says finally and with a surety that gives Shaun pause. "No matter how much you sugar coat it, she meant it… and she's right. I don't have a choice."

Shaun wants to ask what changed his mind, but he doesn't dare look a gift horse in the mouth. "Does that mean you'll do it?" There's a tilting hope in his voice that makes Shaun wince inwardly.

"Yeah." At that soft sigh, Shaun can already feel the tension he'd tried so very hard to hide from Rebecca leave him slowly.

Good… this was good.

Desmond isn't done yet though.

"But—"

'_Of course there's a bloody 'but.' _Shaun's eyebrow twitches.

"I'm not going to be a guinea pig again. If I want out of the Animus, I get it, alright?"

"What? You can't—"

"And," Desmond says forcefully, shutting Shaun up, "This is a temporary thing. Abstergo is the main HQ for Templars, right?"

"I… yes, yes it is." Shaun stutters out, slowly.

"I'll become an Assassin, but once Abstergo is dead, I'm done." Desmond's eyes harden. "Deal?"

Shaun's mouth flaps noiselessly, speechless, before he quickly composes himself. He hadn't been expecting this ultimatum at all. He has a half a mind to reject it, honestly. The Brit had never been one to do things half-assed, and the fact that Desmond suggested such an idea rubbed him the wrong way.

Yet, Shaun could see the rationality of Desmond's deal. Shaun had always been realistic. Their chances of actually taking down the Templars had _always _been slim, especially since the _Great Purge. _Chances were, the Brotherhood could possibly _never _take down such a powerful company like Abstergo. The bloody get might as well be with them forever (which technically was not bad.)

And yet, on the off chance that they _did _succeed_… _

It would be a sure _win _for the Brotherhood.

Yes… Shaun could see the logic in this. It was a win-win situation for them.

"Alright, I can agree to that." The Brit concedes, and gives a firm handshake when Desmond offers him his hand.

"Goo—"

"That sounds awesome!" A cheerful voice cuts in, making both Shaun and Altair twitch at the sudden intrusion and loudness. Shaun growls when he feels Rebecca's arm curl around his neck as she practically hangs off of him like some sort of monkey. "Hope ya didn't mind that I was listening in, but I gotta say, I've got no problem with that! Also, Feel free to run around outside too when ya want out of our Animus! It's the best way to get those Assassin juices flowin'!"

Desmond blinks incredulously. "…Assassin juices?"

"Get the bloody hell _off _of me—and what the hell are you saying? He can't go outside! What part of _most wanted man in Rome _do you not understand?!"

"I meant on rooftops and all that, Shaun, jeez!" Rebecca yelps, much to Desmond's amusement. "And no one really looks up anyways."

She _did _have a point there, Shaun has to concede. (He ignores the part of him that offers evidence that it would also help their novice Assassin build up his endurance and experience. After all, it was one thing learning skills from the Animus, and another thing to actually _do _it.)

"Fine, _fine—_just get _off me!" _

Grinning in mirth, Rebecca does, sliding off Shaun effortlessly and bounding over to Desmond as Shaun straightens his vest, grumbling obscenities underneath his breath as he does so.

"Glad to see that you're on board, Desmond!" Rebecca chirps and pats Desmond's back, careful as to not jar his still healing arm. She seems to notice the fabric on his lap and lets out a questioning sound. "What's that you got there?"

"Huh? Oh, uh, it's my jacket."

Her eyes linger on the small sewing kit that Desmond had probably pulled out from the nearby shelf. "You're trying to fix it?"

"Yeah. I'd rather not buy a new one." He gives Rebecca a weak grin. "Not like I have the means. The only thing I own is the clothes on my back."

"Money isn't an issue." Rebecca assures him. And it really wasn't. Their network wasn't as rich as their enemies' but nor were they scraping along for cash. Rather, they operated on a… alternative revenue stream. "And we have extra clothes."

"So do throw that thing away. It's stinking up the place." Shaun huffs and turns up his nose.

"Yeah, whatever." Desmond huffs right back, but he inwardly has no intention of doing so.

"But anyways..." Rebecca begins, "It's a new day. You think Desmond's okay enough to get started now?"

Shaun moves towards the younger man and gives a quick inspection of the injured limb, before making a pleased sound in the back of his throat. "It's healing just fine. He should be good to be up and about so long as he goes easy on it."

"Sweet! So, ya ready to meet Baby?"

Desmond raises an eyebrow. "Er… 'Baby?'"

"The Animus 2.0." A voice answers from the doorway, making the three turn to regard their new addition.

'_Lucy.' _

The woman is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed with a blank expression on her face. Her blank mask seems to falter for a moment when her eyes land on Desmond, something akin to shame and fear seeping through the cracks, before she forces her eyes to avert. Desmond notices that she doesn't even glance at Altair, and she has good reason not to. A quick glance towards his silent ancestor tells him that Altair is no longer asleep, but gracing Lucy with a dark expression that makes the former bartender sympathetic for the blonde.

Looking at Lucy right now, Desmond can't bring himself to stay mad at her either. She had her reasons for saying what she said, and though Desmond did not feel the urge to spite her, it didn't mean that he wasn't upset with her.

Lucy seems to try to clear her throat, pointedly not looking at Desmond and finding the floor more particularly interesting. "It's much better than the one in Abstergo."

Rebecca preens, puffing her chest up in pride. "Also comfier, might I add! But anyways, don't worry about the small things. I'll go shopping once you're hooked up. You and tall, dark, and scary over there seem to be about the same size. I'll find something."

"Ah… thanks, Rebecca." Desmond bows his head awkwardly. "I appreciate it."

"It's no problem!"

"Right, well, now that we have everything relatively settled…" Shaun claps his hand together. "Let's get to work, shall we? No lollygagging!"

There's a snort from Rebecca and a faux exasperated sigh from Lucy, but they comply nevertheless.

"Oh, and Desmond?"

Desmond is just swinging his legs over the side of the bed when Shaun stops halfway out the door and calls him. The former bartender inwardly groans, readying himself for another snide comment for the uptight Brit. "Yeah?"

There is none, though. Instead, for once, Shaun's face is sincere and there's just the barest of grins curling on the edges of his mouth.

"…Welcome to the team."

* * *

Altair doesn't understand all that is said in the quaint little room. In another time, he would have found his predicament vexatious—infuriating for the fact that he could not understand what was exactly going on. He had never liked being out of the loop, after all. Yet, in this circumstance, there was no need to understand what the other Assassins were saying.

Instead, his attention is mostly focused on Desmond and the brushes of _feelings _purring against his own mind. Altair can sense the younger man acutely; accurately detecting hints of _amusement/relief/gratefulness _from his fledgling.

It pleases him that the younger feels this way, and his eyes soften minutely as he observes Desmond chatting with the bespectacled male and raven haired woman.

Desmond had told him, of course, of his decision on his reinstatement of his status as novice Assassin and of the 'terms' of his arrangement, to which Altair had no qualms with. Things were never set in stone and Altair was confident that the ways of the Assassins would not be too far from Desmond's perception of freedom.

It was in their blood, after all.

_And yet… _

The Syrian's eyes lower, the irises darkening calculatingly as he feels the silver Piece of Eden hidden in his pack burn against his hip.

Altair wonders if Desmond would like to see the sands of his homeland after all of this over.

* * *

A/N: Thank you very much, my dear readers, for the positive well wishes and enthusiasm for this story that I have received. Every review and favorite shows how much you all like this story and it makes me extremely happy and all the more eager to write! I very much appreciate it. So, thank you, thank you!

On a side note, I know that logically, this does not make a difference in terms of results but… midterms are this week along with a whole crap load of things to do. So… wish me luck?

I'll have the next chapter up as soon as everything this coming week has calmed down and passed. So, until next time!

_nikaris _


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Hello there. It's been a long time. I regret that it has taken this long to work out a chapter for you all, but I've had some major snags since the last update. Turns out, my skin is extremely sensitive to silver nitrate, and as it so happened, my last lab of the last quarter dealt with a small bit of it. As such, the skin of the fingers of my right hand has been… not so okay. Thus, it has been difficult to type. So, it is to my great regret that that and a good bit of writer's block, has delayed the coming of this chapter.

But on the upside, this is a very long chapter. So, without further ado, I bring you Chapter 9—in which, Desmond and Altair both muse, and in the end, they both burn.

Disclaimer: This author does not own _Assassin's Creed. _

* * *

Binary Duality  
_Chapter 9_

* * *

"So, Animus time, I guess?" Desmond says once he and Altair join the others in the Hideout's main room. He gives a quick once over to the entire room, seeing Rebecca, Shaun, and Lucy in their respective areas.

'_Guess that's going to be my 'office.'' _Desmond thinks, sighing when he sees Rebecca wave enthusiastically with one hand and patting Baby with the other.

"Yo, Desmond! Check out, Baby!" The woman grins, gesturing Desmond over warmly. "She's a beut', isn't she?!"

"Much better looking than the one in Abstergo." Desmond praises and even Altair seems to think so as well if the curious and approving expression on the man's face was any indication.

"_What is this?" _

"_An Animus that I think Rebecca made." _The novice informs him, making Altair cock his head.

"_This looks much different than the one the Templars had." _

"_And much more comfy!" _Desmond grins. He turns to regard Rebecca and blinks when he notices the curious expression on the woman's face. "Oh, uh… He was just asking about Baby."

"I figured as much," Rebecca says with a hint of pride, before frowning thoughtfully. "But… I'm thinking that we will need a way to communicate with your ancestor there. I doubt me, Luc', or Shaun can come to you for every translation and as I said before, Google translations can only go so far…"

"Not to mention how inconvenient it would be." Shaun puts in his two cents, swiveling his chair to face the three. "You might as well tell him to bark in case of emergency or anything else life threatening, Desmond."

Rebecca rolls her eyes as Shaun turns back to work. "Ignore him. He's grumpy that we're out of his favorite tea."

"…not bloody grumpy…" Desmond can hear Shaun mumble to himself, making the corner of the former bartender's lips twitch upwards.

"Ah well…" The raven haired woman sighs. "Anyways, I can't have you in Baby just yet. I gotta calibrate her to sync and catch up to the memory you viewed with Lucy before escaping."

"Ezio's birth?" Desmond asks, remembering the instance. It had been a… odd experience to say the least.

"That one." The woman nods happily. "Was baby Ezie a cutie, by the way?"

Desmond's lips twitch at the nickname. "He was." At least, he had thought so after the initial panic that Desmond had experienced when the babe had not cried out moments after the birth. Stillbirth and the accompanying feels of panic had been on the forefront of his mind before his Italian ancestor's lungs had cleared and the baby had cried for the first time.

"Anyway, you should go talk to Lucy and Shaun while I'm working on this." She pauses, lowering her voice. "Specifically Lucy. She's been lookin' kinda... weird, ya know?"

_Sad; guilty_—Rebecca's eyes seem to say.

Desmond sighs. "Yeah... okay."

* * *

Desmond ends up visiting Shaun first…and in retrospect, it was probably not the better choice.

"Hey, so what's all this… stuff… for?"

It's the first thing that comes out of Desmond's mouth and immediately, it elicits Shaun's ire like a bonfire.

"_'This stuff'_, Desmond? Oh, this stuff is nothing special really, _this stuff._" Shaun bristles. "It's just, _the stuff _that keeps our whole entire operation from falling apart, really."

Desmond blinks.

Altair has no comprehension of the word _'this stuff,' _but his eyebrows raise nevertheless, mimicking the perplexed expression on his descendant's face.

Shaun is on a roll though, hands flying in the air with just the _smallest _of indignation and offense.

"It requires a _great _deal of concentration to keep it all moving you see, so you'll _forgive me _that I have no time to play meet and greet."

'_Right… note to self: Do not say 'stuff' around Shaun.' _Desmond thinks once the Brit gives a little huff, grumbling balefully about 'stuff' as he turns back around to type on his console.

"_There is a word for him in my mother's language." _Altair says suddenly to Desmond, making the novice assassin look at him curiously.

"_Oh? Wait, your mother's language? She wasn't native to the middle east?" _This was news to him. He had always assumed that both Altair's parents had both been Syrian.

"_No, she was a Christian Frenchwoman traveling through the area when she met my father." _Altair says. Something crosses his eyes for a moment, which Desmond catches, before it disappears as fast as it had come and a contemplative expression overtakes the man's face. _"I believe it was… 'les rosbifs.'" _

Shaun tenses.

"'_les rosbifs?'" _Desmond repeats, vaguely aware of an abrupt tension in the area. _"That sounds a lot like…"_

"Did you ancestor just call me, _ROAST BEEF?!_"

* * *

Minutes later, Shaun and Altair came to be in some sort of verbal spar, one spitting derogatory terms in a shrill British accent and the other goading him in French.

Desmond had at first wanted to step in and separate the two in case of a brawl, but after watching for a second, had thought better of it. Altair could benefit from getting to know Shaun (even if it were in this way) better, especially if what Rebecca had told him Altair had almost done to Shaun was true.

'_No wonder Shaun doesn't like Altair very much.' _Desmond thinks, shaking his head in amusement.

Still, the fact that Altair could speak French was a definite plus against that pesky language barrier.

He spares the two verbally sparing men another glance just to make sure they are not at each others' (literal) throats, before quietly sneaking away towards Lucy.

The blonde is dutifully working at her desk, Desmond can see. Her hair is in her usual neat bun, held together with white bobby pins that Desmond can see sticking out in odd angles, but firmly holding the yellow strands in place.

Talk to Lucy, Rebecca had wanted. Yet, looking at the blonde now, no words came to mind on how to approach the subject that was possibly still seared into their memory.

Thankfully, it is Lucy that speaks first.

"Did you need something, Desmond?"

"Oh, uh…" Desmond startles and fumbles for a moment, unaware of the faint twitch of Lucy's lips at his brief floundering. "I was just wondering what you were up to? I mean like, where do you fit in in…" He gestures around him vaguely. "…all of this?"

"I usually report whatever useful information I can get to the Assassin Networks." Lucy says simply, and as if proving her point, her fingers fly across the keyboard before moving to the mouse and clicking quickly. "With many teams overseas and in different countries, information is the most important thing to get around."

"I see…" Desmond says, to which the blonde hums casually.

Desmond is consciously aware that Lucy is not looking at him in the eye.

He begins again. "You get a lot of information?"

"It's enough to keep my busy."

They're both dodging the thing in both their minds, and acutely attentive of it.

'_Oh, fuck it.' _Desmond sighs. "Look, Lucy…

"Okay, look, Desmond…"

They both stop, staring at each other with surprised eyes.

"Um, you go first."

"No, what were you going to say?"

They stop again.

"I just wanted to say—"

"I wanted you to know that—"

Once more, they pause, looking at each other exasperatedly before finally, they grin, letting out two, smiling laughs.

* * *

Lucy had always prided herself in being calm and collected. To be as such ensured control, both over herself and of the variables around her, and to her, that was the most important thing in the world in terms of survival. For years, it had aided her well and few had actually managed to break down her carefully constructed walls.

But then Desmond happened.

And that entire vigilant construct had fallen around her as the man had over and over surprised, exasperated, amused, and _ensnared _her with his quick twitch-of-the-lip grins and antics. In less than a _week_, Desmond had nearly given her a heart attack and made her emotions run rampart than they ever had in _years. _

It's was... discontenting to say the least.

'_What are you doing to me?' _

Lucy sighs minutely, eyes narrowing to pensive slits.

The blonde would be lying if she said she hadn't expected Desmond's reluctance to her 'request.' She had spent hours deliberating ways to voice and persuade him if he so happened to decline. Everything would have worked out, just as planned… but then the man had _reacted_, and _damned_ if she knew why she had responded to his hostility in kind.

She shouldn't have reacted like that. _What in the hell had made her react to him like that?!_

But here he was, surprising her again.

Her laughter subsides and the air feels much more relaxed than it had been before. The smile that they share does not fade and for some reason, Lucy feels… better; okay—like she was a fool for worrying about this expected talk in the first place.

She's surprised when she realizes that it's the first time she felt this nice in a while, and looking at Desmond, grinning in that semi-awkward way of his…

"I'm sorry." The apology slips out without her knowledge, and Lucy is amazed that it comes out so naturally and sincerely. "I... shouldn't have said that you had no choice."

"But, you're right and it's true." Desmond says simply, making Lucy look up at him. Yet, there is neither contempt nor accusation in his tone or face that she initially expects. Instead, he has a look of weary acceptance that makes something inside Lucy uneasy. His grin turns sardonic, an unknown emotion swirling in the golden depths of his eyes. "I never really had a choice in anything, and yeah, I was pissed off that you just helped me escape to fulfill your own ends, but when I reflect on it… Abstergo's not going to stop hunting me down anytime soon. If I want any semblance of peace, they can't be in the picture."

A silence overtakes them for a minute. He's right; they both know it.

"I want others to have choice." Desmond breathes finally, looking away. "I was Subject 17. There were others _before_ me and there will be others _after_ me, right? I want the rest to have a choice. I want them to have what I never did."

There's something underlying in his words—something that is _not just about_ being entered into the Animus program.

"I'm sorry." The words escape against her will again. Lucy doesn't exactly know why she says it or what she's sorry _for_, but strangely, Desmond seems to know, and he gives just the barest of grins at her that makes her chest tight.

"It's fine."

"So, do you…?"

"I forgive you." Desmond assures her, and smiles a little. "We're cool."

She manages to crack a grin at that.

"'Sides, I'm sorry for yelling at you too. I overreacted." Desmond says, sheepishly.

"Hey, guys! Baby's all set!" They both look up when they hear Rebecca. The woman is waving her arm enthusiastically.

"You better go." The blonde gives a small smile. "Rebecca's been eager to have Baby running."

Desmond takes a couple steps before he pauses, and turns back towards her. "Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. I never did get to thank you."

Lucy blinks. "For what?"

"For helping me? For not being an ass-hat like Vidic? For getting me and Altair out of Abstergo? Take your pick." The accompanying grin with the shrug of his shoulders is light. "I haven't said it yet, but I'm grateful. So… thank you."

Lucy's eyes soften. She likes the offered little grin of his.

"You're welcome."

* * *

Rebecca had always prided herself in being a good judge of people. She thinks it's because she had always liked watching people—observing anything from their tiny, subconscious brushes of their hands to just the barest of creasing of the skin around their eyes. Because of such attention to these small details, she had learned how to tell if people were lying or if they were sincere; whether they had good intentions, or bad. It was a myriad of information that she could access within a moment's notice.

It was this intuition she had that Shaun often mistook her friendliness to people as her being too trusting. He had always voiced it with a sneer, mouth pulled in his usual scowl, but with a concern that showed on his body language. Rebecca had just grinned dumbly at that. She wasn't trusting. If anything, she was the most wary one of their team—always reading; watching; _observing. _

Not to say that it was a burden, though. It had never led her astray. Rather, it often led her to good places—like Shaun. The man had exuded the very aura of introversion and a spitefulness that tended to keep people at bay when they had first 'met,' but the raven haired woman had just laughed at it—literally.

It was how they first met after all, all those years ago. The first memory of her meeting with Shaun Hasting had been of his wide eyed, mind boggled expression as she had laughed at his face right then and there… before saving his life.

So when Rebecca looks at Altair, friendliness comes easily to her because she sees something good in him. In that master assassin she saw sitting diligently by Desmond's side, she sees that to Altair, their novice means a lot to him. She doesn't know why nor does she know _how _such a thing could possibly be… but the evidence is there, painted in every little gesture the man makes. She can see how Altair looks upon the younger man like a treasure— a softness in his eyes that Rebecca had witnessed only a few times over the course of her lifetime.

Even now, from the corner of her eyes, Rebecca can see the Syrian brush the back of his hand across Desmond's cheek—slowly; gently; _tenderly._

The man seems to notice her gaze upon him and turns his head to the woman watching him from her post, eyes narrowed questioningly, but Rebecca just smiles complacently, giving away nothing.

He utters something then, a string of words fitted with bobs and weaves that are foreign to her ears, but then it shifts to a more _familiar _phonological string that Rebecca can decipher.

Rebecca vaguely recognizes the language as French—a very outdated French.

It had been very hard to miss the contest of insults that Shaun and the Syrian had been in earlier. Between her snickering at Shaun's infuriated expression and hasty scribbling of French insults (it wasn't every day that she was able to learn old-styled French insults, after all,) Rebecca was ecstatic at the realization that she could put her French finally to use with Altair, no matter how limited it was going to be, because though translation wasn't going to be fantastic, at least they had one person in the group (who wasn't Desmond) who could understand the time traveler, if not partially.

Altair's knowledge of French made sense, of course. According to her notes, King Richard I of England had spoken French during the Third Crusade when Altair had spoken with the man and French was a common language during the 12th and 13th century.

He speaks again; his words are clearer this time and it takes Rebecca a moment to decipher that he's asking about something by her thigh—her gun.

Altair's gaze is inquisitive, and again, Rebecca can't help but grin at how much it reminds her of a Bull when the terrier pup had been curious whenever she had brought gizmos home. Explaining to the man what a 'gun' was and how it worked in a sort of broken kind of French is difficult, but Altair seemed to understand her brief description if the hum of understanding he makes is anything to go by.

His gaze changes then—from apprehension to an interest that Rebecca is _very _familiar with. She asks if he would like to try shooting and the expected change in the Syrian's reaction is enough of an answer for her, making Rebecca beam widely in excitement. Leaning over, she waves in Shaun's direction to get his attention.

"Yo! Shaun!"

"Hm?"

"Teach Altly how to use a gun, would ya?"

"Teach 'Alty' to use a—wait, _what?!_" Shaun jerks up, looking at Rebecca incredulously and as if she was insane. (He's honestly played with the thought before.) _"_Are you out of your bloody mind?!"

Rebecca rears back in faux confusion. "What's wrong with that?"

"He's already _armed to the bloody teeth, _or have you mistaken the sword, dagger, and throwing knives as fashionable accessories?And now you want to give him a _gun?_"

"We're not _giving _him one." Rebecca rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "Just teaching him how to use one. It's the best kind of safety anyone can have, really. 'Sides, what if something comes up and he happens to pick one up?"

"We take it away from him!" After nearly getting shanked _last time _by Desmond's crazy ancestor, there was no way in _hell _the bastard was going to potentially pull a gun on him.

"I'm with Shaun on this one, Becca." Lucy says from her post, frowning. "I don't think it would be such a good idea."

"Thank you, Lucy." The Brit pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a finger, nodding haughtily. "'Sides, he doesn't need to use one if he doesn't have one. "

"…Well, he's touching yours right now."

The predictable yelp is music to Rebecca's ears, bringing out the Cheshire cat in her.

"What in the bloody—no, no, you imbecile! Don't hold it like that and for god's sake don't _point it at your sodding self!"_

"I'll get the training room ready." Lucy sighs, shaking her head, but it's hard to miss the hilarity glinting in her eyes.

"Oh my god, give that back!"

* * *

The first time Desmond had experienced Ezio's life was at the Italian's birth. It had been…an interesting position to be in, to say the least. It had initially started out awkward (he was in the point of view of a _baby _after all,) but it had also turned into a frightening ordeal. Desmond could remember it vividly. In his ears, he could hear 'his' mother's pained gasps—feel the trembling of the room and the tension in the dry air as they waited for the birth.

He remembers how calm Ezio had been when the babe had entered the world, silent as a grave.

It had been terrifying to be thrust in that memory at first. His horror had been mirrored in the eyes of the two midwives catering to the expecting mother.

At that time, Desmond had been in that out-of-body-but-still-with-them experience that he was all too familiar with inside Abstergo's Animus. It was like sliding into another's skin, but having no control save for an acute awareness of the world around. The sensation of living as Altair had always been disorienting—difficult to differentiate between what was _him _and what was _Altair _before the Animus had helped him settle the vertigo. It was no different with being the newborn Italian.

Reliving Ezio's memories in _Baby _however, was different.

Desmond wonders if it is because of _Baby _that playing as Ezio feels unfamiliar. Rebecca had bragged about the Animus 2.0's specs, leaving nary a detail out and preening all the while in pride as she did. He had to admit, though, she had the right to brag. Rebecca hadn't exaggerated when she said that the machine was more comfortable either. It wasn't a Posturepedic mattress, but it was sure as hell better than a metal table.

The software of their Animus was a lot more advanced than the one at Abstergo as well. Walking in Renaissance Italy, Desmond had felt more aware of Ezio and their surroundings. Ezio's thoughts hadn't been a low hum in Desmond's mind like Altair's had been. Instead, he could feel and hear the Italian's voice ghost in the shell of his ear, as if the man were right beside him.

It was bizarre as all hell, but oddly interesting. The last time he had been 'Ezio,' the Italian had been a mere newborn. Now thrust upon a much older version of his ancestor, seeing what that little babe had grown up to be was amazing, if not a little surreal.

Like with Altair, Desmond had seen traces of himself in Ezio's reflection. They're faces were alike, and even the scar that was still fresh on the man's face where that rock had struck was beginning to take the same length and shape as his own.

Of course, they had some physical differences. The longer hair, a freckle or two, and such, were easy to spot, but it was not those aesthetic attributes that stood out to Desmond the most and made him realize just how starkly _different _Ezio was from him.

It had been Ezio's eyes.

They were so…_carefree._

And Desmond marvels them—admires the man's welcoming eyes and open smiles that he so easily and freely gives. The man passes by a pair of girls walking on the brick pathway and flashes them the same smile as before, eyes alighting in such a way that has Desmond suddenly…envious and self-conscious.

Would that have been how _he _would have looked if…?

Desmond shakes his head firmly, keen on not treading though _that _territory. Instead, he brings his attention back to Ezio, expecting the man to do something Assassin-y….

Desmond's eye twitches.

…only to see the man chatting with another set of women.

"_Hello, Madonna~!" _

'…_Are you kidding me?'_ If Desmond could groan, he would have in that instance as he regarded his ancestor sourly. Such a scene shouldn't have been surprising to him considering he'd witnessed Ezio escape out of a woman's bedroom the night before. _'You HAD to be a ladies' man…' _

He figured that while he was reliving some genetic memories, there might as well be commentary to make it more enjoyable. So far, it had worked out pretty well by keeping him occupied while Ezio did menial tasks for his family.

'_Gotta admit that you got a way with words, though.' _Desmond murmurs, a hint of jealousy entering his words when he sees the girls titter and bat at Ezio like felines to catnip. _'Of all the things I seem to inherit from this bloodline, social skills aren't one of them. Fantastic.'_

"_Ser Ezio…My sisters and I were wondering if we could possibly see a…demonstration... of your reach… to our…__**flexibility**__." _

Wait, what?

"_Why madonna…" _Ezio purrs, _"Such a thing would require much…room, for that venture, and I am afraid that my humble abode would not be appropriate for such a thing." _

Oh, _no._

"_My sisters and I insist, ser Ezio… Why do you not come inside our home? We do enjoy guests since we have been lonely for __**so long**__!" _

When did this memory become a plot from some raunchy erotica novel?!

"_Well then, do lead the way…" _

'_THIS IS NOT OKAY.'_

* * *

Sitting beside her _Baby, _Rebecca makes a curious noise in the back of her throat when she sees an alert on the computer screen.

"Huh. Desmond's pulse is going crazy all of the sudden..." She checks on what chapter of the memories he's in, but he's only on the first chapter. "Nothing significant should have happened yet…"

Yet, when she looks at Desmond, the man's pallor had faded to a pale shade and…

Was he _sweating? _

"Well, Italy _is _hot around that season." Rebecca tells herself, before shrugging. Shaun had told her specifically that this memory was vital, after all. The sequence that he had pointed out to her was a tad earlier in time than Rebecca would have recommended, but she wasn't the history major here.

''_Sides, what could go wrong?'_

* * *

It takes Rebecca all her strength to keep Desmond from choking Shaun when he wakes up from the Animus two hours later.

"Shaun, you _asshole!"_ Desmond seethes, straining against Rebecca._ "_You did this to me!"

"I'm sure it wasn't so bad, Desmond!" Rebecca consoles sincerely, but her lips twitch sporadically in mirth. "So you got an eyeful of Ezio getting _busy_. No big deal!"

"...You've obviously never seen a 15th century orgy." Desmond says dryly, eliciting a snort from Rebecca and making a choked sound escape from a certain Brit across the room.

Shoulders shaking, Shaun takes a second to compose himself before swiveling in his chair to face the scowling Miles glowering on Baby. "You can _hardly_ blame me. How was_ I_ supposed to know how… _amorous_ your ancestor was?"

"You're the one with all the data!" Desmond growls, eyes narrowing in displeasure when Shaun smirks.

Sighing exasperatedly, Desmond covers his face with his hands, hoping that the coldness of his hands would cool off his burning face.

'_Stupid horny ancestor…' _Desmond shudders. He _sincerely _hopes that no more episodes of… Italian affection… will occur, at least while he was in Ezio's head. He had _not _signed up for _this_!

Though now, he did know that Ezio was a really, _really, _creative man.

And he really did have reach.

Desmond lets out pained groan at _that _piece of information that he had been forced to verify over and over again.

Something in his mind brushes alongside his thoughts that he knows is distinctly _Altair, _but when he cracks an eye open, the Syrian is not with him as he had originally thought he would be. The chair beside Baby that Rebecca had pulled out for Altair is strangely empty.

"Rebecca?"

"Hm?"

"Where's Altair?" A certain blonde wasn't in sight either. "And Lucy?"

"Lucy had to take a call and Altair is in the training room." Rebecca says.

Desmond makes a questioning sound. "Training room?"

It is Shaun that speaks up then, all the while giving Rebecca a side-ways glare. "_Rebecca_ thought it was a good idea for Altair to learn how to shoot. So, I showed him the ropes and let him be."

And the man _had _expressed _a lot _of interest at the firearm, Shaun reflects. He winces at the memory of the man examining the weapon which he had stupidly left out on the counter. Shaun had had to yank the thing out of the Syrian's hand lest he accidentally blow his brains out. (_'Considering he's part of Desmond's lineage, it wouldn't be improbable. Reckless line, they are…' _Shaun thinks with a slight huff.)

Altair had growled at him when he'd taken the weapon away, and though Shaun did find him annoying and a _complete sod, _Shaun didn't want the guy to get hurt. Lord _knows _how annoying it would be to deal with _another_ injured assassin, especially a skittish _armed _one. At that point, they had had a little tug of war session, each with an irritated scowl on their face that when Shaun reflects on it, he was now _thanking every deity up there_ that gun's safety had been on.

In the end, Shaun had pushed the irate man into the makeshift shooting range that Lucy had set up, doing his best to accurately portray and mime standard handgun use since language was out of the question. (Shaun had never been that fluent in French, let alone outdated French. He considered it good riddance to not know that accursed language.)

Shaun had to admit that Altair was a quick learner though. He was smart to know to point the gun to the ground when not shooting and he mimicked the correct form to hold the weapon as well. His aim also was impressive. Altair didn't make the rookie mistake of aiming exactly at the bull's eye of the paper targets either, but rather, the man had aimed slightly higher, as if anticipating for air resistance. Considering how accurate the Syrian assassin was with throwing knives, it made sense to that Altair would apply the same basics of it to shooting, which that in itself was quite remarkable.

"He's a decent shot." Shaun muses, tilting his chair back to stare at the high ceiling thoughtfully. "Very good for a beginner."

"Are you sure that's okay?" Desmond asks, unsure. "I mean, unsupervised with a firearm?"

"I wouldn't worry. He and I finished up just a couple minutes before you came out of the Animus." Shaun replies.

"Oh!" Rebecca suddenly perks up. "I almost forgot. I haven't been out shopping yet, but I _did_ manage to find some old clothes in some boxes in the other warehouses for you guys. I even managed to find a replacement hoodie for you too." Rebecca says, and pulls a white mass out of a bag by her feet before handing it to Desmond. "It's a little old, but should do."

The fabric is frayed and the arms of it are a tad long, but when Desmond pulls it over his head and wiggles it on, the former bartender is grateful that it makes him feel less exposed and more in his comfort zone. Desmond shoots a thankful smile at the raven haired woman. "Thanks, Becca."

Rebecca nods happily. "No problem! I'll probably head out to the store a little later too. Meanwhile, you can roam around this district while I'm out—so long as it's okay with Shaun, of course."

"Oh, yeah, I have absolutely no problem with it." Shaun says just a little _too_ quickly. "Get your 'assassin juices' flowing and all that jazz."

Desmond raises an eyebrow, and even Rebecca appeared suitably surprised at his easy admission. "Wait, what? What happened to being all uptight about me being the most wanted man in Rome and alerting attention from Abstergo?"

"Yeah, what's with the sudden change of heart?" Rebecca asks curiously.

"Well, Abstergo's out looking for you, yes? The obvious route would have been to flee the country, and probability-wise, the first place they'll search for you is for on all outgoing flights from the capital. However, by staying _here…_"

"…We're basically hiding in plain sight." Desmond figures.

"Essentially." Shaun replies. "That, and Lucy figured a rookie assassin like you should try blending in with crowds. We don't have you recorded for learning any of Ezio's abilities yet… but a good deal of Altair's. That _should_ be enough, in theory, of course. It's good practical training and if you be discreet and stick by the more centralized zones, you should be able to get by. Rome doesn't get any fewer amounts of tourists this time of year, after all, and nor does this district." The brunet explains, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Shaun gives Desmond a once over, before making an almost resigned hum of semi-approval. "Considering how generic you look, you'll fit right in."

"Generic?!" Desmond bristles.

Rebecca wants to laugh at Desmond's outraged expression, but her attention is more focused on the Brit. He's lying, Rebecca knows. The way in which Shaun touches his glasses unnecessarily and the lack of eye contact to her was a huge tell, and as such, Rebecca opens her mouth to tell him just so, but as if knowing that she was going to call him out on it, Shaun gives her a meaningful look that makes her stop.

'_Did something happen?' _She wonders with a small frown, but she trusts Shaun and drops it.

"Practice makes perfect, I guess." Rebecca says finally.

"What about Altair?" Desmond inquires as he stands to stretch his arms, careful as to not strain his injured arm. A residual ache makes him wince.

"Take him with you." Shaun says dismissively with a wave of his hand. "I doubt we can even keep him here without you, anyways."

"And he could probably give you some pointers, too!" Rebecca insists.

"Alright." Desmond moves to leave but at the sharp call of his name, he turns around in time to catch something that Rebecca tosses at him—a cell phone.

"Make sure to keep it on you." Rebecca says with a smile, waving him away.

"Oh, and _do _shower before you go." Shaun drawls nonchalantly, wrinkling his nose when Desmond walks past. "I'm sure that your stench alone could land you into the center of attention than any rookie mistake could."

"_R__osbifs." _Desmond mutters underneath his breath.

"I heard that!"

Rebecca just laughs after him.

* * *

Desmond was adamant in the fact that he _did not _smell, but _dear god; _it was a good idea to shower.

The former bartender turned novice assassin sighs contently as water cascaded down his back. Words could not describe the joy he felt in that single moment. He was in a shower stall-a _non-transparent glass shower stall, _he might add- with absolutely _no _Abstergo brand security camera watching his every move. (That window in front of the shower stall on the other hand, could have been better placed, but he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.)

_'I'm in heaven!' _Desmond thinks gleefully, relishing in the privacy he'd missed for so long. He hums against the spray, feeling the tension slip away from his shoulders and down the drain. Pleased sighs leaving his lips, Desmond lets his mind wander, eyes closing almost sleepily. He hadn't felt this relaxed in a while.

Desmond knows that it is because everything had moved so fast the past couple weeks. So many things had happened that he barely had had the chance to slow down and collect his thoughts. Abstergo… Assassins and Templars…Altair…

At the last thought, Desmond's mind immediately goes to when Altair had appeared in his 'bedroom,' helping him to control his eagle vision, touching the scar on his lip and…

_Altair's face is moving closer to his, a curious but also wicked look in his eyes. He can feel the older man's breath brush against his own and just as Desmond's lips part in silent surprise-_

Blood rushes to his face.

What the…what the fuck had _that _been?!

Desmond was no stranger to attractions of that sort. He had found that he liked girls and guys and was totally okay with that, but this was… this—!

'_Maybe…maybe he was… comparing scars! Yeah, that's right. Scars.' _Desmond swallows thickly, trying to fool himself, but the thought still lingers in his mind. He admired Altair. Sure, the guy had been a complete jerk at Solomon's Temple, but after technically 'being' with the man; experiencing Altair's hardships with him and watching him grow…

Desmond found it ultimately hard not to like Altair.

Idly, Desmond wonders what they were going to do with Altair. No one really _planned _to have an ancestor from a thousand years in the past to come visiting, and he knew that Shaun, Rebecca, and Lucy were just as lost as him on the matter.

There was the possibility of getting the experienced and much more competent assassin to help in the Assassins' cause, but Desmond slams the thought down viciously. He refused to let _anyone _force Altair into anything. After all the shit Altair had _already _gone through in his own time, it wasn't fair to bring him into theirs.

'_He doesn't need to be involved in this time's mess.' _Desmond thinks, closing his eyes fully. However, there was that fact that the man had _also _admitted to coming to this time with a Piece of Eden, _on purpose, _and therefore, basically became involved.

And there was that fact that Desmond _still _had no idea what it was that Altair wanted out of his whole hop through time. It makes Desmond wince; he's well aware that the Syrian had evaded the question during their chat on the roof. Perhaps he was being purposely secretive about it.

'_Or he doesn't even know himself.' _His mind whispers. Desmond remembers the look of confusion on Altair's face that first time he'd asked as per Shaun's insistence. It almost makes him laugh. The great Altair Ibn-La'Ahad without answers? From what he knew, Malik would have taunted the master assassin mercilessly for it; criticizing Al Mualim's supposed 'star pupil' and best assassin—even if they both knew that Altair had proven himself twice fold that that was true.

'_Dad would have been proud to have him as a son.' _ Desmond thinks dispassionately.

It was… September, wasn't it? By his count it would be… nine years, six months since he left the Farm—not that he wanted to or even _could _go back since according to Vidic, the Farm had been raided.

In his mind's eye, Desmond can see the Farm go up in flames—see the stark white walls stained and charred— but for some reason, the apathy and slight pleasure that he expects to feel from the imagery is not there. Instead, all he can feel is the bitterness of… loss.

But, it is to be expected, because no matter how much he had _hated _and _despised _that prison of a home, it had, at one brief time of his life, been his _home _that for a small moment in time, he had cherished. Nothing could erase that.

It makes him think of his family—his mother and his father. Despite his initial shock at the news of the Farm being raided by Abstergo, Desmond was confident that his family was alive. Though his relationship with his father was rocky, Desmond _knew _the man. His father was never without any contingency plan for _anything..._and nor was he stupid.

That was why when Vidic had said that Assassins had come into Abstergo to try to break him out, Desmond had been rightfully skeptic.

'_A bluff, maybe?' _Desmond wonders. Strategically, it would have been _idiotic_ to raid Abstergo _in broad daylight. _His strategist of a father would never have ordered it.

'_He's smarter than that.' _Desmond knows. There is no doubt in his conviction.

And suddenly the memory of his father gathering around a small table with his colleagues around him drifts into his mind's eye. He can hear the ghost of their whisperings—their low and hushed tones that when Desmond had been little, he had strained to comprehend.

Desmond remembers the faces around the table well. They had been etched with a tiredness his younger self couldn't fathom—their bodies fixed with a tenseness that Desmond had been intimidated by, but it had been their eyes that had left him transfixed.

For they had all held a reverence and awe when they had looked upon his father, soaking in the eldest Miles' words with keen interest as if his speech were from the mouth of god.

And oh how his younger self was so _stupid _to mimic their expressions, thinking that his sire was someone _great _and _respectable_ –

Gold eyes narrow, fingernails digging crescent moons into his palms.

—when such a _god _had looked upon his own _creation_ with _contempt_.

Desmond wishes that his Father _wasn't _this great man that those people had admired. William Miles shouldn't have been this _perfect_ individual they all had said. Where were _his_ flaws_?!_

And suddenly, he can feel it churning within him—an old, long suppressed bitterness and resentment burning in the base of his throat and riddling along the cords of his body that just for a split second—

* * *

"_You're not good enough."_

* * *

Desmond shakes his head furiously, physically willing away all thoughts of his father.

He didn't want to think about his dad or anything else about the Farm. That part of his life was over. He was _not _going to make the mistake dwell on it. The weakling that he had been had died when he had run away from 'home' that night long ago. He wasn't Desmond of the Farm anymore.

But a small piece of him wonders just who had replaced him.

* * *

Again and again, this world surprises Altair.

He knows he shouldn't be surprised. Time forever moved on and as such, the world tended to follow, but it did not stop him from being overwhelmed by the scale of change.

Altair's hand tightens around the 'gun.' He turns it over in his hands, admiring the smoothness of the metal—_'Our Weaponsmith could never make something as smooth,'—_ and appreciating its complete deadly capacity.

Long distance potential such as these... Altair honestly couldn't imagine the effect they would have had in his time. The possibilities of its uses were _endless._ How easy it would have been to assassinate his targets**. **It sacrificed the silence of a throwing knife, but the sheer magnitude of its long range capabilities and effectiveness more than made up for it. Their enemies would never expect it. Their deaths would come in the form of a crack of lightning.

But in retrospect, it could easily be used against him.

The tools of his trade; his swords, daggers, hidden blades, and throwing knives—they all required skill to use. It took assassin-to-be months, if not _years, _of training to fully master their uses and kill with them cleanly and efficiently. Yet, these modern tools in contrast required nary a one to achieve an end. A mere child could operate them!

It was...troubling to think that such a small, seemingly insignificant hunk of metal could cause so much harm so quickly.

Especially since such a thing had almost killed Desmond.

At that thought, Altair wills down the flush of anger that surges through his body.

He had almost _lost _Desmond and in his mind. The statement rings in his mind and with it, Altair can see those wide peculiar golden eyes on him, gleaming with worry because…

Altair grits his teeth.

…because the guard had been aiming at _him _before Desmond had carelessly thrown himself in the way.

Shame fills Altair then, and it takes all his willpower to not toss the damned weapon in his hand across the room. Instead, he places it carefully on the table before sitting down on a crate and folding his juddering hands together. He breathes in deeply, eyes closing as he exhales.

He had been so close to losing Desmond. The thought infuriates Altair, making him berate himself inwardly for having nearly lost what he had come so far to regain.

'_The one responsible paid for it though.' _An almost vicious twitch of a smile appears on Altair's face. '_As did the rest.'_

Unlike the Templars, materialism had never been in the Brotherhood's cause. Assassins were generally nomadic in nature; few Assassins in Masyaf even had the time to tend to such trivial matters when there were much more important things to do. Whatever that was precious to an Assassin was either on their own person or hidden elsewhere. Altair was no different. There was little in the world that Altair had or even bothered to claim as his own, but it was without a doubt in his mind that Desmond was _his. _

Altair isn't blind. He knows that Desmond suffered from various insecurities. It reeks off the younger male, tainting what he _could have been _with _what he could not be. _It makes Altair recoil with fury to imagine what abuses the younger went through to develop such a condition.

But despite that, the potential was still there. Before becoming Mentor, one of his many duties had been to oversee the newest Assassin recruits; weeding out ones that were not fit in a certain area and participating in brief trainings with others. He had ways of measuring novices he came across and in Desmond, Altair could see great things. He was excited to see what kind of Assassin that _his_ fledgling would become…

The door of the training room opens and Altair doesn't need to turn around to know who it is. The storm that had been in his mind had long waned to a calm lull and only one person could have made it so.

"_Altair?" _Desmond smiles faintly from the door. _"You feel like going out?" _

…and he was fully prepared to zealously guard him as well.

"_Of course."_

* * *

"_I do not like this." _The statement is said with displeasure in his ear, but Desmond is undeterred by it; more focused on getting through his task without knocking anyone over than to listen to the older man voice his disapproval._ "I would rather be down there with you."_

"_That's what you get for refusing to dress right." _Desmond murmurs lightly. _"Rebecca brought them for you for a reason, you know."_

The statement makes Altair scoff and Desmond doesn't need to look up where the man is surely hiding to know that Altair is scowling in discontent. Before they had left the Hideout, Rebecca had quickly stopped them, suggesting that Altair change into more 'normal' clothes if they were going to out in public. Altair had taken one look at the offered garments before he had flat out refused, regarding the clothes with barely hidden disdain. The reaction was something that Desmond would have expected out of Ezio, but Desmond had just sighed, giving Rebecca a helpless look.

"_As much I appreciate her assistance, those…modern wears… The material is so thin and its design is completely inconvenient! How can anyone hold anything in such small pockets?" _

In the end, it was decided that until they could find something that the Master Assassin deemed acceptable, Altair was to stay out of sight while Desmond practiced his learned skills out in the open.

Currently, Altair was on his perch two stories above the city's market place, hidden on the roof of an apartment building. The position gave him a great height advantage and succeeded in hiding him from sight from anyone who may have looked up.

"_Remember to keep your touches light and nonthreatening, but firm enough to make the people shy away from it." _Though high above Desmond's location, Altair's voice is clear in his ear, magnified in volume by the Bluetooth and cell phones that Rebecca had also handed to them to communicate easier because of their increased distance. Nodding discreetly, Desmond follows Altair's advice, making sure to keep his hooded head down and avoiding eye contact as he does so. _"Pressing against shoulder blades is not off limits, either."_

They continued like that for a contented time with Altair monitoring and giving Desmond suggestions at how to better move his way through crowds more efficiently as the novice moved about the plaza. Though the muscle memory that he had attained from Altair was still there, Desmond still found it difficult to maneuver around sometimes. Still, he was improving. Altair's advice made him accidentally knock into people less and passing through the throngs of people wasn't as uncomfortable as it had been initially.

'_He's a really good teacher.' _Desmond thinks, lips twitching upwards as he follows another murmured piece of instruction, and for the first time, Desmond regrets his Animus session cutting out memories of what Altair as a Mentor was like in Masyaf.

Something catches his attention farther away, making Desmond inhale sharply.

"Do you see him?"

"He has to be around here somewhere. He didn't go far."

'_Shit!' _Desmond freezes. He recognized those uniforms. They were the same ones worn by the security guards at Abstergo, but _what the hell were they doing all the way out here?! _Shaun had told him that the Tor Tre Teste was _miles _away from the Templar HQ. They had no business lurking around out here, unless…

But that was impossible. They had only been out here for an _hour _and he severely doubted that he or Altair could have been spotted so fast.

Altair's alarmed voice rings in his ear.

"_Desmond, those are—" _

"_I know." _Desmond hisses. They are coming closer. He tugs at his hoodie, making sure it covers more of his face. For a moment, his visions blurs, making the pair of Abstergo employees glow a dim red, before his Eagle vision deactivates on its own accord, leaving a dull throb in his temple.

"_I can get rid of them." _Altair says suddenly, voice terse. Desmond's eyes flicker upwards, seeing the white of Altair's figure peak just over the edge of the apartment building. Quickly, Desmond shakes his head, hoping to _god _that Altair sees it before the Syrian attracts any attention. Fortunately, Altair does seem to, and Desmond can see the Masyaf Mentor back up a bit on the roof, if not reluctantly.

The guards are just meters away from him now and immediately, Desmond burrows into himself, digging his hands into his pockets to make himself look as small and uninteresting as possible. The surrounding crowds provide a buffer between him and them, but he can't help the hitch of his breath when one of their shoulders bump into his own—his injured side.

The Abstergo man pauses at the sound, turning around to see who he had bumped into and caused the sound of pain, but Desmond is already moving away, using the surrounding tourists to break line of sight. He knows not to run. It would only bring more suspicion to him.

Above, Altair holds his breath, amber eyes narrowing as they watch the guard seem to appraise Desmond's retreating figure, before he shakes his head almost in disappointment and runs up to catch up with his partner. When the men are a safe distance away does Altair's body slack and he release a sigh of relief—an action that is mimicked by Desmond through the earpiece.

"_That was too close." _Desmond murmurs.

"_Agreed." _Altair hums, but his gaze remains fixated on the security guards, watching them search the perimeter more. The Syrian activates his Eagle vision, noting the two reddish hue, before they round the corner and disappear from his field of vision. He is about to release his ability when a telltale flash of gold suddenly catches his attention from the corner of his eyes before disappearing all too quickly as if a trick of the light.

Altair frowns at the detail, but doesn't pursue it. Instead, he lowers himself back down on the roof, amber eyes fading back to their normal hue.

"_They were… not specifically looking for you though." _

Desmond makes a questioning sound. _"What? What makes you think that?" _

"_The Abstergo guard that stopped—he was measuring you for height. He deemed it inconsistent with what he was looking for and dismissed you." _

"_So…you're saying he was looking for someone taller than me." _

"_Most likely." _Altair says. _"In any case, we can assume an ally." _

Desmond's mouth curves. He turns around a corner to a more narrow part of the city streets. It was getting dark. _"An enemy of my enemy is my friend?"_

Altair grins, an almost purr-like quality in his voice when he replies. _"Exactly, my fledgling." _

Desmond scowls at that. _"Jeez, Altair. Stop calling me that. My name is Des—!" _

All of the sudden, the wind is knocked out of him as a fist meets his stomach and hands latch onto his clothes, clawing him off the sidewalk and into an alley.

His head hits the brick wall of the alley, making his vision spin. Desmond hears Altair yell through the Bluetooth before the earpieces is jarred out of his ear from the force of his head hitting the brick to clatter uselessly to the ground. A boot crushes it to pieces a second later-_'I really hope I don't have to pay for that.'- _before he feels another fist, larger this time, sock him in the gut. Desmond can't help the cry that escapes his throat when another set of hands crudely pins his body to the wall, putting an intense amount of pressure over his still healing arm.

'_Oh…this is great.' _Desmond thinks, gritting his teeth. _'Just perfect…'_

Cracking an eye open, Desmond warily observes his attackers. There are three of them in all.

'_Big and Stupid, Dopey-Eye, and Tattoo-Parlor.' _Desmond counts, hissing in pain. Big-and-Stupid was the one restraining him against the wall with Dopey-eyed on his left and Tattoo-Parlor on the right, raising his arm to…

'_Fucking A—!'_ Desmond grunts when Tattoo-Parlor's fist finds his way to his stomach. There is a quick exchange of Italian between then, their voices salted with slang and just a bit slurred in his ears, before he feels Dopey-Eye pat the pockets of his hoodie and pants, most likely to look for his wallet.

'_So this is how it feels like to get mugged.' _ He's going to hate how they react when they don't find a cent on him.

As if on cue, Dopey-Eye retracts his hands and shakes his head in negative. The lines on Big-and-Stupid's and Tattoo-Parlor's face deepen and before he can stop himself, Desmond feels his lips curl into a smirk. He pays the cost of it quickly though when instead of Tattoo-Parlor's fist in his abdomen, he feel s Big-and-Stupid's hands shake him roughly against the wall, making Desmond's head smash against the wall with enough force for stars to flash behind his eyelids.

There is a bark of a demand from Tattoo-Parlor, and Desmond regrets not staying in the Animus 2.0 long enough to have Ezio's Italian stick in his mind. It would have been so helpful right now. It was a shame that they probably wouldn't understand an eloquent, "Go fuck yourself."

He says it for good measure anyways though, and it earns him another shake—harder this time and enough to make his hoodie slide down slightly. The sight of his hair and just the view of one gold eye is enough to catch their attention though, and with a growing panic does Desmond see a hand rise to pull his hood down and reveal his face.

'_Shit!' _Desmond's mind races and it is then that he starts struggling, clawing with dull fingernails at the hands restricting him like a madman. _'Maybe they don't watch TV?' _

Lady luck didn't appear to be on his side though because Dopey-Eye's good eye seems to light up at the reveal and he turns to his buddies, pointing at Desmond's face and making realization and a new, favorable appraisal dawn on their faces.

'_Fuck, fuck, FUCK.' _

"Get offa me!" Desmond yells. Adrenaline rushes through his veins, overriding the pain he feels in his front and injured arm. "Get your fucking hands offa me! _ALTAI—_"

A hand slaps him firm and solidly, cutting his yell in his throat.

Truly desperate now, Desmond kicks his legs out, managing a hard hit the area Big-And-Stupid's kneecap and ankle. Immediately, the man howls in pain, and Desmond uses the brief lapse in the other man's strength as he doubles over to break out of his hold and deliver a solid punch at Dopey-Eye's face. The satisfying _crack _of Dopey-Eye's nose breaking is well worth the blossoming pain in Desmond's knuckles, but when he turns around to deal with Tattoo-Parlor, Desmond freezes when he sees a knife inches away from his face.

Tattoo-Parlor's face is twisted in anger as he barks something out, forcing Desmond to back up further into the alleyway. The next thing Desmond knows, there's a rustle behind him and something hard and _definitely not a fist _hits him on the side of his head, making the world spin dangerously. A ringing grows in his head as Desmond tries to gather his bearings on the ground. He can feel something warm and slimy slide down from his hair and cross his cheeks, dripping red dots on the concrete.

Something glistens into view in front of him, and it doesn't take long for Desmond to connect the splattered red on the end of the weapon with the piercing pain in his head.

'_Fucker hit me with a pipe.' _Desmond realizes dazedly, raising his head just in time to see Dopey-Eye lift the pipe above his head and Desmond cringes, waiting for the inevitable pain to come but—

—there is none.

A second passes.

And then…

"_How dare you?"_

…then his attackers are _screaming_; loud, terrified hollers that hammered in Desmond's head.

"_How DARE you?!"_

'_Al…tair?'_

The sound of a lead pipe clattering to the ground reverberates in Desmond's skull, making his head swim nauseatingly. Something rolls towards him—the metal pipe— and with the earthquake in his head, he can only blearily blink at it before he notices that something was still _attached _to it.

It twitches in a parody of a hello.

And it takes all of Desmond's will to push down the bile rising in his throat.

"_Al—Altair!" _Desmond gasps out, struggling to get to his feet, but Altair doesn't hear him. Instead, the Master Assassin is manhandling Big-and-Stupid against the same wall that the guy had had Desmond held against, but this time with Altair's short blade digging a fine line on the skin of the burly man's neck. At his feet, Dopey-Eye was doubled over and screeching, holding the bloody stump that had been his hand. Tattoo-Parlor lied next to him, sagging and unmoving against the opposite wall.

A sharp pain pierces through Desmond's mind, making him falter from his already swaying legs and then he feels _it _again; someone else's—_'Altair's,' _his mind tells him—rage enveloping his consciousness—_screaming for blood—_but he shakes it off violently when he hears the familiar wails of sirens.

Cursing, Desmond struggles to stand, using the wall as support to stagger forward and yanks Altair off Big-and-Stupid. Altair doesn't expect the sudden action and snarls angrily when Big-and-Stupid takes the opening to scurry towards his friends, yanking Tattoo-Parlor up by the collar and dragging Dopey-Eye whilst simultaneously glancing back and forward at Desmond and Altair fearfully.

Roaring, Altair moves to pursue them, but Desmond holds firm, yanking the Syrian back as hard as he can. _"Altair! Enough!" _Desmond's eyes flickered to the mouth of the alley way anxiously. The sounds of sirens were getting louder.

"_I will NOT let them—!" _Altair thunders, but Desmond stops him with an angry glare, grasping the Syrian's hand tightly and tugging in the opposite direction away from the streets.

"_You WILL, because we need to get the hell outta here! The cops are coming!" _

"_The co—?"_

"_Just, COME ON."_

* * *

"They've been gone for a while now." Lucy acknowledges, casting a worried look out the window.

"Ya shouldn't be worrying, Luc'! I'm sure Altair's lookin' out for Desmond very well!" Rebecca pipes up.

"It's not _that _I'm worried about." Lucy says with a sigh. "Well, at least that's not what I'm _entirely _concerned about. It's the fact that they might come back too soon."

"'Too soon?' What, are we expecting somebody?" Rebecca asks, before her eyes widen and she shoots a glare at Shaun. "We _are _expecting somebody! That's why you were so okay with letting Alty and Des out! Why didn't you tell me about it before?"

At the underlying hurt in her voice, Shaun falters, pausing to choose his words carefully. "Ah... It just happened very fast, Becca."

"Uh huh." The raven haired woman crosses her arms, clearly unsatisfied with the answer. "And what, Desmond and Altair aren't allowed to meet our guest?" She pauses then, a rare sharp expression crossing her face. "It _is _one of ours...right?"

The Great Purge flashes through her mind and Rebecca knows without a doubt that Shaun's and Lucy's thoughts leap to it too before Lucy shakes her head in negative.

"He's one of us," Lucy assures, making Rebecca visibly relax. "But the reason for Desmond and Altair preferably not being here when he arrives is more because we don't exactly _know _who is coming."

"Oh?"

"Turns out that Desmond's mother has been worried about him-_very _worried." Shaun says, wincing. "When she found out that we had him and somehow got wind of him getting shot, she... wasn't happy."

"She freaked, didn't she?"

Lucy nods, a weak grin appearing on her face as she pushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "As all mothers would. She told me that she had sent someone to us to check up on him and everything."

"Honestly never would have figured her for the doting mother type." Shaun says, pulling a paper from the many files on his desk and pinning it onto a board.

"After not hearing from her son for years, I'm frankly surprised she hasn't sent someone after him before." Lucy adds. Neither Lucy nor Rebecca notice the way Shaun hesitates for a split second before continuing with his work.

"Ya sure she didn't drop any hints on who's coming?" Rebecca asks.

This time, they do notice the way the Brit hesitates. "Ah... She _eluded _to it, I think, but I really hope I'm wrong."

"Why?"

"Because if I'm right, then he would be taking a detour around the city right now to visit a few 'friends' and more than likely, bump into Desmond and Altair." Shaun sighs. "And I highly doubt a family reunion is what the kid needs all of the sudden."

* * *

It is only when they can no longer hear police sirens does Desmond release a sigh of relief.

"_As much as I appreciate the save back there…" _Desmond lets go of the fire escape ladder of an apartment complex that they had chosen to hide on top of. He lands on the ground safely, only wincing slightly when it angers the pounding in his head. _"Was that really necessary?" _

In contrast, a figure drops next to him easily, rising gracefully from a crouch to a regal height. The reply he gets from his savior is short and clipped. _"They were going to kill you." _

"_You don't know that. They recognized me. Probably wanted to subdue me or something to get the reward Abstergo offered." _Desmond doesn't get a reply to that. Instead, Altair only looks at him, amber orbs watching him eerily before the Levantine Mentor raises his hand towards him. Automatically, Desmond tenses, holding still as Altair's hand comes closer. If Altair notices his discomfort, he doesn't pay any mind to it. His arm invades the chasm between them to brush along his hair line before retracting. His fingers come back stained red.

"_They hurt you." _Altair says softly, eyes losing their intensity look to adopt one of discomfort that surprises Desmond. He knows Altair to be used to bloodshed. _All _assassins were, but then why was he so caught up in such a little thing?

"_I can handle abuse." _The admission is meant to reassure Altair, but it doesn't. Rather, Altair's frown seems to deepen, an almost pained expression flashing across his eyes before it hardens to a frostiness that makes Desmond uneasy.

"_You think yourself so? Are you that sure?" _Altair hisses. He stalks forward, the angles of his body moving like a predator. Instinctively, Desmond steps back with Altair's every forward step.

"_Altair, what are you…?" _His back hits the wall. Altair halts just mere inches from him.

"_You are a novice." _Altair murmurs. His eyes are hooded, glistening as if they had caught and held the glint of metal. _"By our ways, another brother __**should**__ have been assigned to train and take you under their wing. Yet here you are, so __**vulnerable**__."_

The word makes Desmond's hackles rise.

"_I don't need a babysitter." _Desmond snarls out. Altair's words dig into his heart, rekindling the hated feelings of _disappointment_ and _worthlessness_ that he _refused _to be victim of. Gold eyes narrow heatedly and he spits out the words with barely veiled disdain. _"I am __**not**__ weak." _

"_But I am." _

And in that instance, Desmond blinks, anger fading with that simple and confusing response.

"_What the hell are you talking about?"_

"…_Do you remember what it is that I said to you?" _Altair asks, calmly. _"When the others had asked you to ask me how I had come 'here?'" _

_"'A piece of Eden guided the way'."_ Desmond recites from had been Altair's exact reply before Desmond had summarized it into easier terms to Rebecca, Shaun, and Lucy.

"_And that is the truth." _Altair nods._ "A piece of Eden did guide the way. After Al Mualim's death, I... was not myself for a long while. Something changed. Like Malik's arm, I had lost a piece of myself and… went mad. But then… the Apple of Solomon's Temple called to me, showing me visions of what I had lost before granting me means to have it back..." _The ambers of Altair's eyes are amazingly bright as they locked onto Desmond's gold. "…_It brought me to you."_

"_What…I don't…" _Desmond's mind blanks. He had not…expected this.

"_Do you see? You were what I was missing." _A hand comes to firmly grasp Desmond's chin, forcing the former bartender's shocked irises to meet Altair's intense orbs head on. The Syrian's voice lowers and for a moment, he seems to talk to himself, eyes pensive. _"But can you even comprehend what you do to me?"_

Altair's eyes seem to dare him to look away, to _deny _him, and Desmond just _can't. _He can't look away from the sheer raw emotion that Altair presents. He swallows thickly, heart pounding loudly in his chest. He doesn't know what to say. The only thing that Desmond can do is search Altair's eyes, trying to find any hint of deception or ulterior motives—

—but there is none. There is only a stark and naked _sincerity _that Desmond doesn't—_can't—_ understand.

"_I don't…I don't understand what..." _

Because he _really doesn't _understand. He doesn't understand how Altair can look at him like that. How could the Eagle of Masyaf look at a _pathetically worthless as an Assassin like __**him **_like…like…

…_Like he was significant._

* * *

"_You are NOT needed."_

* * *

_"You're playing with me. That has to be it." _Desmond murmurs, shaking his head at the impossible notion. He feels himself tremble-his whole body reverberating like a drum in this confusing torrent of events that were out of his control which were frankly _pissing him off__._

Desmond's eyes flash dangerously, before he roughly shoves a surprised Altair away from him, putting as much space between the older assassin and him as the alley would allow.

_"Desmond-"_Altair tries, but is halted when Desmond shoots him a glare.

_"No! You don't say ANYTHING unless it's to explain what the hell kind of game you're playing at! Why do you care for me so goddamn much?! You don't know me! You shouldn't be giving a SHIT about me, but here you are, treating me like—!" _

_Like I matter. Like I'm __**worth **__something to you. _

_"There's NOTHING special about me!"_

_"Are you trying to convince __**me**__ of that or yourself?"_ Altair asks sharply, making Desmond still. The Syrian's voice softens. _"It pains me, Desmond, to see you think so little of yourself." _

Desmond laughs a little humorlessly at that, threading a hand through his short hair in nervous habit, but can't find anything to say to that. Instead, his jaw tightens sporadically, Adam's apple bobbing as he looks for words and tries to calm himself.

_"You got the wrong guy." _Desmond finally says. It is said softly, with an undertone of a keen like that of a wounded animal. His tone asks something-_pleads for it. _

And what can Altair do but give it?

_"No." _Altair replies, closing the space in between them and Desmond doesn't stop him.

Long fingers stroke along the contours of Desmond's face, making the youth shiver indiscernibly at the butterfly touch.

_"The Apple may project lies..."_

Altair tilts Desmond's face towards his, ocher eyes narrowed into contemplative, burning slits that has Desmond's mind blanking.

_"...it may show deceit..."_

There is no resistance when Altair directs Desmond's face up towards his, moving closer and closer together...

_"But it has never lied about the desires of the heart."_

Desmond's breathe hitches.

...and captures his lips with his own.

* * *

The kiss is soft at first; a tentative pressure against lips that is unhurried and feather soft.

Desmond had stilled when their lips had touched, the youth's hand coming to rest on Altair's middle. A part of Altair readied itself for the expected rejection, but to his surprise, Desmond does not push him away. Rather, Altair feels Desmond's fingers curl around the material of his attire, before responding to the kiss with a hesitant, but dear _sweetness_ that caught Altair off guard.

And from then on, there is nothing soft about the kiss.

Teeth clashing and breaths hot, the contact of chapped lips is rough and domineering, greedy and fierce like a forest fire finding the first offered kindling of a dry summer. Desmond can feel it through their connection vividly, amplifying the already desperate need coursing through his veins. A collection of low moans escape Desmond's throat, sending jolts down both their bodies. He can't help the whimper of loss that comes out when Altair pulls back after a moment, breathing heavily and eyes molten as he looks upon him.

Desmond's face is flushed; the gold of his eyes dark and half lidded with desire and lips slightly open to reveal a hint of pink as he gasped for air.

And Altair _burned _at the sight, a deep _want _rousing in him that inflamed him to the core.

"_Habibi..." _Altair gasps out, and the way he says it makes Desmond tremble. It's so heart-breakingly sincere, so full of an earnest warmth and affection that it envelopes Desmond's insecurities like a vice.

Altair's hands tangle around Desmond's neck just touching, stroking, _feeling_ and making the younger assassin's skin bloom underneath the touch_. _He moves his right hand to cup the back of Desmond's head, protecting it with his knuckles, before he captures the youth's lips once again. Desmond reacts to the renewed contact with fervor, mewling and sighing as his hands fist the rough cloth of Altair's clothes tightly. Desmond adjusts his footing and jumps slightly when he feels something hard press against his stomach.

Altair groans against his mouth; the sound vibrating against Desmond's lips and making his head feel light and legs weak.

Desmond knows that they make a funny picture-attached to each other in in the middle of an alley of a more questionable part of town with their attire clashing in era. He knows that this is wrong; this is neither the time nor the place-he doesn't even remember _how _this even _happened- _but despite it all... it feels so _right._

So painfully right_. _

And without thinking, Desmond pulls the other impossibly closer, eyes falling shut as his lips mold with Altair's, the burning heat between both their bodies pressed pleasantly together.

Desmond doesn't want to let go of this feeling of being _so dearly needed_ and Altair seems to share his sentiment if the pleased hums he hears from the Master assassin are any indication.

At least that is true until Altair freezes. His body goes rigid, and the warmth that Desmond had been feeling evaporates into a chill. Confused, Desmond opens his eyes and it is then that he sees what had made Altair still.

Beside the wide ambers of Altair's eyes, the barrel of a handgun was pressed against the side of Altair's head.

And with it, came a voice—deadly and calm.

"Step away from him. Now."

* * *

"...Hi, Dad."

* * *

A/N: I am…extremely, extremely, _extremely, _grateful for all the well wishes on my exams from you all. I really appreciated them all, and they really made me feel awesome. (I also did well on said exams too! :D )

A lot of things went on in this chapter, and for some things, I actually had to do a lot of research on.

_Les Rosbifs - _The term _les rosbifs _does indeed mean 'roast beef' and it is a valid insult. (It's like an equivalent of 'frog' towards the French.) It's actually a well-known standard French insult for the English that originated from the popular English style cooking beef before eventually being extended to mean the English people themselves.

_Altair's mother being a Frenchwoman - _Unlike Rebecca's dog (which _is _in fact canon though not originally given a name) Altair's mother being a Frenchwoman is not canon. However, she is canonically Christian.

_Tor Tre Teste - _The actual location of the Hideout is on the outskirts of Rome in the industrial area of this district. The town itself is nice though.

_Ezio's 'reach' - _This is a reference towards _that _game.

_Desmond's mother - _Ubisoft has not released the name of Desmond's mother, so any references towards her will be intentionally vague until I can come up with one.

_Myth about the 'click' of a handgun – _Originally, I had wanted the chapter to end with the click of a gun. It was more dramatic and _awesome. _However, further researched made me reconsider. The typical 'click' that you would hear from a gun being cocked is a myth. The sound is known for its dramatics as announcing the arrival of another character (typically known as the Click Hello trope.) The sound is actually of the hammer of a gun (with the exception of shotguns and etc.) ejecting an empty round and a new one sliding into the chamber in its place. It would not have made sense to add the 'click' on William's appearance as he would have ejected a perfectly good bullet.

And...that's about it!

Yet, last but not least, I would also like to thank everyone who reviewed, alerted, and fav-ed this story, even _with _the long unintentional hiatus. I very much appreciate them all, they never fail to bring a smile to my face and make me keep writing. I very much appreciate your continued support! So, thank you all _very, very _much. I'm just so happy!

I wish you all a good Mother's day!

Until next time!

_nikaris _


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Assassin's Creed, Drama, Romance