He was getting sick of being called a woman. No, really, he was.
It wasn’t his fault he enjoyed settling down—dreaming of a partner and children of his own. There was something to be said about owning property, about finding a loyal partner. Back on the Farm, he had owned his room—and on the run, he owned the bar, the three-room apartment, and all of the skyline.
So naturally, he had been upset in Abstergo because his territory had been shrunken down to just two and a half rooms—bathroom included. Abstergo had been hell because he refused to let himself surround himself with the covers like he did back home. He had refused to take all the towels and throw them on the bed because there weren’t enough things on there to make him comfortable.
Of course, he failed spectacularly, and they opened the wardrobe after his first night there—ho, boy, he had been happy to see everything, and his bed had had everything in the damn closet and bathroom on that bed. It drove Vidic nuts. Oh, yeah, and he couldn’t forget that he usually walked around in the nude just to piss him off, too, because he hated wearing clothes. They were just too tight and stuffy, and so he’d sprawl out on his bed in absolutely nothing, and Vidic would send Lucy in to get him. Lucy enjoyed it well enough, and as Desmond got to know Altair, he found himself adopting that prideful strut. Hey, they were both good-looking, and Altair hated clothes as much as he did, so he was more than happy to let the Bleeding Effect take its toll. Now he had someone who understood what it was like. What made him mad, though, was in the final memory sequence, as he plunged the blade into Al Mualim’s throat, he was torn from Altair’s body as they looked at the map, and he had felt so at home right then just before he was pulled away.
And then they escaped, and here he was now in Monteriggioni, and this whole thing was irritating him. He didn’t like Ezio. He didn’t like the perpetual exchange of partners (to which also earned him ridicule as a foolishly “in-love” woman), and he didn’t like the non-familiarness as he had shared with Altair. So, in retaliation, he had started actively trying to block Ezio’s bleeding and replace it with Altair’s. When he saw Leonardo or Machiavelli, he’d imagine Malik; when he saw the streets of Florence, he replaced when with Jerusalem.
And it was working: all hell it was working.
He was bleeding Altair faster than he was bleeding Ezio, to the point where he could communicate clearly with Malik as if they were best friends. He could talk to Altair now, whenever he wanted, if he just imagined him (and sometimes without even having to do that). They were taking on personalities of their own, and he was okay with that because at least he didn’t feel so alone surrounded by his teammates. He had told Lucy about his blocking Ezio with Altair, and she had looked upset, but accepted it. He had been hoping that would get him a ticket out of the Animus for a while, but that had backfired.
“Bloody hell, Desmond, please, stop pacing. And don’t bring back more blankets and pillows if you go out tonight. This is not our home.”
He sent a glare over his shoulder to Shaun, and Lucy sighed.
“Please, Shaun. This is just his way of coping.”
He scratched at his head, raking his fingers through his shaggy hair. He needed to cut it. Good thing Lucy agreed to do that today for him.
“He copes like a woman who just moved into a new house. We don’t need to be settling down here. What if we have to leave again, hm? We can’t take it all with us!”
“Shut up, jackass. You’re the reason we can’t have nice things.”
“Oh, really now, Desmond? That was a wonderful retort. Absolutely brilliant—”
“Come on, Desmond, let’s get your hair cut.”
He looked to where Lucy gestured and plopped down, sighing as he waited for her to fetch the scissors. He sat on the designated chair and waited as she stepped behind him, sighing as she started cutting his hair. It would be good to get rid of it. She started snipping, giving him a cut just slightly longer than a military buzz cut. He sighed at the pull of his hair and the relief of losing his hair. She was quietly humming to herself as she cut, and when he felt her hands stop, he looked up at her.
“Desmond,” she murmured, and she ran her hand through his hair. “Just how long as this been going on?”
He blinked. “What’s going on?”
“You picking your scalp raw.”
He blinked again. “What?”
He looked when Rebecca go up and walked over at Lucy’s gesture. He watched her lean in close. “Damn, Desmond…”
He frowned. “What’s going on?”
“You had no idea you were picking your scalp raw?” Lucy asked, and Desmond felt as if he was about to get into deep shit. “Do you—”
“Lucy, I’m fine, all right? I don’t know where the scabs came from, but I’m doing fine.”
He watched her frown deepen, and she started cutting his hair again. “I don’t know when you started this, Desmond, but this is serious. If you’re doing something that’s causing you injury and not remembering it…”
“Actually,” Shaun said, and he looked at the British man as he faced them, frowning, “as much to my detriment as this will be, he has been scratching his scalp more. Usually when he adopts that blank, stupid expression that someone might pass as ‘thinking.’ And in all of Ezio’s memories, I have yet to see Ezio picking at his scalp. He loves his hair too much.”
“Then what are you suggesting, Shaun?” Lucy asked, picking up the hair cut again.
“Well, he’s either finally hit Route 16, or he’s got someone else driving with Ezio in the backseat.”
"But then, Ezio should be the only ancestor he's experienced other than...”
He blinked when Lucy’s eyes widened. “Altair?”
“If you think,” Shaun said, waving a hand and turning back around. Lucy patted his shoulders, and he looked up at her. He could tell she was thinking about the forced bleeding he was going through. That went without her knowing it was now getting out of control. He frowned—he hadn’t known that Altair had those kinds of nervous ticks.
“You don’t know a lot about your ancestor, novice, even with all you have learned.”
He looked to see Malik standing there with his hand on his hip.
“You are so incredibly blind for an assassin. Did you not pay attention to his thoughts and sleeping patterns when you were him?”
“I was paying attention, you dickhead! That’s why I liked his memories so much: we had so many of the same habits!”
He could feel Altair cutting his hair gently. “Desmond, there’s much more to me than you realize.”
“That doesn’t sound arrogant at all.”
“And what would you have me say?”
“Oh, perhaps that you are the biggest birdbrain on the face of the planet, hm?”
Desmond could hear him roll his eyes. “That joke is old.”
“Yet oh so relevant,” the man said with a scoff. “You wish to learn more of your ancestor’s secrets? Then trust me: go back to when he killed Al Mualim. You will find your answers there.”
“But… how? I can’t get in without someone to monitor me.”
Malik sighed, and Altair chuckled. “How about Hastings? After all, he did admit to watching you all the time, especially when you hallucinate.”
“He did say that—didn’t he?” Desmond repeated, pursing his lips. “You’re right.”
Malik snorted and sat in his sleeping bag pile before vanishing. Desmond watched as things righted themselves before his eyes, and he was met with a quiet Sanctuary. Lucy was still trimming his hair, and he swallowed as he looked around. Shaun looked thoroughly shocked, and he knew that Lucy was frowning.
“You’ll be okay,” he heard Altair say.
He snorted. “That’s what you think. You clearly don’t know them.”
He spent the rest of that night under careful observation, and Lucy told the others about his forced bleeding. He sighed, settling down in his bed of pillow and blankets, and wished this night would end. By the time Lucy and Rebecca went to bed, he had never felt so estranged from his teammates in all his life, as if this “crazy” thing was forcing an unwanted wedge between them. Finally, he heard Shaun move at his desk, and he stood up, walked over, and stood there for a bit as he tried to figure out what to say.
“Hello, Desmond. Go—”
“I need your help.”
There was silence, and he could see Shaun’s tensing, him making up his mind. He watched patiently.
“I want to go back to Altair’s memories and see if we can’t pinpoint where my scalp-picking habit came from.”
Shaun frowned and turned to look at him. He could feel the man’s eyes raking up and down his body, appraising him as if he were an ox (which sometimes he felt as if he were). Then, he sighed, irritated.
“Very well. I’ll help you.” ---------------- Welp, I don't know if you enjoyed it, but I hope you find it well enough. Questions/comments/complaints are always welcome.
Wrong Life, Wrong Body 1
It wasn’t his fault he enjoyed settling down—dreaming of a partner and children of his own. There was something to be said about owning property, about finding a loyal partner. Back on the Farm, he had owned his room—and on the run, he owned the bar, the three-room apartment, and all of the skyline.
So naturally, he had been upset in Abstergo because his territory had been shrunken down to just two and a half rooms—bathroom included. Abstergo had been hell because he refused to let himself surround himself with the covers like he did back home. He had refused to take all the towels and throw them on the bed because there weren’t enough things on there to make him comfortable.
Of course, he failed spectacularly, and they opened the wardrobe after his first night there—ho, boy, he had been happy to see everything, and his bed had had everything in the damn closet and bathroom on that bed. It drove Vidic nuts. Oh, yeah, and he couldn’t forget that he usually walked around in the nude just to piss him off, too, because he hated wearing clothes. They were just too tight and stuffy, and so he’d sprawl out on his bed in absolutely nothing, and Vidic would send Lucy in to get him. Lucy enjoyed it well enough, and as Desmond got to know Altair, he found himself adopting that prideful strut. Hey, they were both good-looking, and Altair hated clothes as much as he did, so he was more than happy to let the Bleeding Effect take its toll. Now he had someone who understood what it was like. What made him mad, though, was in the final memory sequence, as he plunged the blade into Al Mualim’s throat, he was torn from Altair’s body as they looked at the map, and he had felt so at home right then just before he was pulled away.
And then they escaped, and here he was now in Monteriggioni, and this whole thing was irritating him. He didn’t like Ezio. He didn’t like the perpetual exchange of partners (to which also earned him ridicule as a foolishly “in-love” woman), and he didn’t like the non-familiarness as he had shared with Altair. So, in retaliation, he had started actively trying to block Ezio’s bleeding and replace it with Altair’s. When he saw Leonardo or Machiavelli, he’d imagine Malik; when he saw the streets of Florence, he replaced when with Jerusalem.
And it was working: all hell it was working.
He was bleeding Altair faster than he was bleeding Ezio, to the point where he could communicate clearly with Malik as if they were best friends. He could talk to Altair now, whenever he wanted, if he just imagined him (and sometimes without even having to do that). They were taking on personalities of their own, and he was okay with that because at least he didn’t feel so alone surrounded by his teammates. He had told Lucy about his blocking Ezio with Altair, and she had looked upset, but accepted it. He had been hoping that would get him a ticket out of the Animus for a while, but that had backfired.
“Bloody hell, Desmond, please, stop pacing. And don’t bring back more blankets and pillows if you go out tonight. This is not our home.”
He sent a glare over his shoulder to Shaun, and Lucy sighed.
“Please, Shaun. This is just his way of coping.”
He scratched at his head, raking his fingers through his shaggy hair. He needed to cut it. Good thing Lucy agreed to do that today for him.
“He copes like a woman who just moved into a new house. We don’t need to be settling down here. What if we have to leave again, hm? We can’t take it all with us!”
“Shut up, jackass. You’re the reason we can’t have nice things.”
“Oh, really now, Desmond? That was a wonderful retort. Absolutely brilliant—”
“Come on, Desmond, let’s get your hair cut.”
He looked to where Lucy gestured and plopped down, sighing as he waited for her to fetch the scissors. He sat on the designated chair and waited as she stepped behind him, sighing as she started cutting his hair. It would be good to get rid of it. She started snipping, giving him a cut just slightly longer than a military buzz cut. He sighed at the pull of his hair and the relief of losing his hair. She was quietly humming to herself as she cut, and when he felt her hands stop, he looked up at her.
“Desmond,” she murmured, and she ran her hand through his hair. “Just how long as this been going on?”
He blinked. “What’s going on?”
“You picking your scalp raw.”
He blinked again. “What?”
He looked when Rebecca go up and walked over at Lucy’s gesture. He watched her lean in close. “Damn, Desmond…”
He frowned. “What’s going on?”
“You had no idea you were picking your scalp raw?” Lucy asked, and Desmond felt as if he was about to get into deep shit. “Do you—”
“Lucy, I’m fine, all right? I don’t know where the scabs came from, but I’m doing fine.”
He watched her frown deepen, and she started cutting his hair again. “I don’t know when you started this, Desmond, but this is serious. If you’re doing something that’s causing you injury and not remembering it…”
“Actually,” Shaun said, and he looked at the British man as he faced them, frowning, “as much to my detriment as this will be, he has been scratching his scalp more. Usually when he adopts that blank, stupid expression that someone might pass as ‘thinking.’ And in all of Ezio’s memories, I have yet to see Ezio picking at his scalp. He loves his hair too much.”
“Then what are you suggesting, Shaun?” Lucy asked, picking up the hair cut again.
“Well, he’s either finally hit Route 16, or he’s got someone else driving with Ezio in the backseat.”
"But then, Ezio should be the only ancestor he's experienced other than...”
He blinked when Lucy’s eyes widened. “Altair?”
“If you think,” Shaun said, waving a hand and turning back around.
Lucy patted his shoulders, and he looked up at her. He could tell she was thinking about the forced bleeding he was going through. That went without her knowing it was now getting out of control. He frowned—he hadn’t known that Altair had those kinds of nervous ticks.
“You don’t know a lot about your ancestor, novice, even with all you have learned.”
He looked to see Malik standing there with his hand on his hip.
“You are so incredibly blind for an assassin. Did you not pay attention to his thoughts and sleeping patterns when you were him?”
“I was paying attention, you dickhead! That’s why I liked his memories so much: we had so many of the same habits!”
He could feel Altair cutting his hair gently. “Desmond, there’s much more to me than you realize.”
“That doesn’t sound arrogant at all.”
“And what would you have me say?”
“Oh, perhaps that you are the biggest birdbrain on the face of the planet, hm?”
Desmond could hear him roll his eyes. “That joke is old.”
“Yet oh so relevant,” the man said with a scoff. “You wish to learn more of your ancestor’s secrets? Then trust me: go back to when he killed Al Mualim. You will find your answers there.”
“But… how? I can’t get in without someone to monitor me.”
Malik sighed, and Altair chuckled. “How about Hastings? After all, he did admit to watching you all the time, especially when you
hallucinate.”
“He did say that—didn’t he?” Desmond repeated, pursing his lips. “You’re right.”
Malik snorted and sat in his sleeping bag pile before vanishing. Desmond watched as things righted themselves before his eyes, and he was met with a quiet Sanctuary. Lucy was still trimming his hair, and he swallowed as he looked around. Shaun looked thoroughly shocked, and he knew that Lucy was frowning.
“You’ll be okay,” he heard Altair say.
He snorted. “That’s what you think. You clearly don’t know them.”
He spent the rest of that night under careful observation, and Lucy told the others about his forced bleeding. He sighed, settling down in his bed of pillow and blankets, and wished this night would end. By the time Lucy and Rebecca went to bed, he had never felt so estranged from his teammates in all his life, as if this “crazy” thing was forcing an unwanted wedge between them. Finally, he heard Shaun move at his desk, and he stood up, walked over, and stood there for a bit as he tried to figure out what to say.
“Hello, Desmond. Go—”
“I need your help.”
There was silence, and he could see Shaun’s tensing, him making up his mind. He watched patiently.
“I want to go back to Altair’s memories and see if we can’t pinpoint where my scalp-picking habit came from.”
Shaun frowned and turned to look at him. He could feel the man’s eyes raking up and down his body, appraising him as if he were an ox (which sometimes he felt as if he were). Then, he sighed, irritated.
“Very well. I’ll help you.”
----------------
Welp, I don't know if you enjoyed it, but I hope you find it well enough. Questions/comments/complaints are always welcome.