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asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2011-11-16 12:25 pm
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2011-11-16 12:25 pm
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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 4
Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.4
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Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 5
Fills Only
Discussion
To Serve the Light 1/?
(Anonymous) 2012-09-25 01:12 pm (UTC)(link)He could feel it, and when he switched on his Eagle Vision, he could see it.
The pavement beneath his feet was almost reassuring.
His father would have no more grievances with him.
He would no longer hurt for killing Lucy.
No more visions plaguing him from the past.
No one’s opinion of him would be able to reach his ears anymore.
He had hoped that he was something special, but those he knew well made it known that he was not, and that there were others with the high concentrations of First Civilization DNA. He was just another cog. Minvera’s and Juno’s messages were not meant for him, and if the world needed saving there was another who could save it instead. He was not special: he was not an assassin. It had been made clear to him that he never was and never would be. It was time for him to stop trying to be.
He offered a soft smile as he saw the lights, feeling the impact of the car.
He could hear the car screech to a stop, feeling the pain radiate throughout him. He could hear someone, far away, yelling at him above the sound of the rain. He could make someone out above him, and he smiled. It felt nice. Whoever this stranger was cared for him on his deathbed. He could see the person blink, surprised. He wasn’t sure who lifted his hand to touch the person’s lips, floating outside his body as the pain seemed a long ways off. He coughed, feeling something alarmingly warm dribbling out of his mouth. He couldn’t quite make out the details of the person above him, but he exhaled shakily.
“T-thank-ks-s,” he rasped, smiling warmly at the person. “D-ive a-awa-away.”
He closed his eyes, letting darkness envelope him as he felt himself float off.
He jolted away in the dark, under a wide and dark night sky.
“Sh-shit,” he heard whispered, and he turned his head to look toward the voice.
It sounded familiar. He should know it, but first he needed to figure out how he was alive. He remembered the pain. He remembered the rain and the person. He remembered the impact and the lights and the warmth trickling down his chin.
“W-wait,” he rasped, reaching out when he heard the person move to run away. “P-please.”
There was a pause in the rustling.
“Where am I?” he asked, sitting up unsteadily.
He turned when he heard someone emerge from the brush, and his eyes grew wide. He recognized that face. He recognized that stance. He knew those clothes, that backpack slung across those shoulders. He recognized that lack of scar, and as he looked around, his stomach sunk. He knew these lands.
“Black hills,” he breathed as the boy—himself—said it at the same time.
“Desmond Miles,” he said. “Oh my God. You just ran away from the Farm, didn’t you?”
He looked at the boy standing in front of him, who looked alarmed and all kinds of frightened. He looked at his own hands, then back to the kid, then back to his own hands. He was in his own past. He was going to rewrite his own past. He knew what lay in store for himself. He remembered everything. He could hear the boy dart, and he was on his feet in an instant, tackling himself to the ground despite the thrashing.
“Let me go!” the boy hollered, kicking and struggling like a pro.
“Shut up!” Desmond hissed, clamping a hand over his mouth. “Shut. Up!”
“Mmmph—”
“If you don’t shut up, your father will find you, and he’s going to be so damn angry you’re going get thirty belts to the ass.”
The boy fell still. He could hear the boy’s heart tapping out a rapid pulse under his hand.
“And after those thirty whips, you’re going to be run until your feet blister and your hands are raw. And that whole time, that pretty little blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl that dad—Bill—likes so much will stare at you with the saddest expression you’ve ever seen.” He grunted, tightening his grip on the boy as he thrashed again. “You’ll hate her for it ‘cause William likes her so much. Likes all the kids with blonde hair and blue eyes, right? Every single,” he hissed when a kick landed on his shin, “damn one. And you know why he does. You know, don’t you? And then you’ll return home, and your mother will turn a blind eye to the fucking abuse that you went through, like she always does, because no one has the mother-fucking balls,” the boy thrashed harder: he was hitting a sore spot, “to stand up to that dick-headed bastard of a demon you called ‘Dad.’ He drills you harder than the rest. And as much as you loathe him for it, it’s his own undoing. That’s how you escaped. You’re better than he thought you were—ever will think you are. So you ran away. And now you think you’re in the home stretch, don’t you? Well I’ve got a story for you, kid, ‘cause there’s a pack of wolves roaming these parts, and they’re waiting to tear you to shreds if you don’t listen to me.”
The boy stilled again, trembling in his grip. He could hear the boy swallow, and he removed his hand. The boy was still terrified, every muscle in his body tense, and Desmond knew that his feet were wrapped in rags and the ointment in his backpack was the only thing that would save his life. He knew that his ass was sore and raw. He knew that there were bruises on his arms from where William had grabbed him so hard it bruised. He knew the hatred burning in the kid’s veins. He’s going to give himself a different ending: a better ending, even at the cost of his own life—oh, wait.
“Wh—who are you?” the boy in his arms whispered.
He remembered that fear, and he let himself relax, letting the boy roll out of his hold and flip onto his butt. He pushed himself up, scowling, and looked at him from his hands and knees.
“I’m you. Twenty years from now and freshly back from the dead.”
The boy frowned, looking him over closely. He knew the boy was drawing parallels between them, comparing the way they looked.
“Fine,” the boy said. “What’s in my backpack—”
“Ointment for your feet, which are bound in rags in those ratty sneakers of yours. Your father ran you ragged today because you were caught flirting with that pretty little blonde you’ve always liked. Aside from that, you’ve got your mother’s necklace, wrapped up in a small piece of oiled rag that William uses to keep the leather on his belt fresh. You have your father’s belt, which you’re going to use as fire kindling when you finally camp down for the night, just before the wolves find you, and that oil there as well, just to spite him. You have an extra change of clothes: some ratty jeans with holes in them from the hand-me-downs you were forced to take from that huge-ass kid who loved to make you trip so that William would come down harder on you. You have a hankie from the blonde, who at one point used it to mop up the blood on the palms of your hands and let you keep it. That’s when you fell in love with her. Get used to it: you’ll always lose the blondes you love. You have a knife, a gun with a half-empty clip you’ll waste in a panic, and a water bottle that’s going to almost kill you with how tiny it is—”
“How did you get here?” the boy asked, looking completely and utterly spooked.
Desmond barked a laugh, pushing himself onto his ass. He shook his head, knowing that this was his second chance. He had to make the time count while he could. He had to change his future, and change it fast. His own backpack was missing. The woman had probably taken all the money he had stuffed in there just to make sure that the order didn’t get their hands on it. He sneered, looking at the boy, who was still watching him warily.
“I got here through the very thing that will make your life hell later on in life. I’m here to guide you, kid, and give us a better future.”
The boy frowned. “I dunno—”
“Here,” he said, unzipping his hoodie and offering it out. “Put this on. Pull the hood over your eyes. Address me as father, and whatever you do, don’t look up ‘cause your eyes are gonna give you away quicker than a dog in a hen house.”
His younger self looked confused, but Desmond knew what was coming.
“Hello? Who’s there!” he heard in the familiar voice he had come to loathe so much.
He rose as he watched himself snatch the hoodie and pull it on, zipping it up and flipping the hood up as a flashlight appeared.
“Who are you?” he heard his father growl as he dusted himself off.
“Who I am is of absolutely no concern to you. I’m a father out for a walk with my son. Gotta problem with it?” he said, cracking his knuckles and meeting that terrifying gaze he had learned to stand up to.
William frowned, looking him over and apparently deciding against trying to intimidate him. The light slid over his younger self slowly.
“Your kid? You look awful young.”
“Teenage pregnancy. Ever heard of it?” he said with a sneer, crossing his arms as his younger self tucked himself behind him “At least I love my boy. Best gift of my life.”
He could hear the quiet snort his younger self gave as he felt a face press into his back to stifle the giggles. William’s eyes narrowed, the grip on the flashlight tightening. He watched his back straighten and knew those signs. It happened only when William was getting irritated. Anyone who knew him would back down—but Desmond was through with giving into him.
“I’m glad to know you love your son so much,” the man said through gritted teeth. “But my son is missing.”
“Really? Well la-de-fucking-da, man. Just how much did you abuse him to make him run away?”
He grinned triumphantly when those eyes narrowed dangerously.
“How old was he? Six? He’s probably dead from the wolves around here.”
“He’s sixteen, and with those wolves here, he probably is dead.”
“Oh, I dunno… a sixteen-year-old is a pretty smart kid. Particularly if he’s been abused enough to run away from home.”
He watched as those eyes flicked back over to his younger self, and he snarled.
“Get the hell away from us unless you want a fight. I’m just out for a walk with my son.”
“With wolves around?”
“With wolves around. I can fight them off. I know how to fight.”
There was a tense silence, and Desmond frowned, refusing to break the stare of William’s. Although if there was much more time with them standing here, there might not be a William for the future.
“Very well. Take care then,” his father said as he turned on his heel and walked away.
He watched until William had vanished, then wheeled around and grabbed his younger self’s shoulders, squatting to look him in the eye.
“We have about ten minutes to get the fuck out of here, which means that we need to leave now so we have plenty of time to kill those wolves if they attack us.”
The boy nodded hurriedly, golden eyes wide, and Desmond turned around.
“Get on my back. You’re not fast enough, and your feet will kill you. I’ll clean them for you later.”
To Serve the Light 2/?
(Anonymous) 2012-09-25 01:16 pm (UTC)(link)His feet found the pavement of Highway 131, and he took off running down it. He had to get through Grand Rapids, and head toward Indiana. They had to beat the snow and ice that would come in a few days. He had no money; the kid had no money. They could stay at the shelter. They could run to Kalamazoo, and he could steal a bike. He could take a bike and they could get into Indiana, from there into Ohio, travel to the coast, forge a ticket onto a cruise liner over to Italy, and lie in wait for Clay.
Or, they could detour into New York, visit that final temple, steal the damn treasure, and save the world before it needed saving, then take down Abstergo completely and avoid getting Clay dragged into this mess as a whole. He pursed his lips, pacing his breathing as he ran through the streets of Grand Rapids. His younger self was holding on tightly, and eventually, twenty or so miles into his run, he stopped in the middle of fucking nowhere, heaving for breath and just about dying again. But they were safe.
The boy slid off his back slowly, frowning as he heaved and panted, sitting just off the edge of the road. He saw him sit. He rested his head between his legs, feeling, for all the world, like a fat man entered into a triathlon without any training. He swallowed huge mouthfuls of air, feeling the questions burning inside his younger self. He had a lot of answers to give the poor boy. He gasped loudly, taking the water bottle when offered and draining it all. It helped, and shortly after, he had caught his breath. They were good now.
“Just why are you here, and why are you doing this?”
Desmond heaved a wheezing laugh and shook his head, gesturing for the kid to follow him. He led him into the forest and started a fire, sitting down before looking at him, frowning. The boy was watching him closely.
“I’m doing this because if I don’t, you’re going to end up a smooshed bug on someone’s car.”
“What?”
He grimaced. “Look, kid, I’m you. I know that doesn’t make any sense, but I’m going to show you things you’d have to wait ten years to find out. If I had let you on your own, you would have been ripped apart by the wolves, poisoned by the sun, hardly alive when you crawled into a shelter, use all your ointment on your feet and your infected wolf bites. You’d make it hardly alive to New York, dead into Manhattan, where you’d become a bartender. You’d pick up a motorcycle, and then you’d be kidnapped because of it. The people who kidnapped you would mentally torture you, the people you thought were your allies would do the same, and then you’d stab the woman you fell in love with, fall into an uncontrollable depression, and then be ridiculed by your father and your allies about being useless—even though you saved the mother fucking world.”
The boy was watching him closely, frowning in clear disbelief.
“And it all sounds crazy, but that depression that you hide so well will eventually cause you to stand in the middle of blinding rain on the highway and smile when you get hit by a car. Smile. You’ll enjoy it. I’m here to save you from yourself and this fucked up world. I’ll show you all the shit that could happen, and we’ll save a couple billion lives in the process.”
His younger self kept staring at him.
“All that crazy shit about conspiracy theories is bullshit, but your father’s been holding out on you. Those enemies he talks about? Yeah. They’re real. They’re out to get you, and they’re torturing your distant cousins as we speak.”
He watched his younger self lean back on his hands. He met his gaze, staring at him and just praying his words would get through to him.
“I don’t believe a word you’re saying,” the kid said, and Desmond deflated.
He shouldn’t have bothered. He wasn’t even sure the kid was sure he was him. He covered his face with his hands.
“But I believe that you’re going to save me from the future I’ve signed myself up for.”
“It’s not the future you chose,” Desmond growled.
“Whatever. I’ll trust that you’ll guide me into a better future.”
He paused, then rubbed a hand against his eyes as he looked up at the kid, who was staring at him seriously. The fire crackled merrily, and he could hear the insects all around them in the cold night.
“Why?”
“Because I believe that we’re the same person—and if you’re what I’m going to be, I’ll jump on the wagon to change my future. You look like shit, dude, and you look like you’re, like, fifty. Everything you say sounds absolutely batshit psycho.”
Desmond couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips. He didn’t remember himself being quite so awesome as a teen.
“And I don’t think I like the idea of being poisoned by the sun, or torn apart by wolves, and you clearly know what you’re doing, so I’ll let you use your experience to get me through.”
He couldn’t stop the smile as the boy pulled out two cans of soup he had stolen. He remembered those quite clearly. With a chuckle, he took one of them and used the hidden blade to punch a hole in the top. The boy startled, staring at him wide-eyed. He opened a second hole and set it near the fire, holding his hand out for the other can.
“Call me Des. We’re going to be riding together for a while, and I know how to avoid all of our biggest problems.”
The boy slowly handed over the second can, and he punched two holes into it, setting it beside the other. Des leaned back on his elbows, staring at the stars and sighing.
“I really do sound crazy, don’t I?”
He didn’t need to hear the spooked answer to know that he was.
“I was locked in the asylum for several years. Look, Desmond—you know how strange that sounds to say that?—I don’t know how long I have here, or why I’m even given a second chance, but you’re not going to like what I tell you.”
“Then why tell me?”
“Knowledge is power, and power corrupts, and corruption is absolute. If I can be the one to give you the knowledge, I can guide your corruption and turn it into your greatest weapon. I’ll teach you how to survive, how to fight, how to steal, lie, cheat, torture, murder, and live all in several days. I’m not an idiot, but I am crazy. I don’t… if I’m given a second chance… I don’t want to be driven to that point again.”
There was silence for just a moment before he heard a quiet, “What point?”
He grimaced, looking at the boy before flopping on his back. “That soul-eating depression. Just when you think you’ve got everything going for you, it all gets taken away from you, and you’re left wondering what you did wrong for so long. You’re just… hollow. There’s no life in you. Your mind is broken, and you’re stuck in a dark cage with no way out. Your father thinks you’re the scum of the earth for killing a golden child, the one man you fall in love with treats you like shit, your days at the bar become a forgotten memory lost under all the pain of the mental hell you’ve been through…”
The boy was silent, and Des stared at the stars. It had been forever since he had last seen stars through his own eyes. Nevertheless, he looked when Desmond came crawling over to him, frowning. He sure did frown a lot as a kid. They met gazes, and he swore he could see that depression already there, already eating away at him, and he realized with startling clarity that it was. He hadn’t known it when he was younger, but it was there already, a slow-killing poison to rot out his bones and destroy his soul. He reached out, ignoring the suspicious look he got as he wrapped his arm around him and pulled him into a tight hug. He had been dying the whole time he had been on the run, and it took him twenty years and a second chance to realize it.
And then he started crying.
He could feel the boy tense in his arms as he cried, but he couldn’t help it.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped. “I’m so sorry.”
He gritted his teeth, trying to pull himself together, and nearly choked on his own breath. Eventually, he felt a skinny set of arms come to rest against his chest, hugging him back and resting against his heaving chest as he cried. He finally stopped after several minutes, wiping his nose and his eyes on his sleeve when it’s offered back. They sat up, and he took the bloody hankie that was offered, blowing his nose before shaking his head and throwing it to the side, laughing.
He kept laughing, unable to help himself as it evolved into a manic, despaired sort of laugh. The boy at his side looked slightly spooked again, and he rubbed a hand across his eyes and forehead, rocking back and forth.
“Oh my God, we got dealt the shit end of the stick, didn’t we? The abusive father, the shitty ending—Clay dies; Lucy dies; your father fucking lives; we go crazy; your best friend hates you—oh my God!” his voice is, perhaps, slightly higher pitched than it should be, but he can’t help it. “We’ll rewrite all of it, Desmond! We’ll fucking destroy the timeline and rule this God-forsaken world. Fucking shit, I’ll get avenged! Oh my God!”
He laughed for a while more before his face twisted into one of despaired pain, staring at the fire.
“I’m a fucking lunatic. I’m so sorry you had to find out the hard way, Desmond… This is your future if we can’t change it.”
He tore his gaze away from the flame with force, seeing himself, ten years younger, holding out a can of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup. He blinked, staring at it before he found himself reaching out to grasp it. The forest around them lent to a feeling of privacy, even with the stars shining through the gap above them. This clearing seemed to be all theirs.
“Here’s to changing the future, then,” the boy said, and Des looked at the boy, who was holding out his can in the form of a toast.
He knew the metal had to be burning his fingers, but he figured that he might not be able to feel it. He knew how raw his hands were, how accustomed to the pain he had become at that point.
But for right now, it was just him and his sixteen-year-old self, out to change the future in a fucked-up sort of wild ride into Hell.
He clanked their cans together and took a sip of the broth, closing his eyes as he realized that this might just be the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
They were silent for the rest of the food, and he eventually wandered off with the cans and the bottle to find water. He ended up finding a house, which was a lucky break. He picked the lock, snuck in, stole several water bottles, refilled theirs, grabbed a pair of soft shoes for his younger self to wear, and even snagged some food and medical supplies. Like a shadow, he left with their new goods in a new backpack. The house was nice, but he had more important things to worry about. He padded back to the small fire to see Desmond unwrapping his feet. They were blistered and raw, and he couldn’t stop the wince when he saw them.
“You remember it?”
He nodded, sitting down beside him. “I do. Where’s your ointment?”
They said nothing more as he cleaned his feet, oozing with puss and caked in dirt, applied the ointment, and wrapped them before putting on the soft, moccasin-like boots. He moved to the boy’s hands and cleaned them, staring sadly at the raw palms and bloody welts as he bandaged him. He remembered the abuse. He remembered how no one came to his aid, despite the obvious injuries.
Finally, Desmond spoke: “What was Bill like whenever you saw him for a second time after you ran away?”
Des shrugged in return. “He hadn’t changed. He actually forced me to become crazier. Insisted on it. Then tore me to pieces in front of the entire order.”
“What order?”
He inhaled as the boy crawled into his lap, and he wrapped his arms around him as if to protect him. Then, on his exhale, he told him all about the order, the Templars, the secret war, and what had actually happened to him.
I'm not the above anon, but I had to get this idea off my chest. I really should be working on my other stories, but this one just... Bah. It was killing me. Other anon, please, don't let my fill dissuade you from writing your own.
Re: To Serve the Light 2/?
(Anonymous) 2012-09-25 02:21 pm (UTC)(link)Just wanted you to know.
Re: To Serve the Light 2/?
(Anonymous) 2012-09-25 05:21 pm (UTC)(link):D I really like this so far, I like how you're writing younger Desmond and how he plays off older Desmond (god, that's weird to write out). I can't wait to see more!
Re: To Serve the Light 2/?
(Anonymous) 2012-09-25 07:31 pm (UTC)(link)Here's hoping Mini!Dessie's life is better after this!
Anon fails!
(Anonymous) 2012-09-26 05:02 am (UTC)(link)>.
Re: To Serve the Light 2/?
(Anonymous) 2012-09-28 02:27 pm (UTC)(link)To Serve the Light 3/?
(Anonymous) 2012-10-20 03:15 am (UTC)(link)He would right the wrongs of the past one by one.
He slept deeply that night, no nightmares, no night terrors, no nothing. Just deep darkness and peaceful rest. So, when he woke up to find his younger self shaking, he could easily wake enough to rub the boy’s thigh, earning a fearful look.
“Don’t worry, Desmond. The first night’s always the shocker, waking up in some place that is not your bed, in some place that is not your home. It’s always frightening.”
He watched the kid nod slowly, the boy in his arms turning around completely to press his face against his chest.
“I want mom,” the boy whispered.
And he remembered that. He remembered the pain of not having his mother around to comfort him. It didn’t matter that she willingly turned a blind eye to the abuse because she had comforted him when he needed it. He remembered the sensation of longing for his mother that had seemed to drip in over the course of his first night on the road, that hideous feeling of loneliness and wanting a companion even though it dawned on him that no one back at the Farm cared for him. If someone had truly cared, he wouldn’t have run.
Perhaps he could replace his mother for his younger self. He knew what he wanted, the coddling and the love that he never got at home. He could love himself, as conceited as that sounded. He could spoil himself with love and affection.
Anything to save himself pain later on.
He held the boy, feeling him tremble and saying nothing as he let the boy cry softly. He let him cling to him, feeling his tears soak through his thin tee shirt. They needed to get moving soon, to get to Kalamazoo soon, to get to Abstergo soon.
But as he heard the muffled sob into his chest, he decided there were more important matters at hand.
He would have to save his mother before she let herself die at the hands of the Templars. He softly shushed himself, rubbing his back and knowing exactly what he wanted. He knew what he wanted when he cried, a chest to sob against, a hand rubbing his back, and the other wrapped around him tightly to make himself feel loved. He remembered that feeling of isolation. He pulled himself closer, tighter, letting him cry as his song changed from “I miss mom” to “Why me?” until the boy had cried everything in his system and violent hiccups wracked his body, his nose dripping and his eyes puffy and red-rimmed. He offered a concerned look, not a smile because he would punch himself if he smiled, and used the edge of the hood to dry his eyes before pulling out the hankie from last night.
It was only semi-clean from washing it with a bottle of water, but it was still usable, and when they finally crawled out of the thorn bush, he could visibly see the relief in the boy’s face. He remembered that look, that one that he saw in the mirror of the shelter after running away and he let himself cry. He remembered it, and his entire chest hurt with these memories.
“Sorry about that,” Desmond muttered as he wiped his eyes and sat on his ass near where the fire was yesterday.
Des shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad I could see you cry, instead of locking yourself up in a shelter and pulling out your hair as you cried.”
“Is that what you did?”
He offered a shaky smile. “Yeah. I did. Had some nice bald spots on my head the next day.”
Desmond looked at him, blinked, then laughed quietly, shaking his head. Des washed the hankie with another bottle of water, then squeezed the cloth out and tucked it into the pocket of his hoodie. The boy was still wearing it, but it was probably for the better with the hood covering his eyes for their travel. He looked at the boy, pulling out a protein bar and one of those small boxes of cereal. He didn’t even know what he had grabbed, but despite the two water bottles wasted on the hankie, he still had the tiny water bottle Desmond had grabbed and two more bottles, with a box of protein bars, a mix of various cereal boxes, a couple of cans of various things, and even a box of macaroni.
Of course, he had no idea how they would make a box of macaroni on the run without milk and butter, but the noodles had to be worth something.
“Where did you get all that?” the kid asked with a frown, and Des looked up at him.
“I stole it from a house not too far from here last night. That’s where I got those shoes, too.”
The boy was quiet as he looked down at his feet. His frown deepened.
“You stole them?”
“If you’re worried about that, just wait until you kill your first person.”
The boy looked hilariously startled, and Des couldn’t help but laugh.
“Come on, Desmond. I told you: I’m gonna teach you how to live on the streets.”
He grabbed himself a protein bar and handed the kid the bag. Desmond looked at him suspiciously as he took it and put it on. Before he opened his breakfast, he turned around and crouched for Desmond to get on his back. He wasn’t expecting a struggle to walk: he knew how bad his feet were hurting him.
“Kid, this is what you’ve been training for. Trust me: your father was preparing you to fight and kill.”
“Yeah. I remember that from the training, but I was hoping I could have gotten out of it,” the boy said as he shrugged on the backpack, rose shakily to his feet, and climbed without protest onto his back.
“You wouldn’t. I’ll shield you as much as I can, but it’s inevitable. Especially when we go to Abstergo.”
“They’ll have guns, though,” the boy muttered, holding on tightly.
That backpack weighed more than the boy, it felt like. Of course, Des also remembered how skinny he was at the time he ran away. Just borderline malnourished, he had often thought. He started walking at a brisk pace, occasionally pausing to take a bite of the protein bar.
“We’ll have something better.”
“That mind-control thing?”
“Exactly.”
It was quiet after that, all thoughts of Des’s on reaching Kalamazoo, and the younger probably thinking about everything he’d learned over the course of the night. They reached the highway, and started walking.
By midnight, they were both sick of it.
By early, early morning, he could feel the younger getting itchy on top of his back, the only thing holding him back from walking the injuries on his feet, although Des could guess soon he’d ask to be let down and he would walk regardless. He himself was sick of walking along the road. His feet were rather sore, and he was still hungry. They hadn’t stopped yet for “lunch,” but Des was eager to get to New York as quick as possible to take care of that stupid final temple.
It was their lucky day when a car slowed down, the window rolled down, and Des’s eyes were flooded with the color blue in the dark night just momentarily.
“Where you headed?” the man asked.
“New York,” Des replied, feeling Desmond press his face against the back of his neck. “Or Kalamazoo first. Just gotta get away from Grand Rapids.”
The woman on the inside smiled warmly. “Come on in! We’ll give you a lift to Kalamazoo!”
“Are you sure this is safe?” the boy whispered, and Des nodded.
“We’ll be safe, Desmond. I promise you I’ll teach you your first trick once we hit Kalamazoo.”
The boy was silent, but slowly slid off his back. He grimaced at the look of pain when his feet hit the pavement, but Desmond hobbled to the door, clutching the backpack close as he slipped into the back of the sports car. Des slipped in beside him, relaxing into the seat.
“Thanks a million.”
The car picked up speed again as the man laughed. “No problem. Why’re you running away from Grand Rapids?”
“Abuse survivors,” he muttered, wrapping his arm around Desmond when the boy leaned in.
The car was silent for a while before the woman looked back at them. They were friendly enough looking people, young, like a freshly married couple. The woman was in a business suit, and the man in regular clothing. He wondered what a pretty young lady like her was doing in a business suit at early morning. Her makeup was done nicely, her strawberry blonde hair done in a tight bun. He vaguely wondered if she was a psychiatrist, then almost laughed at the idea of asking her for a session.
“Abuse?”
Younger Desmond showed her his bandaged hands, the bruises on his arms, and then took off his shoe to show her the bandages on his feet. Des grabbed the foot gently, just before Desmond could put it back in the shoe, and unbandaged it and the other foot, taking the backpack and reapplying the ointment and bandages. The gauze he had originally put on it was disgusting, soaked completely through with what little was left of the ointment and the pus from the blisters and raw skin. There was a laceration on the right foot on the side he had taken extra care around and an infected, stitched gash on the left from a stick that he had accidentally stepped on in one of the runs his father made him do. The ointment had seemed to help a little, some of the ugly coloring gone and the inflamed skin not quite as puffy. Yes, he remembered that miracle ointment. He carefully stuffed the disgusting gauze and bandages in the backpack, packaged in the box he had taken from the protein bars, then undid the bandages on the boy’s hands to stuff them in there.
They were scabbing over nicely, and when the boy pulled them back after he unbandaged them, he nodded in compliance. He could respect the decision to let the wounds on his hands get some air. He tucked the moccasin-like shoes into the backpack and zipped it before leaning back. Desmond curled against him, and he slung his arm around his shoulders as they leaned together. Des’s gaze slipped back to the woman, who was watching them, worried. He offered a soft smile to her.
“Don’t worry. We’re going to make it.”
“Would you like a place to stay until that boy’s feet star—”
“Isabel, we really don’t have the room in our house,” the man said.
“Julian, we really don’t have a choice. That boy needs to stay off his feet!”
The man frowned, and Desmond frowned as well, tucking himself tighter against him.
“Really, ma’am,” Des responded, reclining in the backseat, “we’ll be okay if we can just make it to Kalamazoo.”
“Don’t listen to my husband. He’s an idiot. We have plenty of room. If he gets sent to the doghouse, he just doesn’t want to sleep on the couch. Your brother there needs to stay off his feet. I’m glad you ran away. What kind of father does that to his child?”
Des grinned like a shit, reclining as the woman turned around and pointed at her husband.
“I swear, if you do that to our children, I’m going to rip off your testicles and turn you into a sissy little slut I can sell for money.”
The man sighed, and Des laughed, giving the boy a playful noogie. “See? There are people who care. Just no one we knew.”
The boy swatted at him and pulled away, looking and frowning. “So, you’re saying that we’ve been with the wrong people?”
Des winked. “Exactly. You’ll find strangers are often nicer.”
“You poor boy. How did he get away with all that?” the woman asked, looking at them again.
Desmond leaned against him, propping his feet up on the backseat and leaning against his older self.
“No one came to his help, and I was gone for a while with work,” Des said. “But eventually I just turned in my resignation, took him, and ran.”
“It’s… nice,” Desmond murmured, looking at his hands. “Knowing I’m not going to be run dead every time he catches me flirting.”
“Or with a hand down your pants.”
“Or mixing up instructions.”
“Or accidentally stumbling during practices the day after he ripped you a new one.”
“I remember that.”
The woman shook her head, looking, perhaps, entirely too upset. “That’s terrible.”
Des shrugged. “That’s why we’re here now. Once he’s all healed up, we’re high-tailing it to New York, then over to Italy.”
The lady sighed. “Yes, well, you’re welcome to stay with us as long as you need to.”
“Thanks, ma’am,” they chorused together.
They were driven into Kalamazoo, the woman having turned in to her thoughts as the man opened the window. It was a pretty little house, a light blue and two-stories, a neighbor on either side and the porch looking inviting. The path to the front door was short enough Desmond demanded to walk by himself, although he could see the hesitancy in the boy’s eyes. He helped Desmond out of the car, letting him walk slowly to the door as the woman hovered beside him. The man opened the house to them, and they were shown to a room. The woman said her husband would fix breakfast, that he didn’t work and she was heading off to her office, and they could join him if they didn’t want to sleep first. Apparently, the guy had gone off to a concert with friends, they got separated afterward, and he needed her to come get her.
To Serve the Light 4/?
(Anonymous) 2012-10-20 03:20 am (UTC)(link)“Hey, Des?”
He lifted his arm as the boy turned over to stare at him. The serious look in the boy’s eyes made him quirk an eyebrow.
“Yeah? What is it, little man?”
He laughed at the scowl that got him. He knew, though, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was just partially a façade, and that Desmond was actually a little happier with a nickname, something he had always considered a symbol of being cared about. Still, when that scowl turned back into a frown, he swore he saw a hint of excitement in those haunting golden eyes.
“I was curious.”
“About what?”
“Well,” the boy began, licking his lips and nestling down, those eyes boring holes into his own as he pursed his lips into a frown vaguely familiar of his father’s. He blinked, shaking himself quickly of the thoughts. “I started thinking, and you must know yourself—us—pretty well by now, and… well, no. Nevermind. Nothing. Sorry. What was that trick you told me you were going to show me?”
Des blinked at the sudden change in thoughts. He studied the kid for a minute, then shrugged it off when the kid refused to budge.
“It’s called Eagle Vision. We’re going to have to work on it, but I bet you can do it. It’s there, resting and waiting.”
Desmond quirked an eyebrow, just before yawning. “What’s it do?”
“It lets you tell enemies from allies, targets from trash.”
“That… sounds really… useful.”
“It’s cooler once you can actually use it: I promise.”
“Are you sure?”
“Trust me.”
Desmond snorted. “You’re fucking batshit.”
Des grinned, throwing an arm over his younger self’s side. The kid jerked to pull away, and he let him, watched him roll over to the other side of the bed and scowling at him.
“That’s gay, man.”
“That a problem?” Des said waggling his eyebrows in the most ludicrous way possible.
Silence. “What?”
“Is that a problem?”
Desmond blinked, staring at him with wide eyes and a mildly stunned expression. He winked at the kid.
“I’m telling you: anal is wicked if you get a good partner.”
He wasn’t going to lie and say that didn’t remember Altaïr and Malik’s nights together, or, for that matter, the crush he had developed on Leonardo himself, or the not-so-subtle pining after Shaun, or the few one-night stands he didn’t have with a woman.
“Soft curves are nice and all, but sometimes what you really need is a good, hard dick up your—”
“Shut! Up! Oh my God! I-I don’t! Ew! What the hell, man! What the actual hell!”
He laughed at Desmond’s horrified expression, as if he had just told him he’d be fucking his mother later on life after killing his dad. He looked absolutely disgusted and a little bit mortified, although, Des noted as the kid calmed down, he thought he saw something akin to morbid curiosity there.
“Seriously?” Desmond asked, looking at him with his lip twisted as if he were the sickest thing ever.
Des grinned like a shit and winked. “I swear, man. You wanna know all the dirty little secrets about yourself? I can tell you.”
Desmond’s nose wrinkled, and he pulled back slightly. “You are so fucking strange.”
“I’m also twenty years out of my time.”
Desmond rolled his eyes, flipped over to give him his back, and muttered, “Christ, you’re an old man.”
Des snorted, grinned, and settled on his stomach instead of grabbing Desmond and putting him in a headlock. “I am not old, pipsqueak!”
Desmond squawked, turning around to face him and scowl. “I am not a pipsqueak, you dinosaur!”
He grinned, looking at him. “Rawr, man.”
The kid frowned, his eyebrows scrunching together. Des simply closed his eyes. There was silence for a little bit before he heard, “So, how do you do the Eagle Vision?”
Well, he thought, this was going to be interesting.
-----
Another minor installment! Finally!
Re: To Serve the Light 4/?
(Anonymous) 2012-10-20 03:54 am (UTC)(link)Re: To Serve the Light 4/?
(Anonymous) 2013-04-27 08:41 pm (UTC)(link)Re: To Serve the Light 4/?
(Anonymous) 2013-05-29 09:52 pm (UTC)(link)Still curious?
Re: To Serve the Light 4/?
(Anonymous) 2013-10-02 10:11 pm (UTC)(link)*crosses fingers*
Re: To Serve the Light 4/?
(Anonymous) 2013-10-08 05:27 pm (UTC)(link)... I just have to hear back from my beta reader.
Re: To Serve the Light 4/?
(Anonymous) 2013-10-17 05:02 am (UTC)(link)Re: To Serve the Light 4/?
(Anonymous) 2013-06-02 08:40 pm (UTC)(link)