“He who would be free must strike the first blow” – Frederick Douglass
~ ~ ~
The night was damned cold, and it had been a very long time since Desmond had slept outside on the hard ground under nothing but the sky. He was restless all night, and kept waking at the slightest breeze, or noise. Ezio insisted that they put the fire out before they went to sleep, so as not to attract unwanted attention when they were vulnerable, and the warmth from the coals had long since faded.
Desmond understood, he really did, but his body was just not used to roughing it like this. Ezio, on the other hand, was dead to the world, perfectly comfortable in his own body, laying sprawled out on the ground, and taking up way too much space for one man. Also, the Italian was an unconscious cuddler – Desmond couldn't even get close to him for warmth without finding himself trapped beneath an arm or a leg, Ezio snoring into his neck, and yeah, that was as awkward as all get out.
And that was the way he had woken up a few times, because apparently his subconscious sleepy self kept rolling him into the bastard. He supposed he should be grateful that his great-great-great-great-great-great-whatever (and he's sure there are a few more greats in there) recognizes him as an ally now on a subconscious level, otherwise he probably would have woken up more than a few times with a dagger in his heart. Therefore, he was resigned to a sleepless and uncomfortable night, and got what sleep he could, but was no where near anything remotely resembling rested when he was woken up at ass o'clock in the morning by drums of all things.
He had to give Ezio his dues where it counted though – that man when from quietly snoring to sitting up, fully alert and awake in less time it took for Desmond to clear his throat.
Ezio quietly grabs his belt, which had been laid to the side, all its various instruments of death still attached, and puts it on before doing the same with his hidden blades. It's almost eerie how silent he is in his preparation.
Desmond is not nearly as silent as he gets to his feet, sighs, and mumbles to himself for a few moments as he looks for his own blades – ah, over there, how the hell did they get way over there? – which earns him a harsh look of admonishment from his companion, and a low, mumbled 'novice' under his breath.
Desmond pinks; he is not Altair, but has spent enough time in the man's memories to take deep offense to that word, and he suspects Ezio knows it by the slight smirk that appears on his face when Desmond glares at him.
The drums get louder, and are coming from beneath them. Ezio points to a nearby rock face overlooking the road, and Desmond nods. Quietly, they climb up to the edge, where Desmond focuses his second sight. There are a total of eight soldiers on foot and two officers on horseback. Two of the foot soldiers are drumming, but the rest are armed with muskets slung over their shoulders. One of the officers on a spotted palomino looks half asleep, but the other one seems to be loading a revolver.
Ezio casts him a quick look, points to himself, and the two officers on horseback. He then points to Desmond and indicates the two drummer boys.
Desmond's look sours even more, because really? But he is a trained assassin, and does not question orders, even when given by sanctimonious assholes who question his skill set.
Ezio smiles at him, winks, and then he is jumping off of the side of the rock face.
That's his queue, Ezio is on his own, as Desmond does the same, taking the two drummers out with his hidden blades in an arial assault that sends a rush of adrenaline right to his heart, and then it is on.
Desmond can't see what Ezio is doing, but the palomino runs by him riderless, and he can hear the surprised yell from the other officer. The air is rent with the sound of a gunshot; Desmond can only hope that Ezio is okay before one of the armed guards tries to drive a musket into his side. He pivots, flipping quickly to catch the blade of another musket before he shoves the back end of it into right into its owner's chest, making the man stumble back. Desmond's on him in a second. He feels the sensation of danger from behind, and he doesn't even think; just grabs the man's body and flips around, using him as a human shield for the four musket shots that had been fired, perilously close to where Desmond just stood not even half a second ago. He drops the dead guard on the ground, takes the dead man's musket, and launches himself into the remaining group of guards before they have a chance to reload.
The second horse runs by, riderless, and a sword rips through the belly of one of the five remaining guards circling him. They are down to four now, two of whom are pale white and look as if they would rather be anywhere but here. Sure enough, they turn tail and run.
“Go --” shouts Ezio, as he continues to battle the other two remaining guards, and Desmond runs to follow the two that run off. They are too fast; one of them almost reaches the palomino that is still hanging around, further up the road.
Swearing to himself, Desmond pulls his 23 caliber out and shoots them both in the back in rapid succession. They fall, and he is quickly on them with his hidden blades to finish the job. When he turns around, Ezio has already dispatched the other two guards, and is limping towards him favoring his right leg.
Desmond doesn't think, he runs to the man, practically barreling him down in his haste to get to him. He falls to his knees in the road, hands pulling at fabric to see the damage. God, Ezio had been shot. That could be, like, a death sentence in this time. There were infections and things, and no antibiotics, and he did knot know what the hell he would do if he were left here alone and he did not know how to make penicillin, he knew it had to do with moldy bread, but–
“Stop worrying so hard, my friend, he only grazed me. See?”
Ezio sways slightly, and rests a hand on Desmond's head to steady himself. With his other hand, he works at the buttons of his breeches. He is clumsy about it, obviously in pain, and trying not to show it.
Desmond curses under his breath, and pushes Ezio's hand out of the way.
“Easy, man. Just... stop, I'll do it.”
Desmond undoes the rest of the buttons, and pulls the fabric down far enough to see the angry red welt against Ezio's left thigh where the bullet grazed him. Desmond swears, grabs Ezio's canteen off of his belt, and splashes water over the wound.
“Stay right there,” He orders, as Ezio winces. He's on his feet in a flash, searching the body of the nearest soldier. When he doesn't find what he's looking for, he moves on to the body of the officer who appeared dazed, and ah – there it is. He takes the small wooden canteen, rips some fabric off of the dead's man shirt, and returns to Ezio.
“This is going to sting,” Desmond says, as he splashes whatever spirits the man had in his canteen onto Ezio's leg. Ezio sucks in a breath, but doesn't move, and then Desmond is carefully field dressing the wound the best he can with the torn bit of dirty fabric. His hands are shaking as he falls back to sit on his heels and look up at Ezio.
Desmond pulls his hand through his hair.
“We'll uh... we'll have to get that looked at, when we get to Davenport... hopefully Connor will have recruited that doctor already, but yeah. That should be good for now... dammit.”
Ezio says nothing, just stares at him with a strange look in his eyes that Desmond can't place, before offering a hand.
And then it occurs to Desmond that he is sitting on his heels before Ezio with the man's pants halfway down to his ankles, and he flushes furiously and coughs into his hand before allowing the other man to pull him to his feet.
Thankfully, Ezio does not mention this at all as he carefully fixes his pants, before clasping Desmond on the back.
Ezio's gaze is intense when he meets it.
“Thank you my friend. I fear I did not properly anticipate some of the weaponry of this time, and I was... careless. It will not happen again.”
“Yeah,” Desmond replies, because he needs to gain control of this situation right now. “See that it doesn't.”
The smile he gets from Ezio in return is not the carefree smirk he is used to, but warm and genuine in a way that has Desmond turning away.
~ ~ ~
“This is the most god-awful scratchy material ever made. And so freakin' hot, I feel like a stuffed turkey. How did those guys ever move in these things? And these boots! They are like a size too small, too narrow, and they smell. My toes are going to blacken and fall off before we get to Davenport. Thank shit we don't have to wear the coats, because I'd be dying.” Desmond tries to tie the officer's sword to his belt, scowling as it brushes against his leg.
Ezio sighs as he continues to secure all their remaining gear to the palomino mare. It was a fortunate turn of events that she only ran a short ways up the road, and Ezio had always had a way with females of any species. It was a simple thing to settle a skittish mare, after all... or colt, for that matter, but he has not the patience for it at the moment.
“The leather on the boots will adapt to your feet; they fit well enough. It is your mouth that needs adjustment.”
He doesn't mean to sound harsh, but his leg hurts. It had been a stupid mistake; he should have been more aware, should have known. He did not recognize the weapon for what it was until it was too late; it was not a mistake he could afford to make again.
Desmond glares at him, but the glare fades away quickly as he meets Ezio's eyes.
Ezio tries hard to school his face into an expression of neutrality. He does not like feeling weak, and he does not like others knowing that he feels that way.
“You should ride the rest of the way,” Desmond says to him, “I will lead on foot. And, hey, look at the bright side – your injury and these shitty clothes we are wearing all say 'robbed by thieves and scavenged off of dead men'. We'll just stash our shit somewhere close by, and retrieve it after we play at being damsels in distress.”
Ezio huffs, but does not comment, as he allows Desmond to help him onto the horse.
The rest of the trip to Davenport passes in relative quiet and peace, for which Ezio gives thanks.
Fill: Every hour God sends, part 4
~ ~ ~
The night was damned cold, and it had been a very long time since Desmond had slept outside on the hard ground under nothing but the sky. He was restless all night, and kept waking at the slightest breeze, or noise. Ezio insisted that they put the fire out before they went to sleep, so as not to attract unwanted attention when they were vulnerable, and the warmth from the coals had long since faded.
Desmond understood, he really did, but his body was just not used to roughing it like this. Ezio, on the other hand, was dead to the world, perfectly comfortable in his own body, laying sprawled out on the ground, and taking up way too much space for one man. Also, the Italian was an unconscious cuddler – Desmond couldn't even get close to him for warmth without finding himself trapped beneath an arm or a leg, Ezio snoring into his neck, and yeah, that was as awkward as all get out.
And that was the way he had woken up a few times, because apparently his subconscious sleepy self kept rolling him into the bastard. He supposed he should be grateful that his great-great-great-great-great-great-whatever (and he's sure there are a few more greats in there) recognizes him as an ally now on a subconscious level, otherwise he probably would have woken up more than a few times with a dagger in his heart. Therefore, he was resigned to a sleepless and uncomfortable night, and got what sleep he could, but was no where near anything remotely resembling rested when he was woken up at ass o'clock in the morning by drums of all things.
He had to give Ezio his dues where it counted though – that man when from quietly snoring to sitting up, fully alert and awake in less time it took for Desmond to clear his throat.
Ezio quietly grabs his belt, which had been laid to the side, all its various instruments of death still attached, and puts it on before doing the same with his hidden blades. It's almost eerie how silent he is in his preparation.
Desmond is not nearly as silent as he gets to his feet, sighs, and mumbles to himself for a few moments as he looks for his own blades – ah, over there, how the hell did they get way over there? – which earns him a harsh look of admonishment from his companion, and a low, mumbled 'novice' under his breath.
Desmond pinks; he is not Altair, but has spent enough time in the man's memories to take deep offense to that word, and he suspects Ezio knows it by the slight smirk that appears on his face when Desmond glares at him.
The drums get louder, and are coming from beneath them. Ezio points to a nearby rock face overlooking the road, and Desmond nods. Quietly, they climb up to the edge, where Desmond focuses his second sight. There are a total of eight soldiers on foot and two officers on horseback. Two of the foot soldiers are drumming, but the rest are armed with muskets slung over their shoulders. One of the officers on a spotted palomino looks half asleep, but the other one seems to be loading a revolver.
Ezio casts him a quick look, points to himself, and the two officers on horseback. He then points to Desmond and indicates the two drummer boys.
Desmond's look sours even more, because really? But he is a trained assassin, and does not question orders, even when given by sanctimonious assholes who question his skill set.
Ezio smiles at him, winks, and then he is jumping off of the side of the rock face.
That's his queue, Ezio is on his own, as Desmond does the same, taking the two drummers out with his hidden blades in an arial assault that sends a rush of adrenaline right to his heart, and then it is on.
Desmond can't see what Ezio is doing, but the palomino runs by him riderless, and he can hear the surprised yell from the other officer. The air is rent with the sound of a gunshot; Desmond can only hope that Ezio is okay before one of the armed guards tries to drive a musket into his side. He pivots, flipping quickly to catch the blade of another musket before he shoves the back end of it into right into its owner's chest, making the man stumble back. Desmond's on him in a second. He feels the sensation of danger from behind, and he doesn't even think; just grabs the man's body and flips around, using him as a human shield for the four musket shots that had been fired, perilously close to where Desmond just stood not even half a second ago. He drops the dead guard on the ground, takes the dead man's musket, and launches himself into the remaining group of guards before they have a chance to reload.
The second horse runs by, riderless, and a sword rips through the belly of one of the five remaining guards circling him. They are down to four now, two of whom are pale white and look as if they would rather be anywhere but here. Sure enough, they turn tail and run.
“Go --” shouts Ezio, as he continues to battle the other two remaining guards, and Desmond runs to follow the two that run off. They are too fast; one of them almost reaches the palomino that is still hanging around, further up the road.
Swearing to himself, Desmond pulls his 23 caliber out and shoots them both in the back in rapid succession. They fall, and he is quickly on them with his hidden blades to finish the job. When he turns around, Ezio has already dispatched the other two guards, and is limping towards him favoring his right leg.
Desmond doesn't think, he runs to the man, practically barreling him down in his haste to get to him. He falls to his knees in the road, hands pulling at fabric to see the damage. God, Ezio had been shot. That could be, like, a death sentence in this time. There were infections and things, and no antibiotics, and he did knot know what the hell he would do if he were left here alone and he did not know how to make penicillin, he knew it had to do with moldy bread, but–
“Stop worrying so hard, my friend, he only grazed me. See?”
Ezio sways slightly, and rests a hand on Desmond's head to steady himself. With his other hand, he works at the buttons of his breeches. He is clumsy about it, obviously in pain, and trying not to show it.
Desmond curses under his breath, and pushes Ezio's hand out of the way.
“Easy, man. Just... stop, I'll do it.”
Desmond undoes the rest of the buttons, and pulls the fabric down far enough to see the angry red welt against Ezio's left thigh where the bullet grazed him. Desmond swears, grabs Ezio's canteen off of his belt, and splashes water over the wound.
“Stay right there,” He orders, as Ezio winces. He's on his feet in a flash, searching the body of the nearest soldier. When he doesn't find what he's looking for, he moves on to the body of the officer who appeared dazed, and ah – there it is. He takes the small wooden canteen, rips some fabric off of the dead's man shirt, and returns to Ezio.
“This is going to sting,” Desmond says, as he splashes whatever spirits the man had in his canteen onto Ezio's leg. Ezio sucks in a breath, but doesn't move, and then Desmond is carefully field dressing the wound the best he can with the torn bit of dirty fabric. His hands are shaking as he falls back to sit on his heels and look up at Ezio.
Desmond pulls his hand through his hair.
“We'll uh... we'll have to get that looked at, when we get to Davenport... hopefully Connor will have recruited that doctor already, but yeah. That should be good for now... dammit.”
Ezio says nothing, just stares at him with a strange look in his eyes that Desmond can't place, before offering a hand.
And then it occurs to Desmond that he is sitting on his heels before Ezio with the man's pants halfway down to his ankles, and he flushes furiously and coughs into his hand before allowing the other man to pull him to his feet.
Thankfully, Ezio does not mention this at all as he carefully fixes his pants, before clasping Desmond on the back.
Ezio's gaze is intense when he meets it.
“Thank you my friend. I fear I did not properly anticipate some of the weaponry of this time, and I was... careless. It will not happen again.”
“Yeah,” Desmond replies, because he needs to gain control of this situation right now. “See that it doesn't.”
The smile he gets from Ezio in return is not the carefree smirk he is used to, but warm and genuine in a way that has Desmond turning away.
~ ~ ~
“This is the most god-awful scratchy material ever made. And so freakin' hot, I feel like a stuffed turkey. How did those guys ever move in these things? And these boots! They are like a size too small, too narrow, and they smell. My toes are going to blacken and fall off before we get to Davenport. Thank shit we don't have to wear the coats, because I'd be dying.” Desmond tries to tie the officer's sword to his belt, scowling as it brushes against his leg.
Ezio sighs as he continues to secure all their remaining gear to the palomino mare. It was a fortunate turn of events that she only ran a short ways up the road, and Ezio had always had a way with females of any species. It was a simple thing to settle a skittish mare, after all... or colt, for that matter, but he has not the patience for it at the moment.
“The leather on the boots will adapt to your feet; they fit well enough. It is your mouth that needs adjustment.”
He doesn't mean to sound harsh, but his leg hurts. It had been a stupid mistake; he should have been more aware, should have known. He did not recognize the weapon for what it was until it was too late; it was not a mistake he could afford to make again.
Desmond glares at him, but the glare fades away quickly as he meets Ezio's eyes.
Ezio tries hard to school his face into an expression of neutrality. He does not like feeling weak, and he does not like others knowing that he feels that way.
“You should ride the rest of the way,” Desmond says to him, “I will lead on foot. And, hey, look at the bright side – your injury and these shitty clothes we are wearing all say 'robbed by thieves and scavenged off of dead men'. We'll just stash our shit somewhere close by, and retrieve it after we play at being damsels in distress.”
Ezio huffs, but does not comment, as he allows Desmond to help him onto the horse.
The rest of the trip to Davenport passes in relative quiet and peace, for which Ezio gives thanks.