Once again, huge thank you to everyone who commented on this, you guys are great for helping motivate me to actually finish this.
+1. Desmond could sleep through a bomb going off ten feet away from him. Clay, on the other hand, could be woken up by a sheet of paper rustling in their neighbor's apartment. It was great for Desmond, because the twitching and yelling in their sleep that they were both prone to didn't disturb him at all. Clay barely slept most nights, but he rarely complained about it. He was content enough to just watch Desmond sleep through the night instead. Besides, with the whole semi-permanently unemployed thing, it meant if he did get tired enough to sleep for a few hours in the middle of the day, he actually could.
On the rare occasions something managed to wake Desmond up, they had a ritual. It took a little while for them to decide that it was alright, it was okay, that they didn't have to actively stamp out the temptation, and once they deemed this as therapeutic rather than a bad idea, they were happier for it. Wordlessly, they'd both get out of bed, throw on clothes, and quietly crept out their bedroom window onto their building's fire escape. They'd walk up the stairs to the highest floor calmly, slowly, so they didn't wake up their upstairs neighbors with their footsteps on the old metal, and climb the rest of the building to get onto the roof.
If it was cold outside, Clay would always mumble about how he should have brought a bigger jacket, Desmond would offer his hoodie, and Clay would stubbornly refuse it, saying it would get in the way in a few minutes anyway. If it was warm, neither of them said anything, at least not in English; sometimes they'd talk a bit in Italian. Usually though, they'd just appreciate the limited view the roof of their little five story building gave them for a long while. But, like clockwork, once they were done admiring, all it took was them glancing at each other, a raise of the eyebrows from Desmond, a tug of the lips from Clay, and then they'd start running.
They'd run to the next building, and then the next one, cross the street using the poles for stoplights, and they'd keep running. From neighborhood to neighborhood. From the East Village to Harlem. Run through the trees at Central Park, across buildings in SoHo, past marquee signs in Times Squares. They'd run until their arms and legs burned, until breathing hurt. Until they weren't in New York anymore, but Jerusalem, Florence, Xianyang, Moscow, Rome, Boston, Paris, Istanbul, the Farm, and until it became New York again. They'd run until they could hear long-dead people below them speaking a flurry of languages, commenting on the strange men in white climbing all over their buildings.
They'd run until they could hear the footfalls of Templars and guards alike chasing them, until they could hear La Volpe urging them to run faster, Yusef's laughter, Uncle Mario's words of advice, until they could almost see them. They'd run until the Bleeding Effect took hold, and until it let them go again. They'd run until they could see the faintest sliver of the sun peaking over the horizon between the skyscrapers. They'd run until they were perched on top of the Empire State Building, watching the city come alive below them, until the city swirled around them in all directions, until they could picture eagles soaring around them as they watched the world turn.
They'd run until they forgot the war with the Templars, until they forgot Juno, the Pieces of Eden, until they forgot their deaths. They'd run until they remembered it all again with stunning clarity. They'd run until they accepted it was okay that they weren't okay, until they damned the fact that they were so utterly fucked up.
They'd run and they'd keep running because, once upon a time, they were Assassins, and running is how their Brotherhood survived. As long as they could keep running, the Assassins could handle everything the world, the Templars, and The Ones Who Came Before threw at them.
They'd make their way back home, and while they'd always be too exhausted to speak, the sentiment was always there in the tired smiles and hushed laughter as they ducked back through their bedroom window. They could live with this, with all the shit that happened to them, the same way their ancestors always did: Fight when you can win, run when you can't.
Fill 6/6
+1.
Desmond could sleep through a bomb going off ten feet away from him. Clay, on the other hand, could be woken up by a sheet of paper rustling in their neighbor's apartment. It was great for Desmond, because the twitching and yelling in their sleep that they were both prone to didn't disturb him at all. Clay barely slept most nights, but he rarely complained about it. He was content enough to just watch Desmond sleep through the night instead. Besides, with the whole semi-permanently unemployed thing, it meant if he did get tired enough to sleep for a few hours in the middle of the day, he actually could.
On the rare occasions something managed to wake Desmond up, they had a ritual. It took a little while for them to decide that it was alright, it was okay, that they didn't have to actively stamp out the temptation, and once they deemed this as therapeutic rather than a bad idea, they were happier for it. Wordlessly, they'd both get out of bed, throw on clothes, and quietly crept out their bedroom window onto their building's fire escape. They'd walk up the stairs to the highest floor calmly, slowly, so they didn't wake up their upstairs neighbors with their footsteps on the old metal, and climb the rest of the building to get onto the roof.
If it was cold outside, Clay would always mumble about how he should have brought a bigger jacket, Desmond would offer his hoodie, and Clay would stubbornly refuse it, saying it would get in the way in a few minutes anyway. If it was warm, neither of them said anything, at least not in English; sometimes they'd talk a bit in Italian. Usually though, they'd just appreciate the limited view the roof of their little five story building gave them for a long while. But, like clockwork, once they were done admiring, all it took was them glancing at each other, a raise of the eyebrows from Desmond, a tug of the lips from Clay, and then they'd start running.
They'd run to the next building, and then the next one, cross the street using the poles for stoplights, and they'd keep running. From neighborhood to neighborhood. From the East Village to Harlem. Run through the trees at Central Park, across buildings in SoHo, past marquee signs in Times Squares. They'd run until their arms and legs burned, until breathing hurt. Until they weren't in New York anymore, but Jerusalem, Florence, Xianyang, Moscow, Rome, Boston, Paris, Istanbul, the Farm, and until it became New York again. They'd run until they could hear long-dead people below them speaking a flurry of languages, commenting on the strange men in white climbing all over their buildings.
They'd run until they could hear the footfalls of Templars and guards alike chasing them, until they could hear La Volpe urging them to run faster, Yusef's laughter, Uncle Mario's words of advice, until they could almost see them. They'd run until the Bleeding Effect took hold, and until it let them go again. They'd run until they could see the faintest sliver of the sun peaking over the horizon between the skyscrapers. They'd run until they were perched on top of the Empire State Building, watching the city come alive below them, until the city swirled around them in all directions, until they could picture eagles soaring around them as they watched the world turn.
They'd run until they forgot the war with the Templars, until they forgot Juno, the Pieces of Eden, until they forgot their deaths. They'd run until they remembered it all again with stunning clarity. They'd run until they accepted it was okay that they weren't okay, until they damned the fact that they were so utterly fucked up.
They'd run and they'd keep running because, once upon a time, they were Assassins, and running is how their Brotherhood survived. As long as they could keep running, the Assassins could handle everything the world, the Templars, and The Ones Who Came Before threw at them.
They'd make their way back home, and while they'd always be too exhausted to speak, the sentiment was always there in the tired smiles and hushed laughter as they ducked back through their bedroom window. They could live with this, with all the shit that happened to them, the same way their ancestors always did: Fight when you can win, run when you can't.