Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

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Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
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Clay/Desmond: Homecoming (4/?)

[(Anonymous)]

(Sorry to all anons that it took so long, next part will be faster. :) )

“I never did ask your name,” Desmond said as he climbed out of the car. His voice was all but carried off by the icy wind.

Clay shut his door with a bang and locked it, looking at Desmond through the haze of dancing snowflakes. Behind him towered the grey giant of the thirty-four story skyscraper where his home could be found. He circled the car and pushed past Desmond.

“It’s Clay. Clay Kaczmarek,” he said as he opened the front door and led Desmond into a long, narrow grey entrance hall that, lined with innumerable mail boxes, always reminded Clay of an archive instead of a foyer. “Now we only have to figure out which of us is the idiot asking to get robbed more: The one bringing a stranger from the street into his house or the one following a man whose name he doesn’t even know home.”

Desmond laughed, the sound hollow in the foyer. Their steps sounded harsh against the naked stone ground and wall-mounted neon lights painted multiple shadows of them against the metal boxes. Clay took the chance to steal another look at Desmond as the man folded back his snow-covered hood. The first impression still held true: He was handsome. However, the harsh lighting and his time on the streets had painted deep shadows under his eyes and his full lips had an unhealthy blue colour despite the warm car ride.

As Desmond cocked his head, giving a questioning gaze, Clay quickly turned and unlocked his mail box.

“You know, Clay, this is a better deal for me. Unless you’re interested in a six year old netbook or a collection of hoodies, I don’t think I’ve anything worth stealing.”

“That’s alright,” Clay said, closing the mail box door. “Me and my cult don’t believe in personal possessions. Dismembering you with a chainsaw will be reward enough.”

Desmond raised a brow, smirking in a manner that made his dark eyes twinkle and stretched the scar over his mouth.

“Thanks for the heads-up.”

A bunch of letters in his hand (advertisements, mostly, and a bill or two, god forbid he ever get any nice mail), Clay waited for the elevator doors to slide open and, once inside, pressed the number sixteen. “I hope you don’t have a problem with heights.”

“Me?” Again, Desmond laughed. “No. My hobby’s freerunning.“

“Freerunning?”

The small cabin started its ascent with a lurch.

“You know, parkour. Scaling walls, climbing buildings, going over rooftops, that sort of thing.”

“That sounds vaguely suicidal,” Clay offered with a brow raised. “But I guess my windows won’t be a problem, then.”

His apartment had two rooms, a spacious living room-kitchen and his bedroom, which doubled as his home office. In the small hallway leading inside, Clay took off his shoes and Desmond followed his example. As he stepped forward to put down his boots, Clay caught sight of his feet.

“What...”

Desmond looked down. His red socks were adorned with little orange hearts.

Where do you find socks like that in a size fitting an adult man?

“I had no others that were clean,” Desmond defended himself. “It’s not like I expected anyone to see them.”

“Why do you even have them in the first place?”

“Long story. It comes with a drink for maximum effect, though, so I should tell you sometime.”

Desmond flashed him another smile and Clay felt compelled to answer it for no real reason he could discern.

“Well, I’m just about ready to fall over unscious. Do you want to use the bathroom first? I’ll prepare your bed.”

“Yeah, that’d be great.”

From his backpack, Desmond produced a towel and a see-through plastic bag containing some bathroom articles, including a toothbrush that had seen better days and a couple of small silver condoms packages crinkling under the weight of his shower gel. It didn’t surprise Clay; he supposed the guy wasn’t exactly picking up girls while homeless (‘do you want to go to my bus stop or yours?’), but being a good-looking bartender had probably given him every opportunity he wanted.

After Desmond had shuffled off and locked the bathroom door, Clay took a critical look at his apartment. Spending 16 hours each day at work for the last two weeks to meet the deadlines on the latest projects had taken its toll on the place. Not that he expected Desmond to complain, but Clay had been raised just well enough to feel it was inappropriate when a visitor would see more clothes than carpet when looking at the ground. With little motivation, he bunched the clothing up and threw it in a corner, pretending this was his laundry collection place. Then he cleared the sofa from books, magazines and snack wrappings (collecting it all in a neat nest under the couch table), which was about as good as it was going to get for now. Finally, he went to procure an extra pillow and a blanket from his room.

When he returned, Desmond stood mostly naked, the towel tied around his hips just barely covering his ass as he leaned over his backpack.

Desmond didn’t have exceptionally broad shoulders, but they were just the right size to match his slim hips. Clay saw muscles flexing under his tan skin as he pulled out a shirt and boxers and when Desmond turned, his sixpack made Clay instantly jealous. Thanks to the entirely unfair advantage of his construction worker genes, Clay didn’t need to hide his body either – even with his great diet of fast food and coke. But this man looked like a swimsuit model. Perhaps hopping over rooftops was something to consider after all.

After a few seconds of staring (again), Clay’s brain caught up to the fact that he would probably need to say something, and preferably not the choice words his head provided him with right now, namely ‘what’s your secret?’ and ‘If I saw you in a club, I would probably think you’re out of my league’. His gaze raked over Desmond’s body once more. There were black patterns on his right arm and left thigh, from wrist to shoulder and knee to somewhere under the rim of the towel, respectively.

“Tribal tattoos, huh? Got a cool Chinese sign saying ‘I’m an moron’ somewhere, too?” Clay asked.

The homeless man laughed and ran a hand through his short wet hair. “Cut me some slack, I was sixteen.” Shrugging, he shook out the shirt and pulled it over his head. “I actually still kinda like them.” After he’d slipped on the tee, he ran a hand over the ink on his arm. “They mean something to me now. Other than that I made shitty decisions when I was a teen.”

“How long ago is sixteen?”

“Nine years.”

“Fourteen for me, kiddo.”

Desmond stepped into his boxers, drew them up under the towel and then unwrapped it. “You don’t look thirty.”

Clay commanded himself not to be flattered by that honest, friendly tone and rolled his eyes. “Your mommy taught you manners, I see. I’ll be going to the bathroom then, put on a face mask and some skin scream.”

Desmond shook his head with a snort. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to sleep – oh.” He snapped his fingers. “Before I forget, would you like anything for breakfast? Providing you let me use your kitchen. I thought, since I’m staying, I could at least do that. I’m not a chef or anything, but I’ve worked in the kitchen before.”

Clay shrugged. “I guess I could survive not eating Cheerios for once. Anything is good. I haven’t been to the store for a few days, though.”

“No problem.” Another room-brightening smile. “I’ll whip up something.”

When Clay laid in his bed half an hour later, he found himself glancing through the open door at the blanket-covered mound on the couch. Desmond had already been dead asleep by the time he left the bathroom, a small travelling clock on the couch table next to him, his backpack propped up against the armrest and the covers up to his nose.

Life had a funny way of going. Sleepwalking between bed and office as he did most days, how could Clay have know he’d end today with a bike-driving ex-bartender parkour fan wrapped in his spare blanket in the living room?

If all went well, he wouldn’t start the next day with a knife at his throat. Clay tried tentatively to believe in the intrinsic good of human beings.

*