Yet again, it was one of those nights were Desmond couldn’t sleep. That was normal, after all that had been happening over the past couple of years; though it shouldn’t have been. They had seen neither hide nor hair of Abstergo in months, and all things considered, it had been quiet around the hideout.
Too quiet, if Desmond had a say in anything.
So, to combat his insomnia, the assassin had left the headquarters in favor of a bout of late-night free-running across the cityscape. Being in the Animus so much, sifting through Ezio’s memories, had given him a fondness of the activity. The city was his playground, and there was no one who could catch him, let alone stop him.
He wandered back into headquarters some time after midnight, unzipping his trademark white hoodie to cool down, as he was drenched through nearly both layers of clothing with sweat. The telltale darkness of the place told him that his companions had gone off to bed—
--except there was a faint flicker of light from the Animus room.
Desmond’s curiosity drew him toward the disturbance, his hoodie halfway slid off of his shoulders as he peeked into the doorway. Of course Shaun was the one awake at this ungodly hour. Sitting at his computer on the far side of the room, but--/what/ was he doing? The assassin watched his comrade for a moment, and then it dawned on him.
Shaun was having a web-date. From the nicer outfit, to the webcam setup and the headphone-mic combination on his head. He was having a date, over the internet, in the middle of the night.
From the doorway, where Shaun couldn’t really see him, because of the light of the monitor and the darkness of the rest of the complex, Desmond watched. He was genuinely curious, listening in as the Brit chatted idly. There was actually a smile on those typically stoic lips, and the onlooker couldn’t help but to echo it, tilting his head to the side. Since Desmond couldn’t see the screen, he didn’t know the face of the lucky lady on the receiving end of that smile, but he was sure she deserved it.
However, what he wasn’t sure of, was what Shaun meant by the “my turn” Desmond heard him utter. He was soon to find out, though, as he watched the Brit remove his headset and set it on the desk before him. Slender fingers went to the collar of his shirt, slowly beginning to unbutton—
And was Desmond actually staying in the doorway, watching this scene unfold?
One button came undone, then another—and Desmond found himself gawking, mouth slightly parted as pale flesh was bared to the cool room inch by gratuitous inch. When the shirt was finally opened over a slim, though not toned torso, the American assassin found his breath caught in his throat. So this was what Shaun was hiding beneath seething snark and British humor?
Filled [1/3]
Too quiet, if Desmond had a say in anything.
So, to combat his insomnia, the assassin had left the headquarters in favor of a bout of late-night free-running across the cityscape. Being in the Animus so much, sifting through Ezio’s memories, had given him a fondness of the activity. The city was his playground, and there was no one who could catch him, let alone stop him.
He wandered back into headquarters some time after midnight, unzipping his trademark white hoodie to cool down, as he was drenched through nearly both layers of clothing with sweat. The telltale darkness of the place told him that his companions had gone off to bed—
--except there was a faint flicker of light from the Animus room.
Desmond’s curiosity drew him toward the disturbance, his hoodie halfway slid off of his shoulders as he peeked into the doorway. Of course Shaun was the one awake at this ungodly hour. Sitting at his computer on the far side of the room, but--/what/ was he doing? The assassin watched his comrade for a moment, and then it dawned on him.
Shaun was having a web-date. From the nicer outfit, to the webcam setup and the headphone-mic combination on his head. He was having a date, over the internet, in the middle of the night.
From the doorway, where Shaun couldn’t really see him, because of the light of the monitor and the darkness of the rest of the complex, Desmond watched. He was genuinely curious, listening in as the Brit chatted idly. There was actually a smile on those typically stoic lips, and the onlooker couldn’t help but to echo it, tilting his head to the side. Since Desmond couldn’t see the screen, he didn’t know the face of the lucky lady on the receiving end of that smile, but he was sure she deserved it.
However, what he wasn’t sure of, was what Shaun meant by the “my turn” Desmond heard him utter. He was soon to find out, though, as he watched the Brit remove his headset and set it on the desk before him. Slender fingers went to the collar of his shirt, slowly beginning to unbutton—
And was Desmond actually staying in the doorway, watching this scene unfold?
One button came undone, then another—and Desmond found himself gawking, mouth slightly parted as pale flesh was bared to the cool room inch by gratuitous inch. When the shirt was finally opened over a slim, though not toned torso, the American assassin found his breath caught in his throat. So this was what Shaun was hiding beneath seething snark and British humor?