He hauled his find gleefully to the little card table they used for eating. The mismatched fold-out chairs weren’t comfortable, but the crack of the bottle cap under the opener was enough to put a smile on his face. God bless beer, he thought, tipping back the bottle with a quiet groan of satisfaction. This beat the pants off the watery swill Shaun insisted on buying.
“What?” Desmond parroted in his best British accent, which happened to be a terrible British accent. “D’you think I’m made of money, Desmond? Think it grows on trees, do you?” Desmond snorted, shaking his head. “Asshole.”
“Beg your pardon?”
Desmond nearly spat up his drink, leaning forward fast enough to upend the flimsy chair. Luckily he caught himself, Guinness and limbs akimbo as he stared at the living room, where two people were now watching him.
“I… who are you? Who is that?” Desmond sputtered. He flinched. “Agh!”
“Something wrong?” Shaun asked, sounding not at all concerned.
Desmond’s mind shuddered, screaming with pain. Images hit him rapid fire, whirling by like a rolodex on crack. A woman, a girl, two men talking at a table… He groaned, cracking open one eye to see Shaun and the stranger still staring at him.
“Sorry,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Monster of a headache.”
It was more than that, but they didn’t need to know that.
“Desmond, this is Abbie Thorne. Abbie, this fine, half-naked gentleman is Desmond.”
She walked up to the table, her hands tucked into the back pockets of her jeans before she yanked one out and offered it to him to shake. Desmond took it, jarred by how strong her grip was.
“Abbie is like you, Desmond.” Shaun paused, smirking. “No, not a lazy drunk, an assassin. Well, she’s an actual assassin. You’ve still got your training wheels on…”
“It’s a pleasure,” she said pleasantly. Pretty. British. Desmond stood, finding she was shorter than she looked. Then he made the mistake of matching her glance. Another flicker of pain seared across head.
“Is this the assassin?” she asked in perfect Italian.
“Yes, my beauty.” Cesare took her hand, patting it lightly. “This is Ezio Auditore. Kit is going to work for him now.”
“Sorry. Headache again. It's a doozy.”
“Abbie here has quite the lineage,” Shaun continued, way, way to blithely for the butt crack of dawn. “Just a quick trip in the Animus and it’s, well it’s extraordinary. Her line goes all the way back to - ”
“How do you know?” Abbie asked, two shapely, fawn-colored eyebrows lifting toward her hairline. It was almost too much to look at her face. It was like being back in that dream… sitting at that table…
“I… Sometimes my ancestor’s memories bleed over a little. Trust me, I’d prefer they didn’t.”
“She’s done good work for the London branch,” Shaun was saying, ignoring Desmond’s obvious discomfort. “I think she’ll be a valuable asset to - ”
“Yeah, that’s great, Shaun. Can we talk about this in the morning?”
“It is morning,” he replied dryly.
“Well then… later this morning. Much, much later, okay? Like when the little hand is on the ten...”
Shaun sighed, grumbling something about the fabled American work ethic before he stomped off to his bedroom. That left Desmond alone with Abbie, who seemed extremely amused by the whole situation. She sat, cracking open a Guinness and sipping it thoughtfully.
“It happens to me, too,” she said, watching him from under thick, curling lashes. “They didn’t know about the um, well the Borgia thing when they popped me in the Animus the first time.” She smirked. “Surprise.”
In Name Alone 114/?
“What?” Desmond parroted in his best British accent, which happened to be a terrible British accent. “D’you think I’m made of money, Desmond? Think it grows on trees, do you?” Desmond snorted, shaking his head. “Asshole.”
“Beg your pardon?”
Desmond nearly spat up his drink, leaning forward fast enough to upend the flimsy chair. Luckily he caught himself, Guinness and limbs akimbo as he stared at the living room, where two people were now watching him.
“I… who are you? Who is that?” Desmond sputtered. He flinched. “Agh!”
“Something wrong?” Shaun asked, sounding not at all concerned.
Desmond’s mind shuddered, screaming with pain. Images hit him rapid fire, whirling by like a rolodex on crack. A woman, a girl, two men talking at a table… He groaned, cracking open one eye to see Shaun and the stranger still staring at him.
“Sorry,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Monster of a headache.”
It was more than that, but they didn’t need to know that.
“Desmond, this is Abbie Thorne. Abbie, this fine, half-naked gentleman is Desmond.”
She walked up to the table, her hands tucked into the back pockets of her jeans before she yanked one out and offered it to him to shake. Desmond took it, jarred by how strong her grip was.
“Abbie is like you, Desmond.” Shaun paused, smirking. “No, not a lazy drunk, an assassin. Well, she’s an actual assassin. You’ve still got your training wheels on…”
“It’s a pleasure,” she said pleasantly. Pretty. British. Desmond stood, finding she was shorter than she looked. Then he made the mistake of matching her glance. Another flicker of pain seared across head.
“Is this the assassin?” she asked in perfect Italian.
“Yes, my beauty.” Cesare took her hand, patting it lightly. “This is Ezio Auditore. Kit is going to work for him now.”
“Sorry. Headache again. It's a doozy.”
“Abbie here has quite the lineage,” Shaun continued, way, way to blithely for the butt crack of dawn. “Just a quick trip in the Animus and it’s, well it’s extraordinary. Her line goes all the way back to - ”
“Cesare Borgia,” Desmond finished, grimacing. “I know.”
“How do you know?” Abbie asked, two shapely, fawn-colored eyebrows lifting toward her hairline. It was almost too much to look at her face. It was like being back in that dream… sitting at that table…
“I… Sometimes my ancestor’s memories bleed over a little. Trust me, I’d prefer they didn’t.”
“She’s done good work for the London branch,” Shaun was saying, ignoring Desmond’s obvious discomfort. “I think she’ll be a valuable asset to - ”
“Yeah, that’s great, Shaun. Can we talk about this in the morning?”
“It is morning,” he replied dryly.
“Well then… later this morning. Much, much later, okay? Like when the little hand is on the ten...”
Shaun sighed, grumbling something about the fabled American work ethic before he stomped off to his bedroom. That left Desmond alone with Abbie, who seemed extremely amused by the whole situation. She sat, cracking open a Guinness and sipping it thoughtfully.
“It happens to me, too,” she said, watching him from under thick, curling lashes. “They didn’t know about the um, well the Borgia thing when they popped me in the Animus the first time.” She smirked. “Surprise.”