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dangans-ur-ronpas · 4 months

Text

Chapter 12

UH OH

SEE HERE FOR GENERAL WARNINGS AND FIC SUMMARY

Some pre-chapter notes:

trying to move away from writing toko like chunsoft and adding more to her character (she's traumatized she wants to be loved but she's going about it in the worst way) but in the end none of her actions are condoned. she's fucked up still sorry but written in a more sympathetic light i hope?

syo WILL be in this fic but i do my best to make her hand-wavy explanation ambiguous (fuck whatever canon says about 'textbook split personality' btw)

@moonlighttogami and @tokiwigiwi :)

Content warning tags: implication of stalking/blackmail, Toko-expected creepiness, use of violence, character death

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He’s not sure how much time passes when the door opens again.

“Finally,” He huffs, not bothering to turn. “Took you long enough. Honestly, how long does it take-”

He halts, as the intruder steps into the room, and quickly clicks his handbook shut. These weren’t Makoto’s footsteps. And - he surreptitiously covers his nose - that wasn’t Makoto’s smell. But he knows whose it was.

“...Toko. What do you want.” He turns and glares at the girl who has intruded on his space. She fidgets where she stands, a thin shadow of dark purple. The smell of her has grown stronger over the past few weeks, and hangs around her like a miasma.

“M-master Byakuya…”

He feels a full-bodied shiver of disgust run over his skin. “Don’t call me that.”

She ignores him, and carries on. “A-about last night…”

Right. To be completely honest, he was hoping that he had scared her enough the night before to make her leave him alone entirely. But he’s not surprised either; if she had the nerve to blatantly try and look at his secret, it wasn’t surprising that she had the boldness to try and confront him like this.

“What about last night.” He says stiffly, and she jumps as if shocked.

“I-I know about your eyes!” She blurts at last. “A-and, I know Ch-Chihiro knows it too…I, I heard you t-talking about it i-in the b-bathhouse last night…”

He feels his lip curling, revolted. Of course she had eavesdropped; she was quickly proving to be one of the more annoying stalkers he’d ever had the displeasure of dealing with. The number of people who were aware of his condition was also rapidly increasing against his will. At this point he might as well do the same as Fujisaki and announce it out loud.

Fukawa continues in her irritating stutter. “A-and…y-your envelope…” He freezes immediately, suddenly latching on to her every word.

“What did it say?” He demands, and she flinches - shivers? - arms crossing over her torso.

“I-if I t-tell you, y-you won’t w-want anything to d-do with m-me anymore…” She mutters, seemingly to herself, and he feels another wave of revulsion roll over him.

“Out with it. I already want nothing to do with you, but if you don’t speak up now-”

What will he do? He tries to come up with a threat that can hold actual weight, but they all sound pathetic, even to himself. If only Makoto were here, he could at least get him to chase her away…how long does it take to talk to three people, anyways?

Ironically, it’s Fukawa who saves him from having to think of something. “I-I know you’re r-really mad at m-me for r-reading your secret last night,” She continues, and she’s swaying slightly, as if drunk. “U-um, I-I promise n-not to t-tell anyone! About your eyes, o-or your envelope…a-and, I’ll t-tell you mine, t-too.”

“I’m not interested.” He says flatly. “Tell me what was written in my envelope. Now.”

She shakes her head instead. “I-I know th-there’s no way for you t-to have r-read yours yet, right? S-so only I know!” The light catches on her spectacles, and it gives the illusion of two, illuminated orbs on her face. “W-which makes me m-more special than M-Makoto, or Chihiro, right?”

She sounds deranged. Her voice is pitched with desperation, and she’s breathing heavily. She takes a step closer. “I-I know all your s-secrets, and once y-you know mine…s-so you can r-rely on me, m-more than Makoto, o-or Chihiro?” Another step, and the floorboard creaks. “I-I’ll do better than th-them! And, and I can accept you f-for all your secrets, s-so, you don’t n-need them, I promise!”

“Stay back.” He snaps, shifting backwards. The revulsion was curdling, mixing with fear, and crawling down his back like something physical, like the vile, unwanted sensation of fingernails, tickling over his skin. He hates this irrational panic - she was just a girl, and a pathetic one at that - but here he was, shying away anyways, unable to discern her next move, her intentions. “I’m warning you-”

She lurches forward, and he takes an inadvertent step back. His back meets the bookshelf; he was trapped. “S-so don’t get scared,” She says, though these words really only have the opposite effect on him. “D-do you remember the news, a few y-years back? A-about Genocider S-Syo?”

Genocider Syo? The name sounds familiar, but it takes him a moment to place where he’s heard it before. It was a few years before he enrolled at Hope’s Peak, while in transit to some social gathering or another; Pennyworth had left the car radio tuned to the local news.

“The serial killer?” He asks aloud, as he subtly searches the shelves behind him, trying to find something to use as a weapon. The tip of his index finger catches on the spine of a large, plastic-bound copy of some textbook or another, and he leverages it slowly out of the shelf, feeling sweat beginning to slicken its cover.

She nods eagerly, her braids bouncing. “I-I knew you’d kn-know about it,” She sounds relieved, somehow, voice breathless. “Y-you know, th-the first place Syo turned up was the town w-where I was b-born…i-it was my f-first crush that was the f-first victim, y’know?”

It clicks together quickly for him. The radio announcer had described bloody and ugly scenes of murder, the displayed corpses of young men and boys, all attributed to a mysterious killer with a penchant for stabbing their victims. And now standing before him was a clearly-deranged, unwell girl, well-known for her romance novels, and apparently obsessed with him.

“I-it’s okay!” She says hurriedly, as he presses himself closer to the shelf. “Sh-she only c-comes out when I-I’m really t-tired, o-or if I see b-blood…b-but, I c-can control her! I am controlling her, I promise!” She steps forward again, and this close, he can see the sickly flush on her face, the shine of sweat - tears? - down her cheeks. “I’ve b-been working s-so hard, s-so she won’t h-hurt anyone again…so it’s o-okay! I c-can be good! See?” She hiccups slightly, she must be crying. He can’t imagine why. “S-so now we can be equal, r-right?!”

She staggers towards him again, and he reacts before he can even think twice about it, yanking the book from its shelf and swinging blindly. The edge catches her across the face, whipping it sharply to the side with a sickly crack and a squeal - there’s a crest of blood, splattering up the length of the book, he can feel a few warm drops splash his hand, the skin crawling where it landed - and she crashes against the shelves with a shriek, stumbling.

“Why?!” She wails, hands shooting to her face. She sounds genuinely distraught, and she shakes as she scrubs at her nose with her palms. “I-I told you m-my biggest secret, a-and I kn-know yours…w-why won’t you tr-trust me?!”

“Trust you?!” He laughs, mirthless and a little frenzied, pitched wildly with his thudding heart. “You repulse me.” He steps forward now, book still clutched in his shaking hand. “Why would I ever trust a murderer in a killing game?”

She flinches as if his words were more physical blows, stumbling away from him and knocking against the shelf. A few books rain down, thudding open on the floor. “I-It’s not me,” She babbles, clutching at her head. “S-Syo - she’s j-just s-someone else, she’s in m-me, b-but I can c-control her, I p-promise - sh-she’s not me, she’s not me, she’s not!”

It sounds vaguely like some dramatized description of a split personality, though Byakuya had never heard of any such disorder that matched Fukawa’s apparently extreme case. Whatever the girl had going on would probably warrant its own DSM volume, but he wasn’t particularly interested in that. “I don’t care if she’s a ghost that’s possessing you or a secret twin taking your place. I want nothing to do with either of you.”

“B-but-”

“Get out.” He snarls, chest heaving. “If I hear anything - anything - on my condition, I will make you wish you were dead.” She doesn’t move, and he feels his teeth clench enough to creak. “I said, OUT.”

She darts, stumbling and stepping through one of the piles of boxes on the floor, completely breaking through the lid. Whatever was inside it stays looped around her ankle as she kicks the lid off, and clicks against the floor as she sprints away, her sobs fading as she goes.

___

For safety, he blocks off the door to the library with the chair, jamming it beneath the handles.

Then, he waits for Makoto, pacing, agitated. Really, how long could it take to accompany one person to talk to three people? His clock in his handbook stated that hardly an hour had passed since Makoto first left, and ten minutes since he sent Fukawa away. Surely, he had to be coming back eventually?

Not that there was anything keeping Byakuya in the library, other than his own uncertainty regarding his safety. Considering that he knew Fukawa’s alternate identity, and her apparent infatuation with him, it would be foolish to make the trek back to his room alone.

He stops pacing, frustration and restlessness boiling over. And returns to the files, shuffling through them, handbook held aloft to read the names printed on the edge of each folder, ignoring the ones that clatter to the ground after he shoves them haphazardly back. Finally, he comes across the one he's looking for, and slides it out of the shelf.

The front of it is stamped with the title in silver: ‘The Murder Cases of Genocider Syo: Top Secret’. He flips it open.

The text is interspersed with images of the victims before and after their unfortunate encounters with Fukawa. He can’t make much out about them, other than the fact that all the murder scenes seemed similar enough; photos of pale bodies, stretched out as if crucified, splattered with blood. Their faces, which must have been twisted with agony, are merely dark smudges.

“...As with the other cases, at the scene of the crime the word ‘BLOODLUST’ was written with the victim’s blood,” Alter Ego reads aloud. “The scissors used in the murder were apparently custom-made, with every pair left at each murder scene seeming to be of the same material and construction…”

How vile. He flips through the pages (one of which is annoyingly wrinkled, and furthermore, smudged with dirt), reading through the victim's descriptions. There was a sort of morbid curiosity that drew him to read further, even as his stomach turned with the knowledge that he could end up like one of these men; pinned like a butterfly for the killer to admire and laud over.

He snaps the file shut at last, feeling nauseous, and sinks down with his back against the shelf, suddenly exhausted - the adrenaline from Fukawa’s confrontation is gone, leaving behind a bone-deep fatigue. Sluggishly, he categorizes what he knows:

One: Fukawa was also Genocider Syo, a notorious serial killer who targeted young men.

Two: Fukawa both knew he was blind, and the contents of his envelope. He reaches into his pocket and feels for it, the paper now crinkled and warped. He still can’t bring himself to try and use Alter Ego to read its contents, but so long as Fukawa knew…there was little he could do about it.

That brought him to three: Fukawa was apparently obsessed with him. That was clear from the start, but he underestimated how dangerous her infatuation was. What she wanted from him was, apparently, some kind of romanticized relationship, if her mutterings about mutually sharing secrets and calling him ‘master’ was anything to go by, but nothing that could possibly be built on equal footing. Not if she was trying to leverage the envelope’s contents and his blindness against him.

He pauses at that. Did Fukawa know he was capable of using Alter Ego through his handbook to read? If she did, then there was no point in her trying to hold it over him. But then that meant she might try to manipulate him in other ways, the most simplest being blackmail. For that, he’d need to silence her…

And to do that, I would need to kill.

He drums his fingers against the hardwood floor. It’d be hard, but he could do it. She was already fixated on him, it should be easy enough to lure her somewhere and take care of her, either with a blunt-force weapon or strangulation - stabbing was too messy with the blood splatter - but the real difficulty then was how to conceal his tracks.

He thinks for a moment of Maizono, and how she had swapped rooms with Makoto solely for this intention. He thought her foolish then, but in hindsight, it really was an impressive display of quick thinking…though, it wasn’t one that he could copy.

What if he did it in a shared space? In one of the empty classrooms? People hardly went into these rooms, and it’d be harder to pin down the culprit. But he’d have to be fast about it, and careful; anyone who sees him or Fukawa entering that space, or leaving it, could easily identify him as the suspect. It’d have to happen at night.

But, she’s also smarter than she looks… He rubs at his temples now, frowning. She might see the similarities between this and Maizono’s attempt, and realize it’s a trap. I can’t risk that. It’d be easier if I could easily pin it on someone, but the amount of people who might be stupid or willing enough to let themselves be used…

The list was very short. Makoto, who was already a non-option. Yamada, who was too closely allied with Celeste to be trusted. Hagakure, who was too paranoid to be easily led into anything anyways...

And Chihiro.

He’s suddenly struck with the realization that if he succeeds, the others die. It would not be just one person’s blood on his hands, it would be multiple, including those he chooses not to directly involve. He hesitates, for an instant - and then lowers his hands slowly, a sense of defeat settling over him.

He’s already failed before he even started. This game could only have one winner, and if he could not fully commit himself to that role and accept the consequences of it, then he was never a real competitor to begin with. Circles within circles. He was back to the start.

Frustration isn’t something he’s unfamiliar with, but it’s been a long time since he’s felt so overwhelmed with it, as he tilts his head back, knocking it against the shelf as he stares blankly at the brown fog of the ceiling. And then slams a fist against the floor, hissing venomous, ugly curses under his breath. If only he had his eyes, again - he wouldn’t need to be so concerned with such things, wouldn’t need to waver - and yet.

Where the hell is Makoto? He thinks numbly, exhausted with it all. He was sick of being left with nothing but his nerves, and how long did it take to talk to just three people anyways?

Thump, thump, thump.

A rhythmic banging snaps him out of his thoughts. For a moment, he thinks it’s coming from the door, and clumsily pushes himself up, while fumbling for something, anything, to use as a weapon - his hands find the hard, stiff cover of a case file, still on the floor - and stares down the door, waiting for someone to break through it-

But nothing. The chair that’s stuck under the doorknob hasn’t even budged, from what he can tell. The banging continues, and he realizes it sounds more like hammering than knocking. It wasn’t even against the library door.

Construction? Hagakure did mention hearing construction sounds earlier. Was Monokuma building something again?

The sound ends, replaced by footsteps approaching his door. He tenses, taking a step back, but a moment later, the footsteps patter down the hall and away, fading out of earshot.

He stays where he is for a long moment, caught between terror and curiosity. Curiosity wins out, and he steps slowly to the door, hesitating once more with one hand on the chair.

But before he can even do anything, the air is pierced by a blood-curdling scream, and he throws the chair away, yanking the door open-

Only to be met with the sight of Chihiro Fujisaki’s corpse.

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#thpff chapters #thpff #danganronpa fanfiction #byakuya togami #hi....sorry for the delay...#in my defense i was waffling a while about posting this bc once i do it means im locked into my trial 2 case and scene etc #and im still writing the trial 2 scene WHOOPS....#also was feeling very bleh this past week. whatever im fine now #byakuya full on plotting a murder before realizing. wait a minute. i care about people now.#and then having a mild crisis about it. prince zuko style except instead of getting a fever he starts swearing in french #hitting a girl? not cool byakuya #im so sorry chihiro i love you tho #the scene were toko gets makoto to go with her to talk to byakuya doesnt happen here #and also toko has been watching byakuya hang out exclusively with makoto #and hearing the rumors that they were having a scandalous drauma-fraught romance #so she ended figuring that the best thing she could do was corner him herself. hence the gathering of blackmail material etc etc #not necessarily the most romantic thing but she sees it as creating a level playing field where he's forced to acknowledge her at all

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teecupangel · 1 year

Note

A small moment of angst before I go to sleep: Desmond feeling caged in a'la "Break". Except instead of being snarky he leans more and more into the Bleeding Effect for any kind of support and affection. And maybe thanks to the whole place and the Appla at hand the interactions echo to his ancestor? Like, Desmond sitting on his bedroll and cuddling up to what appears an Ezio on a couch, except Ezio feels that all the years back. For Desmond, it's a bleed. But for them? It's real

Well... this thing got out of hand... (It was meant to be short but, I guess, it's short... considering it's me writing it XD)

========================================

He doesn’t notice it at first. The Grand Temple was a place of contradiction. Smooth dark walls merge with the natural roughness of rocks. Some rooms are as cold as the most bitter winter night. Others as hot as a ruthless cloud-ness summer day.

And Desmond was usually an observant person. Both because of his upbringing and childhood training for the first sixteen years of his life and the constant paranoia and fear that gripped his very being after he left the Farm.

But the Animus…

It messes with one’s mind. Not only when one was accessing the memories it played but even after it had been turned off.

Desmond had experienced it before. The Bleeding Effect. It started out slow. In Abstergo, he would see shadows in the corner of his eyes and hear whispers too soft for him to understand.

He thought it was simply his mind playing tricks on him. His stress making him see or hear things not there.

Then Lucy explained what the Bleeding Effect was. Rome happened.

Monteriggioni happened.

The Synch Nexus happened.

And now, his Bleeding Effect had changed. He could hear them clearly. They would comment on whatever random topic anyone was talking about. They would warn him when he got too close to a ledge or when he was stepping on unstable ground whenever he looked around.

They called his attention when his mind got away with him.

“Desmond.”

It was… comforting.

The first time it happened, it was Ezio’s voice, using the same tone as when he spoke to Desmond back in the library underneath Masyaf.

The second time it happened, it was Altaïr’s voice and Desmond almost missed a jump. Hearing the man sigh made him shout “It’s your fault, asshole!” as he turned around.

But no one was there.

He had even started to hear Ratonhnhaké:ton. Soft whispers in his native tongue. He didn’t call him by his name but he could hear him say “Careful” or “Look up” whenever Desmond was by himself, checking what was still accessible in the ruins.

He told Rebecca about it, of course. She seemed curious but there was a hint of worry in her eyes. They both knew what this meant.

The Bleeding Effect was worsening.

========================================

The first time it happened. Of course, it would be Altaïr first which was poetic or symbolic, Desmond didn’t really care. After all, Altaïr was his first. It would make sense that anything that would worsen his current situation could be traced back to Altaïr.

The first ancestor he accessed in the Animus after getting kidnapped.

The first vivid Bleeding Effect episode he ever experienced.

So when he woke up, gasping Clay’s name as his dreams replayed his final day with the light-haired man, he was too rattled. Hands still shaking and heart still beating too fast.

He saw golden light coming from an empty room a few feet from where he decided to sleep for the night and walked toward it.

The moment he reached the doorway, he froze.

The entire room rocked slightly and Desmond had to place his hand on one of the crates nearby to keep his balance, unused to the swaying of…

A ship.

Desmond knew the memory immediately.

He saw him asleep, sitting uncomfortably on his chair with what will later be known as his Codex open before him. The golden light Desmond had seen coming from a small lamp on the same table as the Codex, glowing brighter than it should. Desmond walked towards him and quietly closed the Codex before grabbing a nearby blanket and placing it over Altaïr’s shoulders.

Altaïr grunted softly but did not wake and Desmond…

Desmond felt lost.

Unsure why he was bleeding this memory.

Unsure of what else to do.

The entire room swayed harder than before and Desmond yelped as he lost his balance. He fell by Altaïr’s legs, hitting the side of his face on his lap. The Syrian let out a low growl and Desmond froze, waiting to see if he would wake.

He did not.

Desmond knew he should get up. Kneeling by Altaïr’s side, head and arms resting on his lap as the other man slept, was…

Weird.

Absolutely weird.

But…

At the same time…

He was warm.

And he was Altaïr.

He was safe.

Desmond pressed his cheek against the man’s lap and closed his eyes.

The swaying of the ship should have made him nauseous.

But together with Altaïr’s warmth…

It was peaceful.

He woke to the sound of his phone’s alarm, back aching in protest at the uncomfortable position he had slept on. On his knees, resting his arms and head on some kind of smooth black object that may have been a chair before.

Maybe.

Desmond sighed as he stood and stretched.

He cannot deny it. As strange as that episode had been.

… It was probably the best sleep he had in a while.

========================================

Altaïr felt him when he entered his room. His footsteps had been soft, and would have probably been unnoticeable even to an Assassin who had been on the field for years. But Altaïr heard them.

To be more exact.

He felt him.

Something about the person who entered his room simply made Altaïr feel…

Alert.

Like his entire being was focused solely on his uninvited guest.

He stayed relaxed and kept his eyes closed, using his senses to tell him what the intruder was doing. He stood next to Altaïr and closed the journal Altaïr had been writing on. Then he…

Placed the itchy blanket on Altaïr’s shoulders?

Altaïr was unsure why he had done such a thing.

That was when the ship swayed hard, most probably against some kind of large wave or such, and the man let out a loud yelp that would have woken Altaïr had he truly been sleeping anyway.

He let out a small grunt as he felt the man fall on his lap.

They both froze.

Altaïr pretended to relax once more and waited.

His wary gave way to confusion when he felt the man relax as he stayed kneeling by Altaïr’s side. Felt the man rub his cheek slightly against his lap with a soft sigh. Altaïr waited for a few minutes before realizing that the man was truly asleep.

On his lap.

… In what world did this strange intruder believe that would be alright?

Did he not think that Altaïr would wake earlier than him?

Or did that not matter?

Was he here because he wished to-

Altaïr opened his eyes and his breath hitched.

The man was no longer next to him.

He was alone.

Had not been for the closed journal…

The blanket on his shoulders…

The warmth he could still feel on his lap…

He would have thought he dreamt it all.

But no.

It wasn’t a dream.

He stared at the blanket as he repeated.

There was no way it had been a dream.

========================================

The Bleeding Effect only got worse.

Or perhaps Desmond could say it had gotten better.

He could feel them now.

Could feel their warmth.

They felt real.

And, in this new prison called the Grand Temple, they provided an escape that Desmond couldn’t help but gravitate towards.

He never told Rebecca and Shaun.

And there was no way in hell he was going to tell Bill about it.

This was his little secret.

A little piece of paradise that his mind has conjured to give him peace even for just a few moments.

How nice it would be if time was to simply stop.

For the sun to stop ticking just for a few moments.

And let Desmond rest…

A single night in Manhattan made him miss his life before all of these.

Before Abstergo.

Before the Animus.

Before being heralded as the chosen one to save the world by a woman who said she wasn’t a god using the same lips that dictated Desmond’s fate.

When he was just a simple bartender in New York.

It was a lonely life, sure.

But it was peaceful.

A bit boring, maybe.

But, after months of being strapped into the Animus, reliving the lives and the tragedies of his ancestors…

A part of Desmond missed it.

He didn’t want to go back. He can’t. Not after knowing everything Ezio had sacrificed. Not after knowing how Altaïr’s life ended.

Not while he wanted to make sure, to see with his own eyes, that Ratonhnhaké:ton would be alright.

But that night, while he slept in the back of the van as Shaun drove them back to the Grand Temple, he couldn’t help but miss his small studio in New York.

He couldn’t help but miss the boring nights in Bad Weather.

That was when he felt it.

Warmth.

Right next to him.

He sought it out, turning until his forehead hit someone’s back.

He opened his eyes and…

He saw Ezio’s back, the slight tremblings of his shoulders…

He saw the crest of House Auditore adorning the cape he held in his hands.

And he remembered this memory.

He remembered the words he wished he could say back then.

So he pressed his cheek against Ezio’s back and wrapped his arms around Ezio’s waist.

“It’s okay, Ezio.”

“It’s alright to cry.”

He tightened his hold on Ezio as he heard the soft muffled cries coming from the grieving man.

There were no words Desmond could offer him.

All he could offer was his warmth, the same way their warmth had comforted him.

And Desmond hoped it would be enough.

“Hey.” Rebecca gently tapped his arm and he opened his eyes with a groan. She grinned as she teased, “I don’t think you should be using that as a pillow.”

Desmond blinked, not understanding what Rebecca meant by that until…

He realized that he was hugging the box where they stored the power source they just got.

========================================

Ezio wished that it was more than just a cape.

That his reward for finding all of those feathers was… more.

It was foolish to believe that those feathers would cure his mother of her grief.

Of his own grief.

But he had to be strong.

He was the only man left in their family.

It was up to him to show the strength of House Auditore.

It was up to him to protect his mother and sister.

It was up to him to-

Ezio gripped the cape embroidered with their family crest tightly, unable to stop his shoulders from shaking.

Even if it was in the silence of his room, he couldn’t…

He shouldn’t…

He needed to be strong.

He needed to be an Auditore.

A fighter.

A-

“It’s okay, Ezio.”

Ezio froze as he felt a warmth behind him.

He was back.

The one Ezio could never see.

The one whose warmth always brought peace to Ezio…

The one who will always leave whenever Ezio turned to face him.

His words were strange and hard to understand but…

The softness of the tone…

The gentle way he wrapped his arms around Ezio and pressed his cheek against his back…

“It’s alright to cry.”

Ezio let out a muffled sob as tears finally fell from his eyes. His shoulders began to shake as he tried to silence his sobs.

He feared this moment of weakness would make him go away.

But he didn’t.

He only tightened his hold on Ezio and shared his warmth.

As Ezio openly cried for the first time since the death of his father and brothers.

========================================

“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” Shaun snarked as they continued to hike their way to what was supposed to be Davenport manor.

“Don’t look at me. I’m looking at a map that’s not been updated in ages.” Rebecca groaned as she looked at the map in her hands with eyes promising a slow torturous death, “‘Cause someone said we can’t use GPS.”

“It’s too risky,” Bill grunted.

“Oh? Is that also why we parked our car a couple of kilometers away instead of driving?” Shaun sarcastically asked, making Bill glare at him.

“We received word from Gavin that Abstergo has been lurking around these parts. We can’t risk them identifying the van and realizing we went to the homestead.” Bill explained with an annoyed sigh.

Desmond simply kept quiet.

He enjoyed the impromptu hike.

After being in the Grand Temple for so long, only allowed to leave when they needed him to get a power source…

This was nice.

And the forest they were in looked familiar.

He was sure he saw this forest in Ratonhnhaké:ton’s memories.

Back then…

Desmond’s breath hitched.

This wasn’t the forest near Davenport Manor.

This was the forest near Ratonhnhaké:ton’s village.

That didn’t make any sense.

That forest should be near the Grand Temple, in Turin, New York.

They were in Rockport, Massachusetts…

He was having an episode again.

And he couldn’t hear or see any of his teammates.

“Shaun, Rebecca…” Desmond called out, trying not to panic.

Even if he was having an episode, they should still see him.

They should still be able to-

There was a sound.

Desmond turned to the sound and his eyes widened.

There was someone lying on the ground.

His legs moved on their own, running towards the fallen…

It was a boy…

No.

It was…

“Ratonhnhaké:ton!” Desmond shouted as he knelt next to the unconscious boy.

“Ohshitshitshit.” Desmond panicked, seeing the cut on the boy’s head as blood fell from it furiously.

This memory…

It was the day…

The day Charles Lee and Ratonhnhaké:ton met.

Was Ratonhnhaké:ton hurt that day?

Desmond didn’t remember.

Because Ratonhnhaké:ton’s memories stopped when he lost consciousness…

Desmond looked around but all he could see were the fallen leaves around them.

Even if he was to use the leaves to stop the bleeding, Ratonhnhaké:ton might get an infection instead.

He opened his shoulder bag and grabbed the first thing he saw, forgetting he actually had a small first aid kit inside the bag because of how panicked he was (even though he should know that Ratonhnhaké:ton was going to be fine anyway). Instead, he managed to grab a clean white handkerchief that had been in the shoulder bag when Lucy gave it to him.

He didn’t even know whose handkerchief it was but it was clean.

Ratonhnhaké:ton moaned and Desmond whispered gently, “I know it hurts. Sorry.”

He held Ratonhnhaké:ton in his arms as he pressed the handkerchief against the cut on Ratonhnhaké:ton’s forehead.

“It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay. Ever-” The words wouldn’t leave his lips.

He couldn’t say it.

Not when he knew what would greet Ratonhnhaké:ton when he returned to his village.

Instead, he tightened his hold on Ratonhnhaké:ton and whispered, “You’re not alone, okay?”

“You’re not alone.” Desmond whispered, “I’m here, Ratonhnhaké:ton.”

He felt Ratonhnhaké:ton move and…

“Desmond!”

Desmond turned around and his breath hitched once more as the forest around him had changed.

He was back.

He turned to look back and…

He was holding the Apple.

“Desmond?!”

“Yeah!” Desmond shouted back and quickly placed the Apple back into his hoodie. He jogged to where his teammates were calling him and found them soon enough, looking worried and…

“Where the hell were you?!” Bill demanded.

Desmond simply shrugged as he replied, “Had to take a leak.”

Rebecca let out a snort while Shaun rolled his eyes.

Desmond ignored the way Bill’s eyes silently told him that he knew Desmond was lying and said, “I think I remember where we are now.”

He pointed behind Bill, “That’s where the church used to be.”

“Oh, great. I guess we’re on the right track then.” Rebecca said with a grateful sigh.

“Let’s get going before we get mauled by cougars.”

“I don’t think they have cougars here.”

“There were in Ratonhnhaké:ton’s memories.”

“I think that was just the Animus taking ‘creative liberties’.”

“Oh, you insulting Baby huh?”

“Owowowowowow-!”

========================================

Warm.

He felt warm.

A gentle hand.

A sting of pain.

“I know it hurts. Sorry.”

Another one who spoke that language.

An enemy?

No.

He was warm.

He held Ratonhnhaké:ton gently.

Pressed something on his head.

He could feel it growing wet with his blood.

He was trying to help.

He was trying to comfort Ratonhnhaké:ton.

And all Ratonhnhaké:ton could do was try to open his eyes.

Yet his eyes would not cooperate with him.

“It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay. Ever-”

The man stopped.

Ratonhnhaké:ton wanted to raise his hand.

The way he said that last word.

The sudden stop.

He was in need of comfort too.

Ratonhnhaké:ton wondered if he’d like it if Ratonhnhaké:ton was to pat his head just like his mother did sometimes to comfort Ratonhnhaké:ton.

Ratonhnhaké:ton felt the man tighten his hold on him and whisper, “You’re not alone, okay?”

“You’re not alone.”

His voice was comforting.

He was warm.

Yet he could feel the slight trembling of his arms.

The sadness in his tone.

“I’m here, Ratonhnhaké:ton.”

And Ratonhnhaké:ton wanted to tell him.

His eyes finally opened as he whispered, “I’m here too.”

And he found himself alone. He had to catch himself with his hands before he fell on his back.

He saw something white flutter to the ground.

He grabbed it and stared at it.

It was a white fabric.

Drenched in his own blood.

#minimal editing #is this romantic? is this platonic?#you can never truly know with me #i swear if they start to believe desmond is some kind of entity like an angel or a ghost #i have a problem XD #assassin's creed #altaïr ibn la'ahad #desmond miles #ezio auditore #connor kenway #ratonhnhaké:ton #fic idea: assassin's creed #teecup writes/has a plot

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