Past Due

A Word: For a prompt over at the kink meme asking about soulmates/bondmates across time. I am slowly writing Desmond into meeting each person in death. It's becoming a thing for me.

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Desmond comes out of the Animus with the scent of burnt flesh thick in his nose and the painful pull of a heat burn against his face from the fire he hadn't been able to fight. From the fire that took his mother's life. No, not his mother. His sense of self shudders before separating enough for Desmond to get a grasp of who he is and who he is not.

Ratonhnhaké:ton.

Ziio's voice still rings in his mind though, and it's hard to re-establish his boundaries. Her final words ripping Ratonhnhaké:ton open as he was pulled away, but it's her casual pronunciation of a name that Desmond's been trying to pronounce his whole life that is making it hardest.

"You alright, Desmond?" Shaun asks, not looking away from his station, but voicing the concern anyway. Lucy used to ask him the same thing after every session, and Shaun's taken it up for some reason. Desmond doesn't say anything about it though. It's a comforting habit and he's got few enough things left to help ground him these days.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Desmond says too quickly. Rebecca's head cuts toward him with a frown and he can feel one of Shaun's eyebrows rising. Their combined skepticism is almost a physical thing.

"Relatively," Desmond amends and slides the needle out of his arm before getting off the Animus. Thumb pressing down automatically to stop the blood from flowing too much. His arm is starting to scar from the constant use, and he's going to have to make up some creative stories to cover for the track marks when this is all over. If any of them live that long. "Just need to stretch my legs a bit. Let that," he waves his other hand at the screen still playing the last moments he'd just lived, "settle."

"Alright then," Shaun says easily and there's sympathy buried in his disinterested tone. Buried deep, and it's taken Desmond a long time to figure out it's there at all. Well hidden under layer after layer of prickly sarcasm and dry humor. "Don't break anything or get lost. It's still your turn to cook and I'd rather not have cold beans in a can three nights in a row."

Rebecca mutters something that makes Shaun's nose turn up and Desmond leaves them to their habitual back and forth sniping. He passes his dad and doesn't bother to slow down to acknowledge him when his eyes cut away from their only connection to the outside world. He's monopolizing it to maneuver the Brotherhood around. To get them the things they need and keep the Templars off their backs.

Desmond's not really feeling up to the old man's casual disregard for how much the dives take out of him, or his guilt tripping. He's just not up for dealing with him at all really.

The ruins of the temple are cool and silent when he's out of sight of the main area they've set up in. Lit from the glow of the work lamps set up, and a faint blue light that had started up intermittently when they got the first battery to plug in. Desmond jumps and catches a ledge, pulling himself up into the ruins and further from the others. Climbing and jumping until he reaches a secluded level area with cracked slabs making it into a sort of room.

Desmond sprawls out on the cool stone and undoes the buckles of his hidden blade. The bracer slides off and he traces the lines of his tattoo down his forearm before turning the hand over to look at the inside wrist. The name written there is crisp and clear. No waver or slant to the letters that make up the name of his soulmate. It's a name that's been with him from the day he was born, a physical tie to someone who is meant to complete him. The letters are familiar to him after all this time and he doesn't need much light to trace them out.

Pronouncing them has always been an entirely different thing. Something that no amount of searching on his end has ever led to a satisfactory answer.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton," the name falls out into the silence. Stilted and wrong as he tries to say it. Again and again until he gets kind of close.

His tongue doesn't want to curl the way he knows it should to make it sound right. He wonders if this is what Haytham felt like before Ziio gave him that shortened nickname to call her by. He wonders if Ratonhnhaké:ton would do the same for him. If he would be amused with his attempts to sound out the syllables of his name or not. The way his tongue clumsily trips over the syllables.

Desmond blinks hard and a knot of pain catches in his throat, silencing his next attempt, because he doesn't know the answers to any of that. He's never going to, because Ratonhnhaké:ton is dead.

Desmond's soulmate has been dead for hundreds of years before Desmond had even been born, and he's never going to learn anything about him except for what the Animus deems necessary.

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Ratonhnhaké:ton's people are stoic. Their emotions are obvious and they feel things very intensely, but they don't believe in making big displays with it. They also don't believe in flashing around the names of their soulmates for the whole world to see. Ratonhnhaké:ton wears a broad leather cuff around his left wrist, and Desmond can't see the name there. Every attempt to remove it results in desynchronization.

It burns because Desmond desperately needs to know what name is written there. Needs to know if it's his name or not. If maybe he's wrong about this, because soulmates are supposed to meet. There's supposed to be a chance for them to find each other. Like Shaun and Rebecca, they wouldn't have met if Shaun hadn't shoved his nose into Abstergo's business.

It's wrong that Ratonhnhaké:ton is dead. He can't be Desmond's soulmate.

"Really?" Rebecca sounds annoyed when he gets kicked back to the loading screen. "Again, Des? Just leave the damn thing alone. Why are you so set on being a busy body about it?"

Desmond grits his teeth and doesn't answer. Pacing the white screen as he waits for the memory to load again. His left wrist burns but that's all in his mind. His own frustration mounting. At least his dad had to leave for something. He has that to be thankful for.

"Easy now," Shaun's voice breaks in, soothing, and that should make Desmond laugh but he's not finding much funny right now. "Desmond has his reasons," and his voice is just off enough that Desmond knows he knows why. He knows the name on Desmond's wrist, and he's the one who wrote the database entry. It doesn't take much more than that to know why Desmond keeps going for the cuff. "Let's just try it again, and let the memory run to the end. Maybe you'll get what you want by the end of it, Desmond."

The memory unfolds around him and Desmond is walking toward a rundown house. He steps back and lets Ratonhnhaké:ton maintain control through the memory as he tries to get into the house. He's already done this memory so many times he doesn't need to input much. The old man persists in denying Ratonhnhaké:ton access and trying to chase him off. Desmond watches in amusement as Ratonhnhaké:ton stubbornly beds down in the stables again. Planning another long day of trying to slip by the surprisingly spry old man no doubt.

Desmond will have to take over then. Ratonhnhaké:ton rolls onto his side and his eyes fix on the plain leather that has been pissing Desmond off so much before closing. Desmond waits for the flash of the memory skipping to the next morning, but it doesn't happen. It's not until an indistinct noise intrudes that he understands why.

The men are obvious, their intentions clear, but Ratonhnhaké:ton is young and incredibly sheltered. Desmond can't stop the boy from asking the obvious question, and Desmond's only thankful that he's big enough that fighting won't be much of a problem. The memory blurs by in a familiar trade of blows, the old man finally coming out of his house, and taking Ratonhnhaké:ton in. His story is another piece of the puzzle, but is familiar and Desmond lets it slide by because Shaun will summarize it later for him.

Ratonhnhaké:ton gets an actual bedroom, and he's a bit overwhelmed by it. Desmond can feel it with his unease as he studies the room around him carefully before sliding all of his weapons off. The bed at least is more comfortable than a bedroll in the stable. Ratonhnhaké:ton lays still for a moment before sitting back up and removing more clothing. His fingers brush the cuff and Desmond pulls back as far as he can so that he's not influencing this action at all, so that he can't desynchronize when he pulls it off.

The letters are stark and Ratonhnhaké:ton relaxes as he traces them. He presses his lips to the name reverently, and falls asleep. Peaceful for the first time in days.

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Rebecca says nothing as he disconnects, but her eyes are wide and horrified. Shaun's a useless bundle of nerves and false starts next to her. Highly uncomfortable and unsure what to say. Desmond looks at them both and laughs as his legs refuse to hold him up. The stone floor is warm from close proximity to the Animus, and Desmond laughs louder.

His name had slanted across Ratonhnhaké:ton's wrist. Angular and very unmistakable.

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Desmond had hoped he'd find his soulmate one day. Everyone did, and he'd hoped that he'd find his when he left the Farm, because the Farm had been isolated and cutoff for their safety. A reasonable precaution that had grated on his teenage self. A list of stories that meant nothing to him with no proof to back them up. All he'd known was that his soulmate wasn't there, and there was no way for him to meet them if he stayed.

No one at the Farm had met their soulmates. The parents all had different names on their wrists. Even his parents hadn't had each other's names there. Desmond remembers his mother's best. The name on her wrist had been short and made with sharp lines that formed symbols instead of the letters he'd been so used to. Desmond had been fascinated by them. By that sign that there was an entire world outside of the compound.

It wasn't the only reason he left, but it was the one he'd thought about most as he traveled. Going from city to city, meeting people from all walks of life and different parts of the world. None of whom had names even close to the one on his wrist.

And now he knows why.

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Ratonhnhaké:ton grows fast into the role of an Assassin and Desmond follows along because he has to. Has to figure out how to open the Temple doors, and he has to do it fast because the end of everything isn't stopping.

The knowledge doesn't make it easy when Ratonhnhaké:ton -Connor now, and that suits him though Desmond likes the way his real name sounds despite everyone's inability to say it- doesn't understand the people he has to interact with. When they do things he wasn't expecting and he's the one who ends up hurt. When he begins to view everyone with distrust that isn't natural to him, and makes him draw back into himself. Into an area that Desmond doesn't have access to and all he has to go off of is the direction of his feet and the press of emotions that bleed into Desmond the way Connor's thoughts never do.

It's especially hard when a memory lasts long enough for Connor to bed down. If he's with people his fingers will slip under the cuff and trace Desmond's name. If he's alone, it comes off and Desmond will choke on the weary longing -Connor's, his- that rises when he kisses the name on his wrist each night. Or the way he will circle his hand around the cuff and squeeze in apology before setting off on some suicidal mission.

Desmond sees how depressingly easy it would be to fall in love with Connor. How the match on their wrists would lead to more than just obligation, and they wouldn't be torn apart by their ideals like Ziio and Haytham.

Shaun and Rebecca say nothing when he comes out of the Animus, and his dad never shows any sign that he knows what is going on. When Desmond checks the database again he sees that Connor's entry has been rewritten. The name mangled, and he's grateful for it. Incredibly grateful to not have to deal with the old man knowing that, and whatever he chose to do with the information.

Desmond waits at night for the others to settle into sleep before bringing his left hand up and pressing a kiss to Connor's name. It's not easy, it's not nice, and he wishes -every minute and second- that it wasn't happening to him at all.

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When they go to the graveyard, Desmond is very careful not to look at the gravestones too closely. There's one stone here that he knows can break him if he sees it, and they're running dangerously out of time as it is.

"So, we just dig?" Shaun asks and he sounds repulsed even as Desmond sinks the blade of his shovel into the ground before a stone that's been weathered completely blank now.

The dirt is hard. Packed from all the years and not easy to shift. "Well, unless you've got some other way, and are holding out just to be a dick."

"Less talking," William cuts in as he grunts and turns over the earth near Desmond, "more digging."

They've got a vague idea of where the key should be, and Connor hadn't been able to dig down very far in his condition. The pull of his wounds screaming with each shovel full of dirt he brought up. It still takes them two hours to find it. Two hours of sifting through dirt and trying hard not to think about how much the area has changed. How many graves are close by and how many of them have names he might recognize if he were to look.

The necklace is familiar in his hands and Desmond spends the trip back to the cave wiping it clean of dirt, refusing to think about anything else.

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It's not a surprise to Desmond. There was always going to be a price to pay for something like this. Every plot twist and trope involved in saving the world needed a sacrifice. They all knew it, it'd just been one more thing they didn't talk about until it's too late and Desmond feels a deadly calm steel over him as he makes his choice.

Save the world, damn the world.

Desmond's confident though that Juno, alone and mad as she is, won't win in a fight against the whole of humanity. They've come far from the slaves who worked mindlessly for her race. They will win. He watches Shaun and Rebecca run, and feels conflicted when Dad stops to look back more than once. They've been talking a bit more lately, and Desmond does regret a lot of things but there's no time anymore for it.

It's a different resolution from Connor and Haytham's, but it leaves him with the same pit in his stomach that Connor had felt.

Desmond wonders what will happen after he's dead. Wonders if any of the religions had ever gotten anything right, or if Altair's bleak predictions about there being nothing are more true. Connor's name warms on his wrist and he hopes -for once- Altair is wrong.

He places his hand on the sphere, and the connection snaps into place in an instant. Desmond gets a vision of sensation. His own senses expanding out beyond what is normal and enveloping the entirety of the world. It's grand and glorious and over in a second. The pain that follows is blinding and all consuming.

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Desmond wakes up in his room. There's dust floating in the rays of sunlight that come in through the window because he keeps forgetting to set up something to block the light. The sound of the homestead is comforting and familiar right up until Desmond realizes he's not in the Animus, and it's not Connor's hand that comes up when he moves. His arms are bare, the bracer gone along with his hoodie and shirt. His jeans scratch against the blankets as he sits up and looks around the room he's become so familiar with.

Connor leans against the open door. His hair long again and no sign of the wounds he'd last seen him with. Desmond wonders for one wild moment if he's back in the Animus or if this is some new kind of delusion. It's not really possible though. Desmond knows for a fact that he's dead.

"The confusion passes," Connor says as he walks into the room. Slow and with his hands down at his side, fingers spread. Like he does when he's approaching a skittish animal.

Fitting because the sound of Connor's voice -not coming out Desmond's own mouth- is shocking. It sounds so very different.

"It's going to be fine though," Connor hesitates and his left hand twitches. He's not wearing the leather cuff, but his wrist is carefully angled away as he steps close enough to sit on a low stool that's been placed next to the bed. It's from the kitchen and Desmond wonders how long he's been asleep. "What do you remember?"

What does he remember? He remembers pain and the look of triumph in Juno's face. "Dying," Desmond says bluntly and lets himself relax back onto the bed slowly. He doesn't feel any pain at all now. "I remember dying. Is this," Desmond frowns and passes a hand over his face. The touch is there, more real than what the Animus was ever able to pass off. He shakes his head and can't help the disbelieving smile that spreads over his face. "There is something after death then."

"You sound surprised by that," Connor leans close and Desmond knows he's studying him closely.

"A little," Desmond turns back and looks at Connor. Looks at all the little details he was never able to make out from the screen, and he was always too busy to find the time to admire his form while in the Animus. Not without more snarky commentary than he could handle from the peanut gallery afterwards.

Connor's got freckles siting under his eyes. Faint but unmistakably there, and Desmond knows he's going to spend a ridiculous amount of time just studying them later. "No one ever seems to agree on what might or might not come after, Connor. Lot of people think there's nothing."

Desmond would have missed the way Connor tenses and pulls away if he were anyone else. He's not though, and he's spent too long in Connor's boots to not know what it means when he goes very still, and his head angles up so that he's almost looking down his nose at Desmond. "How do you know that name?" Connor asks, voice still in a way that Desmond also knows a lot about. It comes out when Connor notices something odd and is preparing himself to be hurt by it.

And how do you explain the Animus to someone? Desmond still doesn't understand most of it, despite how often he's been in it. He thinks Rebecca and some scientists in Abstergo grips are the only ones truly capable of doing it without sounding completely nuts.

"I've seen the rise and fall of Masyaf, the flourishing of the Brotherhood in Italy, and the war you lived through," Desmond says and doesn't try to actually explain any of it. To explain how he saw any of it, or with what eyes he used. That's something that needs to be done slowly, and Desmond just really wants to wipe the distrust off of Connor's face more than anything else. "I saw Juno tell you to hide the key, and she told me to find it. I had to find a lot of things before-"

"The catastrophe," Connor eventually prods when Desmond can't find the words to explain it. He says the word as if it's foreign to him, despite being explained numerous times. He's relaxed and leaning over Desmond again though. "Some of the older people talk about it. Visions from an old Grand Master foretelling the end of the world and the death of everything. Is it really happening?"

"Yes," Desmond had a sense of it. Fleeting in his last moments, of the sky lighting up with light so brilliant it could blind, but not one bit of it reaching the surface of the world. "I had to stop it. I think it worked in the end. The world wasn't burning when I died at least."

Connor doesn't say anything to that as he shakes his head a bit. His left hand twitches again, an aborted movement towards Desmond's own hand. Desmond wordlessly turns it over, offering up his wrist and the name written there.

"My people," Connor says as he lightly touches the skin just under his name. A single fingertip pressing almost too lightly to be felt, but seems to rocket through Desmond's body with heat and comfort despite that. "They believe the names of our souls are meant to guide us. That as long as we lived our lives truthfully, to offer up only the best we had, we would find our way to our other half."

Except Connor never had found his soulmate, because Desmond wouldn't be born until long after he was dead.

"For the longest time," Connor's eyes are transfixed on his wrist and the touch firms. Becomes a slow stroke that Desmond swears he can feel through his whole body. A sensation that's nothing at all like the irresistible pull he'd felt as Haytham met Ziio. "I thought I had lost the right to have that."

Desmond wants to reassure him that isn't right. Wants to tell him about the Farm, and growing up among people who saw the names on their wrist as unnecessary. He wants to say a lot of things, but Connor dips his head and places a reverent kiss to the name on Desmond's wrist.

He'll deny ever reading it, but Desmond used look at the romance books his mom would hide in the house. He never cared about the plot or whatever was written, always skimming it for that one scene in every book. The one where the soulmates met and bonded. The purple prose had always embarrassed him, but it was the description of the emotions that had always had Desmond reading for more. Greedy and yearning for something he never thought he'd have.

This is nothing like what was written in those books. This is something between the connection of the sphere that had killed him and being pulled into the Animus for the first run of memories for a new person. It feels like his heart starts beating for the first time in his life, and Desmond only realizes it's Connor's heart he's hearing when the man rests one hand over his chest. Awe transforming his face into something that probably closely matches what Desmond looks like right now.

"It wasn't fair," Desmond mutters as he reaches out for Connor's left hand. His fingers brushing his wrist, and though the name is part of the skin he swears he can feel the lines marking it there. Connor shivers and Desmond finds himself being hauled up. Head pressing to Connor's neck and both of their arms wrapped tightly around the other. Desmond's words spill out against his neck, and he can't really stop them even though they probably don't make any sense to Connor. "I ran away to find you, and when I did you were already dead. How was that right?"

Connor's muttering words right back at him though. His native language, and Desmond could understand them if he wants to. If he just concentrates enough on them, but he's stuck on Connor. His warmth in Desmond's arms, his hands clutching hard against Desmond's back, his lips pressing against Desmond's jaw. The tone of his voice aching and reverent like the feelings Desmond felt every time Connor would kiss his own wrist.

He's drowning in it, and the only air comes when Connor pulls back enough to slot their mouths together in a messy press of lips that feels more necessary than anything else has in his whole life. Desmond doesn't think, doesn't care, and doesn't question. He just exists and listens -feels, hears, tastes- the steady beat of his soulmate's heart against his own.

Nothing else really matters.

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