: X :

Revised and updated; still kind of slack-jawed
at the number of obvious writing errors, eha.
And you all loved it anyway. Bless.

CHAPTER ONE: Chain Reaction

It was science.

Bloody fucking chemical components lacing their evil little fingers through my synapses. Floodgate release of hormones, pheromones, adrenaline and all else - set on the tripwires in my nasal cavities. Scent told brain what to do; brain told body it was time to make babies. I, myself? One of the individuals to have been born with all important reproductive wires ... essentially ... crossed.

Some evolutionary response to the overpopulation of the planet, perhaps. Fucking, what, bloody fucking tripping synapses left and right dear god Miles my brain wants you to bear my children. Sex was (is? used to be?) reproduction and the fact that it felt good was so humanity would keep doing it - passing along only the fittest gene pools and producing only the better offspring, the next steps forward in evolution; the highly intelligent snarky queers where nature finally came at a standstill, threw her arms up and declared perfection.

Which came first; the chicken or the egg? Am I the height of human evolution because I'm gay, or gay because I'm the height of human evolution? Trick question: a lizard laid the egg and it hatched into a bird, which fucked another bird that eventually made a chicken. Got another one here for you; if a rooster lays an egg on top of a barn, does the egg roll east or west?

I think you know where I'm going with this.

"Roosters don't lay eggs, Becky," I pull up the 'y' at the end of Rebecca's nickname, because it is girly and that creature shrinks from anything feminine like a vampire from sunlight.

"Aw fuck, man, you ruined it." Rebecca throws a crumpled ball of paper my way but it only sails as far as Desmond's laid-out, groggy self.

Desmond's caveman brow un-wrinkles, the lines of his face smoothing into a grin. "Next time just hold your fingers up and ask me how many." He's laid-out because his own internal wiring just tricked his respiratory system into overdrive. While Ezio was running along the rooftops of Venice, Desmond's body was taking the cardio and we had to pull him out. For the third time this week.

"Christ, Miles, you're not a drunk sodding driver. This is extensive neurological trauma we're dealing in, and I'd appreciate it if you both could act seriously for two seconds. Bloody preschool playground every minute Lucy isn't here to babysit you two."

"It was a joke, Shaun." Rebecca is speaking slowly, as if to make certain I'm not merely criticizing her methods by accident.

"From the back of a toffee wrapper?" The setback was making me edgy; the fact that the hormones in Desmond's sweat had just told my idiotic reptilian brain-bits to light up like mardi-gras christmas fucking fenceposts might have contributed to this. I mean, you know, impending end of the world, backlog of desk work; the distractions of food and sleep minimally tolerated and my traitorous un-evolved body was throwing the third primal need like a curveball strike to my patience. Next up to bat: sarcastic defense. A well nearly run dry, for all that my team-mates were familiar if not fast friends with the big bad history geek's aggressive sense of humor.

No, you know, I know I'm a right bastard. The fact that fate landed me with the two thickest adrenaline junkies ever born as colleagues in a last-line defense against the end of the world? Not exactly incentive for me to be any less the bastard. It was all just fucking cupcakes and naptime for those two; and me without my worrier-in-arms, my comrade-cum-latte of the late night, my defender of blonde diplomacy, my -

Okay so it just wasn't any fun picking on the special kids in the playground if Lucy wasn't there to escalate things on their behalf (behalves...? Fuck it, Desmond, you smell amazing). Rebecca raised an eyebrow and shrugged, not particularly offended by much of anything.

Desmond (and fuck his superhero name anyway, god, and that jawline) blinked slowly and kept two fingers to his pulse. "Has it ever done this before?"

"The animus, or your brain?" I didn't have to make nice with the Subject, but I did have to keep him alive. Lucy often reasoned that a cooperative brain was more efficient, but if it were left up to me to choose between an individual's emotional comfort and the lives of millions of people - Desmond would be on life support, hooked into the Animus so deeply that we'd have to all learn Italian and start addressing him as Ezio. No fucking around with the Bleeding Effect because we wouldn't have to traumatize the brain by ripping it out of the constructed reality day after day. No breaks, no exercise, no recess on the playground.

Just us, the pieces of Eden, and our unfortunate organic gateway.

"Um, everything. I'm just laying here and I feel like, I don't know, panic attack or something."

"Or something," I mutter, pen to my lips. "You weren't exactly taking a slow stroll down the boulevard there, Desmond." I've decided to stand because standing is proactive, a physical cue to internal effort. Comprehension dawns on Rebecca and she twists in her chair to set to work. "I think we need to reaffirm your body's responses with your own brain, and - "

"Strengthen the walls of disassociation within the animus, got it." On go the headphones, and Rebecca's blessed cyborg persona takes over. When the woman is hooked in and actually doing her job, she's a work of art. I've yet to consolidate Becky's super-efficient Dr. Jekyll to her lazy and mildly retarded Mr. Hyde, but that might have to do with the glaring possibility that the woman is a dyke and our kind get along about as well as cats and water. Her own corner of the evolutionary finish line, as it were.

I breathe discretely through my mouth as I cross the room, plucking one side of the headphones from Rebecca's ear. "You don't need to strengthen anything if we haven't the memory; just switch up the algorithms." It'd be more work for Desmond to meter out 100% synch, but he also wouldn't risk cardiac arrest or half the bruises and literal bleeding effects that can show up when the brain is damned convinced the body just fell from the twelfth story into a sodding haycart.

"So, I should... take a walk?" Desmond's skepticism, while well-founded, is still irritating.

I have to inhale to answer, and then inhale again to sigh angrily, and then again to yawn because the sigh reminded me that I'd only gotten four hours of sleep last night and by then I'd forgotten what I was supposed to say because, well, we'd already been over that part. "You should take a bleeding shower. You reek."

Desmond blanches, either offended or just surprised. "Should I run laps or something first? Get my heart back up to date with what my limbs are actually doing?"

"Mmhm. You know the drill, no more than twenty laps around the dias." I'm already at the phone on my desk, dialing Lucy's cell. "Then make a sandwich and read a book or something until Lucy returns. Anchor yourself in what familiar reality you can muster stuck underground with our lot, and you should be good to go. Ring if you start to hallucinate; I'll keep an ear out for a loud thud should you faint."

"You hear that, Des? Shaun just told us that he's an aggro poindexter because it's what's familiar! He's an asshole because he cares!" Rebecca cackles from her station, headphones still askew. This was unfair for many reasons, chief of which my inability to defend myself as I was calmly explaining to an hysterical director why we wouldn't have the scheduled memories processed before she made it back with the fresh supplies.

Over the shrill mental breakdown on the other end of my phoneline, I catch the tail-end of a comment from Desmond as he strolls from the animus room - something that made every fibre of my insides give a synchronized lurch in his direction. "Hang on, Luce, I'm under attack over here," I cover the mouthpiece, "What was that just now? Oi!" Desmond doesn't turn, but his scent lingers in the back of my skull like thick grease in the back of an oven. In all fairness, yes Desmond I need to get laid. But that is not the reason I'm an asshole.

"Under attack? Shaun, what is going on over there?"

"Hi. Yes, no, not literally. I'm being sexually harassed by the wonder twins - don't think I can't feel your eyes on my arse Becky."

Rebecca flips me the bird and Lucy makes a noise between laughter and a growl. "You two stop messing around."

"Yes ma'am." I hang up. The computer chair is still warm and my knuckles crack louder in the silence between the stone walls and the skitter of Rebecca's furious typing. Distantly, the rapport of sneakers on pavement and rasp of air through lungs steadies out in time with the work station's coolant fans.

A half an hour later and Desmond is still running laps despite my specific instructions to quit after twenty. A jog and a sandwich, a book and a nap; you may be asking why the bastard of the group just handed the slacker of the group a freeday. I don't have to like Lucy's methods but I sure as anything would never sabotage her efforts, especially since my preferred method of operations would have been infinitely more precarious and expensive (and we'd still be sloughing around in circles through Ezio's betrayal dramas and whore binges regardless). Am I putting kid gloves on for Desmond's benefit? No. Are the squishy bits of my brain covertly influencing my temper in the vain hopes that the pheromone factory coming around on his last lap will start receiving as many signals as his body is outputting? Bugger all, I hope not.

I tap my wristwatch and glare.

As Desmond passes, the absolute fucking neanderthal feels it appropriate to reach out and tag me. He might have been reaching for my shoulder but the swipe landed somewhere along collar and neck and it's goodbye highly-evolved patience. As a man whose personal space was just invaded semi-violently, my response was, ah, on the aggressive side.

Desmond: lucky I lead a sedentary lifestyle. Unlucky I used to run track and field. I lunge; Desmond makes headway with a burst of laughter, fabric escaping my fingertips. Desmond vaults a crate like a monkey, all arms and legs. I vault that same crate like a goddamn Olympian. My knees and back would sing of regret in the morning, but I would forever cherish the look of surprise glimpsed over Desmond's shoulder as he discovers I'm keeping pace. That is, before Desmond hunches himself lower to the ground and leaves me in the proverbial dust, in no proxy to receive a good walloping.

Could Desmond Miles kick my ass? Yes. Would he? No; as evidenced by his flight without much fight. I slow to a trot, then a panting stop, removing my glasses to wipe a sweat-damp brow, keeping the white hoodie-shaped blob in my peripheral. "I'll have you keep your machismo showmanship to yourself, thanks."

"Aw, come on man." Desmond is out of breath, hands on knees and shoulders wagging as if to bolt anew. "That was fun." The blob is getting closer. My glasses are all smeared from where I had mashed them up against my own face to keep them on while I ran, and of no help. "Admit it, you were smiling."

"That was a grimace. A hate-grimace. Of hate." Half-blind, my elbow goes up instinctively. The sudden rush of primary school memories has me rethinking the whole chase-down-the-trained-assassin-and-thrash-him idea. "Sod off with you, fucking, adrenaline junkies," I parry the grab with a curse, hating what I knew would come next; a feint, a headlock, a noogie. All the carefully shored up intimidation would be dashed to the everloving rocks in one fell bro-hold, and I was powerless to stop it.

Rebecca pokes her head in at the noise of a toolbox spilling its guts to the floor. "You two quit fucking shit up in here." I had given the old college try in dislodging Desmond, but he was serenely requesting that I call 'uncle' and we were knocking about the warehouse like stags in rut. I never played bitch for the jocks at uni, and I certainly wasn't going to surrender my pride to this upstart of a Subject, especially in front of a witness. "Des, you're going to break something. You are going to break Shaun."

"I'm not going to break Shau - ow! He bit me!"

"Let him go, man, he's turning colors."

Desmond pants, chuckling, "Nah. Didn't draw blood, has yet to say 'uncle'."

I wasn't about to strong-arm my way out of this, so I toss my glasses to Rebecca (who catches them with a 'woah') and go for the boned fish approach. It's not as sexy as it sounds; mostly I just let loose from the grapple first and stand there in the headlock with my face pressed into Desmond's damp side until he gets bored. Like playing dead when a bear attacks. This would have worked, if Desmond didn't insist on pulling me across the room and back just to keep me from getting too comfortable, punctuating my disarray with the occasional insult and noogie and usual request for my surrender.

Red-faced and properly winded, I grunt, "You make sure to never fall asleep after this, Miles."

Rebecca yawns theatrically. "Dude he is never going to say uncle. We need to clean this space up before Lucy gets back, 'cos if she finds you two dicking around in here - "

I snipe, "Especially the part where you aren't letting me get back to work."

I can hear the nod in Rebecca's voice, "Yeah, exactly."

I suppose Rebecca's (disjointed, vague) disapproval is so rare that it's become potent medicine, because Desmond releases me with a final mutual shove. My neck feels cold at the absence of his arm, breathing fast and deep. I feel a little high, either by oxygen deprivation or the obvious alternative.

"You okay, man? Are you concussed?" Why Rebecca thought checking for fever had anything to do with concussion, I could not tell you. I accept my glasses and reassure her that dilated pupils are the body's natural reaction to anger and fighting and so forth. Not about to confess that my head was filled with nonsense, tipping over like a flooded boat and pulling my pupils wide in order to signal to any potential baby-makers out there to get with the fertilization. Crossed fucking wires.

I head toward the tiny ridiculous water-closet we all have to share when I think I - no, no no no, fuck him. Desmond and I go shoulder to shoulder down the hall, and to prevent a Three Stooges moment of getting stuck in the washroom's doorway I yank him back by the collar of his sweatshirt. "Clean up that mess you made, and then shower."

"I'll shower and then I'll clean it up." He's ducked around me to get to the door and damn it, damn everything, we're shoving around like we'd forgotten how to be two fully grown adults perfectly capable of calm discussion. "You're the one complaining that I reek."

"The one thing I can't stand over someone else's body odor - is - my own -" But I lose the struggle, limbs already too sore to put up a good fight. "Hurry the fuck up." 'Bang' goes my fist against the closing door.

"Shaun."

No, no, shut up. Go away. The painkillers were just starting to work, and my brain was reluctant to acknowledge conscious thought. Especially input. Especially talking.

Lucy walks in and crosses her arms, completely unawares of my venomous fantasy involving her and the antique hay-thrasher in the yard. "Hey. Becka told me you crashed early?"

"Mmnf. Loosh." Clearly, sharply, I make some hint as to my current level of hospitality: "Go. Away."

"All right, we can talk about this in the morning. Desmond wanted me to tell you the shower was free."

"Away, Lucy," I whine. News from my tormentor; not exactly glad tidings. There is a weight on the side of the cot.

"Did you two fight?" She's trying to be nice, I know that. Keeping the team stitched together and functioning amicably wasn't easy work, especially when our personalities clashed like the four fucking elements. She's concerned, and why not? I'm concerned.

I rub the bridge of my nose and sigh. "He pulled some fucking playground bullying crap and I should have walked away, Luce, I really should have." I scrub my face and squeeze my eyes tight before opening them to the dim light peeking in through the corridor, lining Lucy's bent silhouette.

"I thought you two were getting along."

I scoff. If that was 'getting along' in her book, I didn't ever want to see what she counted as bickering. "Did Rebecca reset the algorithms, or did we have enough memory to reinforce the barriers?"

"Shaun, I'm not talking about that right now."

"No, I know; you're right. I'm the level-headed one. I shouldn't have reacted like that." I turn on my side and bunch the sheets up to my neck, sighing into the pillow.

"That's not what I'm getting at here. He could have really hurt you."

I laugh and flip to my back, exasperated. "Desmond? Really?"

"If it had been an episode of the Bleeding Effect, yes. Really."

"Jesus, Lucy, I don't have enough fingers on which to count how many things are wrong with your assumptions right now." I inhale, bracing, "Foremost of these is the fact that I know the difference between Desmond, Altair and Ezio. Frankly I'm a little insulted you doubt my professional judgment." I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the cot, slouching to illustrate just how deeply she had wounded my pride.

"Well." Lucy leans in, uncrossing one leg from the other as if to stand. She pauses, not quite ready to apologize or back down, but clearly unwilling to argue further. "You should probably take advantage of the shower while it's free."

"Hn. I must smell terrible." This is said with a small amount of glee, because it serves her right for waking me up.

"No, it's not a bad - uh. I just. Becka usually commandeers the washroom in the morning." Lucy has stood with all haste, brushing off her backside as if to remove the man-cooties.

I narrow my already squinting gaze. "Lucy," I groan. "Leave off the womanly concern for a minute and please, kindly, tell me you didn't just imply attraction."

Lucy barks a laugh. "Shaun Hastings, you are gayer than a maypole and colder than a dead fish."

"Welcome back."

In keeping with the theme of my total humiliation, the only towel in the washroom was the one Desmond left behind. There was no practical reason why this should have bothered me, other than the mild discomfort of drying off with something rather cold from its pre-use. I draped the thing over my head to dry my hair and collapsed to my knees, ripping the towel away with a small groan. 'Musky' - a term often used to describe hideous disco-era perfumes and the wool coat left in the back of the closet, but in this case meant 'that which drives Shaun completely fucking nutters'.

And oh, bad. Bad, bad, awful. Subject Desmond Miles is not for fucking. He wasn't even for befriending; he was as off-limits as anyone born with PROPERTY OF ABSTERGO stamped across their foreheads. Maybe it was the fact that I was drugged six ways from Sunday, or that I'd spent the last half month in close quarters with a seriously attractive specimen of hominidae sapiens; my dick was in my hand before I had time to convince myself this was a bad idea.

I rub one out quickly and discretely into the towel, but instead of meeting the calm that usually accompanies release, I only get keyed up. I wanted to fuck, and I wanted the stress of the past few years of my life to be obliterated by the orgasm. I had to remind myself that fucking Desmond would only compound that stress, amplify it. The ceramic edge of the tub is icy against the side of my face; it wakes me up. Because maybe falling asleep naked in the bathroom with my dick in my hand is Nobel-Prize winning levels of stupid. Auto-asphixiated rockstars die with more dignity.

The question is there at the crack of my consciousness, and how the fuck does Desmond even know I'm awake. "Is there a reason we can't be friends?"

My voice is scratchy and gummy and the noises I want to make aren't the noises I actually do make, the growly coming out more like a purr. Because fuck my life. "Good morning Desmond. Go away."

"No, I mean, I'm just asking because Lucy asked me the same thing and I told her I wasn't trying to piss you off or anything and there's really no reason you should be pissed off. I was just fucking around and you really do need to exercise more I mean if we have to pack up and bolt I think everyone on the team needs to be able to get away safe. Is all."

I crane my neck to Desmond's empty cot, and then lean with a groan to find him performing crunches on the floor. "Did you leave any coffee for me, you absolute spaz?"

"Yeah, there's plenty. I don't drink - "

"Nevermind." I collapse back to the mattress and check my wristwatch, waiting for the anxious little beetles of guilt and fear to get me out of bed for the start of another working day. Ten hours of sleep, what a waste of time.

"So, I mean..." The chop of Desmond's words have changed and I close my eyes against the blur of that body in pushup position. "Any specific" huff "reason, or are" huff "you just more" huff "comfortable" huff "being a" huff, huff "bastard?"

"Yes." I knew my legs would be hurting, but hadn't prepared for everything else to ache so completely. Was I getting old? Wasn't sexual appetite supposed to diminish with all those other missing vigors?

"Which?"

"Pick one."

"Becka says it's a defense mechanism," Desmond's breathing meters out as the customary after-workout stretching plants his little grunts of pleasure into my screaming consciousness. "But I'm the, only one, you're really, all that harsh to. What gives, man?"

I spot an easy out, "Uh, you aren't a woman." I crack an evaluating eye, "I think. Also you're a useless lazy blob attached to valuable grey matter. I thought we've been over this before?"

"Yeah." Desmond stands with one last stretch, joints cracking audibly. "And I thought you pulled that stick outta your ass a few months ago. Suddenly it's crammed back up there and I'm back to being subhuman. What the fuck is with that, Shaun? There is no fucking reason why we can't be friends."

"Because I don't like you, is why." Exasperated, I drawl, "Get over yourself already; we can't all be swoony blonde tarts standing in line to join your stupid fan-club." I roll up to a sit, wincing. Oh god, today was going to be one of those days.

"No. And. I'm going to tell Lucy you said that."

"Mmhm, run off to mummy and tattle. But do it after today's session; if she's going to lecture I'd rather she do it during cleanup than prep." It wasn't as if I had even been referring to Lucy, just the usual run of American swooners, the Monroes and Gwens, et cetera.

"No, Shaun. God, it was fine for a while! What the fuck did I do?"

Whine a little louder, Desmond, it's doing wonders for curing my attraction towards you. "Headlock. Me. A grown man of enormous dignity and brittle pride. Short temper. What did you expect?"

"I mean before that. It was like, I woke up last week, and Old Shaun was back."

"So the first thing you do when faced with a beehive is step on it?" I'm half dressed by now with my glasses cleaned and placed in time to see Desmond's expression scrunch up like it does when he's being particularly thick.

"I just want to get along with you semi-decently. Tell me what to do for that to happen."

"Excellent! Progress." I clap my hands. "Do your job and don't talk to me; we'll get along swimmingly."

Desmond mouths 'asshole', shoving both hands in his pockets and turning his head away, shoulders shrugged up defensively. I leave, already angry over the time we've wasted.

Lucy strikes at the breakfast counter, a surprise attack. "I understand what's going on." A surprise attack of words and sympathy and wording sympathy.

The toast freezes halfway to my mouth, hand shaking so bad that little flecks of jam dot my glasses. My voice is higher than it ought to be. "Keep your womanly intuition and other such witchery far away from me, please and thank you."

"You like him and you're afraid he'll die."

"Christ, Lucy! I'm eating!" I wave the bit of toast impotently.

Desmond's body rests in the animus, Rebecca on monitor duty lest something interesting happen. That leaves me only a few spare minutes to scarf down some food before returning to a keyboard for the next twelve hours and I did not have time for any touching introspective dialogue.

Lucy strikes for critical damage. "Nobody is going to die. We're working to stop that, and if we fail then everybody will die and you won't have to worry about being left alone or whatever your damage is."

"Are you being cruel by accident, or have I not woken up yet? Is this a dream? Are you God?" I was definitely off my appetite by then, and set a napkin to use on my glasses and sweaterfront, standing to attend my face at the sink.

"I'll tell him, if you want me to."

"No."

"He admires you, you know. Holds you in high esteem - though why is beyond me." Lucy wisely gazes over the rim of her coffee mug and I hope she chokes on the brew.

"I know all that."

"Then what's the problem?"

"That IS the problem! We have work to do. I have work to do. I can't afford to get - involved - and really, this whole discussion of the matter is just, really, terribly unprofessional." I practically run to the safety of my station.

Lucy stops at the archway, hand held up. "Wait, Shaun, what exactly were we talking about just now? I'm saying you should be Desmond's friend, not - "

I scoff, "Oh, sure, like you have any control over that. Kindly keep your power-tripping out of my personal affairs, and I'll keep my personal affairs clear of your power-tripping zone." I frame the room with a sweep of my arms, Rebecca removes her headphones and glances up expectantly.

"You pluggin' in, Hastings?"

I sigh. "No, Beck. Go back to what you were doing. I mean, if it's okay for me to tell you to do that - I mean Lucy can jump in anytime and boss you around a little if it will reaffirm her authority."

Brought down from on high at last, Lucy sneers, "Fuck off, Shaun."

Rebecca's mind is blown by the, like, totally aggro vibes in the air, and she looks, like, taken aback. "Woah, guys, what'd I miss?"

I'm about to cut off Lucy's response when the computer screen delivers the most blindingly awesome news my tiny historian heart can hardly take: Ezio is conversing with members of the Borgia family. Yes, Borgia, as in the worst Pope ever and the family steeped in the greatest intrigues and most advanced leaps in political evolution to which we probably owe the separation of government and religion in today's modern - aw nobody buys that anymore but regardless -

"Borgias!" I cut off all outside distractions, and dig in. Lucy reluctantly wanders out of my field of vision, probably to get to her own backstock of work. It is a blissful drudgery, reliving history through Desmond's genetic connections, and if the fate of mankind didn't hang in the balance - I might even enjoy my job.

A few hours later the team breaks for a meal and I keep typing, decrypting on one screen with half my attention towards the video feed on the other. Borgias - amazing, amazing stuff. Myths debunked, rumors proven true, excellent, all of it. Truly great. A steaming carboard cup of noodle soup appears on the desk and I move it out of the way lest it spill, eyes fixed to the dual screens. Later, a cup of tea replaces the untouched noodles. Had I more tact than intellect I would have accepted Lucy's peace offerings with due enjoyment, but really I couldn't manage a rat's arse towards co-worker drama when there were Borgias on screen.

"It's like he's a zombie." Rebecca stage-whispers from my right. "Dude, I'm calling it; you officially broke Shaun."

"Nobody broke Shaun. He's working, leave him alone." Lucy, God Bless You.

Ten lines of notes later and I scratch the back of my neck, turning to that eerie feeling one gets when being observed for any extended amount of time (being both a reasonably attractive human being and hunted by a secret organization of religious crazies can hone this skill). I nearly fall out of my chair at Desmond's proximity, but he's only watching the screen over my shoulder.

"I thought there was something important about the arrangement between - "

"Aaaagh, Medici seal!" I backspace furiously and hover over the keyboard. "I'm sorry, Desmond, what did you need?"

He shrugs. "Nothing. Nevermind."

My focus is back on the screen. "Ohhkaaay. Is there a reason you're hanging out at my desk?" I don't hear the answer to that question. Cesare Borgia, perhaps the most evil man of his time and no mere rumor, that. I am in the proverbial zone and this is going to take something a little stronger than coffee. Bring on the B vitamins, this was going to be an all-nighter. Wow. Great. Excellent.

When Lucy is tired, her voice gets extra plaintive. "Shaun's the best at his job, so you just have to let him do it."

Desmond, the presumptive twat, argues, "He'll fuck something up if he doesn't get any sleep; miss an important cue, or..."

"I know you're concerned, but his methods have worked fine so far."

"We don't need 'fine', we need progress. Don't tell me he didn't just spend half the night geeking out over a historical figure that has nothing to do with our search."

"Hey, okay, no. Shaun's first priority is gathering the pieces of Eden, you know that, hey look at me. You know that. He eats, sleeps, and breathes this project."

"Yeah, I know. I'm just tired of this shit and I want it to end."

"Need to take tomorrow off?"

My gut clenches at overhearing Lucy's offer; a day off for Desmond is another day for me to spend attention on the Borgias.

"No, not that, I mean I want it to end, like, everything. I want us to find the apple and win and for this all to be over so the world can go back to normal already."

Lucy makes a sympathetic noise in the back of her throat and I can imagine her nodding. "Well, Saturday's your mandatory day off, so don't waste it worrying over Shaun. He's a passionate historian and greatly enjoys his work."

"How the hell do you figure that?"

"If he didn't like his job, he wouldn't be doing it. Come on, have you ever witnessed Shaun giving in to anything if it didn't mean immediate or longterm gain for himself?" Harsh, but fair, and maybe this would put a stop to the headlocks and shoving matches.

It's Desmond's turn to concede the point. "Thanks for hearing me out at least. I guess."

"I guess." Lucy mimics, voice fading down the hall.

I pull the reheated mug of tea from the microwave and return to my desk.

It is almost four in the morning, and Desmond is already awake. Or, more insanely, he has been awake all this time actually reading that book in his lap and not just using it as a prop to dissuade intellectual carnivores.

"Oi." I am in a fan-fucking-tastic mood, brain full of Borgias. Ecstatic, you know, if they weren't such horrible people of course.

"Hey." Desmond blinks heavily up at me, dark brown eyes pools of ink in the dim flood of a desk lamp.

"You're going to ruin your eyes, reading at night." I cross my arms and lean against the doorway. "There are only a select few who can truly rock geek chic, and I'm afraid you aren't among that crowd."

He blinks again. "What."

"Glasses. You would need spectacles if you ruined your eyes, and they wouldn't suit your face." Must everything be spelled out for you, Desmond? In monosyllabic bite-sized bits?

"You look fine without glasses."

"Not my point. In fact, not anything to do with my point? Your brain is obviously fatigued. Go to bed." I leave the room to commandeer the washroom for a five-coffee piss and a shower that lasts until sunrise.