Blanket warning for the rest of the fic: mentions of physical and emotional child abuse

-/-

Desmond is four years old the first time his father hits him.

It's an accident (this time), a glancing blow during a training fight Desmond is really too young to be a part of. His father had insisted, though, and he's used to getting his way. No son of his is going to fall behind in his training- Desmond is going to be the best of his age mates, whether he wants to or not. It is assumed that he will be stronger, faster, better than the other children on the Farm. It's his destiny, Desmond's father explains, to be great because his father is the mentor and his mother is a master assassin. He calls the backhand to Desmond's face a war injury, and so Desmond wears his bruises with pride until they finally fade and vanish.

The second time his father hits him, Desmond is seven and knows there is no grand destiny in his future. Maybe his father knows it too, which is why he corners Desmond after one day after a particularly bad training session, looking angrier than Desmond has ever seen him. He rants and yells for a while, but Desmond is tired and sore and not really paying attention. Not until his father pushes him against a wall with all his strength, so hard that Desmond bangs his head on concrete and sees stars. Somehow, it doesn't break anything, but Desmond is left curled on the ground sobbing and clutching the sore spot on his head that won't stop throbbing. His father snaps at him to pull himself together and man up, but Desmond only cries harder.

Eventually, his father walks away, clearly disgusted, and all Desmond can do is watch him go. Until this day, Desmond had thought his father could do no wrong. He puts him on a pedestal, worships the ground he walks on, does everything and anything he can to please the man. His dad is an assassin, practically a superhero- until this day, when Desmond learns there is no such thing as heroes. From this point on, the world is a smaller, sadder, less hopeful places. Desmond loses something that day, and he never gets it back.

The third time his father hits him, Desmond is ten. The years have been cruel, and while it's been ages since his father has turned to actual violence, Desmond has gotten used to being shouted at and blamed for everything that goes wrong around him. If that were all he ever saw of his father, Desmond would be able to adjust. He could hate the man in peace, without worrying about things getting complicated. But between the bouts of almost irrational anger, Desmond sees flashes of the man his father is supposed to be. There are days when he smiles and offers his help in whatever Desmond is struggling with in his training, or tells exciting stories of missions he's been on.

Mostly, Desmond gets used to reading his father, judging his mood and knowing when it's best to hide and stay silent, and when it's okay to speak up. Usually, he's very good at this, but sometimes he makes mistakes. One day, Desmond guesses wrong, and dares to laugh at something that is (apparently) not meant to be a joke. This time, his father breaks his nose. It never quite heals right, and after that Desmond drops his eyes and looks away whenever he sees a mirror, because he can't stand the constant reminder of what his father has done.

This is about the time when the assassins start losing. The templars grow stronger, and the assassins grow fewer, and Desmond's father grows angry and mean. For five years, Desmond's life is one long parade of pain and abuse, with the only breaks coming when his father goes away on missions. He never says a word to anyone, because after all his dad is the mentor, and he's the screw up novice that everyone knows is a failure. No one would believe him even if they saw the abuse for themselves. Even Desmond's mother assumes the new injuries are from his training, and only sighs and shakes her head at each new bruise and broken bone. Then one day, when William comes home in a towering rage and looking for an excuse to beat Desmond black and blue, Desmond runs. He jumps out a window, climbs down a tree, and never looks back. It's more of a hobble than a run (he's sprained an ankle in the process), but for the first time in his life he's truly free.

The last time his father hits him, Desmond is twenty five and, finally, an assassin. He should have been past his old fears by now, but when his father's punch comes flying at him, some deeply ingrained instinct sends terror flooding through him- all Desmond can do is stand there and take it, because his entire childhood has served to convince him that fighting back will only make it worse.

When Shaun sees Desmond's bloody lip later, he makes a snide comment about how he must not be getting enough out of his animus sessions, if he's still getting his ass kicked by his dad. Desmond grits his teeth to keep from telling Shaun how hard it is just to keep climbing into the animus day after day, knowing he's completely vulnerable to whatever his father decides to do while Connor's memories convince his mind he's in the eighteenth century.

It used to be, when Desmond got up from the animus, that he would barely wait long enough for Rebecca to unplug him before jumping out and getting as far away as possible. He hates the machine, can't stand being in it, and the more distance he puts between himself and it, the better. Now he waits after each session, eyes clamped shut, pretending he's not awake yet so he can listen to what's going on around him and figure out his father's mood. He doesn't want to risk doing or saying anything that might land him on the wrong side of the man's temper.

And it burns him to be back in this old, familiar fear when he should have buried it long ago, but his father holds a power over him that no one else ever has or would, and if this reunion has taught Desmond anything it is that he can never escape. So he spends long minutes after every session lying on his back like the useless piece of shit his father has always told him he is. When he's awake, he talks and laughs with the others, as if there's anything funny or normal left in the world, and keeps one eye on his father and the other (always) on the way out. Had the circumstances been at all different, Desmond would have run in a heartbeat and never looked back. If only there was someone else that could save the world…

But Desmond stays, and as the days and weeks crawl by he draws farther inside himself. He stops talking, hunches over when he stands, listens and does what he's told without speaking a word. When he sleeps, it's with his back to the wall, knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around himself in some feeble grasp at protection.

His father doesn't hit him again. He doesn't need to- that first blow had been enough to utterly break Desmond, and undo almost a decade spent struggling to glue together the shattered fragments of confidence and self-worth. Every shouted insult or derisive sneer is enough to put him on edge, and he's constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, knowing it's only a matter of time until his father decides he's done something wrong. So it's a relief, really, when Shaun announces that he's found another power source and Desmond's father volunteers to go alone to retrieve it. The whole world seems to open up and become a place worth living in- Desmond sags in relief and remembers to breathe again.

And then comes the news that Abstergo has managed to capture him. They send a video, Vidic babbling in the background, smug and sneering in his puffed up sense of self importance. Desmond barely hears him, staring at his father's face instead. There's a burning anger there, something Desmond has seen directed at himself far too many times to believe it could be meant for anyone else now. For a horrible minute he imagines just leaving his father there, imagines the freedom that would come from not having to look over his shoulder anymore. The only thing that stops him is knowing that his father is going to get out, somehow. It's too much to hope that this is the end, and Desmond just doesn't have that kind of lucky. If Desmond sits here now without even trying to help, his father is going to be pissed when he does come back.

"We have to go get him."

The words slip out before Desmond can fully make up his mind to say them, and then it's too late to pull them back.

"Are you serious?" Shaun demands.

"It's dangerous," Rebecca protests.

"They're asking for the apple!" Shaun adds, looking at Desmond like he's just completely lost his mind.

"He wouldn't want you to risk your life going after him," Rebecca says and then they both go quiet and look at him, Shaun clearly annoyed and Rebecca wide eyed in concern.

"Yea, he would," Desmond says softly, because if there's one lesson he's really learned well over the past twenty five years, it's that he is expendable while his father is not.

"Okay," Rebecca says, after a long moment of consideration. "If it's that important to you, we can get him back." And then she gives Desmond a look that he can't stand, clearly impressed with his decision, like he's doing something noble by risking death to bring his father home. It makes him feel sick to his stomach, because this isn't heroism, it's fear. But he swallows back his bile and manages to mumble a "thank you" before turning away.

He doesn't sleep well that night, but he curls up on his sleeping bag and pretends anyway so he won't have to face the other two until morning.

-/-

They have no choice but to fly to Italy. They're in a hurry, and it's not like the assassins have endless transportation options. Besides, Abstergo already knows exactly where they're going, so too much sneaking around would just be a waste of time and effort.

On the plane, Desmond sits wedged between Shaun and Rebecca, with nothing to look at or think about or do. The other two try more than once to engage him in conversation, but Desmond answers with one or two words if at all, and eventually they give up.

They travel light, because they have no idea if they'll have to run or hide after getting to Rome. Desmond wears his hidden blades, carefully smuggled through security, but other than that they have no weapons on them. Each one carries a set of false papers, Shaun's holding an extra one for Desmond's father when (if) they get him back. They have no checked baggage, and Desmond is the only one with a carryon. His backpack stays tucked under the seat in front of him during the entire flight, empty except for the apple, but he imagines he can feel the weight of the thing pressing against his mind.

The thing whispers to him, all the time. Not quite in words, but clearly enough for Desmond to know exactly what it promises. Power, control of his own life, control of everyone's life. Safety, a way to run from his father. Or, if he wants, to make him pay…

He could…

He could do anything he wants.

But that would be wrong. He doesn't want to let the apple have what it wants, because that's a road he might never come back from. In the animus, he's seen what happens to men that think the apple can be used as a tool to reshape the world in their favor. He does not want to become like them.

Nobody stops them at the airport, and nobody stops them as they travel to the Abstergo building, either. Shaun almost does, getting progressively more nervous during their half hour drive, to the point where he almost turns them around more than once. Somehow they manage to get there in one piece, and Desmond leaves the other two at a safe distance before going in himself.

He uses the front door.

It feels like he's walking to his death, the way everyone he passes scrambles desperately to get away from him. They know what's coming, and they want to be as far away as possible when it happens. But when security finally shows up, Desmond has no problem at all getting rid of them. It's not until he gets to his old prison on the top floor where Vidic is holding his father that Desmond stops dead in his tracks, suddenly and completely afraid. Faced with the sight of his father and Vidic in the same room, his brain gives up all attempts at rational thought, giving in to an almost animalistic fear.

With numb fingers, he pulls off his backpack, unzips the pocket, and pulls the apple out before letting the bag drop to the floor. With the apple in his hands, the whispering seems to suddenly get louder, more insistent, and he so desperately wants to just give in and do as it says.

He holds it up, trembling a little. Vidic is giving him orders and the apple is hissing and whispering in his mind and his father is glaring, just glaring at Desmond, and he knows he's done something wrong but doesn't know what it is. Vidic shouts a last impatient command and Desmond breaks. He can't deal with his father and the apple and Vidic all at once, so he lets go of whatever's keeping the apple in check.

Golden beams appear from nowhere, not quite real but solid enough to go flying at Vidic and his men, to impale them on lances of insubstantial light. They don't die quickly, but Desmond doesn't let up, doesn't pull back until their screams fade away and they're dead on the ground. When he looks up, face lit by the eerie glow of the apple in his hand, he and his father are the only two left alive in the room. The light starts to fade, and Desmond half collapses against the nearest wall. He can't quite make himself let go of the apple, but his fingers only cling to it weakly. There is no strength left in him.

"Desmond!" his father snarls. "What are you doing here?"

"I…" he stares, not really comprehending. "I came to rescue you? I thought-"

"My life is not worth risking the apple," his father snaps. "How could you be such an idiot? You risked everything."

And that's not the end of the rant, but it's the last Desmond hears as the apple pushes farther into his exhausted mind, urging him to hit back, to punish, just this once. The apple tells him that he's put up with shit like this for his entire life, and just this once, his father deserves to pay.

And he does as it says. The apple practically sings in response to his call, surging up and flooding him with more power than he has ever imagined. It's- he laughs, throwing back his head and cackling like a madman. He is heedless of how he must look, surrounded by dead men with his father looking on in horror. All that matters is that this feels better than anything he has ever felt before, and he doesn't hesitate another moment before bring that power to bear.

Desmond screams in mindless, horrible anger, turning suddenly on his father. Twenty five years of pent up rage and fear and hurt, burying it deep, or turning it against himself (because it's easier to believe he is stupid and useless than to think that his father will never love him), it all turns inside out. In that moment, Desmond hates his father more than he has ever hated anyone, even himself, and he wants him to suffer exactly as Desmond has suffered. The light from the apple flares, brighter and brighter, and then just as it reaches its peak, Desmond blacks out.

His dreams are red (like blood) and dark (like night). They terrify him.

The dreams seem to last forever, but eventually he wakes up. He's sprawled on the ground, apple still wrapped tightly in one hand. Desmond forces himself to his feet, stumbling a bit before he finds his balance. The apple's whispering has quieted now that he's given it what it wants, and with its influence waning Desmond starts to feel sick with the thought of what he's just done. There are bodies everywhere, and the air stinks of blood. There's no sign at all of his father, though, and Desmond takes this as a bad sign.

He takes a few steps farther into the room and hears a small, startled breath like someone gasping. It comes from behind the animus, so Desmond directs his steps in that general direction. He comes around the side and…

And stops dead, horrified by the sight in front of him. There's a little boy, maybe somewhere between seven and ten years old, but deceptively small and skinny. He's sitting with his back to the animus, knees pressed tight to his chest, trembling with the intense desire to stay small and silent and invisible. Desmond recognizes the pose, because he'd adopted it many times himself when he was younger. And he recognizes the boy's face, because even in this impossible, unbelievable form, it is still his father's.

"Oh, God," Desmond whispers. He remembers what he'd been thinking when he released the apple's power, and looks at the terrified, tiny child at his feet, and he connects the dots. He'd wanted to make his father feel the same fear and pain he'd suffered through as a kid, and the apple had given him exactly that. Only he'd never meant- he hadn't really wanted- "Dad, I'm so sorry… I didn't mean-" He takes two steps forward and holds his hand out, but the boy makes a choked, sobbing noise and scrambles away, leaving Desmond reaching for empty air.

"Come on," Desmond urges, because this isn't the time to figure out why this had happened or how to undo it. He'd taken out a lot of guards on the way up, but there had to be more on their way. "Please?"

But the boy clearly doesn't want to go anywhere near him, shoulders shaking as he sobs and presses himself as close to the edge of the animus as possible. Desmond thinks of the guards that are definitely on their way up by now, considers the child in front of him, and hates himself a little more for what he's about to do. Very slowly, he straightens up, never once shifting his gaze from the terrified little figure at his feet. He calls to mind the tone his father has always used on him, the one he's never dared to disobey because he knows the consequences would be terrible. It's always worked on him, and if he's given his father all his pains and fears, it should work on him, too.

"You will come here this second," he says, and the boy flinches visibly at the steel in his voice. "Or else I will leave you here for the templars to find. Do you understand me?"

The boy squeaks and jumps to his feet, scrambling after Desmond with impressive speed given his size. Desmond pauses long enough to put the apple back in his bag, then he takes a deep breath and heads for the door. "Follow me," he says, but Willam only hesitates and shakes his head. "Come on!" Desmond urges. He can actually hear footsteps outside, now. When William still does nothing, he grabs him by the back of his neck, hard enough to hurt, not hard enough to leave a mark, and steers him through the door just in time to miss the guards coming from the other direction.

The first time Desmond hits his father, he's twenty five years old and it makes him feel like a monster.