Curiosity did not kill the cat, remember that. It was a stupid metaphor to apply to people anyway. Without natural curiosity, no one would know shit.

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He'd never really considered himself the guy who had to know everything, who had to have a reason behind every reason, but lately, that's exactly who he was.

Desmond had noticed something while in the Animus 2.0. It was something he'd even noticed during his stay at Abstergo. In truth it was something easily noticed, because he was, after all, a spectator in the mind and body of his ancestor.

Back in the horror-flick days of Abstergo, he'd felt this incessant curiosity start to gnaw at him. Such that the curiosity had eventually lead him to delve much deeper into his ancestor's memories. He couldn't help it, because when he was in the Animus, he wasn't himself anymore. He would think and feel like his ancestor until he reminded himself he was only there to experience, and not there to understand.

Desmond hated not understanding, and it was so hard, because every burst of adrenaline, every thrust of the blade, everything felt real. He decided to himself that he was sick of not knowing, sick of being controlled by an old geezer when it was his ancestor. Desmond was the one suffering with him, triumphing after every kill...and silently wondering what Malik was doing; he was there, he was living the moments.

He knew he had to endeavor to understand his ancestor, even if it took him hours trying to figure out how the Animus worked, or how to sort through the multitude of memories. With the idea of his looming death in the forefront of his brain, he needed something to focus on, or he was sure he'd go stir crazy, hell, just plain crazy.

And he did do it. He'd started by innocently asking Lucy some basic questions about the Animus. It wasn't long before he was able to work things on his own, and so, when no one was around he went riffling through memory after memory. He did so almost prudishly, feeling oddly protective of his ancestor's privacy (or what little of it he could preserve).

This whole thing had started with Altair and Malik, so he might as well do this chronologically.

To Desmond, their sour, biting relationship had seemed so cold and distant, especially after the disaster at Solomon's Temple. Altair was so good at concealing his emotions, even to himself, that it was hard to know how he felt about things. At best, Desmond could catch a flash of fleeting emotion, but it was too brief, too repressed.

But in his solo trips down ancestor-memory-lane, he soon learned very adeptly that there was more than rivalry and snarling unpleasantries between them. The more he opened his eyes (well, figuratively at least) the more he saw.

Things began to sneak up on him when Desmond had witnessed the very first apology Altair had uttered, feeling a brief burst of relief from the stoic, proud assassin. He was glad Altair had taken the initiative to verbally apologize, for both his sake and Malik's. (Desmond was also well aware how damn weird it was to care about the lives of people who'd long since turned to dust, but the Animus had a handy way of screwing with him.) It was much later, however, that he discovered the ways in which the assassin continued to apologize, the ways in which he'd been apologizing, without words.

For a while, it would be the middle of the night when he arrived in a memory, and Altair would be slinking silently down the stone corridors, until he crept into a room that quickly became very familiar to Desmond.

The room belonged to Malik.

Every time, without fail, Malik would be sleeping fitfully when Altair entered. The man's face was flushed and a fine sheen of sweat accompanied his sickly pallor. It was obvious he was dealing with infection and pain; Desmond even knew that losing a limb back then must have been excruciating.

The master assassin sleuthed through the room, carefully pulling back Malik's sheets. For the next hour he was uncharacteristically patient as he went about reapplying the bandages on the stump of Malik's arm. There was something almost tender in the way he carefully, painstakingly went about the methodical procedure (even though his face was set in a brooding, and yet highly unrevealing countenance). Altair worked an hour every time and when he was finished, he would leave just as quietly.

The guy was so efficient that Malik never once woke up, though Desmond suspected the man must have caught on at some point. Still, the modern-day assassin had been surprised at his ancestor's behavior. Surprised, but somewhat sympathetic. Even if it was hard to read Altair's tightly lidded emotions, it wasn't hard to know he was genuinely guilty.

He smiled to himself, knowing he didn't regret his snooping one bit. Watching Altair tend to his friend in the dead of night – without Malik's knowledge – was a slight better than watching the guy getting betrayed by his master. It was also, by the by, better than thinking about how he was going to be killed when his usefulness wore off.

And so, Desmond snuck on the Animus whenever he could, completely intrigued, and not without his own theories and suspicions. Suspicions which, in no time at all, were confirmed quite blatantly. It was a little odd at first, but it couldn't be said that Desmond hadn't seen it a long time coming. Hadn't felt it.

The next memory he intruded on was rather amusing, and not without its highlights. It also served in patting Desmond's instincts on the back.

He couldn't be sure when exactly the memory occurred, but all that was relevant was that it took place on the eve of some celebration, in which the entire population of Masyaf seemed to be congregated. Desmond didn't think Altair to be the party-goer type, that is, until he caught on to the purpose of his ancestor's presence.

Malik was speaking with some pretty little thing with gorgeous eyes. They were leaning close, sharing confidence, and laughing lowly at intervals. Desmond knew this because Altair was watching the pair very closely. So keenly, in fact, that his ears were piqued for their conversation only, and his eyes gazed intensely, piercingly. Altair was hidden in shadow, his cowl obscuring his face; the only discernable feature was the firm line of his lips, which silently screamed 'fuck off.' Desmond knew the impression must've been really damn scary, and felt morally sorry for every person that tried to look at Altair.

Worth mentioning too, was that as Desmond entered the memory, he felt a hard knot twisting in his stomach, like apprehension and hurt and anger all balled into one furious tangle. He knew they weren't his own feelings, but it didn't stop him from being sucked in.

A while later, Malik had separated from the pretty little thing, his movements tracked infinitesimally by Altair. The one-armed man started to make his way through the crowd, and without a moment's hesitation his ancestor followed.

It was behind a cluster of small buildings, a ways away from the celebration, that Malik finally stopped, and sighed audibly.

" How long were you planning on trailing me, Altair?" he called, sounding complacent.

Altair jumped down from his perch on top of a nearby building, approaching the other with forcibly measured steps. It seemed he couldn't restrain himself fully, because next he said, " How long were you planning on associating with that woman?" in a very spiteful voice.

" I fail to see," Malik said dryly, turning to face the unruly assassin, " How it could possibly be any of your concern."

This seemed to have pegged Altair, as he obviously hadn't thought of reasons. " You are not allowed that luxury," he settled finally, speaking evenly.

" Oh?" Malik raised a brow, his tone indulging.

" Yes," Altair nodded, seeming appeased with his own answer. " You are an assassin. You cannot afford such ties, you know this. A woman would undoubtably distract you; would compromise you."

" And in turn, lead me to compromise the Brotherhood?" Malik continued, voice mild.

" Yes."

Malik's lips deepened at the corners with a smile. " I am afraid that is very weak reasoning, my friend."

Finally, Altair's lips twisted in a scowl, and his voice was burred with annoyance when he spat, " It matters not, you are not allowed that woman."

" Is there any particular reason why I am to be denied such a fine woman? No enemy would use her to blackmail a simple Bureau Dai with one arm," Malik stated, completely unfazed, tone light and frank.

Altair was spurred on further, a wordless snarl escaping his lips. Desmond knew it had more to do with guilt than further annoyance at the mention of the woman being fine (though this definitely contributed).

The snarl, however, was the only response Malik got, as Altair opted for glowering heatedly at the man.

Malik was visibly repressing a grin. " Now if I were to look at this objectively, it would appear as though you were envious of a woman, Altair," he said, amusement thick in his voice.

A small disgusted sound. " Impossible."

" Or entirely probable?" Malik added helpfully, his lips quirked.

" You are infuriating," Altair hissed.

" Yes," Malik allowed. " But in all fairness, you are more aggravating than I."

" Think what you will," Altair grumbled, satisfied that the conversation had drifted from missing arms and intolerable women.

" Perhaps you'll excuse me, then. I sense this conversation at an end. Besides, now that you are here, it leaves me free so I may return to the festivities and resume my pleasantries with Ghaniyah."

Altair had swooped forward in an instant, pinning Malik against the building roughly.

" You will not," he utterly lowly, threateningly.

Malik appeared completely unconcerned about being bodily shoved into a building and being pinned there. He looked at Altair with a steely defiance in his eyes, and asked wryly, " You are certain you are not envious?"

" Yes," he snarled.

The one armed assassin nodded distantly, his mischievous eyes the only give away to his otherwise serious composure.

" You have my word then, I shall not go see her..." Altair relaxed visibly, until Malik continued. " ...when you are around. It shall have to be a secretive affair, will it not?"

" Do not--" Altair started, the danger back in his voice, mixed interestingly with a slight hint of desperation.

" You imbecile. Of course I won't," Malik finally scoffed, as if the fact should have been obvious.

" You won't?" Altair ventured uncertainly, still holding the man against the wall quite forcibly.

" No, but you have quite disproved your claims, rather than absolving yourself. You are, without a doubt, terribly envious."

Altair glared as he scowled, fisting his hands in the fabric of Malik's robes. " No," he said shortly, before leaning in and roughly capturing the man's lips.

The reaction was instantaneous; Malik let out a sound of impatience, and tugged Altair even closer. It was a violent meeting of lips and teeth and tongue, and as fueled as the clash was, their hands were slowly becoming more careful in the unspoken need to explore.

When they separated, they were breathing hard, Altair frowning (even as Desmond could feel the heat in his face, and the way Altair's heart was beating more quickly than any battle had induced) and Malik grinning lazily, in a self-satisfied way. It seemed no more words were needed, and Altair let out a surprisingly soft chuckle, before affectionately nuzzling Malik's cheek.

It was the last tender act of the evening, as Altair proceeded to aggressively latch onto Malik's throat using his lips. It wasn't long until they dissolved into a pile of heated touches and loud moans.

Desmond had watched the memory, feeling a little abashed, like a perverted voyeur. But it wasn't like he was watching so much as he was feeling, and when he'd exited the Animus it took a while to shake the sated, lazy contentment that he knew wasn't his.

After experiencing so many personal memories of Altair's, he swore never to tell anyone, never to betray his ancestor's privacy. Lucy had no need to look into the memories that weren't related to the Piece of Eden, and he didn't plan to give her any initiative to start snooping. He was, in a way, the only one who should be allowed access to Altair's memories. In any case, he remained the protective brother (protective because he knew, instinctually, that Malik made Altair happy). He didn't feel such things were entitled to be shared and analyzed by a bunch of freaks.

It was maybe inevitable that after following his ancestor, Desmond was slightly jealous of him for what he'd found with Malik. Not that he wanted to find some guy with one arm to fulfill his fantasies or anything messed up like that, but Desmond couldn't help want what they had.

Every time Malik berated Altair for his careless injuries; a front for his genuine concern, while Altair grumbled unappreciatively, challenging every harsh insult, it all seemed so...nice. It was strange but utterly perfect, especially when they eventually became fed up with their respective stubbornness and resorted to touch to express what they weren't so good at with words.

Desmond was maybe a little surprised at the rare shows of gentleness they sometimes displayed too, usually out of nowhere. It was different to see them go slow, to see them kiss softly, and boy was it just plain weird to hear the sounds Malik was able to coax from Altair. But Desmond wanted that, the security and trust and bickering and comfortableness, he wanted it all. Then again, he couldn't really believe he was jealous of his ancestor without laughing at himself.

But back to the matter at hand. Now that Desmond was in the hideout with Lucy, Shaun and Rebecca, it wasn't so easy to sneak on the Animus 2.0 (well, he hadn't accomplished the task yet, and he'd mostly given up on it), nor was it easy to deal with his damnable curiosity. First it had been Altair and Malik, but now there was his ancestor Ezio, and Leonardo da Vinci. The Leonardo da Vinci.

Desmond could sense a pattern of some sort. Which wasn't to say he was of the same inclination or anything (of course not!) but his ancestors certainly seemed to be...well, they made exceptions for their counterparts, whoever they may be.

In Ezio's case, Desmond was sure his particular counterpart was Leonardo. Thus far, he had no hard evidence, but the more Desmond thought about it, the more it made sense. Leonardo was his oldest friend, which was saying something for the assassin, but not only that, Ezio trusted the artist. He trusted him to help him, to be there when he needed it, and Leonardo did so unfalteringly.

The little looks Leonardo gave Ezio were enough to stir his curiosity. The painful concern in the artist's voice when he asked ' you are not hurt very much, are you?' whenever Ezio staggered through the door to his workshop was a dead give away, the equivalent to a flashing yellow sign.

Though...Desmond wasn't sure Ezio noticed. Sometimes his thoughts strayed to Leonardo, but there was nothing too revealing there. In a moment of unrealistic trepidation, Desmond began to think that maybe he was wrong about Ezio, and maybe what Leonardo felt was unrequited.

He didn't want to find out, all of a sudden, didn't want to be there, feeling disgust and pity right there along with Ezio when he tried to gently let Leonardo down. He didn't want to be there when Ezio realized and everything changed between them.

Thoroughly depressed (and feeling stupid for it) Desmond put the idea out of his mind. It didn't occur to him how gloomy he was until Lucy asked him one day, after he'd come out of the Animus 2.0.

" Are you alright, Desmond? You seem a little down."

Rebecca chirped up, " Yeah, man, I've actually noticed too. What's up?"

" Oh, well." Desmond wasn't surprised that Shaun hadn't joined this conversation. " I"m just tired is all."

Lucy nodded, telling him to rest up, that they were done for today.

Desmond lay in his bed, awake for a long time, wondering about Ezio and Leonardo. He was still curious...but he couldn't quite bring himself to pry. It was partly because of that, and the fact that he could still hear the rhythmic breathing in time with the even taping from Shaun, who still sat at his computer.

He was overwhelmed with the need to start conversation, out of instinct. But he couldn't understand why he cared so much; as a bartender, he'd never been the chatty type, and even during awkward silences with Lucy, he wasn't as desperate to fill them. It was different with Shaun, though.

Desmond frowned at the thought, restlessly rolling over in his bed. It wasn't like he enjoyed the accent or the way the historian spoke, because it was rude and scathing half the time. He just liked getting a rise out of him, or engaging him seriously once and a while. Truth be told, he wanted a friend in Shaun; maybe not the conventional type, because he was sure that was impossible...but, it'd been too long since he'd had a male confidante, ally, buddy, whatever.

He felt kinda pissed off whenever Shaun ignored him, and doubly so when the only attention he paid him was to spit sarcastic insults. No, he supposed they couldn't be actual friends, but it'd be great if the guy would grow a heart sometime soon.

Now agitated and glum, Desmond hissed a curse under his breath, before forcing himself to relax. He might as well get some sleep.

Well, not even sleep was peaceful. He dreamt of Ezio and Leonardo. Or more accurately, he had an Animus experience without the Animus. It wasn't pleasant, either.

Somehow, Ezio and Leonardo were backed into a corner in some alleyway, completely surrounded by heavily armed guards, with their weapons drawn.

" Kill the assassino!" one of them yelled.

" And his accomplice!" another put in.

" Leonardo," Ezio hissed, cocking his head back to glance at the frightened man. " Stay behind me. Do you hear me?" He said forcefully when the artist seemed to have trouble processing the words. Eventually, he nodded numbly, one hand fisted tightly in Ezio's cape.

Desmond could feel how wildly Ezio's heart was beating, and could feel the adrenaline as a feral light entered Ezio's eyes. In an animalistic intensity, his only thought was: must kill them, must kill them.

He stepped forward, careful to shield Leonardo with his body, blocking him from the guards. They approached slowly, with a confidence born of numbers. Ezio positively snarled, crouching low into a protective stance. Desmond was surprised somewhat, because no matter what, Ezio had always been a collected, if instinctual, killer.

The next moments unfolded quickly. Ezio was darting back and forth, blocking swings, and countering without leaving any opening for the guards to reach Leonardo. He used his sword and hidden blade simultaneously, almost desperate to finish the fight.

Blood pounding in his ears, Ezio was busy disarming a guard with a halberd, when he heard Leonardo give a short scream.

For the breadth of a second, Ezio's heart seemed to stutter to a stop, until there was new energy in his limbs and renewed strength in his grip. He plunged the halberd straight through the guard, before turning so swiftly the world blurred for an instant.

All he saw was the guard, raising his weapon, and Leonardo with a horrified, pained expression on his face. Ezio was there in a heartbeat, jumping on the guard's back, stabbing his hidden blade deep into his neck. They fell to the ground with a resounding thud, and Ezio gritted his teeth, digging the blade in deeper.

Standing up slowly, face pale, he carefully composed himself. He rushed forward, studying Leonardo intensely, who looked stunned. His stomach performed a painful flip when he saw the blood, and Desmond was nearly crushed with the gravity of his volatile emotions.

" Where? Show me," Ezio said in a clipped tone.

Leonardo's hand shook as he pushed up the sleeve of his tunic with a grimace. When he spoke, his voice was shaking even worse. " It is just a scratch," he said hoarsely, trying to manage disinterest.

But it wasn't just a scratch, it was a deep cut along his arm, bleeding heavily even as Leonardo started to sway.

Ezio had torn off a strip of his cape, giving instructions as he palmed the material into Leonardo's good hand. " Put pressure on it, do not release it until I say so." The artist did as he was told, breathing out a weak " Ezio" before the assassin quieted him.

It was a wild dash to the nearest doctor from there on, Ezio mostly supporting Leonardo until he got fed up with even that. He ducked down and lifted the man's legs from under him, carefully cradling him against his chest, mindful of his injured arm.

The doctor asked questions, but Ezio's dark look silenced him. Leonardo bit back his pained groans as his wound was cleaned and bandaged, and the assassin could only stand to the side, fists clenched tightly, lips pursed in gritty silence.

With strict orders from the doctor, and a vial of stoppered medicine, Leonardo was sent away. He protested against Ezio's brief insistence to carry him again, and settled for leaning heavily against the assassin, dragging his feet. Ezio said nothing about the slow pace, in fact, said nothing at all.

When they finally crossed the threshold of Leonardo's workshop, Ezio gently eased him into a chair.

" I am sorry about today, Leonardo," he said stiffly.

The man waved a hand in response, his gestures groggy. " It is nothing, I've been in worse shape, amico mio," he said, a half smile tugging at his lips.

No you haven't, Ezio thought angrily. Desmond was consumed with self-hatred and agonizing guilt, mirroring his ancestor.

Instead of letting his composure slip, Ezio shook his head slightly. " Again, I am sorry." He made to turn away, planning on leaving in favor of finding someplace high to hide, when Leonardo made a little sound.

He sighed audibly. " Ezio, it's not your fault."

The assassin rounded on him, voice barely restrained. " Of course it is! By association alone, I have put you in danger, and beyond that, you have been hurt because of it," he said tightly.

" But you protected me; you saved me," Leonardo reasoned, voice small, but soft and confident.

" Leonardo!" Ezio exclaimed. " You would not need protecting in the first place, if not for me." The assassin's voice was pained.

" Ah, my friend please, do not blame yourself." Leonardo gave a little smile that lit up his eyes, and Desmond could feel how Ezio reacted to the gesture. " A superficial wound is nothing compared to the pain it would bring me not to know you."

Ezio's face scrunched up. " If you never knew me, you would not miss what you did not know."

Leonardo shrugged in that careless way of his, and Ezio didn't miss the quickly concealed grimace. " Still."

At the silence, Leonardo continued avidly, even though he was obviously fatigued. " I have no regrets."

" Even with that wound?" Ezio stated bitterly.

" You are being childish, Ezio," the artist chided, fondness and exasperation in his voice.

Ezio had the sudden impulse to hug the man close (and Desmond felt the pull as keenly as though every sinew of his body needed the contact). Because Ezio couldn't stand to lose him, or to see him hurt, or to watch as Leonardo tried to comfort him, when it should have been the other way around. He wanted to feel his heart beat, his warmth, his vivaciousness, and he didn't want to let go.

Instead, Ezio turned away with a parting, "Get some sleep, Leonardo." And all he could think of was the scared look on Leonardo's face, the terror in his startlingly blue eyes, the way he had crumpled under the pain — Ezio's own screaming, gut-wrenching fear, his savage fury at the bastard who dare touch Leonardo and ---

Desmond awoke sputtering and gasping, with hands shaking his shoulders. In a hazy moment, his brows snapped together and his throat emitted a forewarning as he sat up, violently throwing his enemy off of him.

" Get away from him!" he screamed ferociously, breath coming out in angered pants. He hopped up agilely, ready to continue his attack, fists clenched so tightly that his nails drew blood from his palms – he would kill the bastardo, he would make him pay —

" Jesus fucking Christ, Miles! What the hell is your problem?" Shaun seethed from on the floor, sprawled out on his backside.

Desmond's eyes cleared and he saw Shaun splayed out, and realized he was crouching on his bed, ready for a fight. He faltered, hopelessly flexing his palms, which he dimly noticed were bloody.

" I- I don't know," he said distantly.

" Well, that's just great, I'm glad we got that sorted out. Here I am being nice, waking you up from your hollering, annoying nightmare, and you see fit to just attack me! Fuck!"

The modern-day assassin bristled. " I didn't attack you!" he protested, a little bit of venom in his voice.

Shaun scoffed as he stood up. " Of course not. Your ghost threw me to the ground."

" No, that's not it," Desmond huffed. " I meant it wasn't you I thought I was attacking," he tried to clarify.

" Don't care," Shaun said, already walking away. " Remind me never to give a shit about howling assassins in their sleep ever again."

Desmond frowned, unable to reply. He could still feel the maelstrom of emotion from Ezio, on top of his own fear. He'd had dreams about his ancestors before, but never one for so long, and never had it extended to his waking life. He'd actually blacked out, lost his consciousness and fucking wanted to murder Shaun.

With a realizing little groan, he jumped from his bed, catching Shaun on his arm. " I didn't hurt you, did I?" he asked stupidly.

" Screw off," Shaun replied, and even in the dark, Desmond could see the withering glare.

" I--" Desmond hesitated. He wasn't going to apologize or anything retarded like that. " If I did, it was your own fault," he settled with instead.

The historian shook Desmond's hand away, growling a little. " How in the hell is it my fault? I don't recall initiating anything."

" Well, you should've left me alone!" Desmond responded in childish retaliation.

" Not that I cared," Shaun hissed, " But you were screaming and crying in your sleep. It was getting hard to work with all the ruckus. I'd advise you enjoy your nightmares more quietly."

Desmond felt something plummet in his chest. He steeled himself immediately, ignoring the uncomfortable twinge because hell, it had been plain stupid to think that Shaun might have actually been worried.

" Sorry to have disrupted you, your Highness. I was only losing my mind, let me check my schedule so I can do it at a time more convenient for you," he snarled in a biting voice.

" Oh, grow a set," Shaun rolled his eyes, though something in his voice was disconcerted.

Desmond was scowling, feeling dizzy and disoriented with the residue of emotions that weren't his, along with the bombardment of his own confusion. He wanted to hit Shaun suddenly, and he wanted to scream, even though his throat felt raw.

" Fuck you," Desmond mumbled weakly, now feeling unbelievably tired.

Shaun glanced away huffily, and caught sight of his sweater sleeve, startling out of his thoughts at the sight of blood. It wasn't his—

" Are you bleeding?" he questioned, voice disgustingly close to concern.

" Oh," Desmond raised his palms. " I need to cut my nails."

" You bloody moron. Come with me."

Desmond followed the historian into the bathroom, dazed and more than a little pissed off. He was only becoming increasingly confused when Shaun wet a towel and roughly washed it over his palms, scowling at the relatively deep puncture marks.

" What the hell happened?" he groused, persistently avoiding eye contact.

Desmond glared at the wall. " When I woke up, I thought you were a guard trying to hurt Leonardo. I – that's what the nightmare...memory — whatever you want to call it — was. I was Ezio, there were guards, and Leonardo was in danger."

" I'm guessing you murdered them all?" Shaun asked, sounding snide, but not as mean as he could have been. He maybe even sounded a little thoughtful.

" Yeah," Desmond huffed crossly.

" The bleeding effect is getting worse," Shaun nodded, as if to himself, patting the towel gently now over Desmond's hands.

" Yeah," he intoned. He could feel the warmth of Shaun's hands through the towel, and it was nice. It was also relieving to tell someone about his reoccurring Animus-without-the-Animus experiences.

" There, the bleeding's stopped. Go back to bed, you're not getting off the hook because of this," the historian stated firmly.

" I knew that. And sorry 'bout the sweater," Desmond muttered as he turned, the harsh glare of the bathroom's florescent lights highlighting the stains clearly.

Desmond hated himself, and the hazy confusion wasn't going away. He didn't want to go to bed, but he felt drained. He didn't want to talk to Shaun anymore, and yet, he wanted the man close for some reason.

His stupid thoughts prompted him to quicken his step, and he would have hightailed it back to his bed in a flash if a sudden wave of nausea hadn't hit him so strongly. With a faint moan, he fell forward, landing in a heap on the floor. He heard Shaun's voice drifting somewhere in the background, and he thought: he's got such a nice voice.

" Oi, Desmond?"

Yeah, Desmond thought in a fragmented way. Nice voice, you know, when he's not being a dick. And then, the assassin knew no more.

His dreams, thankfully, were ancestor free. In fact, they were completely void, until a smooth, accented voice penetrated into his unconscious, and Desmond eventually woke up, scrunching his eyes but not opening them.

" Hey, I know you're awake. Open your damn eyes." Was that worry Desmond detected?

With a great deal of effort, Desmond opened his eyes, sitting up groggily. He was still in the hallway outside the bathroom, but he noticed gauze covering both of his hands, and a damp clothe that fell in his lap from his forehead. It vaguely registered that only Shaun could have done these things, and he felt strangely giddy at the thought.

Shaun was, as of present, glaring at him as he leaned against the wall opposite him.

" You're finally awake. I have better things to do, you know, like oh, I don't know, sleep."

" I didn't ask you to do anything, jerk," Desmond mumbled defiantly, his head pounding.

Shaun scoffed. " And it wouldn't have made a different if you'd asked or not. I'm only doing this because Lucy will have my hide if I leave you passed out on the floor, and you still have work to do on the Animus," he explained coldly.

Desmond tried not to feel dejected, but couldn't quite block off the feeling. He settled for glaring right back at the aggravating man.

Shaun continued talking, trying to explain quickly. " You have a small fever. You've most likely been on the Animus for too long, and that little memory you experienced without the Animus probably didn't help. So Desmond, now that you're awake, go back to fucking bed."

" Yeah, yeah," Desmond spat, thoroughly annoyed. He tried to push himself into a standing position, but as soon as he did, the world promptly turned upside down. He groaned, a hand rising to clutch his forehead as he tried to keep his balance. God, this was humiliating.

Just as he thought he was going to fall on his face for the second time that night, Shaun was there, ducking an arm around his shoulder, helping him. Helping him.

" What are you doing?" he asked, so surprised it came out angry.

" What does it look like, idiot?"

Desmond tried to reign in his nausea and control the butterflies that fluttered in his stomach from the close proximity. Or were they the same thing? Jesus, this wasn't going well.

" I don't want your help."

" Tough. You can't even walk. Do the math, Miles."

" Oh shut up, you're giving me migraine."

" Funny, you have the same effect on me."

Desmond wondered if Shaun was ever pleasant. He wondered if he would treat a lover any differently, and then wondered why the hell he was allowing himself to think about it.

Finally, they made it to his bed, and Desmond was dumped somewhat unceremoniously.

" There, nighty night, little baby assassin. Do you need tucked in?" the sarcasm stung and made Desmond want to hit the historian again.

" Go away. I feel like shit; you're making it worse," he said, his voice pathetically weak. He really meant it too, but hoped that rather than sounding genuine, he sounded mean. Desmond curled in on himself, frowning.

But instead of Shaun going away, or saying something insulting, he spoke with an uncharacteristic tone of voice. " Is it really that bad?" he asked, sounding almost begrudging.

Confused, but jumping at the opportunity of a potential conversation, he replied. " Yeah. Everything's fuzzy, out of focus. I can't think, but it's not so bad."

"Yes or no would have done just fine," Shaun muttered, seeming uncomfortable. " I can't do anything about it."

Desmond hummed, beyond caring at this point.

Then there was a warm hand on his forehead, resting there for a moment, before softly brushing back his mussed hair. Desmond wasn't sure if this was some warped alternate universe, and before he had time to process, a pair of soft lips were pressing delicately against his forehead.

Desmond must have managed a questioning croak, because Shaun answered him.

" I'm tucking you in," he said, a bit of humor and hesitancy tainting his voice. " Buck up, Desmond. There's nothing I can do about it." With that, he walked away, passing his computer and heading to his room.

Cheeks flushed, he stared after the retreating back in something akin to wonder. If Shaun thought he couldn't do anything, he was wrong. One kiss, and already, he felt a little better.

He touched the bandages on his hand with fondness before he fell asleep.

The next morning, Desmond awoke rested, and was already plugged into the Animus 2.0 before Shaun got there.

In the memory he forgot about everything as he followed Ezio, even forgot that Rebecca, Lucy, and maybe even Shaun could be watching the memory.

Ezio was in Leonardo's workshop, on his bed, a bundle of bandages clutched haphazardly in his hand. The artist was shirtless, his healing wound half re-bandaged.

They were kissing desperately, Ezio pinning the man against the bed, ever careful of his arm. Leonardo moaned, the sound like honey.

" Ezio, Ezio," he breathed raggedly, cheeks flushed and chest heaving.

The assassin brushed his hand against the man's cheek tenderly in response, trailing it through his dark blond hair.

The artist leaned into the touch, letting his uninjured arm roam across the contours of Ezio's chest, still clothed, as he pulled impatiently at the silk.

" Patience, Leonardo, patience," Ezio purred, smirking when Leonardo frowned.

" I am a very patient man Ezio, but I do not think I wish to be patient anymore," he pouted, voice strained and needy all at once. Desmond could feel the groan catching in Ezio's throat.

" Wait, amore mio. I have to finish bandaging your arm," Ezio placated, though he was perhaps even more impatient than Leonardo.

" Never mind, please. I want you now," he said simply.

Ezio dipped his head to kiss Leonardo's neck, working his way down to his collarbone. Leonardo wiggled underneath him, humming.

" I suppose your arm can wait a while," Ezio ventured, his eyes reflected heatedly in Leonardo's.

The man pulled Ezio in for a deep kiss, agreeing with him. " My arm can wait, but I cannot."

Ezio smiled, hovering over Leonardo's lips. " It would be rude of me to keep you waiting then, would it not?"

The artist nodded, moving his hips for emphasis. " Yes, it would be very rude, amore mio."

And the bandages were forgotten in favor of heady kisses and slowly hurried touches. Ezio made a game out of extracting noises from Leonardo, and the artist used his dexterous hands to reduce the strong assassin to a puddle of goo. The different ways in which Leonardo said his name also had him shivering in pleasure; pleasure which he returned to the highest degree.

Well, Desmond thought, there's the hard evidence I've been missing. He was relieved to know his doubts hadn't been founded, happy for their happy beginning. But truth be told, he'd known the moment Leonardo was in danger, he'd known then how much Ezio loved him.

Later, as Shaun gave him a small half-smile when no one was looking, Desmond wondered if he and his ancestors had a thing with bandages. He fingered his own thoughtfully, returning the smile.

Okay. This was long, and maybe trying to encompass all three pairings was too adventurous? In any case, I'm never doing something like this again, but I'm hoping against hope that it worked. Please tell me if it worked?

It started with the concept of reviewing the events of the Animus through Desmond's point of view, or having him more interactive during the memories. This is what was hatched, this is my baby. It's been in the works forever, reviewed and edited a thousand times over; I worked long and hard, hopefully to some avail, hah.

Anywho, tell me what you thought? By the by, I'm also interested in people's favorite pairing out there, you know, out of the three. I think I'm a Leo/Ezio gal, if you couldn't tell. But I adore all three, gosh, how couldn't I? So, drop me a review, especially if you actually read this whole thing through, heh. :)

PS: In the Malik & Altair scene, the woman's name Ghaniyah literally means 'beautiful woman, pretty girl.' :)

Much love,
Kyla