Hello AC section! Just here to present you with a one-shot I wrote a while back and decided to post here. I hope you enjoy~

"Shaun, can I get this file copied?"
"Yes, in a minute Lucy."

Same old orders…

"Shaun, when was da Vinci born again?"
"Look it up on my files; I'm still categorizing this new influx of information about Altair."

Same repetitive questions.

"Shaun, I asked for those copied files three hours ago."
"They're on your desk Lucy. Forgive me, but I was busy gathering Florence maps for Rebecca."
"Just please work faster next time."

Same utter bullshit.

"Shaun, where's the bathroom?"

Why couldn't the gods above give something for Shaun to kill? Unfortunately, the only plausible creatures for targeting were three fellow assassin. Rather one legit assassin, one techfag, and another complete waste of flesh who laid in a comfy chair all day. Sighing unhappily, he leaned back in his small chair, rubbing his eyes underneath his glasses.

"20 hours..."

It was dark within their warehouse hideout, and only he was up, having been given the trying task of sorting through UNDATED sources of history to put in chronological order. And it had to be done preferably by tomorrow morning… before more shit piled up. And the worse part was how little it would seem to matter if he got it done on time. It would only be noticed if it was late.

'Why did it take you 23 hours to finish instead of 20?'
'There's some data missing from our streams so we can't run them through the animus. I had to fill in the gaps using archival records'
'Shaun, that's not excuse; pick up the pace'

But if all went according to plan, like it did 99% of the time, no one would say anything. No one presented him with a pat on the shoulder or a complimentary beverage. No, the only thing that would be rewarded to the overworked Historian was even more filing, more archiving, more streams, and more information to pick through for falsification.

He loved history, but others were not as appreciative or passionate about the work he did.

'Rebecca, wait, go back to that building there… look at that architecture…'
'It's a nice building, Shaun, but other things need to be done.'

No consideration…

'You might want to know about this place before you go into this town, Desmond.'
'No, I'll be fine, just give me the map.'

No deliberations…

'These symbols are so fascinating.'
'That's nice, Shaun, but please concentrate on the gate mechanics so Ezio won't get caught.'

No reflections…

Just the same mindless training. The same usage of knowledge for war, so much like Templars, Shaun dared to think. Assassins looked for knowledge for the sake of knowledge, like he did, while Templars wanted knowledge only for the sake of furthering their own advances. It was a harsh comparison, but at this point, it was the only appropriate metaphor he could come up with in his fried brain.

He felt abused here and neglected; granted assassins were never suppose to compromise their brothers nor did they need to take some sort of pride in their work. That was Altair's near downfall. But Shaun couldn't help it; he wasn't allowed to go out and actually fight like he used to because of the "call for assassins" martial law passed by the government last year. They valued his brain, so he was stuck behind desk work.

He loved history, but it was becoming a chore, something he was always afraid would happen in his life.

"Gotta finish this work…"
"Shaun… you still up?"

The annoyance.
"Yes, I don't have a choice."
"Hnm, anything I can do to help?"

No, he'd already done enough.
"No, Desmond, there is absolutely nothing you can do that'll make this any less painful."
"You act as if this is a bother to you. I thought you liked history."

More than he'd ever know, that twat.
"If this is your idea of making small talk, you're failing miserably."
"Tch, alright alright."

Shaun sighed softly, slightly relieved when Desmond left the immediate area where he could be able to finally gain peace. Soon after, however, came instantly regret. This always happened whenever he was an asshole to anyone. Despite his strongest efforts and his best politeness, his inner bitterness always found a way to snap at someone. Like an erupted pimple, it left a scar on Shaun's consciousness that would always be there, even if it started to fade. Every snide remark, every snarky insult brought more layered regret on Shaun's conscious.

But he couldn't help it.

He was truly a nice person, really he was, but the combination of under appreciation, work load, and the horribly stressful work environment was enough to bring out the worst of him around those that he trusted and worked with. He truly hated himself when he exploded, he REALLY did, but sometimes, he felt that they deserved it. Such vindictive thoughts, however, caused Shaun to loathe himself more to dare wish ill will upon his fellow assassins.

Even if they never thanked him.
Ever…
Or seemed to care about how hard he worked.

But then again, an assassin wasn't supposed to want recognition for his or her work. And Shaun usually didn't wish for it, but maybe, just maybe, every once in a while. A simple 'thank you' would be nice. A tender 'I'll get it Shaun' would tickle his fancy. A considerate 'want anything?' would warm his heart and let him know he was cared for… but that was a weakness as an Assassin, right? To want to be appreciated for their work, to know that his fellows brethren took his work and used it to its full potential, was a weakness.

Perhaps he was just being petty.

"Shaun, want some chips?"

Are you serious?
"No thank you, Desmond."
"You sure?"

Please go away.
"Alright, then something to drink?"
"No, Desmond. That's quite alright."
"Are you sure? I can make some coffee for you to stay up."

Fuck…
"… some coffee sounds nice."

Shaun sighed silently when Desmond walked out to make them coffee. He was gone… for now anyway, but gone. He went back to rubbing between his eyes in distress. Why did Desmond care anyway? Why did he keep pestering him, keeping coming to see how he was doing? No one else that mattered cared… why did he? Probably because the man had nothing better to do than sit and be the team's cheerleader when he was awake.

That had to be the reason for his kindness. There was no other logical theory.

"Here's that coffee. Black with cream and sugar, right?"

He actually… remembered how I like my coffee?
"I just got a soda. Probably should have gone with water so I could get back to sleep."

How in the hell-?
"So, what are you working on so late at night?"

Why did he care? Why was he coming behind Shaun's back like a nosy bugger trying to figure out his database coding? Was he truly so bored that he was bothering him about what he was doing. No one else ever did… this was so foreign to him, actually having attention, that Shaun almost didn't know how to react.

He almost acted out like he always did; bitterness.
But amazement kept in his cynical tongue and his true self leaked out.

"I'm… filing away the codex pages, along with letters and other correspondences that you picked up while you were in the Animus today."

"Wow, seems like a lot."

"Well, it's not every day you get to observe someone going through the life of a legend erased from the records. To me, your adventures are historic gold, so I recorded as much as possible. Maybe... a little more than the necessary."

Shaun raised an eyebrow at Desmond's face. "What the bloody hell are you smiling about?"

"Your smile."

Furrowing his brows, Shaun thought for a moment before realizing he had been smiling while speaking to Desmond about the data files.

"I think that's the first time you've smiled in a few days."

"…you don't say…"

Shaun looked away, feeling his cheek grow in color. What was the bloak getting at?

"Are you storing them in data banks for your personal library?"

"No, the Assassins have a private database that I keep tabs on. If any assassin… alive still needs or wants information, then they ask for it from me. Though, there hasn't been an outreach for anything beside tactical support so… I guess they might as well be my personal files."

Shaun's eyebrows furrowed again when Desmond spoke, surprised at the sad undertone he heard.
"That's a shame. A lot of the stuff that goes on in Ezio's life is funny. Uplifting even. They don't know what they're missing."

"…yeah they don't."
He… understands.

"But I guess indulging in history is a luxury none of us can afford right now." Desmond added, to which Shaun could feel himself smiling once more.

"One day… it will be again. And when it's 'affordable' to indulge, the information will be here for them to partake in. The Assassins should know about what happened in the past. Hell, the whole world should know, but…" Shaun shook his head, and went back to typing. He was getting too passionate again. No on ever wanted to talk about history; hardly anyone cared about the past, just the present and the future. And because of this, the Templars used the general public's naivety to twist history and the future as they saw fit. Those that didn't know of their history could never be in full control of their future.

Just how the Templars liked their lambs; stupid.

A firm grip on his shoulder startled Shaun from his work, to which he snapped his head around to bark… but only sat there in silence. Desmond was smiling at him; a smile of strength.

"I look forward to that day. And I know you'll keep things in order until then. I'm heading to bed, don't stay up too late, alright?"

And off he was, leaving Shaun strangely… content and energized. He took a sip of his coffee, readjusted himself in his chair, and kept working. He started to hum as well, something he hadn't done in weeks... months!

He created a new file titled 'Desmond', and made a note to start putting in historical notes that the man might be interested in. Shaun hoped he would appreciate it.