He dreams in black and white of the memories he shouldn't have, but that's okay, because he feels more at home in the memories of what was, apparently, not him, but that's okay. And sometimes they're in color, which is also okay, because then he feels the warmth of a woman under his hands and it's the closest to ever having a child he'll ever get, but that's okay, because those dreams are real enough it's become a drug. He sneaks in the extra sessions when no one is watching, during the night when everyone's asleep and that's okay because they think he's sleeping better since he doesn't scream anymore. And that's okay, because he feels better in a skin that is anything but his own, in a skin where he can fight and climb and be worth more than what he's worth outside of it. And that's okay, because that means his father will be proud of him.

Right?

Right.

And that's okay. So he feeds his addiction, and it's pretty much out of control by now, so he doesn't really care when someone walks in on him in the Animus, by himself, and they're okay with it because he laughs and tells them he's using the training program to try out something new for the novices. But is it him? At this point, he's not sure. Not that it really matters, because everyone is okay with that.

And he bleeds constantly, completely, and he doesn't notice, either, that he's wandering the halls as Altair because he's been spending more time as Altair than before, but that's okay, because Altair was always a better assassin.

And this is where it gets complicated to hide.

Because he argues with them—in his room, in the training facilities, while he trains the novices—and they keep trying to tell him that he's just fine the way he is.

And that's not okay.

Because he's not, and they are better than he is by a long shot, and his father has made it perfectly clear he would much prefer Ezio or Altair or Ratohnhaké:ton as a son over him, so he tries to let them take over more. And they chose not to, preferring to talk to him alone, so he finds a secluded, dark corner and squats, scratching his arms in frustration because everything is not okay. And no one should believe that, but he's gotten good at hiding it, so he's okay.

He's okay.

He's okay.

He is okay.

And the deep, infected claw marks on his arms and legs tell him he's okay. Altair and Ezio and Ratohnhaké:ton tell him he's a perfectly good individual. And when they do, he digs his nails into his limbs and re-rips open the long scabs, his once-hairy arms and legs now devoid of hair and covered by long sleeves. But sometimes, when he's bleeding red and one of the others patch him up, he can't help but sit there and laugh, and laugh, and laugh, because it's so Goddamn funny that the fucking voices in his head seem to be the only ones who think he's okay the way he is.

But what he doesn't understand even more than why the others seem to think he's okay, is why someone is standing there, yelling, as he paints on the wall. Of course, he wouldn't use the paints for the younger children, because he teaches them, and he doesn't want to use their things, so he settles on a nice shade of red he has pooling in his hand and dripping down his arm as he paints a picture of the wolf and the eagles that live in his room on the wall in the main room in the early morning hours. And there's more yelling and panic, he notices, when that one woman with the blonde hair—the one that one of him stabbed in the stomach and was rushed to the hospital before she could die—sees him dripping blood all down his arms as the other man with the glasses tries to grab him.

But he rolls out of the grasp, trained over three—or was it four?—lifetimes to avoid it, and keeps painting, humming merrily to himself. Ezio is chattering merrily, laughing gaily as he gives the eagles life, but its fucking hard when he has to dodge Mr. Yelling-and-Glasses every few seconds. Eventually, Miss I-am-Blonde-and-Smart calls him back, and he hears Ratohnhaké:ton singing something—or is it him?—as he paints on the eyes, and Altair tells him that he's done the shading wrong—or did he catch that?—and he goes to correct it.

Only to feel something prick his neck. He growls and dumps his paint on the ground as he pulls out something that looks like a needle from his neck, and he starts to panic because it's poison and that's not okay. And Ratohnhaké:ton is telling him to find someone to suck the poison out, and Ezio is saying he needs the antidote, and Altair is saying he needs to sweat out the poison, and the paint is dribbling down the back of his neck as the cool metal of the blade on his wrist comes out and cuts open that area as he hopes to drain the poison from his body. Thank the heavens Ratohnhaké:ton knew what to do. He certainly didn't. There's more frantic chattering and panic as he presses his robes against his neck to try to draw the poison out, and eventually, his legs wobble, his eyes roll back, and the floor has never had a closer friend. And that's okay.

When he wakes up, his arms and legs hurt, but he can smell the too-strong scent of bleach and the overwhelming stench of blood and disease, and it registers he's in a hospital. He licks his lips and crinkles his nose as he opens his eyes. Ezio is markedly quiet, and there're no sounds in his head at all. His skin feels as if it's been stuffed with lead and the inside scrubbed with acid while the outside was left to bake under the sun, and he's suffocating. He's heaving for breath as he remembers that breathing is "in," "out," "in," "out." He blinks as he looks around, and he sees he has a roommate. He makes a strangled rasp, getting the man's attention, and he sees an old man, with a cataract-eye and a big white beard.

He snarls, and the old man tenses, his blue eyes flashing brown as he struggles to get loose, but there's binds on his arms and legs, and he knew he should have never turned his back on Mr. Yelling-and-Glasses and Miss I-am-Blonde-and-Smart. They drugged him and tied him down for torture. As if he'd give away information easily.

The old man pressed a button on the bed, and a few minutes later—he's struggling harder, because damn it all, he can't move—a bedraggled-looking nurse comes walking in, impatiently asking what's wrong, and he growls, because he needs to kill the old man before he tries to take over again, and he howls when the nurse's eyes grow wide. He can't use his voice as he arches his back and snarls, kicking and thrashing against the binds. His muscles are screaming in protest, and the nurse is by his side, calling for something as she messes with the IVs, and he snaps at her hand when she reaches for his nose while talking about tubing. He snarls, snapping again when she tries a second time, and she backs off. He guesses these bonds can be broken with enough strength, and as he pulls and hisses and snarls and growls, he can feel the material getting looser and looser.

Where are the voices?

Why aren't they talking to him?

And why hasn't he had any dreams?

He blames the nurse and the stench of bleach. They must have frightened off Ezio and the others. He howls again as Mr. Yelling-and-Glasses and Miss I-am-Blonde-and-Smart come running in with Miss Headphones-and-One-Red-Glove. He snarls as they walk over—they should see that the old man is dangerous. He thrashes and spits at them as they walk over, and he strains against the bonds even harder when one touches him as he screams, because he cannot be kept in Templar hands.

And now Ezio is murmuring in the back of his head, telling him it would be dangerous for him to stay there. They're trying to kill the others in his head—why, if they are what's wanted?

That's not okay. And neither is he. And neither is Ezio, and Altair and Ratohnhaké:ton were always quiet so they were the first ones to disappear, but he refuses to let them get rid of them. They were the ones that were wanted, and now they were killing them. His scream gets even more higher-pitched as one of the bonds pops loose, and he now has a free hand, scrabbling at the other bonds before he sees one of the three getting ready to grab him.

He punches him, hard, and grabs him throat to crush their windpipes and kill him, but he feels fingers prying his hands off before the man is dead, and the bonds on his other hand snapping, and he's grabbing for them to kill them. All of them. And then the bed is melting away and he sees Leonardo's study as he's lying in the bed. The blonde man is smiling at the end of the bed, one hand on his foot.

"You're going to injure yourself further, Ezio. Please, rest and recover. The old man will not harm you."

He blinks, several times, rapidly, and exhales loudly before calming down. If Leonardo says things will be fine, things will be fine. He knows this. This man is his protector. The inventor genius walks up beside his head and cards a hand through his long hair. It feels nice, and his eyes flutter closed.

"You've been having bad nightmares, so I have to hold you back. I cannot have you injuring yourself further."

He nods as best he can with the bind on his head as he relaxes to the feel of fingers in his hair and slowly falls back asleep. And when he wakes up again, he's back in the hospital, and he can't feel Ezio at all, and he can't really feel himself, either. His skin still feels as if it's been scrubbed with acid on the inside, and his outside baked, and his insides, well, he can't feel his insides. His thoughts are muddled, and he realizes he's actually okay with where he is, despite the pain. He sees the old man in the other bed, who notices his stare, and he keeps staring as he pushes the button again, and the nurse comes back in. His eyes flick over to the woman, who approaches him warily. He doesn't move, too clouded over and hazy.

"Mr. Miles?"

He blinks and wonders who she's talking about.

"Mr. Miles? Can you understand me?"

He blinks, slowly, studying her. Leonardo would not have left him alone without a nurse. He gives her a small smile and looks at her tiredly. He hurts.

"Are you feeling well enough for company?"

He blinks, then looks at the ceiling.

"Your old teammates wish to see you."

He looks at her from the side of his gaze, flicking his Eagle Vision on and seeing nothing but blue all around him as the nurse walks out and three more people walk in. He turns off the gaze, and oh…

It's Mr. Yelling-and-Glasses, Miss I-am-Blonde-and-Smart, and Miss Headphones-and-One-Red-Glove.

And Mr. Yelling-and-Glasses has a lovely bruise around his neck.

They approach him cautiously, and he watches them.

"The drugs are working. He should be properly sedated enough to approach."

"Are you sure? I'd rather not come so close to death again."

He wants to know who these guys are. They inch closer, and he watches them, warily, because just because they're blue doesn't mean they're trustworthy. He doesn't flinch when they place hands on his legs.

"Desmond?"

Now someone is calling for a Desmond. Whatever or whoever a Desmond is. He wonders if it's the same person as Mr. Miles.

"Desmond," says Miss I-am-Blonde-and-Smart, "do you know who we are?"

He blinks, looking at them blankly.

"I'm Lucy."

"And I'm Shaun."

"And I'm Rebecca."

"And you're Desmond," Lucy says, and he blinks.

He stays like this for several days, listening to them chatter on and on, and he can't help but wonder where he is, and why he's here. He realizes he no longer has his left ring finger, which is okay by him. He doesn't pay attention to them, too busy trying to save Ezio, and Ratohnhaké:ton, and Altair, and he doesn't want them to die off, because they made him worth something. He needs them, wholly and completely. He has things to do, and three days into it, he realizes that he has one duty all four of them love: to train the novices.

And those kids have been the light of his life. His eyes widen in horror at the thought that someone else has been teaching his kids. Those kids are his. He struggles to sit up and throws his legs over the edge of the bed. They had always been his purpose. They had always been his life. He had taken over all of the combat duties, as well as helping with the youngest of the new assassins, and he might not have been the smartest of the assassins, and he might not have been the strongest of the assassins, and he might not have been good at much, but he'd be damned if—

"Master Miles!"

He jerks as he feels a small body collide with his legs, and the pain radiates throughout him, but he's scooping up the small child regardless and laughing at the shriek of happiness before there's kids everywhere, of all ages, and he feels like he's at home. He can feel a muddy swirl of all three of the voices in his head, because all of them loved their kids more than their lives, as all parents should—as his father didn't—and he's kissing the head of one while another jumps on his back. He staggers under the weight, and his legs and arms hurt so damn much, but if there's one thing all four of them agree on, it's that children are definitely a treasure worth protecting.

And that's okay.

"Are you going to be teaching us again?"

"Are you going to be okay?"

"We miss the games you play with us!"

"Yeah, the new instructor doesn't play games with us!"

"We miss you!"

"We made you a card so you'd come back quicker!"

"We want to play Blob again!"

He's grinning ear-to-ear, because kids across the ages don't change, and they don't mind all four of him, all four of his lives. He can bleed all he likes, and it doesn't matter, because each of them have bonded with the kids to work together to make him a better teacher. They whisper in his ear how to deal with each kid, and they made a good team, because there were enough personalities to cover all the bases.

The teenagers are hanging out in the back, and the adults he practices with behind them, but he's still standing, and he's feeling well enough that he thinks he can take back up his job. He sees Lucy, Shaun, and Rebecca standing farthest back, smiling warmly at him. At least he could remember their names. Eventually, after the kids were gone and the adults were done gossiping, he sits on the bed, every bone in his body weary. The three who have been spending the days with him sit beside his bed, and he crawls into the bed. He hasn't used his voice in who knows how long, but as he rolls onto his back and feels the pleasant burn in his limbs as they recover from the kids.

His kids.

Altair's kids.

Ezio's kids.

Ratohnhaké:ton's kids.

"Desmond…"

He looks, his eyes drooping because he is absolutely exhausted. It's Lucy talking.

"How have you been feeling, lately? Any problem with the voices or the bleeding?"

He blinks.

"This new medication should take care of it."

Desmond blinks again and begins to bristle. He flicks on his Eagle Vision, and now there's red everywhere because they're not on his side anymore. They're trying to kill the very thing he's addicted to—the thing that makes him better.

"Why?" he rasps out, struggling to sit up, alarmed.

The other three look surprised, and he's climbing out of the bed, leaning on the walls as he tries to walk out.

"D-Desmond!"

He snarls harshly and keeps pushing forward. The others are afraid to touch him.

"Desmond, please listen!"

He shakes his head. No more medications. He wants another session in the Animus. He's better there.

"We spoke to Altair and the others, Desmond," he hears Shaun say.

He pauses in the doorway, and slowly, hesitantly, looks over his shoulder. All three of them are standing, and he regards them carefully. Lucy's looking at him with a pitiful expression, and Shaun and Rebecca are staring at the bed. He walks over painfully and sits down slowly, cautious.

"They told us all about what was going on inside of you, Desmond," Lucy adds.

He frowns, scooting to the edge. What on earth are they talking about?

"They all said pretty much the same thing, Des," Rebecca murmurs.

"That you need to have some confidence in yourself," Lucy says, the only one who will meet his gaze. "And that if they had to go away, they would and be at rest once more in order to let you grow on your own."

"And I know that we haven't, exactly, been easy on you in the past," Shaun murmured, not meeting his gaze.

"You mean, you," Rebecca hissed. "You were a dick to him."

Shaun doesn't look at him.

"And we also heard about your issues with William."

He gave Lucy a quizzical look.

"William?" Lucy repeated. "Your father?"

Recognition dawns on him. He briefly wonders if he'll even know who his dad is. He doesn't know if his father is part of the reason, but all he knows is there's a chemically-produced wall between him and his ancestors that will never be torn down if he keeps have medication pumped into him.

"So," Lucy continues, reaching out and placing a hand on his leg, despite the fact he clearly doesn't want her to touch him, "we've promised to help look after you, and they've agreed to disappear for a while. That doesn't mean that you won't still have problems, but the medication should take care of most of it."

He frowns: shouldn't he have a say in this?

"Desmond?"

His frown becomes bigger.

"Desmond, can you talk?"

He scowls. Of course he can talk, but he hasn't talked in a while, has he? As he thinks about it, he realizes that he hasn't, aside from talking to his students. He talks to the others in his head, quietly, urging them out or asking for help. And he supposes if he does talk, it'll come out in a slur of English, Italian, Arabic, and Kanienkehaka, which is the most fascinating of the languages he's learned, the language of the Mohawk Indians. When he does open his mouth, he's not entirely surprised to find that his words are a mess of all the languages, some of the words being pronounced with two or three languages all botched up together because he just can't keep everything straight. It sounds completely normal to him, and that's okay, but he knows that others can't translate like he can. And he's certain if he were to be asked to speak in anything but English, he could do so perfectly, with an accent and everything, because they're a part of him, but he's not perfect, and he's having trouble with English because it's something foreign that he's never been able to perfect, never, and that's been made perfectly clear to him many times. The confused faces of the three sitting there are almost worth the imperfection.

"Bloody hell, just what have we let him do to himself?"

He looks at Shaun, studying him carefully. They've murdered three of the four of him, the three better of the four, and they wonder what's wrong. Of course he can't function properly: he's been trying to get rid of himself for the longest time. He's been told that he's wrong for most of his younger life, the entire time he's been in the order, and now he's just suddenly supposed to be able to function on his own and believe that he's perfect.

That's not okay because he's been trying to destroy himself ever since he saved the world.

He pushes off the bed and grabs his clothes from under the bed. How fancy: they purchased him a real hospital and not the infirmary. He changes as quick as he can, ignoring the others' protests, and manages to make it back to headquarters before collapsing from exhaustion in the front foyer.