(fic) Impact part 2 - AC2 Shaun/Desmond

[squirrellysemantics]

Damn it. Damn it.  Damn it. 

Title:  Impact
Part 2
Fandom: AC2
Pairing: Shaun/Desmond
Rating for this chapter NC 17
Part 1 should be read first and is found here:  Part 1
All characters are owned by Ubisoft and I make no money.  Obviously.

A/N:  Warning:  I'm an asshole.

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There was an odd little jolt as Shaun returned to awareness, like the disorientation that came with a sudden flick of a light switch.  He was fairly confident he was in a bed –his own bed, in fact- and not stretched out on a slab like he had been expecting.   Yes, he was quite elated to discover he was not dead. 

Eyes remained firmly shut, much preferring to assess his relative health, or lack thereof, before making his next move. 

He didn't feel half bad, really. An experimental wiggle of the toes didn't hurt at all.

Well done.

Perhaps Desmond didn't hit him as hard as he had first thought.  Drawing in a deep breath was remarkably pain free.

Fantastic. 

His brain ever-so helpfully replayed the worst of the attack in his mind’s eye. How the hell had he escaped unscathed?  No matter what had happened one thing was for sure. Someone was going to pay for very nearly making him wet himself and they would be very unhappy on the day when he exacted his revenge. 

He wasn’t quite sure who that someone was going to be just yet.

His rational mind knew -knew- the attack hadn't been the Desmond's fault.  The sleep deprivation on top of whatever horror the Animus decided to visit upon him.  Watching the stupid bastard writhing in agony made sure of that. Logic dictated that the man couldn't be held responsible for lashing out when he was half mad and blinded by pain.

But today, logic apparently decided to fuck with Shaun for a bit of a laugh.

Desmond had been quick to mistake him as the cause of all that suffering.  It disturbed him far more than he would have liked and for reasons Shaun was hard pressed to explain.  

No.  Na. Nyet.  Nope.  Somehow this was all the fault of the arse with boring dress sense.  It had to be. 

And when Shaun figured out exactly how he could lay the blame at the feet of the appropriate recipient, Shaun Hastings was going to open up a can of ‘whoop-ass’ as the Americans were so fond of saying.  Especially since he was feeling no pain after anything Desmond may have done to him. 

He stared at the ceiling as he released a tightly held breath with a puff of relief.  "You're not so tough, Miles."

"Oh, really?" asked the last voice that Shaun expected to hear from somewhere off to his left.  “I’d have to disagree with you there.”

Shaun cursed his luck.   Then the Animus.  And every American anywhere on the planet as well and pretty much his entire life in general up until that point. 

"Hello, Desmond,” he said weakly, not daring to stray from the spot on the ceiling that was suddenly quite fascinating.

“Hello, Shaun.” The Voice was faintly amused, sounding quite close but from his right this time. When had the man moved?  Bloody assassins.  Worse than cats.  “How are you feeling?”

The Englishman took some time to mull over the consequences of ignoring Desmond versus the likelihood of some sort of natural disaster bringing the warehouse down on both their heads within the following ten minutes.  He did his best to keep his shrug casual.  “Not bad.”

“Good.”   

A mouth was on his. 

A person was kissing him. A good kisser.  His mind refused to consider who the good kisser was as he kissed back.  Firm lips tasted like that ridiculous grape mouthwash that Rebecca had forced on them all when it had been her turn to do the shopping.  Shaun’s ears blocked out his sigh of appreciation when this really fucking fantastically good kisser began sucking on his bottom lip.  It wasn’t until his own tongue flashed over the rough texture of scar that he had to finally own up on exactly who was doing the kissing.

He finally glanced down to see precisely the stupid white hooded jumper he did not want to see.

Shaun let his outrage build out of habit.   “Are you out of your tiny little mind?”

The mattress shifted as Desmond seated himself to the prone man’s left.  “Isn’t this what you want?” Wasn’t he just- how the fuck did the man keep changing sides like that? “

No brain power left to think about it, though. “What the holy hell are you on about, you imbecile?” 

“You like me.”

It was not a question. 

“You’re clinically insane.”  Shaun tried to load his usual venom but his jibe came out weak and thin. Something primal in him wanted to run. Run very far away.  

“Really?”  Desmond tugged at the Englishman’s nightshirt and dove in to nibble on an exposed section of collar bone.

There was a shockingly hedonistic moan and Shaun didn’t even want to consider that he might possibly have been the source of it.

The bartender glanced up to share a roguish smile that Shaun wanted to both lick and punch simultaneously. "You are so full of shit, Hastings.”  

“I hate you,” Shaun whispered. He wanted to move- to get away- but his limbs felt like lead.

 He bucked involuntarily as a puff of laughter tickled his belly button. “Treating me like crap is just a pathetic defense mechanism.”  Hands undid more of his shirt and he could not fight it.

“There you were: being kept up all night.” He could feel the words against his skin as teeth scraped the short hairs on his stomach.  “No sleep for days listening to me moan.” 

Shock forced Shaun to look down to see the bartender’s scarred mouth twist into a sneer that seemed both completely wrong for his handsome face yet horribly familiar at the same time.   “You’re a complainer, Hastings.  You live to complain and this time you didn’t say a fucking word.”

"How'd you..." Shaun felt he must have been gaping like a particularly stupid goldfish as color crept up his face.  "I never told…”

The historian’s high pitched “Desmond!” was squeakier than a toy dog that’d been stepped on by a sumo wrestler as a bold hand snaked past Shaun’s waistband. "Gerroff, you bast-ah!"

Said bastard murmured in his ear, voice almost a purr.  "You want this."

If Desmond was expecting to get an answer, he would wind up sorely disappointed as Shaun's ability to speak vanished in a puff of smoke.   Use of his vocal cords were limited to a high whinge as a capable hand stroked him to full hardness quickly, almost painfully so.

It didn’t take much to bring him to the edge.  It felt so bloody good.  

When Shaun came, he came with awkward ease, barely long enough to do his fifteen year old self proud.  So long since another hand had touched him even in simple kindness.  That demonic hand continued to wring every last drop from him until….

Shaun snapped awake -for real this time- aftershocks still coursing through him.

At least he hoped he was awake. 

If not, he needed to help his superego string up his id before it crafted another Desmond-centric sex dream.  He couldn’t fathom how much more irreparable harm another one would do to his fragile psyche.

Fuck.

Trying to move was misery. Pure misery. Added to that was the trauma of a drying, sticky mess that had glued his favourite pair of joggers to his thigh.

The sheer extent of his discomfiture proved that he was awake.  That, and he hurt everywhere.

It was far worse than the last beating he'd received- right before he'd found himself consigned to playing nursemaid to a bunch of assassins.  He'd gone out for a pint and finding himself a bit bored had chatted up some blonde at the bar.   She'd wound up being the girlfriend of some overmuscled prat who had been chock full of steroids and the quick rage of a man whose genitalia suffered from feelings of inadequacy.

Needless to say it had not ended well.

His bladder felt filled to bursting.  And his face was absurdly cold.

Well, half his face anyway.  He gingerly felt his way around the hand towel packed with ice that covered his left eye, wincing at even his own light touch. 

Wonderful.

A light snore interrupted his internal grumbling.  The source of the noise was a blur, just beyond the reach of his uncorrected vision.  A blur that looked slightly off without the usual hooded jumper.

The ice pack slipped from his face as Shaun searched for his glasses. Christ, his eye was swollen.  His glasses were waiting for him on the night table.  He was grateful to see at least they had come out of the violence unscathed.  It would have been a challenge to replace if anything happened to them.  Not like he could easily pop round to the optometrist for a new pair. 

Shit.  Even settling them onto the bridge of his nose was painful.  Shaun shot a furtive glance at Desmond, hoping that this one wouldn’t suddenly start stripping or anything else even remotely sexy. 

The bartender was snoring softly from his folding chair, head propped at an uncomfortable looking angle against the wall.  There was a thin line of drool that spilled along the groove of his scar, not quite pooling onto the thin grey t-shirt that stretched across his chest.

Escaping for a hasty shower seemed like a prudent response.  Shaun shifted silently and tried to rise.  A sharp gasp exploded out of him as pain knifed through his chest.  Oh, yes.  The broken rib. 

Desmond came to with a snort, pawing clumsily at the trail of spit with the back of his hand.   “Howzit goin’?” he asked, tongue not yet fully awake. “Didn’t sound like you were sleepin’ too good.”

“Sleep!” His own voice sounded far too high pitched as he forced himself to sit up. “Sleep was lovely, thanks! Simply smashing!”

Brown eyes studied him with suspicion, too sleep-addled still to make sense of Shaun’s obvious rambling.  “You said my name.”

Fuck.  Fucking fuck.  “Haha.  Well.  Yes.  I did have some odd dreams, now that you mention it.”

Shaun studiously ignored the dubious look he got and levered himself to standing. Or at least tried to until a wave of vertigo overwhelmed him. 

The assassin was at his elbow in an instant to support him.  “I told Lucy giving you one of her Xanax was a bad idea.”

Twisting out of the strong grip, Shaun preferred to flop painfully back onto the bed then let the other man get a closer look at the drying stain over his groin. 

Ever persistent, Desmond offered him a hand.

“I need to go urinate, Miles.  Do you plan on joining me?” Shaun said with far too much bitterness.

His anger settled over him like a familiar blanket, coming too easily even if he didn’t believe a word of it.  So much simpler to lash out; create some mental distance between them if he couldn’t make a quick physical escape.  “Perhaps beating me up was all part of your spectacularly complex plan to get your hands on my willy!”  

Desmond rolled his eyes but his hand didn’t waver. “You can barely stand up.  Let me just help you into the bathroom.”

“And molest me whilst I’m in the toilet? No, thanks!”  Fucking hell, it even hurt to be sarcastic. 

He was doomed.

The hand was still there he noticed miserably.  Waiting.

Dragging his duvet over his head like a child, Shaun held very still, too ashamed to move. “Bugger! Off!”

Minutes dragged on until Shaun heard his bedroom door softly open and close.  He waited a little more before extricating himself from his cocoon to find himself alone.

“Fuck,” he said to no one in particular.