Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Sorry,” Shay says. “You picked a poor time to come visiting.”

There’s light coming in from some distance above, from the hole Shay left when the ground decided to open up under his feet. The walls of the cave he’s found himself in are smooth, too smooth to climb. He can see his breath in the air, although there’s no need for that to tell him how cold it is.

At least it isn’t snowing any longer. Small mercies.

“Gist’s heading back to the ship for a rope ladder,” Shay says, sitting down on flat cold stone. “Till then, looks like the big task is staving off frostbite.”

Edward sits next to him. “There must be pleasanter places to serve your cause, surely.”

“We can’t all spend our days in the Caribbean,” Shay says, although at times like this he has to wonder why not.

The cold is already beginning to bite. He’s been constantly on the move for the twenty minutes or so they’ve spent working their way inland – why couldn’t he have trapped himself closer to help? – and he’s worked up a light and unwelcome sweat. But the chill’s not as bad on his left side, the side where Edward is sitting.

“I can feel the warmth from you,” Shay murmurs. “How is that possible? You’re not here.”

Edward shrugs. “We’ve always felt solid, and that’s no stranger. I’m not here, and yet I can feel the cold. And I’m speaking to you. If you’re only now realising there’s something odd about this visiting business, I don’t know what to tell you.” He pulls Shay’s glove off and sets about rubbing some life back into his hand. “But this is something we can use. If we stay close, maybe we can carry you through this.”

“You’ll be making me complacent,” Shay says. “I don’t know how this works. I’ll be sitting here feeling snug, and meanwhile for all I know my fingers are freezing off.”

“For now, I’d settle for thinking I’m warm. You’re not the only one who’d benefit.”

“They’re not your fingers. Your fingers are swanning happily around Havana or someplace.” But he lets Edward shift closer to him, all the same.

They’re curled up together against the wall when someone else comes to join them.

“Ah, Desmond!” Edward calls cheerfully.

“Oh. Whoa! Sorry. Uh... sorry. I’ll...” Desmond looks around, faltering as he obviously takes note of the lack of exits. “I can... face the wall?”

“You’d be more use over here,” Shay says.

Desmond turns scarlet. “What?”

Shay shrugs. “If you’re trying to keep the heat in, three bodies are better than two.”

“Oh, right.” Desmond looks again at Shay and Edward, for the first time since he appeared, and some sort of comprehension appears to dawn. “Thanks, but... I don’t know. It’ll be weird next time we meet. Won’t it?”

There are people Shay would hesitate to share warmth with, he supposes. It would be strange to be so close to the Grand Master, or a woman he didn’t know intimately. Or an enemy, he almost thinks, before remembering that Desmond is an Assassin. “In what way?”

“I don’t know.” He gives an awkward shrug. “I guess it’ll probably be weird already, now that you’ve said it.”

“Well, if our relationship’s tainted either way,” Shay says, “might as well be warm for now.”

A smile flits across Desmond’s face. “I guess that makes sense.”

He ends up pressing himself against Shay’s right side; Edward thinks it’s best for Shay to be in the midst of them, just in case they really are doing something to stave off frostbite, as Shay’s the only one in physical danger here. Desmond is tense at first, but he seems to relax a little after a while. But only a little. It’s hard to avoid tensing up in this cold.

It’s better, certainly, but they could do with a few more visitors.

As Shay thinks it, one appears, and he mentally curses himself for not being more specific. Ezio. They could do with Ezio. Ezio would very happily join them, he’s sure, and Shay would feel able to invite him in freely.

“You’ve managed to trap yourself?” Aveline asks, looking around.

“Why d’you assume I trapped myself?”

Aveline looks at him.

“I’m not saying I didn’t,” Shay admits. “I’m saying you’re being unfair.”

“Do you have a plan?” she asks. “Is someone coming for you? What date is this? If we could contact Haytham—”

“It’s fine. Gist’s coming with help. Just have to survive until then.”

She smiles. “Well, I’m glad to see you’ve found a way to shield against this cold.”

Should probably at least extend the invitation. Wouldn’t want to seem discourteous.

Shay clears his throat.

“Don’t know if a lady would be happy in here,” he says, “but you’re welcome to join us.”

Aveline laughs. “A lady will survive. My best gown has a man’s life-blood all over it. I think I’m past worrying about social taboos.”

She tries to press herself between Desmond and Shay, but she obviously takes note of the way Desmond freezes up and she backs out. She ends up settling between Shay and Edward instead. Shay tries to stay still, doesn’t want to brush against her accidentally in a way that makes her think he’s taking advantage, but she actually tucks herself under his arm.

After a moment she wriggles up even closer to him, settles her back against his chest. Shay feels his face could be used as a signal beacon. Edward has started to laugh.

“You know, Monsieur Cormac, you should take off your coat,” Aveline says. There’s a touch of laughter in her voice as well. “Your warmth would come through more strongly. As a courtesy to a lady, of course.”

“You’re trying to torment me,” Shay says, quietly.

“I’m trying to stay warm,” she says. “Tormenting you is a happy accident.” She rests a hand on his shin, so casually he can almost believe it’s without thought. Shay shivers, and not from the cold.

Desmond has shifted away slightly. “Uh, what’s going on?”

“I’ve seen her like this with other Templars,” Edward says, watching with interest, “and, going by those occasions, I’d say she’s about to cut Shay’s throat.”

Aveline smirks and says nothing.

It’s definitely a possibility that’s flickered across Shay’s mind. She wouldn’t, would she? They’ve known each other so long now that he feels they’re friends, of a sort, even if they fight on different sides. But he’s gutted too many friends himself to trust that makes him safe.

“Fine,” Desmond says. “Kill each other if you have to. Just... keep your clothes on. Please. I’ve seen enough of... I’ve seen enough.”

“You hear that?” Shay asks Aveline. “The man dictates it. Coat stays on, I’m afraid.”

Aveline gives a feigned sigh. “Very well. At least I have his blessing to kill you.”

“Uh, I... you know, I didn’t mean that,” Desmond says. “Don’t kill each other.”

Aveline takes off her hat and sets it on her knee, with more care than needed; it can hardly be damaged if it isn’t really here. She tilts her head back against Shay’s collar and closes her eyes.

He’d thought Aveline was able to end a visit at will. Perhaps he was wrong? Surely he must have been wrong.

Time passes, and no sign of Gist. Desmond ends up shuffling closer again, fortunately; huddling for warmth doesn’t really work when you’re a foot apart.

Shay thinks Aveline might have fallen asleep; her breathing has evened, and she’s starting to slip to one side. He rests his arm across her stomach to keep her held against him.

“A warming sight,” Edward says, amused. “Peace between the two orders at last.”

“I’ll find no peace like this,” Shay says. But he keeps his voice low, so as not to wake her.

He looks up, seeing movement, and his breath catches. He’d know that man from a mile away.

The newcomer’s eyes sweep the group and settle on Shay, who is suddenly very aware that he’s been found in a pile of Assassins.

“Uh,” Shay says. “Hello, Grand Master.”

A moment passes.

“There’s room,” Shay offers.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Haytham says. “No. Absolutely not.”

Chapter Text

Desmond’s always slept better with someone else in the bed, but it’s unsettling to slowly realise you’re not alone when there’s nobody else who should logically be in the same bed as you. He opens his eyes and sees loose blond hair in the darkness, and for one gut-clenching moment he thinks it’s Lucy.

“Edward?” he hisses. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Edward rolls onto his back with a groan, pressing the back of his wrist to his forehead. “Sleeping, until a moment ago,” he mumbles.

“In my bed?”

“Came visiting. Tired. Wasn’t going back,” Edward says. “Bed’s more comfortable than the floor. I didn’t think you’d object, after our bonding session with Shay.”

Desmond hesitates, but he’s too tired himself to argue. And he does sleep better with company.

“Fine,” he says, shifting to face the wall. The hotel bed is huge, at least, and there’s space between them. There were only two rooms left, a double and a twin, and Shaun and Rebecca took the twins. Desmond’s dad is scoping out the stadium where the power source should be.

It’s only just starting to lighten when Desmond next wakes, and the amount of space seems to have fallen substantially. There’s a warm body pressed up against his back, a hand resting on his shoulder. He half-twists around, meaning to tell Edward to stay on his own side of the bed, and... oh. It’s Ezio. Of course it’s Ezio. He wasn’t even there during the mass collapse of personal space boundaries in that freezing cave, but of course Ezio showed up and saw them both in the bed and decided to invite himself in.

He debates waking Ezio up and getting him to move away, but... where to? Edward is behind him. Maybe Desmond can shuffle further towards the edge of the bed, give all three of them more space to sleep?

He looks back at the side of the bed and feels himself flush. He hadn’t realised Aveline had joined them as well. It’s easy to miss things when you’re being spooned by the leading cause of death in Renaissance Italy.

Desmond raises his head – carefully, trying not to disturb Ezio – and looks around the room, to check if he’s going to have to cope with any more imminent bedmates. Altaïr is curled up on the floor by the door, as if he’s guarding them from anyone who might come in. Somehow, the sight makes Desmond smile.

He starts when another person appears by the bed. Ezio grumbles against his back.

“Sorry,” Shay whispers, before apparently taking in the scene. “You lot look comfortable.”

“Come to join the slumber party?” Desmond asks, keeping his voice soft.

“Come to join the what?”

Desmond gestures around the bed. “Everyone’s decided they’re sleeping here, apparently. I’m starting to think it’d be easiest to just go along with it. You tired?”

Shay frowns, shifts a little, hesitates. “There’s only space next to Aveline. And barely.”

“I don’t think she’d mind,” Desmond says. He wouldn’t invite Haytham to lie next to her, or indeed into his bed in general, but Aveline seems comfortable enough with Shay. “But you could ask her.”

Shay shakes his head. “I’ll sit. Thanks all the same.”

It’s a relief, in a way; there’d barely be space to breathe with five people in here. Which makes Desmond wonder why, exactly, he invited Shay in in the first place.

But it’s... reassuring, maybe that’s the word for it. Feeling Ezio’s warmth. Hearing Aveline’s quiet breathing, and Edward’s soft snores. Just... being surrounded by people.

He spends so much time in the Animus, watching his ancestors speak to other people, unable to communicate with anyone himself. He gets along with Shaun and Rebecca, but he always feels like they’re holding themselves a little distant from him. He’s always kind of had the feeling they’re afraid to get attached in case the Bleeding Effect takes over and he Subject Sixteens all over the walls. His dad is... well, his dad.

Maybe it’s a little lonely. Maybe he needs this.

Chapter Text

“I have no idea,” Rebecca is saying. “I kind of want to call it a Bleeding Effect, but I’m pretty sure Ezio’s never been in an Animus. He just keeps talking to people who aren’t there.”

“Maybe the Animus just isn’t loading models,” Lucy says. “It happened all the time at Abstergo.”

Rebecca groans. “I spent so long ironing out all the bugs. How are there always more?”

“You’re still not convinced?” a voice asks, low by Desmond’s ear.

Desmond jerks and looks around. Ezio. “What?”

“They see our conversations,” Ezio says, gesturing towards Rebecca and Lucy. “You still believe they never truly took place? You still believe this is only in your head?”

Yeah, maybe that’s hard to explain away. But...

“Maybe I just think I can hear them talking about it,” Desmond says, dropping his voice as Shaun wanders past to look at Rebecca’s screen. “I have no idea what’s real and what’s in my head any more.”

Ezio sighs theatrically. “Very well.”

They’re quiet for a moment.

“The first time we met was after my family’s murder,” Ezio says. “You tried to comfort me. Why would my pain matter to you, if you think I am not real?”

Desmond doesn’t know how to answer that. He felt responsible, he felt he should have been able to do something, even though he knows that the Animus can’t change the past. And in a way... it’s ridiculous, but in a way he’s come to think of his ancestors as friends, even if they lived hundreds of years before him, even if they can only ever interact in his head.

“This is the really creepy part,” Rebecca says. She presses a button on her computer.

“Ah, Desmond!” says Ezio’s voice through the speakers. “A pity; I had hoped to be the one visiting next. Rebecca and Lucy are very beautiful.”

For a moment, there’s absolute silence.

“Well, frankly, I’m offended to be left out,” Shaun says.

Lucy looks a little flustered. “Uh, is it... is it possible that...” She takes a deep breath. “Is it possible that Desmond’s thoughts are somehow getting mixed up with Ezio’s speech in the Animus?”

Ezio bursts out laughing.

Desmond sits there in frozen horror, his face burning. He can’t believe he ever thought of Ezio as a friend.

Shay walks swiftly, taking back alleys and side-streets. Dorian had a son, no older than ten, and it weighs on Shay’s mind, seeing the boy at the palace, knowing how his life was about to change. But he knows it’s right that he saw him. Any action has consequences. If he loses sight of that, he’ll be no better than Achilles.

Hard to believe he has the box at last, after a decade and a half of searching. If he can just keep it safe until he reaches the outskirts of the city—

There’s no warning cry, no sound at all but the whipping of coattails through the air, and he looks up barely in time to see the Assassin dropping before he’s slammed to the cobbles. There’s a blade at his throat – he’s surprised it’s not through his neck already – and he’s cursing his stupidity, and—

“Shay?”

Her voice stops his struggle as effectively as any gunshot. “Aveline?”

He hasn’t seen her this young in a while. There are many exceptions, of course – he still visits Desmond, who died far younger than he deserved, and only last month he received a disconcerting visit from the Grand Master as a child – but usually their ages stay more or less in step. She must be about thirty, about...

About the age she’d actually be now.

He can’t feel the usual tingle of visitation.

No. It isn’t possible.

“Are you – are you here?” he asks. “Here, in Paris? Here?”

Her eyes widen. “You’re not visiting?”

It can’t be true.

“You told me we’d never met in person,” he says, barely able to speak above a whisper. “Or... you’ll tell me.”

She stares at him for a moment longer, and then she starts to laugh. “I don’t doubt it. If you could see the look on your face, you’d understand why.”

He’s still half-sure he’s dreaming. Any moment now, he’ll wake and Charles Dorian will still be alive and he’ll have to walk past that young boy to slay his father again.

But he’s still here, lying in a Paris alleyway, Aveline pinning him with her lovely knees, her hidden blade at his throat.

He draws breath. Carefully. “If I’m permitted to stand...”

It’s their code; if her response contains the word understanding, this is Aveline from after their relationship took an... unanticipated turn, and he can take her in his arms without fear of alarming or offending her. But her only response is to retract her blade and step away, with a little sarcastic flourish.

She’s here at last. Aveline, his Aveline, real and laughing and beautiful. They could spend as long as they like together, never torn apart at the whim of visitation. However good Aveline is at controlling her departure, she can’t stay forever, and he knows she wouldn’t want to if she could; she has her own life, in her own time. But this is her time, and she’s here.

And he can’t touch her. He can’t touch her.

He gets to his feet, slowly, rubbing the back of his head. “Could’ve said hello less violently.”

“Or more,” she says.

He knows full well why the Assassins would have an interest in this place, and he knows why they would send her specifically – she knows the language, after all – and yet he still asks. “What brings you to Paris?”

She raises her eyebrows in mock surprise. “Oh? And I thought perhaps you were involved in this Templar plot I was sent to stop. It’s good to know you’re here by coincidence.”

“Are you going to kill me?” he asks.

He doesn’t ask if she’s going to try to kill him. He knows he can’t fight her. If she’s decided to kill him, he’ll die here.

“Dorian is dead,” she says. “The damage is done.”

But she seemed prepared to kill when she dropped on him from above. It’s a relief to know his life means something to her, that he’s more than just the enemy even now.

“As there’s no point in conflict,” she says, stretching, “would you like to show me around the city? I could act as translator for you.”

His heart trips over itself for a moment before he realises her intention. Of course. She’s planning to steal the Precursor box from him. It’s dangerous to stay in her company.

It’s a risk he’ll take.

Chapter Text

“You are spending too much time in the Animus.”

“I know,” Desmond mutters, pressing the heels of his palms over his eyes. “My mind’s a wreck. But what am I supposed to do? We’re on a schedule here.”

“I speak of a more pressing concern,” Ezio says.

“More pressing than my brain leaking out my ears, or more pressing than this end-of-the-world thing?”

“More pressing than either,” Ezio says. “Your companions have been enjoying each other’s company. Because you spend all your time in the Animus, you are left out.”

There is a pause.

Desmond lets his hands drop. “You, uh. You mean they’ve been having really good conversations, right?”

Ezio smirks. “Caterina Sforza is the finest conversationalist I know. I doubt any conversations they are having can compare to hers, but I’m sure they are enjoyable enough.”

Okay, Desmond’s not going to think about Ezio’s ‘conversations’ with Caterina Sforza. Those were some very awkward things to live through in the Animus. But the alternative he’s being offered to think about isn’t much better.

“All three of them?” Desmond asks.

Ezio smiles indulgently at him, as if Desmond is a small child getting the birds-and-the-bees talk for the first time and Ezio, because that’s just the kind of parent he is, has jumped straight into explaining threesomes. “You truly hadn’t realised?”

There’s no way. Okay, he kind of suspected there might be something between Shaun and Rebecca, what with Rebecca’s MP3 player turning up on Shaun’s nightstand. But Lucy? There’s just no way.

Wait.

“You’re worried I’m being left out?” Desmond asks. “You think I need to, uh.” Take part? Dive in? Somehow, everything suddenly sounds obscene in his head. “Involve myself?”

“Well, it might make visits more worthwhile,” Ezio says, with a shrug. He gestures around them, at the wrecked sanctuary, at the power cables trailing across centuries-old statues. “Your surroundings are... startling, at first, but they rarely change. If there could occasionally be interesting things to see...”

“Oh, my God.”

“Hey, Desmond!” Rebecca calls, waving, as she comes down into the sanctuary. Desmond starts and tries not to look guilty, even though he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be guilty of. “Should have the next set of memories ready for you in a few minutes, okay?”

Desmond nods and makes a vague noise by way of answer, because he’s terrified that he’ll just blurt out what’s running through his mind if he attempts anything more articulate.

Shaun and Lucy follow her down the stairs. But they’ve just been having a meeting. They have a lot of meetings without him. Because he’s in the Animus all the time, obviously, it’d take too long to catch him up on everything.

“Shaun strikes me as the sort of man who is intimidated by two women,” Ezio comments, watching with his arms folded.

“Imagine that,” Desmond mutters.

“Your presence would be welcomed, I am sure.”

Desmond grits his teeth. “Stop. Talking.”

“What’s that?” Rebecca asks absently, dropping down into her seat.

“Nothing,” Desmond says. “Just talking to myself.” He has to look away from her as he says it and finds himself looking at Lucy instead. Worse. He looks at Shaun. He looks at the statue of Altaïr, and even that doesn’t help; all he can picture is Altaïr showing up for the ‘interesting sight’ Ezio alluded to.

And suddenly he realises he has a bigger problem than being unable to look his teammates in the eye. He can literally never have sex again. He’s already lost the ability to sleep nude, ever since he woke up naked in the middle of Jerusalem and nearly startled Altaïr into botching his assassination. He can’t face the possibility that one of his ancestors will show up when he’s with someone and, in Ezio’s case, probably stand there giving tips. He can’t do it.

“Oh,” Rebecca says. “Looks like the next memory’s just a visit to the Rosa in Fiore. Might be a weird one. You want to skip it?”

For one miserable moment, Desmond actually considers telling her to run it anyway. It’s the closest he’ll ever get again.

“Yeah, skip it,” he says. “Thanks.”

“Such miraculous technology,” Ezio says, with a despairing shake of his head, “and yet you let it go to waste.”

Chapter Text

Desmond is dragged way too abruptly out of Connor’s first in-person meeting with Haytham. He sits up in the Animus, rubbing his head in annoyance; he knew they’d meet up at some point, and he’s been looking forward to seeing how it goes.

“Sorry,” Rebecca says. “But this is bugging me. They’re talking like they’ve met before. Haytham knows Connor is his kid. How? I’ve scanned the whole of Connor’s memory for Haytham’s genetic signature, and this is definitely the first time they talk.”

Desmond considers the answers available to him. One: silence. Two: ‘Well, actually, I keep hallucinating that my ancestors are visiting me through some kind of time-travel, and that they keep visiting each other, and now I’m pretty sure I’m hallucinating that you’re asking me about it, because there’s no way it can actually be true.’

He goes with silence.

“Shaun?” Rebecca calls. “Come look at this footage.”

That’s when Desmond realises that someone else is there, in the temple. He hadn’t really registered the third figure, figured it was his dad, but of course his dad’s in Cairo. It’s Haytham. But dark-haired, younger than he is on the screen.

Desmond tries to discreetly draw him away, out of earshot of Shaun and Rebecca. “Hey, I don’t know if you should be seeing this.”

“It seems I’ll have to see it sooner or later,” Haytham says.

“Yeah, but... I don’t know, is it good to know your future?”

“I already know my son, long before I’m apparently to meet him,” Haytham says. “And even longer before he’s apparently to murder me.”

Desmond freezes. Connor is going to kill his father?

What’s the right thing to say? ‘Sorry your son is going to murder you in the future-past’? They definitely don’t make sympathy cards for this.

“Sorry,” Desmond says. “I – sorry. I didn’t know.”

“All it means is that I failed to kill him first, and for that I have only myself to blame,” Haytham says. “But I can’t imagine there are any greater surprises awaiting me.”

“Yeah,” Desmond says. “Yeah, guess not. If you want to watch, go ahead.”

Haytham raises his eyebrows. “How good of you to give me permission. It’s almost as if you think you could have stopped me.”

“See, as far as I can tell, he didn’t even know Ziio was pregnant,” Rebecca is saying as they walk back to the Animus setup, Desmond looking uneasily at Haytham. “He told Franklin he wanted a kid. I think he’d have tracked Connor down earlier if he’d known, maybe raised him himself.”

Haytham sighs. “Yes, perhaps,” he murmurs. “Connor was already an Assassin when I first met him, so I knew any household of ours would never be a happy one. But there’s nothing to be gained from dwelling on what might have been.”

It’s... not something Desmond was expecting to hear from him. He almost wants to say something – he’s not sure what – but there’s no way Shaun and Rebecca won’t hear.

“Can we worry about this later?” Shaun asks Rebecca. “I want to see how Connor reacts to this arsehole.”

“Oh, indeed?” Haytham asks, coldly.

Desmond immediately checks to make sure he’s not wearing his hidden blades, just in case Haytham tries to possess him.

“Let’s see,” Haytham murmurs, his eyes darting over the screen. “A church... snow... and of course meeting Connor in person, I suppose that’s notable... yes, I think I can remember this.”

Before Desmond can ask what he’s thinking, Rebecca shrugs and says, “Well, I can’t work it out. Maybe they’ll explain how they know each other later. Ready to pick the memory back up, Desmond?”

Desmond glances at Haytham.

“Don’t mind me,” Haytham says. “I’ll stay and watch.”

Well, okay. It’s not like Haytham can do any damage by possessing Desmond’s body when it’s strapped into the Animus.

Desmond settles down, and a moment later he’s looking out through Connor’s eyes at his father. Every muscle in Connor’s body is tense.

The older Haytham, by contrast, seems perfectly relaxed. He looks around at nothing Desmond can see, and then says, “Yes, I think this is the time.”

“What time?” Connor asks.

“We have an audience, Connor,” Haytham says. “Desmond and his friends from the future.”

“The Animus?” Connor asks, taken by surprise.

“What the fuck?” Rebecca mutters through Desmond’s earpiece.

Haytham raises his voice. “Rather a personal moment, don’t you think? Wouldn’t you say it’s impolite to intrude on a father’s first meeting with his son? But of course Shaun Hastings would never be such a... what was it? An ‘arsehole’?”

“Rebecca,” Shaun says, “please tell me you reprogrammed this just to make me uncomfortable. You’ve very much succeeded, incidentally. Well done.”

“I have no idea what the fuck is going on,” Rebecca says.

“You see, now they’ll be trying to explain this away,” Haytham says, pacing back and forth. “Animus sabotage, or interference from Desmond’s thoughts.” Rebecca, who was halfway through suggesting exactly that, falls suddenly silent. “But no, Shaun. This is Haytham Kenway, Templar Grand Master of long before your time, informing you that it’s a little rich for you, of all people, to cast judgement on someone’s personality.”

“Can you stop it?” Shaun asks, his voice slightly higher-pitched than usual.

“Are you kidding?” Rebecca asks. “You don’t want to see where this is going?”

Haytham pulls a short dagger from his hip, and Connor takes a step back, gripping the handle of his tomahawk. Haytham catches the movement and rolls his eyes.

“I’m not going to fight you, Connor. There will be plenty of time for that later.” He runs his hand over one of the wooden beams running up the wall. “This building is abandoned,” he says, apparently to himself. “I don’t know how well-preserved it will be in the future, but I’m prepared to expend the effort, just in case.”

And he gets to work.

Later, they’ll visit the church in Desmond’s time, or what’s left of it, and establish that, yes, one of the beams does have ‘Shaun Hastings needs to mind his own business’ carved neatly into it, with a little flourish underneath.

Shaun won’t sleep for a week.

Desmond will sit with his head in his hands and try and try and try to convince himself he’s imagining things. So long as he doesn’t start believing his encounters with his ancestors are real, he can’t be that crazy. Right?

Chapter Text

Desmond slams back into his own body in the middle of Abstergo, breathing hard and covered in blood. He looks around at once to see who possessed him. He hadn’t noticed a visitor around, but to be fair he’d been kind of distracted by worrying about his dad and, oh, yeah, the billion security guards who are now lying dead at his feet.

It’s Haytham.

No, seriously, it’s Haytham.

“Thought we had an arrangement not to take each other over,” Desmond says, trying to laugh, trying not to sound like he’s freaking out, failing at both.

“Yes, well, rules must be bent in desperate situations,” Haytham says. “We were about to lose you.”

“I can fight,” Desmond says. “That’s kind of what this Animus thing is about, remember? Giving me the skills of my ancestors?”

“You may have the ability, but you lack the conviction. You hesitate before every kill. Surely you’ve realised. When you face enemies in these numbers, hesitation is fatal.”

It’s true. He knows he wouldn’t have been able to take all these guys down; he knew it before Haytham took over, and a part of him still hasn’t caught up and realised he’s lived through it. The Animus can teach him techniques, but there’s a big difference between ‘killing’ someone in the Animus and doing it in real life. If Desmond kills someone in the Animus, he’s just re-enacting something that happened centuries ago. If Desmond kills someone as himself, they’re dead. Because of him.

“So I’m meant to believe you just stepped in to save my life?” Desmond asks. He can’t look down at the bodies; he feels sick. “You know these are your guys, right?”

“It’s regrettable, yes,” Haytham says. “But you are working to save the world, aren’t you? I have no intention of standing back and watching all the Templars have achieved undone in a few short centuries.”

Huh. It’s still weird as hell that a Templar Grand Master just rescued him from a bunch of Templars, but maybe it makes sense. Desmond knows, from watching him work with Connor, that Haytham is prepared to put ideological differences aside for a common cause.

Thinking of Connor and Haytham makes him think of his own father. He glances behind him, toward the room where they think he’s being held.

“Yes, yes, go and save him,” Haytham says, impatiently. “And good luck to both of you. God knows you’re the only chance in our little group for a father-son story to end well.”

“Your visits are always a pleasure, naturally,” Haytham calls above the crash of cannon fire, “but I’m a little busy for hospitality at the moment. I’m sure you’ll understand.”

Desmond looks around, trying to push down the panic in his chest. It’s still hard to get it through his head that he’s not physically here, he’s not in any real danger. Cannons, he thinks, and Fort George, and then shit, Fort George—

“Oh, shit,” Desmond breathes. “Haytham, I think this is—”

He cuts himself off. Yeah, Haytham already knows that Connor is going to kill him, but maybe it’d be best not to give him anything more specific than that.

But Haytham nods, walking briskly (to meet Connor, to meet his death). “This is when it happens. I know.”

“You don’t have to fight him,” Desmond says. He knows it’s hopeless. He’s already seen it in the Animus, he knows the past can’t be changed, he knows this conversation isn’t even real, but – he has to try, doesn’t he?

“My duty is clear, even if the outcome is already set,” Haytham says. “I hope I don’t strike you as a man who shirks his duties.”

“Then...” There has to be something he can do. Haytham may be a Templar, but he’s helped Desmond before. And he’s one of them. “Let me take over.”

Haytham stops short and laughs. “Take over my body? Forgive me, but that would explain why Connor gets the better of me.”

“Just... at the end,” Desmond says. “So you don’t have to feel it yourself.”

It occurs to him as he’s speaking that maybe it’s not a great idea to be in someone else’s body when they’re dying. He doesn’t know how this works. But it’s the only thing he can offer.

Haytham gives him a strange look, careful, analytic.

“I’d prefer to be alone with my son,” he says, eventually. “But I appreciate the thought.”

“Okay,” Desmond says. And then, absurdly, even though they both know the outcome already, even though he doesn’t want Connor to die either, he hears himself saying, “Good luck.”

Chapter Text

To be honest, Edward has dreamt before about Kidd – about Mary – cornering him in his cabin. Somehow, though, the look in her eye was never quite so frightening in his imagination.

“You’ve been keeping secrets,” she says. “I want to know what they are.”

For a moment, he thinks she’s talking about those dreams. “Rather defeats the purpose of a secret, doesn’t it, if I tell you? What makes you think I’m hiding anything from you, anyway?”

“You keep talking to people who aren’t there.”

“Open and unhidden,” he says. “The only reason I haven’t told you the full story is that you’d never believe me.”

“You can’t know that if you don’t give me the chance,” she says. “Maybe it’ll be a load of rum-sodden nonsense, but I can’t judge that until you tell me. Besides, you’ve got all my secrets already.”

“I didn’t ask for them!” Edward protests. “You can’t use that against me!”

“I can use what I like,” Mary says. “’Case you hadn’t noticed, we’re pirates. We’re not known for playing fair.”

“Ah, if only she lived in my time,” Ezio murmurs. Edward looks sharply over at him; he hadn’t noticed his arrival. “I would recruit her in a heartbeat.”

“She’s already an Assassin, remember?” Edward asks. Ezio has shown up a few times before when Edward’s been working with Mary, and he’s always seemed very taken with her.

“Both my secrets in one sentence,” Mary says. “It’s good to know my private business is in such discreet hands. So who d’you think you’re talking to now?”

Right. If she wants her credulity tested, he’ll test it.

“A man from Italy,” Edward says. “An Assassin, actually, like you. He lived two hundred years ago.”

Mary snorts. “Right, should’ve guessed. And this two-hundred-year-old Assassin’s invisible, is he?”

“Only when he’s here. And not to me.” And he launches into an explanation of the ‘visiting’ concept, or what little he understands of it, becoming more aware with every word he says of how absurd it sounds.

Mary looks sceptical, which, truth be told, isn’t a great surprise. “And there’s no way I can see these ‘visitors’?”

“Not that we know of,” Edward says. “Although, actually...”

He casts Ezio a glance. For some reason, he finds himself reluctant to introduce Mary to him. He’d prefer Aveline. Or Connor, or Desmond. But Ezio’s the one who’s here.

“Actually what, Kenway?” Mary asks, impatient.

“Actually, there might be a way you can talk to them. They can sort of... speak through me.”

Ezio lights up at once. “It would be my honour to meet the young lady.”

This is definitely a mistake. But it’ll have to happen now; Mary’s got that look that means she’s interested, and Edward knows she won’t let this go before her curiosity is satisfied.

“All right.” He nods to Ezio, and a moment later he finds himself standing outside his own body, invisible to Mary, only able to watch what’s going on.

Ezio bows and speaks with Edward’s voice. “Ezio Auditore da Firenze. A pleasure.”

Shock flashes across Mary’s face. It’s a stronger reaction than Edward was expecting at this stage; he knows she’s too shrewd to believe this isn’t just Edward inventing a name.

But the surprise is swiftly followed by suspicion. “You’re speaking English,” she says.

“Yes, I suppose I must be,” Ezio says. “Two of our friends have tested this. Aveline and Connor. She can understand his native language when she visits, but not when they meet in person. If she visits Connor’s father and Connor is present, she can understand only the languages the father knows.”

“Convenient,” Mary says, her eyes narrowing. “You’ve done more research than I’d have credited you with, Kenway, but if you think you can use Ezio Auditore to manipulate me, you’re not the friend I thought you were.”

“She knows you?” Edward asks, startled.

“Well, I’m sure I could still manage Italian, if I made the effort,” Ezio says, and he launches into a lengthy ramble that means absolutely nothing to Edward.

There’s silence for a moment after he’s finished.

“Maybe you never told me you knew Italian,” Mary says. “Or you could just be spouting nonsense. I don’t have any magical translation powers, see.” But the scorn’s less sharp in her voice.

Ezio sighs. “She is a difficult one,” he says to Edward.

“You’re telling me,” Edward says.

“Less of the ‘she’, if you don’t mind,” Mary says. “Never know who might be listening.”

“My apologies.” Ezio turns back to Edward. “You could wait for a visit from Altaïr. Perhaps Arabic will convince our friend.”

“Altaïr?” Mary demands, glancing from Ezio to the spot he’s looking at, even though she won’t be able to see Edward. “Altaïr? Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad? I’m meant to believe you have some sort of miraculous connection with Ezio and Altaïr? Why you? Why would they choose you? You’re not even an Assassin.”

“We did not choose him, I assure you.”

“Oh, thanks,” Edward mutters.

Ezio takes Mary’s hand in his – Edward’s – own. She tenses, but she doesn’t pull away.

“If I had my choice,” Ezio says, “I would have picked someone like you. You are a fine Assassin, dedicated and skilled.” He drops his voice, tracing patterns on her palm with Edward’s fingers. “And beautiful too, of course, which is always an advantage.”

It’s uncomfortable to watch. Mary looks like she’s fighting not to laugh rather than giving in to Ezio’s charms, at least, but that’s small comfort when she believes Ezio to be Edward.

“I am still here, you know,” Edward says.

“Yes, Edward, you are beautiful as well,” Ezio says, not taking his eyes off Mary.

“So you’ve swapped places?” Mary asks. “That’s how this works? You’re in Edward’s body, he’s turned into the one I can’t see?”

“Indeed,” Ezio says. “You believe us?”

“Starting to. Italian’s one thing, knowing about you and Altaïr’s one thing, but this?” She nods down at their hands. “Kenway’s no stranger to flirting, but he wouldn’t dare try it with me.”

“Then Kenway is a fool,” Ezio murmurs, “and all the better for us.”

Mary grins wickedly. Edward is feeling very, very uneasy about the way this is going.

“Can we switch back?” he asks. “Seems we’ve achieved our goal.”

“Edward wishes to know if he can return to his body,” Ezio says.

“He can wait,” Mary says. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

Ezio raises his eyebrows. “Oh?” he asks in a charged tone that should definitely never be directed at Mary in Edward’s voice, or at least not when Edward isn’t the one using it.

He’s still holding Mary’s left hand, but she takes her right and rests it on Ezio’s shoulder. Edward’s. Ezio’s. This is confusing. Edward is trying very hard to focus on the confusion, rather than the action itself.

“Can Kenway feel that?” Mary asks.

Ezio shakes his head. “He can feel nothing that happens to his body while he is outside it.”

“But he can see us.”

Ezio glances over at Edward and starts to laugh. Maybe Edward isn’t doing so well at controlling his expression as he’d hoped. “He is certainly watching, yes.”

Mary directs a very deliberate smirk in Edward’s direction. This woman is a monster. “Well, it’s not every day you get the chance to kiss Ezio Auditore. How could I refuse?”

Edward hates himself for it, but he can’t make himself look away. All he can think about is how that’s his back Mary’s digging her short-clipped nails into, those are his lips she’s meeting with her own, and it’s outrageously unfair that he can’t even fucking feel it.

For a moment he’s terrified that it’s going to go further, but Mary catches Ezio’s hands as they drift to her belt and whispers something in his ear, and that’s something. That’s something.

Jesus, he can’t believe this is happening. Why did it have to be Ezio?

They eventually break off, after what feels like several years, and Edward suddenly finds himself in his body and Mary is right there. He jerks back. She laughs.

“Welcome back,” she says. “Interesting business, your visitors.”

Slightly too interesting, in Edward’s opinion.

“Kidd,” he says. His own voice sounds strange in his ears, after hearing it misused by Ezio. “Can Ezio and I have a moment alone?”

“Oh, Ezio’s still here?” She raises her voice. “Good to meet you. Maybe we’ll talk again.”

Ezio blows her a kiss she won’t see.

“Kidd,” Edward says, almost pleading.

“I’m going,” she says. “But come and find me next time Altaïr visits. Always wanted to meet him as well.” She winks at him and leaves.

Edward stares after her. She wouldn’t, would she?

He shakes his head. There are more than enough unwelcome images in there already without adding any more.

When he turns back, he finds Ezio watching him, smiling slightly. “You wish to speak to me?”

Edward opens his mouth and finds there are no words behind it. He closes it again.

“If you want her,” Ezio says, “I believe you have a chance.”

“Oh, yes?” Edward asks, bitterly. “Why’s that? Because she’s willing to kiss long-dead famous Assassins when they look like me?”

“Did you hear what she said to me when I tried to undress her?”

Edward shakes his head. Being reminded of that is not improving his mood towards Ezio.

Ezio smirks. “Don’t expose too much, she said. Let’s leave some surprises for Kenway.”

Edward stares at him. “She really said that?”

But Ezio has disappeared.

“She really said that? Those words? Ezio!”

Chapter Text

Haytham edges cautiously towards the far side of the theatre, listening to the Beggar’s Opera below. He isn’t here to take in the music, of course, but he needs to remain aware of it; if the singing suddenly stops, it’s likely the performers have glanced up and seen him crossing the stage.

When the singing does stop, though, it proves to be the least of his worries.

The entire theatre has vanished around him. Haytham finds himself crouching unnecessarily for balance; the narrow beam beneath his feet is now a solid floor. His new surroundings are dark and cavernous, illuminated in places by a strange blue light. His target is nowhere to be seen.

Haytham stands carefully, testing the mechanism of the blades at his wrists, and looks around.

There’s a man watching him.

“Uh, hey,” the man says. Haytham takes a step towards him to check his reaction. Unguarded. “I was wondering when this’d start. Haytham, right? I’m Desmond. You already know the drill, or—?”

Haytham seizes Desmond by the throat.

“You are going to tell me where I am and how I came to be here,” he says very softly in Desmond’s ear, as Desmond chokes and clutches at the hand around his neck. “You are not going to cry out or do anything that might alert any friends of yours to our conversation. Do we understand each other?”

Desmond, his eyes wide, nods very quickly. Haytham loosens his grip.

“We’re Assassins,” Desmond gasps out, once he’s steadied himself enough for speech. “We’re on your side.”

Haytham, who almost ran him through at the first two words, pauses. These are Assassins who believe him to be an Assassin? From the hidden blades, he supposes. But then how do they know his name, and why kidnap him? “That isn’t the information I asked for.”

“Okay, okay. Just...” He pulls feebly at Haytham’s hand again. Haytham withdraws it, but flicks out his hidden blade, making sure that Desmond sees the movement.

Desmond takes a deep breath.

The tale he spins is nonsense, every word of it. He claims to be Haytham’s descendant in the future (a far-flung descendant, Haytham reassures himself, disquieted by the scruffiness of this young man claiming to be of his blood), and he says he’s been experiencing Haytham’s memories through a device called an ‘Animus’, and here he hesitates.

“And... please don’t be offended,” he says, with a nervous glance at Haytham’s wrist, “but I’m pretty sure I’m imagining you right now.”

Interesting. “You think I’m imaginary, and yet you fear me?”

Desmond shifts uncomfortably. “I can’t be sure my mind’s not dedicated enough to this whole illusion thing to make me stab myself in the neck.”

“Humour me,” Haytham says. “Assume, for the moment, that I exist. What would this mean for me?”

Desmond shrugs. “This, basically. Sometimes you’ll just show up here. I’m the only one who can see you. Or I might appear in your time, and you’ll be the only one who can see me. And I guess you’ll probably meet the others.”

“The others?”

“Altaïr. Ezio. Maybe you’ve heard of them.”

That Altaïr and Ezio? Surely not. He’s been wondering whether he should kill Desmond, whether that would prevent the unwelcome displacements he’s apparently now expected to accept, but perhaps he should leave things for a while, see what transpires. If he truly can meet Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad... it’s an interesting prospect, at the very least. He knows the value of information from the past better than most.

“You’ll go to them or they’ll come to you,” Desmond is saying. “And they sometimes talk about some other guys, so you might meet them as well. I guess maybe they’re people I haven’t met in the Animus yet.”

Haytham nods, barely listening. Something is beginning to stir in his mind.

Haytham has vague recollections of meeting strange people and finding himself in strange places as a boy. The encounters stopped when his father died, and he’s always put them down to imagination: the wild fantasies of an understimulated child. He missed the loss of them, when he found the time to miss them amongst his other losses. But now he is an adult, with his own concerns, and this time-travel business, however novel or edifying, seems likely to prove an inconvenience.

“How do I return to my own time?” he asks. “I was rather in the middle of something.”

“It’ll happen when it happens,” Desmond says. “Shouldn’t be a problem, though. You’ll be back at the same point you left; no one will notice you were gone. Uh... but you looked like you were balancing on something. When you showed up here, I mean.”

“I was.”

“Okay. Then, uh... just don’t forget that’s where you’ll be when you go back. Ezio keeps complaining about us making him fall off buildings.”

“Oh, excellent,” Haytham says. “I foolishly thought my life was difficult and dangerous enough already. Now that I’ve received the gift of constant distraction, I wonder how I ever managed without it.”

“Sorry,” Desmond mutters. “But it’s not so bad, once you get used to it.” He hesitates, his eyes flicking to Haytham’s wrist again. “Just... try not to kill anyone. We’re all Assassins. And these guys are kind of important to me.”

There it is again: the conviction that he’s an Assassin. Perhaps, if Haytham is now routinely to be plucked out of his life and deposited in unknown locations full of his enemies, it’s a misconception worth encouraging.

“It’s a little early in our acquaintance for promises,” Haytham says, “but I’ll make an effort to leave them alive.”

Chapter Text

“Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent.”

Altaïr looks up from the body. It’s Shay, in his Templar clothing. “He would have warned my target.”

“The way I understand it, a person doesn’t stop being innocent the moment they turn inconvenient,” Shay says.

Altaïr bristles. “And who are you to judge me, traitor? I’ve seen your Grand Master at work. He’s no kinder to his informants than I am.”

“I know,” Shay admits. “And I won’t pretend I like it. But he didn’t take your oath.”

Altaïr stalks towards him, then glances around at the sound of footsteps that aren’t his own. Best to be clear of this place before the guards come.

He clambers up onto the nearest rooftop and runs, careful to evade the gaze of the Acre archers. More than once he finds himself thinking longingly of the quieter rooftops of Damas. Shay keeps pace with him, of course, but at least he does it in silence.

Eventually Altaïr vaults into a rooftop garden, somewhere they can speak privately. He tires sometimes of the stares and mutters that come his way when he’s running or climbing or speaking to visitors.

Shay hesitates outside.

“Come in, or don’t,” Altaïr says, “but make a decision.”

After a moment, Shay twitches the hangings aside and climbs in. There’s little space, and they sit with their knees pressed together, looking at each other.

“Garnier is an inhuman man,” Altaïr says. “You heard what his spokesman told me. He takes healthy men and women, and he destroys them. His life is worth any price I have to pay to obtain it.”

“Aye, I heard what the herald said,” Shay says. “He begged you to stop Garnier. He said he was being forced to act as spokesman. You’d have set him free by killing the doctor, but you murdered him on the chance he’d warn the man he hates.”

Altaïr tenses, furious. “There were more lives than his at stake. I can’t take chances.”

Shay shrugs. “If you want to keep your oath, I’d say you have to.”

“The next time you come here, do not speak to me,” Altaïr says.

But Shay’s words prey on his mind. Later, in Jerusalem, he accosts a herald about the slaver Talal, and he hears what he has to say – and he lets him go. Even though the herald shows more loyalty to his master than the one he killed for Garnier. He lets him go.

The moment Altaïr enters Talal’s warehouse, the door slams shut behind him. Of course.

“Step into the light,” Talal invites him from above.

Altaïr looks warily at the shaft of light and sees, with a rush of fierce delight, that Shay has appeared there, frowning and shading his eyes.

“Am I allowed to talk yet?” Shay asks. “Or is this the next time for you as well?”

“You can speak,” Altaïr snarls, although he feels so ecstatic in his vindication that it’s hard to put all the anger Shay deserves behind it. “You can grovel for my forgiveness, in fact. You have thrown me into a trap.” He points at Talal. “You see, this is what happens when you spare informants!”

“An interesting bluff, but I know you came alone,” Talal calls. “Or did your master not see fit to send me a man with his wits?”

Shay blinks up at Talal. “Oh. That’s your target?”

“My target,” Altaïr confirms. “Who knew I would be here. Because I listened to you.”

“Is this a joke?” Talal demands. “I am not a man to be made light of.”

“You really spared someone because of me?” Shay asks.

“Against my better judgement,” Altaïr says. “And now you see the result.”

“Still,” Shay says. “Someone’s alive because of me, for once. I think I can feel good about that. How about you?”

“And if I die here because of it?” Altaïr asks.

Shay laughs. “We both know that won’t happen.”

Which is true, of course. Altaïr was frustrated when the door slammed shut, but not afraid; he knows he has the skills to survive this, whatever Talal has in store. Besides, he knows that someone will eventually erect a statue of him in an Italian villa, and he has yet to do anything that would explain that.

“Step into the light!” Talal bellows.

Altaïr steps into the light, beside Shay, and draws his sword. Talal’s men surround him, but he has faced worse odds than this. And he knows that Shay will warn him of unseen attacks, even if they serve different causes.

“Very well,” he says, grudgingly. “Perhaps informants do not have to die.”

But he takes to tying them up and leaving them in the bureau – blindfolded, of course – until his assassination is over, just in case. Malik hates it.

Chapter Text

The ‘visiting’ hallucinations are the most obvious impact of the Bleeding Effect, but they’re not the only thing Desmond has to deal with. You can’t experience your ancestors’ thoughts in the Animus – if you could, the ‘Haytham’s a Templar’ surprise would have been a lot less surprising – but emotions, sensations, those all come through. And...

You... fall in love, in the Animus. It’s ridiculous, but you do. You meet people your ancestors loved, people who died centuries before you were born, and you fall just as hard for them yourself.

It wasn’t a problem with Altaïr. The time Desmond spent as him, he didn’t really seem to have romance on his mind. There was a strange twinge of something that seemed to pass between him and the people he killed – the strike of the blade, the way he held them as they died, there’s an intimacy to it that’s hard to explain – but, for the most part, Desmond can deal with the feelings Altaïr left him.

Ezio is tougher. Desmond lived through so much of his life in the Animus, and for most of it Ezio was a man who could fall in love twice a week. But, although his feelings were always passionate and genuine, they usually didn’t last that long.

Usually. There are still a couple of names Desmond can’t think of without feeling like something’s gone missing in his chest. Cristina. Sofia.

He’s asked Shaun about Dürer’s portrait of Sofia. Apparently it’s in a museum in Vienna. There’s a part of Desmond that wants to visit and see it, once all this is over. But he can’t be sure he wouldn’t break down in front of it, and he feels like that’d be hard to explain.

Haytham and Ziio...

Haytham kept a tight lid on his emotions when Desmond was going through his memories, most of the time: so tight, in fact, that Desmond started to wonder whether emotional synchronisation had been taken out in the latest Animus upgrade. Maybe that’s why it hit Desmond so hard when he found himself alone with Ziio in that cave, and she took his hand, and suddenly everything he’d suppressed—

Haytham, he tells himself, firmly. Everything Haytham had suppressed.

He replayed that memory a few times afterwards, to ‘improve his sync rate’. He had to stop when Shaun and Rebecca started giving him weird looks. He doesn’t think he’d be able to go through it again now, anyway; not since he dropped in on the aftermath as a visitor, which would have been awkward enough even if he hadn’t been painfully in love with one of the people involved.

And now here he is, standing feet away from Ziio, and all he can do is stare. All he can think about is how alive and real she looks, and how beautiful she is, and how she’ll die a few years from now when this house goes up in flames.

She and Haytham are sitting in close conversation, broken off when Haytham looks up and sees him. Really, Desmond? he mouths.

“I can’t exactly help it,” Desmond mutters. He hesitates, trying not to look at Ziio; she makes him feel like he’s falling apart. “Can I talk to you?”

Haytham looks at him flatly for a long moment, then heaves a silent sigh.

“What’s wrong?” Ziio asks.

Haytham shakes his head and gets to his feet. “I saw something moving around outside.”

“Again?” she asks, half-laughing. “It’s never anything. Stay.”

“For my own peace of mind.” He leans over to kiss her. Desmond looks away. “I won’t be long.”

Desmond, taking the hint, walks out into the sunlight, harsh on his eyes after so long in the temple. Haytham follows him out.

“This is a valuable moment for me,” Haytham says. “I’ll thank you to keep this brief.”

He won’t let Desmond take over. Of course he won’t. Desmond isn’t even sure what he wants to say to Ziio. But he has to ask.

“Sorry, Dad,” he says. “I was just wondering if I could talk to Mo... m...”

Haytham raises his eyebrows.

Desmond collapses onto the ground and buries his face in his hands.

Of course, he has to deal with Connor’s feelings as well.

Chapter Text

Shay can’t linger by Hope’s body; sooner or later someone is going to come across this scene, and it won’t be hard to link the dead woman to the man covered in weapons beside her. The sensible thing would be to throw her into the water, make sure nobody finds her.

He can’t.

Shay arranges her limbs carefully, trying to make her look peaceful, like she’s sleeping, even though he knows as he’s doing it that it doesn’t fit her; Hope’s never looked peaceful in her life. He stays a moment longer by her side, and then he climbs up onto the nearest rooftop and sits there in the moonlight, looking down on her. At least this way he won’t be seen straight away.

He’ll end up killing Liam as well. He can see it so clearly. He was an idiot to pretend this could go any other way.

“Shay?”

He glances at Aveline, sitting beside him, and then back at Hope. They do have a way of dropping in at personal moments, the visitors. He wants to be alone right now. Or... he doesn’t know what he wants. Being alone won’t make anything better. But he doesn’t need anyone to see him like this.

There’s an intake of breath from Aveline. “You worked with her, didn’t you?”

She doesn’t ask whether he was the one who did it. Maybe she thinks it’s too blunt a question. More likely she doesn’t need to.

“I didn’t want it to come to this,” he mutters, not looking at her.

Aveline says nothing for a moment. “It can be hard to reach an understanding on different sides.”

“Harder to put a blade through a friend,” Shay says. “And yet I did that first. If I’d been better with words, maybe she...”

“Shay,” Aveline says, so firmly that he falls silent. “There’s a reason our two sides spend more time killing each other than conversing. People are not so easily persuaded. This was always going to end with a death.”

“Maybe,” Shay says. “But I don’t know if the right person’s walking away.”

He’s still looking at Hope, and he isn’t expecting it when Aveline takes his hand. He stares for a moment at her hand in his, then looks up at her face.

“As an Assassin, my side in this is decided,” Aveline says. She slips her fingers through his. “But as myself... I’m glad you’re still with us.”

They’re just words. They’re not even words it’s easy to believe. To everyone but Haytham and Edward he’s an inconvenience, a threat, a figure who can’t be trusted. She can’t really want to be bonded to a Templar like this; she probably wishes another Assassin could take his place in their strange group. Someone like Hope.

But... but maybe he was wrong, maybe he doesn’t want to be alone right now.

“Aveline,” he says, and then he doesn’t know what to say next.

She shifts closer to him on the rooftop and tugs on his arm. It’s a moment before he realises she’s trying to guide him to lean against her shoulder, and a moment longer before he gives in and lets her. He closes his eyes and tries not to think of Hope’s last ragged breaths, tries to focus on Aveline, the feel of her, the scent of her, warm and alive beside him. She smooths back his hair and kisses his forehead, like he’s a child who needs protecting, like he hasn’t spilled enough blood to float the Morrigan.

It’s dangerous, letting her past his defences like this. Even if she can set aside their differences long enough to show him kindness, she’s an Assassin first.

And he can’t let an Assassin matter to him. He knows that now. It’ll always end this way: Shay looking down at a body, nothing left to him but fond memories turned painful.

But she’s the only comfort he has right now, and he’s not strong enough to throw that away.

Chapter Text

It’s idiotic that it should end like this, after a life spent in conflict, but that’s the way it goes. A misjudged jump, a slip of the foot, and...

He wasted too much time trying to climb out, before he realised it wasn’t going to happen. Not with these slick rock faces, not with these heavy clothes, not with these hands, numb and getting number by the second. Maybe he could’ve swum to the Morrigan if he’d gone for it straight away, but he knows he’ll never make it now. Water like this, he’s got minutes at most, and he’ll have to take the long way around to get past the rocks.

He can see her, he can see her mast, but crying for help gets him nothing but a mouthful of brine.

He makes a half-hearted effort to undo the coat that’s dragging him down. Useless. This many straps and fastenings, it’s almost like he was trying to drown himself when he put it on.

So he strikes out for the Morrigan, even though he knows it’s hopeless. Maybe he’ll find some land low enough to crawl onto on the way. Make your own luck.

But the cold’s clawing into him like a wild beast, and his vision’s already starting to darken around the edges, and a moment later he finds himself lying face-down on damp earth, gasping for breath.

“What on...” a voice mutters, and then, “Shay?”

A hand on his back, another pressed against his throat, checking his pulse. It’s warm against his skin, and Shay clings to that. He can still feel the icy water; it’s faint, it’s distant, but he can feel the cold down in his bones, like a quiet reminder that he’ll never be warm again.

All too soon the hand leaves his neck, and then Shay’s being rolled onto his back.

“Can you stand?” Haytham asks, crouching beside him.

“Don’t know,” Shay mumbles. He coughs a few times. Feels like he’s trying to cough water out of his lungs, but nothing comes. Maybe because he’s left his lungs behind, in the North Atlantic.

For now. Any moment he’ll be back there, choking on saltwater, freezing away the last seconds of his sorry life.

“What happened?” Haytham asks.

“Think this is the last time we’ll see each other,” Shay says. “Or the last time I’ll see you, at any rate.”

“Tell me what happened.”

So Shay tells him. He’s been given a few miraculous minutes before the deep claims him, and he’s going to have to spend them recounting exactly what an idiot he’s been.

“I see,” Haytham says. Businesslike, no show of emotion. Shay wasn’t exactly expecting the Grand Master to break down weeping over his soon-to-be corpse, but... well, he wouldn’t have minded. “Where exactly are you?”

“God knows,” Shay mutters. Somehow his mind seems clouded, sluggish. “Pearl Island, I think it’s called? Size of a pin. Rocks all around. Royal pain to get to, and nothing there but auks and ice. Went there looking for a Viking grave. S’pose I found my own instead.”

“You’re not going to die, Shay,” Haytham says, so sharply that Shay almost believes him. “When is it? Date, year? Time of day, if you can manage it.”

Shay closes his eyes for a moment, trying to think. Opens them again, because the darkness is making him feel like he’s already dead. “Uh, small hours. November, I think. 1759.”

“Not far off,” Haytham murmurs. “And in the future, which certainly makes things simpler.” He fixes Shay with an intense stare. “The exact date?”

Shay can’t focus. The cold is getting worse again, spreading out to clutch at his lungs and his throat.

“Shay?”

He’s back in the water, and the cold rushes over him harder than ever. For a moment he can’t breathe, he can’t move, and icy brine floods his nose and mouth. He claws at the ocean, barely manages to drag himself back to the air. No hope of moving forward now; all he can do is try to keep himself afloat.

For what? For a last few tortured moments of life before he passes out?

“Shay!”

At least he didn’t have to watch Liam die.

“Shay, will you look at me?”

Something slaps into the water in front of him. Shay stares vaguely at it.

It’s the end of a rope.

It almost takes more of his mind than he has left to follow it with his eyes, up to...

“I suspect this will go more smoothly if you take the rope,” Haytham says.

A hallucination. Must be. But he gathers all his focus together and reaches out to lay his hands on the rope, just in case.

Haytham begins to haul on the rope, and it slips at once through Shay’s numb fingers. Haytham pauses, and sighs, and pulls the rope up to throw it in front of Shay again.

Shay tries to reach for it again, but he knows as he does that it’s hopeless. The cold is shredding his thoughts; it’s taking everything in him just to keep breathing. His hands are weak, too weak to grip, too clumsy to tie the rope around him...

“Shay,” Haytham says. “If, after all my effort, you can’t even summon the minimal strength required for me to save you, I will be spectacularly unimpressed.”

“Shit! Oh, shit! Where the hell is this?”

Desmond. Splashing around beside him, in the freezing waters of the North Atlantic. A wry apology’s called for, Shay thinks, vaguely, but consciousness is getting harder to hold on to, just another thing slipping through his frozen fingers, and...

“Shit, Shay, are you okay?”

“Desmond,” Haytham says, sharply, “take the rope for him!”

Confusion and understanding and panic all flash across Desmond’s face in less than a second. He looks at Shay, maybe for permission, but Shay feels distant from his own body somehow, can’t work out how to speak or move.

And then Shay finds himself literally distant from his own body, treading water where Desmond was a moment ago.

“Fuck,” Desmond mutters in Shay’s voice, “he’s numb all over” – but his mind’s obviously still sharper than Shay’s after less time in the water, and maybe that’s what lets him push past Shay’s weakness and tie the rope clumsily around his waist.

Haytham starts to haul on the rope, and—

Shay wakes on his bed in the Morrigan. Stares at the ceiling. Can’t move an inch.

It seems impossible to believe he’s still living, but surely he wouldn’t be hurting so much if he’d died.

He manages to raise his head, a little, and immediately regrets it. Lets it fall back, screwing his eyes shut against the wash of dizziness. He’s managed to take in a few things, at least: the blankets piled high on top of him, which at least explain why he feels like he’s being sat on. His sodden clothes lying in a heap in a corner. Probably cut off him. They cost enough, too.

And Grand Master Kenway sitting by his bedside.

He opens his eyes, frowning.

“Well, at least it was early November,” Haytham says. “If I’d had to camp on that godforsaken rock any longer, I might well have left you to freeze. My men were due to bring the ship back in two days.”

It takes Shay a moment to remember how to speak. “You’ve... you’ve been living there, sir?”

“Don’t give me that look; it wasn’t that great a sacrifice. You must have seen that abandoned ship as you came in. The captain’s cabin is comfortable enough, and well supplied.”

Shay stares at him.

“I didn’t even have to keep watch very intently,” Haytham says. “The arrival of the Morrigan was rather a clue. I dressed and came out the moment I heard her docking, but you’d already rushed off to drown yourself. You don’t waste any time, do you?”

Shay swallows, tries to lick some warmth back into his lips. “Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Haytham says. “I have a responsibility to the Templar order, that’s all.”

Maybe so. But the order probably had other duties it needed carried out, and the Grand Master can’t have been able to do much if he’s been out in the middle of fuck-all for a week.

“It seems I owe our friend Desmond a debt,” Haytham murmurs.

“The debt’s mine,” Shay says. He almost tries to sit up again; quickly decides against it. “To both of you.”

“Keep yourself alive, then,” Haytham says. “I’ve bought a stake in your continued existence; do try not to be careless with it. And that means staying exactly where you are until we can bring you ashore to a doctor.”

Shay nods. “Yours to command, sir.”

A slight smile crosses Haytham’s face. “Respect and obedience, Shay? We’ll have to do this more often.”

Chapter Text

He’s standing in sparse woods, the only person in sight a man in Assassin garb, so it isn’t hard to work out who he’s been called to visit. But Haytham isn’t sure that he’s seen this man before. From behind the set of his shoulders reminds him of Altaïr, but his build is closer to Ezio’s, and these surroundings do not speak of either of them.

How many visitors must there be? Desmond, Ezio, Altaïr, Shay, his father – that was a shock – and now... who?

Even without the cloak this man’s allegiance would be clear at once from the hatchet that hangs at his side, its blade in the shape of the Assassin symbol. Not that Haytham was expecting anything else; this visiting affair has brought him to nothing but Assassins so far.

The man turns and at once lays hands on his hatchet, although he makes no move to draw it. A stranger, yes. And yet...

“Father?” the man asks, tense.

Father? Haytham’s mind goes at once to a bizarre visit from Desmond, a few months ago. Is there something particularly paternal about him?

“Perhaps it’s vanity,” he says, ready to draw his sword if he needs it, “but I do wish I’d stop hearing that from men too old to be my child.”

A strange expression passes across the stranger’s face: a sadness, but unsurprised. Bitter. This man, it seems, is poor at concealing his emotions. It is a trait that Haytham has always welcomed in his enemies.

But this emotion seems out of place. And something else is bothering Haytham, as he studies this stranger.

“You reject me, then,” the man says.

“I reject you?” Haytham echoes. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

The man meets his eyes with a stare, hard and wrenchingly familiar, and Haytham knows.

“Ziio,” he whispers. “I didn’t realise...”

He should return to her. She sent him away, but – perhaps, if she knows by now that she’s carrying his child, perhaps she might...

But he knows it’s hopeless, in the same way he knows the only possibility is that she’s pregnant now; there’s no chance she will take him back, no chance of a child in their shared future.

And their child before him is an Assassin. One who instinctively reached for a weapon at the first sight of his father. This is not someone Haytham has raised. Or not someone Haytham has raised well, at any rate.

“Forgive me,” Haytham says. It’s not the first time he’s seen open shock at an apology. “I didn’t know who you were.”

The man takes his hand from the handle of his hatchet – tomahawk, Haytham supposes. “This is our first meeting?”

“So it seems,” Haytham says. He has a son. “You know my name, I take it. May I have yours?”

The man hesitates before he answers. “Connor.”

“Connor? Is that the name your mother gave you?”

“No,” Connor says. “But I do not know if she would have wanted you to know that name.”

It cuts deeper than Haytham would have expected. He takes pains not to let it show.

Would have wanted. So Ziio is dead. A strange grief comes over him, for the death of a woman he will never see again, an unknown number of years in his future.

But not enough years, he thinks, looking at Connor’s young face. Not as many as she deserves.

“You became an Assassin,” he says.

“The Assassins were able to help me,” Connor says. “And you were not there.”

Strange, to suddenly gain a son already grown and being difficult. “But we have some sort of relationship, I suppose, as visitors?”

Connor hesitates. “Some sort, yes.”

Haytham will have to be content with that. He has never pictured a hostile, distant child in his thoughts of being a father, but now it seems hard to imagine any other possibility.

An Assassin. A boy raised, for at least some of his life, by a woman Haytham cannot approach. A visitor, meaning he is likely to intrude on Haytham’s life at the most inopportune moments. This will be a complicated fatherhood, it seems.

He does hope Desmond won’t turn out to be his son as well.

Chapter Text

The Precursor temple can get pretty cold, and they only have sleeping bags, so it feels good to wake up with some kind of heavy, warm blanket on top of him. Slightly less good to realise the heavy, warm blanket is Edward, sprawled over him and fast asleep, with his face buried in Desmond’s neck.

“Edward.” Desmond tries to shift, to get more comfortable, but he’s pretty much totally pinned down. “Edward.”

“Mmph.” Edward flaps his hand vaguely at Desmond, not lifting his head, then lets his hand fall onto Desmond’s face.

He should have kicked Edward out of that hotel bed back in Brazil, before all the others showed up. Of course this was always going to happen. It seems so obvious now.

“Edward, get off me.” With a Herculean effort, Desmond manages to shove him to one side and sits up, still wrapped in his sleeping bag.

Edward sits up as well, looking deeply offended. “A man can’t sleep in peace any more?”

“You can sleep somewhere else. I’m not a bed.”

“If you hadn’t noticed, beds are in short supply around here,” Edward says. “You could provide better for your visitors, you know. Even Altaïr sets aside a blanket when he’s sleeping.”

Desmond has to wonder whether Altaïr got into that particular habit after an experience like this one. “You don’t.”

“There’s space enough in my bed for those that need it,” Edward says, with a shrug. “You see, Desmond, I am a man of generous spirit.”

“I’m just a man who wants to get some sleep,” Desmond mutters, lying down again.

“In any case,” Edward says after a moment, evidently not taking the hint, “I don’t know why you’re only complaining now.”

“I was asleep, remember?”

“Yes, but before then. All the other occasions. You seemed content enough.”

Desmond stares at the ceiling, and then he rolls onto his side to stare at Edward. “How many times, exactly?”

Edward shrugs. “Didn’t realise you wanted me to keep a tally.”

So this has happened before. Enough times for Edward to lose track of, which probably, even taking into account Edward’s frequently inebriated state, amounts to at least three. And Desmond has just... what, never noticed? It seems unlikely.

Which means that Edward is going to wrap himself over Desmond more times in the future, and Desmond is just going to... quietly put up with it?

“I definitely would’ve complained,” Desmond says. “It’s weird.”

Edward sighs, even though Desmond is clearly the only person with a right to do that in this conversation.

“Look,” Edward says, “us visitors, we know each other as intimately as a group of people can. I’ve been with Ezio to the Rosa in Fiore. I’ve seen you showering. And then there’s Shay and Aveline.”

Desmond nods, slowly. There’s definitely Shay and Aveline. More importantly, though, he doesn’t remember Edward ever showing up while he was in the shower, which means that every shower is going to be filled with nervous suspense from now on.

“So I don’t see how you can act like we’re strangers sometimes,” Edward finishes. “If you can’t be comfortable around us, it’s hard to believe you can be comfortable around anyone.”

“So I should let you sleep on me?” Desmond asks. “That’s what you’re saying?”

Edward spreads his hands. “Well, why not?”

“Or I could just put out a sleeping bag for you,” Desmond says.

But he knows he won’t, will he? Not if what Edward’s said is true, about this happening before.

It’s stupid, but... maybe Edward is right. Why not? It was good to wake up warm, for once. It’s good to be here with Edward and feel that he’s not alone, even if he’s just talking to empty space. And it’s not like the others are going to see him snuggling up to an eighteenth-century pirate.

The others in the temple, at least. The other visitors might turn up. But Edward’s right about that as well; it’s not really the worst they’ll have seen of each other.

Yeah, maybe it’s weird. But right now he’s living in an ancient temple, haunted by a cryptic angry hologram. He spends most of his time in the past, one way or another, trying to figure out how to save the world. He’s been kidnapped by an evil pharmaceutical company and mind-controlled into stabbing a friend. If he can’t have ‘normal’, he’ll settle for ‘weird but not bad’.

“Fine,” Desmond mutters, settling more comfortably into his sleeping bag. “Come on. Before I wake up enough to realise this is a bad idea.”

Edward grins.

Chapter Text

Desmond barely has time to register he’s in Venice before Ezio is slinging an arm over his shoulders. “Desmond! I am glad to see you. You must meet my beautiful wife.”

Sofia?

“What?” Desmond asks. “Uh, I don’t know if...”

“Come,” Ezio says, steering him firmly down a side-street. “I promise you, she is the most radiant being you will ever have laid eyes upon.”

That’s what Desmond is afraid of. “I know. I mean – I know she’s beautiful. I’ve already seen her. In the Animus. So you don’t, uh, you don’t need to go to this trouble.”

“But you have not seen her in person,” Ezio says. “You have not met her.”

He can’t meet her. He wishes he could – well, maybe he doesn’t, it’d probably just make things even more complicated, but part of him wishes he could – but he can’t. Not really, not as himself.

Ezio gestures grandly with the arm that isn’t around Desmond. It suddenly strikes Desmond how strange this must look from outside, Ezio walking through Venice with his arm resting on nothing. “And I have told her so much about you! She would never forgive me if I failed to bring you to her.”

“She knows about me?” Desmond asks, startled. His heart kind of stutters; Sofia has talked about him with Ezio. She’s thought about him.

God, he’s so messed up.

“I have kept no secrets from her,” Ezio says. “It would be a lonely marriage if I had to conceal my life as an Assassin, and my friendship with you.”

It’s never really occurred to Desmond to tell anyone about his ‘visitors’; he knows it’d just make them worry. If he ever gets married, will he need to talk about this?

Probably not a question he really needs to think about. He’s too damaged to make a good husband to anyone. Right now, he’s being manhandled by a hallucination of his ancestor through a hallucination of Venice to see a hallucination of his other ancestor who, oh, yeah, Desmond’s kind of in love with. That’s not the kind of baggage that any relationship needs.

“Sofia, my love!” Ezio calls, and Desmond feels like the ground is collapsing under his feet.

Sofia is leaning over a roadside stall, wearing a deep green dress. She turns and gives Ezio a smile, which quickly becomes amused and puzzled. The arm thing must definitely look weird.

“I have someone for you to meet,” Ezio says, gesturing to Desmond.

Sofia laughs. “Oh, I see. Will this one be more talkative than the last?”

“Connor is a little shy,” Ezio admits. “But I am sure Desmond will be happy to tell you of his time.”

“Ah, so this is the famous Desmond?” She curtseys in Desmond’s direction, and for one heart-stopping moment, before he remembers Ezio’s arm, Desmond thinks she can see him. “I am honoured.”

Sofia is talking to him. Not to Ezio in his memories, but to Desmond, knowing who he is. And for a moment all Desmond wants is to do what Ezio is suggesting, to take over Ezio’s body and have a real conversation with her.

But he can’t. He’s pretty sure Ezio wouldn’t want him here if he knew how Desmond felt. Which means that speaking to her, even innocently, would be betraying Ezio’s trust. He can’t do that.

“Can I talk to you?” Desmond asks, quietly.

“But first,” Ezio says, smiling at Sofia, “I’m afraid Desmond and I have a private matter to discuss.”

“Very well,” Sofia says, with a show of disappointment. “But bring him back before he leaves.”

Ezio immediately hauls himself up the side of the nearest building, because in his head apparently the rooftop is a logical place for a private discussion. Desmond quickly clambers up after him. Why can’t any of his ancestors spend five seconds on the ground?

For a moment they stand quietly on the rooftop, side by side. Desmond feels slightly dizzy. He doesn’t know whether it’s the height or just seeing Sofia.

“You do not wish to meet her?” Ezio asks at last.

“It’s not that,” Desmond says, quickly. “It’s not that at all. It’s... kind of the opposite of that, actually.”

He takes a deep breath and prepares himself for the most awkward conversation of his life. And then he takes another deep breath, because it’s easier than actually talking.

“Speak,” Ezio says. “Whatever you have to say, I will listen.”

Okay. Okay. He’s going to say this.

“You know the Animus?” Desmond asks. “The machine that lets me see your memories?”

“I know something of it,” Ezio says.

“Okay. Well, it lets me feel what you’re feeling as well. And...” Is this really happening? Probably not, outside his own head. Somehow that isn’t making this any less uncomfortable. “Some of those feelings... uh, they’re kind of hard to shake.”

Ezio says nothing. Desmond stares very hard at a balcony on the other side of the street.

“I’d love to talk to her,” Desmond says, when the silence gets worse than speaking. “Believe me. But, uh... I wouldn’t feel right about it, if you didn’t know. I mean, obviously I’m not gonna try anything.” There are about fifty reasons why that would be a bad idea, of which ‘in the extremely unlikely event that this actually is real, Desmond could write his own birth out of history’ is a particular highlight. “But I thought you might not want me around her.”

He’s been avoiding Ezio’s eyes, but he’s startled into looking at him when Ezio starts to laugh.

“This is what you were so afraid to tell me?” Ezio asks. “That you are in love with my Sofia? My friend, I would be offended if you were not.”

Desmond blinks. “Uh...”

“Come,” Ezio says, smiling. “No more excuses. You must speak to her properly.”

Chapter Text

They’re in calm waters when Aveline shows up, which is just as well; navigating a storm takes focus, and all the focus goes out of Shay’s head at the sight of her. For a moment he can only stare.

As soon as his mind’s working again, Shay clears his throat and glances over at Gist. “D’you know if docking’s permitted anywhere nearby?”

Aveline breaks into a grin. “Am I correct in understanding that Gist isn’t the one you’re speaking to?”

“Oh, thank God,” Shay breathes. He drops the helm at once and goes straight to her, leaving a slightly bewildered Gist to take over. Hopefully Gist will take the hint and dock them, but for all Shay cares right now he could send them into battle against a man o’ war. So long as he and Aveline aren’t disturbed.

Might be tough not to get distracted when your ship’s being blown to bits around you, but Shay’s prepared to meet that challenge if it comes.

Aveline’s kissing him before they’re even below deck. Some of the men are staring. Shay is vaguely aware that this must look ridiculous. It’s still hard to care.

In his cabin, she hops up to sit on his table. Directly on top of his fleet map. Probably hoping to lure him into damaging it somehow. She’s still an Assassin, after all.

She gestures with exaggerated grace to her leg. He takes it and examines the shin guard.

“You know I have no idea how to take these off,” he says.

“Which is why you need the practice,” she says, with a laugh. “I thought we would never stop missing each other. You’ve had trouble too, I take it?”

Shay groans. It’s not easy to be in a relationship with someone who only sometimes knows it. “Three or four times. I’ve said permitted every time, and you’ve not understood.”

“No understanding, you could say,” Aveline says, smirking.

“You know, I used to wonder why you kept saying that to me,” Shay says, idly tracing the curve of her thigh over her trousers. “Understanding this, understanding that. I thought you were trying to show some secret loyalty to the Templar cause.”

Aveline looks affronted.

“You could’ve just gone with ravish me as your codeword,” Shay suggests. “I promise you I wouldn’t have minded. It might have saved us some time.”

“Codeword,” Aveline says. “It implies a code, doesn’t it? Some level of subtlety?”

“Wasn’t subtle enough for me not to grasp it was a code. I just missed the target with the meaning.”

“Understanding is not an easy word to slip into casual conversation,” Aveline says, narrowing her eyes. “I’d like to see you try it.”

She’s frightening when she looks at him like that, and yet in a way it’s when Shay wants her most.

“It was your choice of word,” he points out.

She sighs. “I know. Permitted seems to have worked well enough; I don’t recall ever noticing you saying it, before I knew its significance.”

“Really?” Shay asks, a little taken aback. It feels like he’s said it unsuccessfully a thousand times. “I was starting to think you’d chosen it deliberately.”

“You thought I’d deliberately give you a codeword I’d heard you saying often?”

Shay shrugs. “Thought it’d amuse you to think of me walking off frustrated every time I said it.”

Aveline starts to laugh. “I wish I had thought of that.”

“And yet I was frustrated all the same,” Shay says. “Stroke of luck for you.”

“You see, Monsieur Cormac, some of us have no need to make our own luck.” She loosens the straps of her collar. “And some of us have luck sitting on the table before them, and yet would prefer to criticise luck’s choice of codewords.”

“I’m understanding you,” Shay says. He has to fight down an apology when she glares at him. “Is there any chance luck could move off that map, though?”

Aveline only raises her eyebrows.

Not a surprise. So now he’s left with a dilemma. Touch her, and risk damaging the map? Or walk away, and... well, he should at least look like he has to think about this.

It looks like the Assassins are going to win this one. When the battle’s between him and Aveline, they usually do.

Chapter Text

“This place is looking lively,” Edward says, looking around at the homestead. More of a success than Nassau, certainly, although he’s reluctant to admit it. “How many are living here now?”

Connor says nothing in response. Barely glances at him. Just keeps speaking to the farming couple.

Edward’s sure the farmers are pleasant enough, but they live here. Who knows when he and Connor will meet next? “I’m talking to you, you know. There isn’t exactly anyone else around I can converse with.”

Connor shakes his head, very slightly. Might be aimed at Edward, but it’s hard to be sure when Connor won’t look at him.

Connor’s always seemed selfconscious about breaking off his conversations to speak to visitors, and he’s always point-blank refused to be seen apparently talking to himself. It seems he’s decided to sidestep the entire issue by ignoring his visitor.

Well, Edward’s never taken well to being ignored. He didn’t become a pirate captain so people wouldn’t pay attention to him. The Assassins, they can move in the shadows or whatever it is they like to do. Edward is going to be seen.

Connor tenses up when Edward puts an arm around him, but he keeps his focus on the couple. He stutters off in the middle of his question about harvesting when Edward ruffles his hair, though.

“Connor?” the woman – Prudence, was it? Edward’s not been paying much attention to their talk, but he thinks he’s picked up that much – asks, looking concerned. “Are you all right?”

Connor shakes his head. “I am fine, thank—” and then Edward tries to tickle him under his ribs, and Connor jerks sharply and whips around to glare.

“Oh, you can see me?” Edward asks.

“Connor?” Prudence asks, alarmed now.

“Forgive me,” Connor says, through his teeth. “I have remembered that I have business elsewhere.”

He stalks away. Edward follows, trying not to smirk too openly.

When they are beneath the shelter of the trees and well out of earshot, Connor turns on him, his expression murderous.

“Good to see you too,” Edward says. “I’m a guest in your home; you’re not going to offer hospitality?”

“I am trying to build a normal life,” Connor growls. “You are making it very difficult for me.”

“You’re not normal,” Edward says. “None of us are. I’m trying to build a life where I can at least have a friendly relationship with you lot, if we’re stuck with each other, and you’re not exactly making it easy.”

Connor stares at him.

“You forced me to abandon my conversation with Warren and Prudence,” he says. “You think I am the obstacle to our friendship?”

All right, maybe Edward should have anticipated that Connor wouldn’t really be in an amicable mood after that. In his defence, though, baiting Connor is hilarious.

“Well, why don’t you show me how making friends is done, then?” As ruses go, he’ll admit it’s not the least transparent.

“Have patience,” Connor says. “If I am busy, wait. I will speak to you. But not when I am with others.”

“You know, you could tell your friends about us,” Edward suggests.

Connor hesitates.

“They would not believe me,” he says. “These people accept me. I cannot risk...” He shakes his head. “No.”

“Is it acceptance, really, if they don’t know who you are?”

“It is enough,” Connor says, with a glare that says the conversation is over. Edward chooses to ignore it.

“I told Mary, and she took to it well enough.” He pauses. “Perhaps too well. Learn from my mistakes: don’t let Ezio into your body when ladies are present.” Although it’s hard to think of Mary as a lady.

Connor closes his eyes for a moment, as if in pain. “He spoke to Myriam before her wedding. It...” He hesitates again. “It was unfortunate.”

Edward laughs. “Oh, I need to hear more about this.”

“I would prefer not to relive it,” Connor mutters.

“Come on. Might make me feel better about my own suffering at his hands.”

Connor sighs. “She still looks at me as if... very well. Perhaps it would be good to speak of it.”

As it turns out, the key to friendship lies in complaining about Ezio. Edward’s not sure why he didn’t guess it before.

Chapter Text

Desmond wakes to the sound of a loud throat-clearing. For a moment he keeps his eyes closed. Yeah, Shaun’s probably about to mock him, but Edward’s arms around him are so solid and reassuring that it’s kind of hard to care.

And then he remembers that Shaun can’t see Edward, and he opens his eyes.

The throat-clearer is Haytham, and somehow the sight of him brings all Desmond’s selfconsciousness rushing back. He extricates himself from Edward, with some difficulty, and rolls away.

Great. He’s still embarrassed, and now he feels cold and lonely as well. But he can’t exactly go back to Edward now. Thanks, Haytham.

“What exactly are you doing?” Haytham asks.

“We’re being companionable, Hat Man,” Edward says, pushing himself up to sit. He looks twice as resentful as Desmond feels. It’s kind of gratifying, actually. “Or we were. You could join us, if you like, but I take it you’re not one to get close to others.”

Which is just as well, really; Desmond’s not sure he’s comfortable with the idea of Haytham joining them. But...

“‘Hat Man’?” Desmond asks.

“He doesn’t know my name,” Haytham says. He looks narrowly at Desmond. “It is to stay that way.”

“Wait, you’re telling me Desmond knows it?” Edward demands. “Why not me? What’s wrong with me?”

“Desmond,” Haytham says, quietly.

“I won’t say anything,” Desmond promises, and then, when Edward turns a wounded look on him, “Sorry. This guy’s scarier than you are.”

“I’m a pirate!” Edward protests. “Terror of the seas!”

“Perhaps you could be less quick to embrace people, if you plan to intimidate them later,” Haytham says. “I don’t imagine it helps. And I’ll remind you that we’re not on the seas.”

Edward shakes his head. “But why just me? What did I ever do to you?”

Haytham pauses.

“I’m a private person, that’s all,” he says. “It isn’t just you, I assure you. Desmond is the only one of us who knows my name.”

Not true. Desmond knows that for a fact. But Haytham is looking pointedly at him, and he knows better than to say anything. It’s probably to make sure Edward doesn’t ask anyone else who Haytham is.

So it is just Edward. Why? Most of the visitors are Haytham’s enemies; why hide from this one guy who isn’t even an Assassin?

“Go on,” Edward says, nudging Desmond. “Tell me. I’ll give you your own ship.”

“You’re offering me an imaginary ship?” Desmond asks, raising his eyebrows.

“A real ship. Tall and proud. If you think it’ll be an imaginary ship, why are you so afraid of Hat Man imaginary killing you?”

Real or not, Haytham is terrifying. “Okay, a real ship. In the past. Where nobody can see me and I can’t actually steer it.”

“Fine,” Edward says. “I’ll let you talk to Mary, if you promise not to kiss her.”

Desmond feels himself flush. “If I... what?”

“It’s a man’s name like any other,” Haytham says, firmly. “Nothing of interest. You’re wasting your time, and endangering Desmond’s life.”

Edward gives him a careful look. “Strange thing to murder for, if it’s ‘nothing of interest’.”

Haytham shrugs. “And yet I’m prepared to murder for it regardless. I suppose I’m a strange man.”

“I’ll know one day, I promise you,” Edward says, and then he disappears.

Haytham looks for a moment at the point where Edward was sitting, then sighs. “I know,” he says, quietly.

“You know?” Desmond asks, even though his common sense is begging him to stay quiet. He’s not sure he wants to draw Haytham’s attention after the threats. But he’s also really curious.

“I had it from Shay,” Haytham says. “He’s spoken to an Edward who knows the truth. Just another inevitability in my life, but I do what I can to delay it.”

“So why’s it so important that he doesn’t find out?”

“You know very well I won’t tell you, Desmond.”

Desmond falls silent. He really wishes he could stop feeling on some level that Haytham is his dad. It was bad enough when he only had one terrible father.

“But it is important to me, regardless,” Haytham says, after a moment. “I appreciate your silence.”

Oh. Wow. Holy crap. That feels really good. Suddenly all Desmond wants to do is run off and join the Templars, just to get some more approval from his fake dad.

“So what were you doing when I turned up?” Haytham asks.

“Like he said,” Desmond says, shrugging awkwardly. Which was... what was it Edward said, again? “Being companionable. Edward kind of insisted on it. It’s not so bad, though.”

“Hmm,” Haytham says. Desmond can’t meet his eyes. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Chapter Text

Aveline would never wish away her visitors, but visiting can occasionally be... inconvenient. Particularly now that she and Shay have settled down in person. Back when they could only know each other as visitors, it was the end of the visit that was the problem. Now...

Well, she and Shay were having an extremely pleasant evening, and she’s unimpressed to find herself suddenly lying on the floor of some sort of... small, rectangular glass-walled room, being rained on.

Warm rain. Hot rain. Indoors?

Yes, this is all very mysterious, but she’s happy to let these mysteries remain unsolved for now. Shay was being very attentive, and she’s very nude, so it’ll probably be best for all involved if she cuts her visit short. Ideally before the other occupant of this room gets through his resigned sigh and actually looks down at her.

Aveline closes her eyes and tries to focus, tries to find that click in her mind that will send her back into Shay’s arms.

But Shay’s arms have done their job a bit too well, it seems. She hasn’t stopped trembling; she can’t concentrate. For a moment she allows herself to be pettily angry with him, although she knows it’s unfair.

And now she’s going to have to go the long way through this visit, which is already not off to an ideal start. She feels naked without her weapons. The fact that she actually is naked doesn’t exactly make her feel clothed, but the lack of weapons is bothering her more. Not that she actually intends to stab any of her visitors; she just likes to keep her options open.

She didn’t really take in who she’d come to see before closing her eyes, but she hopes it’s Haytham; at least his reaction will be amusing. Or another Shay. That would save some trouble.

“Well,” a familiar voice says, “at least I knew this was comoh FUCK—”

There’s a loud crash, and Aveline opens her eyes, alarmed.

Desmond is huddled in the corner of the glass room with his back to her, his arms wrapped over his head.

Poor, poor Desmond. He’s always been the worst of them at coping when it comes to situations like this, so it’s perhaps unfortunate that he seems to drop in on her and Shay more often than anyone else.

The situation’s never been reversed like this, though. Or semi-reversed, at least. He’s just as nude as she is.

Out of courtesy, Aveline tries not to stare. Or to laugh.

“You’re not Edward,” Desmond says, in a sort of squeak.

“Edward?” Aveline asks, sitting up. The rain is still falling. In a way, it’s strangely pleasant.

Desmond curls further into himself.

“You were expecting Edward?”

“I don’t mean – I mean, we hadn’t arranged to meet or anything,” Desmond says, slightly muffled. “And he was gonna have clothes. I mean, I think he was gonna have clothes. He didn’t say.” A pause. “Fuck.” Another pause. “Uh, so where are your clothes?”

“Some distance in the past, I suppose,” Aveline says. “I’m afraid I didn’t remove them for your benefit.”

“No, I get that. I’m really sorry.”

For a moment the only sound is the drumming of the water on the tiled floor beneath them.

“Uh,” Desmond says, very hesitantly, “I think I should probably get out of the shower. And I think that means I have to... I mean, if I don’t want to fall and die...”

She could offer to catch him if he does fall, but she suspects the idea will only distress him more.

“You need to open your eyes?” she asks. “I understand. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, after all.”

Desmond makes an agonised noise. “Why does this keep happening?”

He stands up, keeping his eyes firmly on the wall and his hands firmly over the join of his legs. Aveline takes pity on him and looks away; he’s making such an effort not to look at her, after all.

The water stops, and there’s some rustling, and then a towel hits her in the back of the head. She wraps herself in it and turns to see Desmond in a towel of his own, carefully studying the ceiling.

“You can look,” she says.

He still can’t look straight at her; he sort of looks in her direction, but he keeps his eyes focused on a point slightly to her left. She has to smile.

“Sorry about that,” he says, eventually.

“You had no control over it,” she says. “And you were a perfect gentleman. I’m sorry I wasn’t the man you were waiting for.”

Desmond shakes his head. “God, and I’ve still got that to look forward to.”

There’s a pause.

“Thought you could stop a visit when you wanted,” he says, evidently trying to sound casual. “Did something go wrong?”

There’s a plea in his voice: tell me something went wrong, tell me you didn’t just stick around to watch me squirm.

“It doesn’t always work,” Aveline says, shrugging. He probably doesn’t need to know exactly what the obstacle was.

She could probably leave now, come to think of it. It’s a tempting prospect.

But poor Desmond still looks mortified, and she thinks of the sacrifice he’ll make to save the world, and she can’t bring herself to go yet. She can try to make sure his memory of this visit isn’t just a painful one, at least.

He’s always seemed to enjoy introducing her to the strange new things in the future. She’s tempted to ask about the shower, but she has a feeling that might not help.

“Do you have a computer here?” she asks instead.

Now he looks at her. “What? Not in the bathroom. Why do you need a computer?”

“You mentioned them to me once,” she says. “Years ago. You said they’d take too long to explain.”

“Oh, yeah,” Desmond says. “I think that was last week for me, actually. They haven’t gotten any less complicated since then.”

“Well, we can make a start, can’t we? I’d like to know.”

Desmond hesitates, then shrugs. “Okay. Why not? Rebecca’s next in the shower; we can use her laptop.”

The room through the door is well-lit and warm, a pleasant change from the temple. “We get a hotel room when we really need to wash,” Desmond explains, once Rebecca’s disappeared inside the bathroom and the water is running. He keeps his voice low; Rebecca gave him a very strange look when he came into the room still talking to Aveline.

A ‘computer’, it turns out, is a device that mainly lets you look at cats. Aveline can understand its value as an invention, although she isn’t sure why Desmond and his team need so many of them for their work with the Animus.

The mood’s gone entirely when she eventually does return to Shay, though. At least he understands.

Chapter Text

“Have you heard of this?” Shaun asks, closing the door and tossing a small flat box in Desmond’s direction. “Abstergo’s—”

The box skims the hotel bed, clatters into the bedside table and drops to the floor. Desmond’s fumbled the catch. Of course he has; he’s only got one fucking arm.

For a moment Shaun stares at him. It’s clear that the whole armlessness thing slipped his mind, and for a moment Desmond thinks he’s actually going to get an apology. From Shaun Hastings. But then Shaun shakes his head and starts talking again, while Desmond dives over the bed to retrieve the box.

“Abstergo’s gone into the entertainment business,” Shaun says. “Videogames. Using genetic memories. This young lady’s an eighteenth-century Assassin from New Orleans, and I’m sure Abstergo will have given us an accurate and unbiased view of her life...”

Desmond isn’t listening. Desmond can barely hear a thing over his own heartbeat. Desmond is crouching on the floor, staring at the game box in his hand.

“Desmond?” Shaun comes around the side of the bed. “I’m not explaining this just to hear the dulcet tones of my own voice, you know.”

“Aveline,” Desmond whispers.

“Do you know her?” Shaun asks.

Desmond tears his eyes away from Aveline’s face to look up at him. “You know?”

“Well, the dates are right for her to have met Connor, and you look like you’ve just seen your old girlfriend in the street. Which I, of course, know all about, because I am an expert on having had girlfriends. It’s not the finest piece of detective work ever performed.”

Desmond looks back down at the box, trying to ignore the strange twinge of disappointment in his chest; he thought for a moment that someone else knew about visiting, he thought he’d be able to talk about this with someone who could understand.

“There was an Aveline the Animus couldn’t load properly, actually, wasn’t there?” Shaun asks. “You think this is her?”

Aveline. He thought he’d never see her face again, after he lost his visitors. They have Animus footage for Ezio, Haytham, Connor. They managed to smuggle some Altaïr footage out of Abstergo, too. And he knows Edward’s in his DNA somewhere, so maybe he’ll be able to see him through an Animus sometime, although that could mean letting the Bleeding Effect wreck his mind again. But Aveline... he didn’t think there was any chance.

“Do you have the console for this?” Desmond asks.

“No, I thought I’d just buy a game we wouldn’t be able to play,” Shaun says. “I thought we could just sit around and stare at the box. Which doesn’t really work as a joke, because that’s exactly what you’re doing. It’s starting to get a bit frightening.”

Desmond tries to play Liberation himself at first, but before long he has to admit that he can’t really get through this entire game with only one arm. He settles in to watch it over Shaun’s shoulder instead.

There’s no sign of visiting. Of course there isn’t; Abstergo probably dismissed the visits as Animus glitches. Even if the development team somehow worked out what was really going on, it’d be hard to work one-sided conversations with invisible people into the game logically.

But Shay turns up. The other visitor Desmond thought he’d lost completely.

Aveline’s in Paris in 1776, trying to stop a Templar plot, and she attacks a Templar, and it’s Shay. Desmond hadn’t realised they’d met in person so early.

Their conversation feels a little choppy, probably from Abstergo cutting out all the parts that would only make sense to visitors. But Desmond drinks in every word of it.

They’re not together by now, he’d guess, going by the fact that they’ve been in the same place for more than three seconds and they’re not making out. But... actually, Shay has to be with Aveline by now, right? He must be in his forties. So he’s with her, but she’s not with him? How the hell did they make this relationship work without losing their minds?

He wishes he could ask them.

The database entry on Shay mainly focuses on his defection to the Templars, with the only mention of Aveline a confused footnote saying that they ‘appear to be old friends, although there’s no record of how they met’. (Shaun insists on reading every one of the database entries. “Crafting these things is a thankless task, Desmond, and I’m not going to let this work go unseen just because it’s biased nonsense written by Templars.”)

The mission’s a long and relaxed one, touring Paris with Shay, making conversation, occasionally trying to pickpocket him. Shaun complains about the slow pace and lack of real gameplay. “This is a terrible mission! They obviously only included it because they wanted people to see their heroine cosying up to a Templar! I mean, yes, I’m not surprised that there’s propaganda in a propaganda game, but they could at least have tried to make it a fun propaganda game.”

But it’s exactly what Desmond needs. Seeing his lost friends spending time together, enjoying each other’s company, even if he can’t be there himself.

He finds himself biting back tears. He really doesn’t need Shaun to mock him for this.

Chapter Text

“This is an all-too-familiar sight,” Shay remarks. “What’s that bird carrying that’s going to bring you grief?”

Ezio stays in his crouch, not taking his eyes off the pigeon. It shuffles its feathers a little, and looks around at him, and coos, mockingly. It seems perfectly content to sit where it is, in the middle of the roof, but Ezio knows it’ll take off again the moment he gets near it, the bastard.

“A mission for a new recruit,” he says. “I realised my error the moment I let it loose. The task itself is simple, but the location is a Templar stronghold. Valentina has the makings of a great Assassin, but she is still inexperienced. If she follows those orders, she will die.”

“I see,” Shay says. “But you think you’ve got it in hand, do you?”

“I think pigeons are loathsome birds that flew into this world through the arsehole of Lucifer,” grumbles Ezio.

Shay claps him on the shoulder. “We’ve never been so strongly in agreement, you and I.”

And then Ezio finds himself displaced from his body.

“Shay, what—” Ezio begins, and then he curses. He just outright told a Templar that he was in the middle of very delicate, easily-sabotaged Assassin business. He still forgets, sometimes, that he and Shay aren’t on the same side. It seems such an impossible thing to forget, an insurmountable difference, and yet...

Shay is creeping, very slowly, towards the pigeon.

“I’m a bit of an expert at this by now,” he whispers, in Ezio’s voice. “Don’t get your hopes up too high, though; some of these little bastards are nigh uncatchable. If I can just... ha!”

The pigeon flutters helplessly in his hands.

“But why would you do this for us?” Ezio asks, frowning at it.

“I’m not doing this for the Assassins,” Shay says, detaching the message. The pigeon flies off gratefully, taking nothing but its idiotic pigeon face to headquarters. “I’m doing it for you, and for this Valentina. I could let her go, but all that’d happen is she’d get killed and the job would still get done; you’d send someone else to do it. I can’t stop that. So there’s no point letting her die trying to...” He gets the message open and looks at it. Frowns. “Seduce a Templar’s wife?”

“Valentina is very seductive,” Ezio says.

“Don’t know why I’m surprised; it’s you. Do you ever send out any missions that don’t involve seduction?”

“Regrettably, yes,” Ezio says. “Some problems can only be solved with a death. The Brotherhood and the brothel are very different things, Shay.”

“Both run by Auditores,” Shay says. “Both...” He tails off and waves the piece of paper in his hand.

“Slightly different things,” Ezio allows.

Connor tenses, furious, or as close to furious as he can reach through his grief. Shay. The man who possessed Connor to attack Achilles, the man who—

But Connor’s friends are no safer around the true Connor, are they? Not with Kanen'tó:kon lying dead at his feet.

“Leave,” Connor says. “I do not wish to see you.”

“Easy,” Shay says, holding up his hands. “I’d leave if I could.”

His eyes trail from Kanen'tó:kon’s body to Connor’s wrist, and Connor realises too late that his hidden blade is still extended, the blood not yet cleaned off it.

“He was your friend, wasn’t he?” There’s something soft in Shay’s voice.

Connor feels a need to justify himself, to say he didn’t know this would happen, to say he would give anything for the outcome to have been different, but his throat closes up around the words.

“I do not need pity from a Templar,” he says instead.

“Look,” Shay says, “I know something about losing friends.” He nods towards Connor’s wrist. “Like that. We could talk.”

Connor meets his eyes, and the sorrow and sympathy there make rage flare up inside him.

“You and my father wiped out the Assassins in the colonies,” he says. “But we are rebuilding the Brotherhood. Your friends should never have died, and now you have killed them in vain.”

Shay takes a step back, shock and anger crossing his face, to be replaced by a strange, closed expression.

For a long, long moment they stand there, looking at each other from different sides.

“I think about it all the time,” Shay says at last, quietly. “Whether I did the right thing. Whether it had a point. But I have to believe it was right, or I’ll lose my mind.”

Connor looks down at Kanen'tó:kon, and suddenly all he can see is his own future in what Shay is saying. He draws breath, meaning to say... he doesn’t know what.

Shay is gone when he looks up.

Chapter Text

“Shay!” a voice exclaims, and Shay finds himself being dragged out of the tavern just as suddenly as he found himself in there. “You’ll do. Come on.”

“I’ll do for what?” Shay asks, bewildered.

“I think M—” Edward suddenly cuts himself off, glances around, although nobody’s giving them a second look. Maybe dragging invisible people around is a commonplace sight amongst drunken pirates of the Caribbean. “I think Kidd’ll have my head if I let one more visitor go by without introducing him. One head or another. Going by the behaviour of certain other visitors, I was starting to regret... but you’ll be fine. You’re faithful, aren’t you? I don’t have to worry about leaving you with him, do I?”

Was that supposed to be an explanation? It’s only left Shay more confused.

Shay knows of Kidd; he’s seen him a couple of times before on visits, and he’s heard Edward speak of Kidd with a respect it must have been hard for a lad so young to win. It seems Edward’s told him about the visitors. It’s never really occurred to Shay to talk about them with anyone he knows in person, Haytham excluded, but he can get that far and make sense of things.

The rest of it...

“Faithful?” Shay asks. “Faithful to whom? Or to what?”

Edward freezes. “You’re not there yet?”

Not... where, exactly? Shay has the nasty feeling he’s about to learn of his future. It seems like something best avoided; he’s seen Haytham pacing, dwelling on his death at his son’s hands.

“Faithful to the Templar cause,” Edward says after a moment, to Shay’s relief; he’s there after all. “You wouldn’t kiss an Assassin, would you?”

“What?” Shay asks.

“Wait. Christ. You would, wouldn’t you? Just... don’t kiss Kidd, all right? Promise me.”

Shay takes a moment to go back over that in his mind, check that he’s heard right. “What?”

Edward shrugs. “Mock me if you have to. I won’t see that again.”

“Why are you – why would I – wait, one of us kissed Kidd? Aveline?”

Edward stares at him. “No,” he says, after a moment. “Do you think she would? God, I thought Aveline would be safe, at least. Maybe I should make sure she’s from later on. After...” He gestures to Shay, perhaps hoping that Shay is going to finish his sentence, but Shay hasn’t the slightest idea of where it’s supposed to go.

“I haven’t understood a word you’ve said,” Shay says. “Why would I kiss Kidd? Why is this something that worries you?”

Who kissed Kidd already, if it wasn’t Aveline? Perhaps that’s too intrusive a question. But he’ll sell the Morrigan if it was anyone but Ezio.

Edward brightens. “Those are the questions I like to hear. Come on, then; I’ll happily introduce you.”

Well, Shay knows about men on long voyages. Edward’s a friend, and he’s got precious few of those left, so maybe it’s best not to pry further. There are differences more easily overcome than Assassins versus Templars.

Edward leads him up onto a roof, because of course he does. Shay has occasionally wondered what binds them all together as visitors. Some of them are related by blood, some of them have been viewed through this ‘Animus’ thing, all of them have certain skills of perception, but sometimes Shay’s thought that visiting might just be something you catch if you climb enough buildings.

“Kidd!” Edward calls, as they reach the rooftop. “I hoped I’d still find you here.”

“I’m staking out a warehouse, Kenway,” Kidd says. “It’s not exactly gone on a stroll. What so important that you’re interrupting me?”

“Brought someone new for you to meet,” Edward says. He lights up around Kidd. Shay wonders how he never saw it before. “This is Shay Cormac.” He glances pointedly at Shay. “He’s extremely trustworthy.”

“So this is Shay?” Kidd asks, looking more interested now. “Let’s meet him, then.”

And Shay finds himself in Edward’s body. He’s taken control before – sometimes with permission, sometimes not – but he’s not used to being given it without warning, and the sudden shift in his position and the way he’s holding his weight (and, he quickly realises, the amount of drink he’s taken) leaves him struggling not to fall over.

Kidd watches him, arms folded, until he’s righted himself. “You know how to make a first impression.”

“Shay Patrick Cormac,” Shay says, holding out Edward’s hand, trying to keep any embarrassment out of his voice.

Kidd smirks and takes the hand. “Pleasure.”

As they shake hands, Shay catches sight of the blades at Kidd’s wrists; they’re something he’s always careful to watch for. Suddenly Edward’s ‘you wouldn’t kiss an Assassin’ question makes more sense. Not a lot more sense, but some.

This... this is before Shay’s time, isn’t it? Yes, definitely before; he’s seen a younger Adéwalé here (and his chest tightens as he thinks of the mission this visit has called him away from). There’s no chance Shay will have made a name for himself as a Templar in this time, no way Kidd will have heard of him.

“So,” Kidd says, his eyes narrowing slightly, “Edward tells me you’re a Templar.”

Shay dives out of Edward’s body. This isn’t a conversation he came here prepared for.

“He left?” Kidd asks, watching Edward reel as Shay did a moment before.

“He’s still here,” Edward says, gesturing to Shay. “Just being a coward. She won’t harm you, man! You’d have to be in me; she’s not exactly going to put a blade through my neck, is she?”

“Confident of that, are you?” Kidd asks. “Thought I’d asked you not to call me that in company.”

“Everyone present already knows,” Edward says, waving his hand dismissively. “Or do you think there are more invisible people listening under the eaves?”

“She?” Shay asks, staring at Kidd. Now that he really looks at him... her?...

Edward stares at him for a moment.

“Everyone present already knows or lives in a different time, so they’re not really relevant,” he amends.

“Kenway,” Kidd growls.

“Well, I didn’t know!” Edward protests. “He knew it the last time I met him! How was I to know he’d learnt it here?”

“Even so, you’re not exactly careful to keep it from your visitors, are you? This one’s not that far in the future, you said. He could be around in my lifetime. And he’s a Templar.”

“He might not know the other thing,” Edward says, tapping the blades at his wrists.

Kidd throws up her hands. “Subtle, Edward.”

“I’d sort of guessed the other thing,” Shay says. Edward apparently decides not to relay that to Kidd.

“Just for that, maybe I’ll kiss this one as well,” Kidd says.

Oh.

“Shouldn’t I have a say in this?” Shay asks. Yes, it’s been a while for him, and there’s something about a woman in trousers... but something advises him against involvement with someone he can only see through visiting. And an Assassin, to boot.

She’s dangerously close to being exactly his type, actually: dark-haired, well-muscled, quick on her feet and quick to mock. Probably best not to look directly at her.

“You wouldn’t,” Edward says, staring at Kidd. “You don’t want to. You haven’t seen Shay. He’s hideous.”

“Hey,” Shay protests.

“Good thing he’ll be looking like a dashing pirate captain, then, isn’t it? Now bring him back.”

Edward shakes his head. “No.”

“Shay!” Kidd says, raising her voice. “Come here and talk to me, or I swear I’ll seek you out in my old age and kill you myself.”

Something tells Shay it’s best to take her seriously. He jumps into Edward, leaving the body’s owner protesting noisily in the background.

“That’s you, isn’t it?” Kidd asks. “You don’t have to look so nervous. I’m not actually in the habit of murdering Kenway’s friends.” She considers him. “Templars, on the other hand...”

Shay takes a step back from her. “I have my reasons.”

“We all have our reasons,” she says. “But, like I said, you matter to Kenway, and I’ll never hear the end of it if I kill you.”

Something catches in Shay’s throat at that. When he’s returned to his own time, he’ll be on his way to kill Adéwalé. He tries not to glance guiltily over at Edward.

Is there any way he can avoid it?

“Sounds like you might be in the habit of kissing Edward’s friends, though,” Shay says, mainly for the sake of changing the subject.

Kidd grins. “That’s what you’re so worried about? I just said it for his expression. We can kiss if you’d like, but you’ll need to swap out straight after so I can see his face.”

“Why mistreat me like this?” Edward wails. “What have I ever done? Shay, if you kiss her I’ll – I’ll – I’ll seduce Aveline.”

“What?” Shay asks, completely lost. “Why?”

“I just will, all right? You won’t like it.”

Seduce Aveline? What sort of threat is that?

But he did promise Edward he’d keep his distance from Kidd. Sort of. Although he didn’t really understand the circumstances at the time.

Shay turns back to Kidd. “You seem a fine lady, and I can respect your cause.” (Behind him, Edward groans.) “But I can’t kiss you. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll survive,” Kidd says. “And I’m hardly a ‘fine lady’.”

“Shay,” Edward says, fervently, “you are the best of all the visitors. The very best. You will always be welcome here.”

Shay smiles uneasily back at him, thinking of Adéwalé.

Chapter Text

Ezio knows what is about to happen by the time the fourth visitor appears. All eight of them have gathered before for a number of occasions, some happy, some sorrowful. But usually they all gather to say goodbye.

He is at home in Firenze, sitting in the sunlight. His wife and daughter are in sight. There are worse places.

He sits there, watching Sofia and Flavia, as the visitors gather. Gradually the chatter surrounding him quietens; they are realising why they are there.

Desmond stands apart from the others and watches Ezio for a while. Ezio smiles at him; he glances away. Eventually, though, Desmond approaches, looking uncomfortable.

“Uh,” he says, “thanks. For everything.”

“For the skills you learnt through the Animus?” Ezio asks. “Or for those fine sights when you visited me at the Rosa in Fiore?”

Desmond turns a strange colour, and Ezio laughs.

Does Desmond ever wonder why he attends all their deaths so young? Perhaps not; he still claims to think that none of this is real. And yet why would he feel the need to thank Ezio, if he truly believes that?

He is a strange young man. Ezio will miss him.

Altaïr is the last to appear. He is younger than he usually is at these gatherings, not yet thirty. Ezio is glad to see it. An Altaïr towards the end of his life would not have the strength for what Ezio must ask.

“Altaïr.” Ezio beckons him to sit beside him, and Altaïr does, displacing an indignant Edward.

Ezio puts an arm around Altaïr’s shoulders. Altaïr closes his eyes for a moment, exasperated, but he puts up with it.

“Did you wish to speak?” Altaïr asks at last. “Or am I here to serve as your armrest? Edward would have fulfilled the role, and willingly.”

“He’s right, you know,” Edward puts in, leaning against the side of the bench.

Altaïr does not know what this moment is, Ezio realises. This is the first death he will have seen. Or... not the first death – far from the first death – but the first death of a visitor.

“Altaïr,” Ezio says, quietly, “I am about to die.”

The shock on Altaïr’s face lasts only a moment, before it’s chased out by the stubborn anger he’ll never entirely leave behind. “You cannot know that.”

“I have a request.”

“Live and fulfil your own requests, old man.”

Ezio smiles. He will be sorry to leave behind Sofia, and their children, and this strange collection of travellers who have become a family to him. But he is glad to have them nearby, at the end.

“I do not feel very unwell,” Ezio says. “I do not know what will take my life, but I know it will be sudden. I ask you to take it for your own before it has the chance.”

Altaïr goes very still.

“You ask much of me,” he says, after a long moment.

“Perhaps too much,” Ezio agrees. “But I hope you will allow me a moment of selfishness in my old age.”

“Ezio,” Haytham says, sharply. “Your wife and daughter—”

Ezio looks instantly over at Sofia and Flavia. This is his fear – that his coming death will be at the hands of an enemy, that they might be in danger. But they are safe, they are laughing as they look over the stalls.

“They are strong,” Ezio says. “They will weep, but they will survive. I would stay if I could.”

“If Altaïr kills you, it will look like you’ve stabbed yourself,” Haytham says. “Do you want them to spend the rest of their lives wondering why?”

Ezio’s breath catches.

No. He has known for a long time how he would like his life to end, but... no. That is not a burden he can leave them with.

He looks to Altaïr. “When death comes upon me, I would like you to hold me, if you can.”

Altaïr nods, looking relieved. “Of course.”

And when the pain comes and Ezio clutches at his chest, he feels Altaïr easing him gently off the bench. He feels warm arms around him, lips pressed briefly to his forehead, and he cannot see who has taken his hand with their own, but he knows that, whoever it is, it is a friend.

Chapter Text

It takes Desmond a long moment to make any sense of what he’s seeing.

Ezio. Okay. Making out with someone. Okay. So far, so normal, for a world where ‘normal’ can include seeing your fifteenth-century Italian ancestor in eighteenth-century American woods.

Ezio is making out with a dude. Less expected, but still not that surprising in the ‘hanging out with your ancestor in a time that doesn’t belong to either of you’ grand scheme of things.

Ezio is making out with himself.

That’s definitely weird, right? No matter what the situation, there’s no way that’s not weird.

Ezio moans into Ezio’s mouth and pulls him closer. Desmond drags his eyes away and sees Haytham and Connor standing nearby, watching the scene with almost identical expressions of distaste. They’ve never looked more like father and son than they do in this moment.

Desmond edges closer to them. “You can see this as well, right?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Connor says.

“I didn’t think we could visit ourselves.” Well, yeah, this is all Desmond’s own stupid hallucination, but his stupid hallucination has rules. It feels weird when it suddenly veers off-track.

“Ezio is not visiting himself,” Haytham says, “as you’d have realised if you paid any attention to our surroundings. He is visiting me, and he is visiting Connor. The timing is... unfortunate.”

“Ezio doesn’t seem to think so,” Desmond says. “Ezios? Ezios don’t seem to think so?”

Haytham gives him a strange look that quickly turns thoughtful. “It’s Italian,” he says, after a moment. “Ezii, perhaps.”

Desmond’s learnt to look away quickly when he drops in on his ancestors in compromising situations, but somehow it’s hard to tear his eyes away from the Ezii or Ezios. Who meets himself and decides this is the logical next step? Ezio, apparently. Somehow, Desmond finds he isn’t actually that surprised.

“Was there any kind of... lead-up?” he asks, out of some kind of terrible curiosity.

“Desmond,” Haytham says, “am I giving any indication whatsoever that I’d like to discuss this?”

The situation’s weird enough to mostly override Desmond’s normal feelings of paralysing embarrassment at scenes like this, at least. Or maybe they’re just eased by the solidarity in knowing that Haytham and Connor are standing next to him, equally unhappy.

What’s the largest number of visitors who could all meet up in person? There’s a while when Haytham, Connor, Aveline and Shay are all alive at once, he’s pretty sure. So would it be possible for Ezio to visit all four of them while they’re in the same place?

Okay, he really doesn’t need to start picturing some kind of Eziorgy. (Particularly as, if it ever happens, he’s pretty much guaranteed to see it.) He drags his mind back to... yeah, okay, two Ezios making out, which is not a huge improvement, but it’s something.

Is this meant to be saying something about his subconscious? If so, he really doesn’t want to know what it is. The constant parade of nude visitors has given him enough to worry about.

Speaking of nudity... whoa, okay, it’s definitely time to look away now.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Haytham mutters, averting his eyes as well.

“Father,” Connor says, suddenly. “I know how we can stop them.”

“I’ve attended Ezio’s death, Connor, and unfortunately it will take place far too late to curtail this undignified scene.”

“We can move apart,” Connor says. “One Ezio will have to stay with you, one with me. They will not be able to remain close to each other.”

Haytham stares at him for a moment.

“Occasionally, Connor,” he says, eventually, “you are all I could ask for in a son.”

“Father?” Connor asks. It’s hard to miss the strain in his voice.

Haytham is already striding away. Connor and Desmond watch him go.

Desmond kind of really needs to hear that from Haytham himself. He tries not to think about it.

Not thinking about it becomes considerably easier when both Ezios break out into noisy protests, which at least is an improvement on the noisy arousal.

“No!” shouts one Ezio, older by perhaps a decade, as he stumbles backward over the soil. “No, not this again! Desmond, call Haytham back here.”

“Uh,” Desmond says, “I’d love to, but...”

“Connor, follow him!”

Connor only shakes his head. The older Ezio doesn’t pursue it, maybe because he knows it’s hopeless; he’s already seen this from the other side, after all.

“Why would he choose this moment to leave?” the younger Ezio demands, straining at the invisible barrier keeping him close to Connor. “Does he not realise this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity?”

The older Ezio smiles nostalgically. Haytham has stopped moving, and so he has too; apparently Haytham is content to leave the two of them within conversing distance. “Ah, but the beauty is that you already know it will be twice.”

A smile breaks out across the younger Ezio’s face as well.

Fine. So long as Desmond only has to see it once, that’s fine.

Three days later, he pays an ill-timed visit to Aveline (or possibly Shay) and sees himself on the other side of the bed, visiting Shay (or maybe Aveline; they’re far too close to each other to tell). His future self gives him a look of deeply unhappy sympathy.

Chapter Text

“Ah, he’s awake!”

It’s a familiar voice. From home, he thinks. Did he get so drunk he somehow sailed all the way to Wales without realising it? But what are the chances of that happening twice?

He opens his eyes. He’s on the floor of his cabin, and...

Oh. Turns out it’s his own voice. Because his body’s standing a few feet away from him, which it doesn’t really have any right to be doing.

And next to it...

“Mary?” Edward asks, scrambling to his feet. She’s here as Kidd, though, so it’s no surprise she ignores him. He tries again. “Kidd?”

But no, she can’t hear him, of course.

So who’s in his body? Ezio? God, he hopes not; they could have been getting up to anything while he’s been sleeping off the rum.

“I was just speaking to Monsieur Kidd,” the other Edward says, slightly giving it away. Now that Edward’s listening for it, he can hear a hint of Aveline’s accent in his voice. Wales by way of... wherever Aveline’s from. France? That’s not right, is it? Somewhere French, anyway.

Aveline should be one of the safer visitors. But, just to be sure... “Kidd’s a woman, you know.”

Aveline laughs and looks back at Kidd. “You were right. He’s very keen for me to know.”

“You’d think I’d had the lot of you, the way he acts,” Kidd says. “I only kissed Ezio. So far, at least.”

“‘You were right’?” Edward echoes. “What have you been saying about me? And – and why are you in my body?”

“You were asleep,” Aveline says. “Or perhaps ‘unconscious’ would be better. Kidd was here. I wanted to meet this person you always spoke so highly of.”

“Don’t say that in front of her!” Edward protests, as Kidd smirks. “You couldn’t have woken me up?”

“You told me I should feel free to take over if you were ever in a drunken stupor,” Aveline says. “You said you trusted me to look after your body better than you, at such times.”

“I definitely never said that.” Maybe it’s true, but he never said it.

Aveline shrugs. “In that case, I suppose you’ll tell me in your future. Impressed by my behaviour on this occasion, I’m sure.”

Edward hesitates. “Well, if I said you could... wait, how do I know you’re not just making this up?”

It’s strange to see Aveline’s grin on his own face.

“Aveline.”

“I did try to wake you,” she says. “Given that I couldn’t, I thought Kidd would be better company.”

All right. That’s fair. He probably wouldn’t mind someone taking him over under normal circumstances; it’s just that, given previous events, he’d like to know exactly how his visitors are behaving around Kidd. But Aveline’s all right, isn’t she?

“And you’ve just been... talking, have you?” he asks.

Aveline starts laughing again, and repeats his question to Kidd. Edward is definitely not giving her drunken takeover permission in his future.

“What else would we have been doing, Kenway?” Kidd asks, innocently.

“Here we are in his cabin,” Aveline says. “A fine, soft bed just there. This body’s much the worse for wear, and you must have been exhausted after dragging him all the way from the tavern. Perhaps he thinks we might have needed some sleep?”

Edward stares at them in mounting horror. Can he really not let anyone near Kidd? “She’s a woman! You’re both women!”

“He would like to remind us that we are women,” Aveline reports. “He seems very concerned that we’ve forgotten.”

“That so?” Kidd asks. Edward really wishes she didn’t enjoy his suffering quite so openly. “Seems to me there’s no one here but us gents.”

“In any case,” Aveline says, turning back to Edward, “what business is it of yours what Kidd does? Aren’t you married?”

Caroline. Bold and beautiful, and so far away.

“I am,” Edward says. “To the most magnificent woman. But that’s nothing to do with – it’s the principle of the thing, it’s what people are doing with my body! And don’t think I don’t know about the whole business with you and Gérald and Shay!”

Aveline stares at him.

“Me and Gérald and Shay?” she asks, after a moment.

“I know that look,” Kidd says, watching her. There’s a hint of concern in her expression, which at least is an improvement on the open delight at Edward’s misery. “Is Kenway giving out secrets again?”

“Me and Gérald and Shay?” Aveline repeats to herself, quietly. “But... no.” She looks up at Edward. “Shay is a Templar now.”

Oh. This is an early Aveline.

In his defence, it’s not as if he could have judged her age; she’s wearing his face.

“If he’s said something that troubles you, best to forget it,” Kidd says. “It’ll be nonsense anyway. The amount of shit that comes out of Kenway’s mouth, it’s a wonder there’s any left for his arse.”

“Unfair and untrue,” Edward objects, before catching sight of Aveline’s conflicted expression. Maybe it’s best not to be too firm on this. Especially as Kidd can’t even hear him. “Somewhat untrue.”

“You were inventing things?” Aveline asks, focusing on him instantly.

Edward shrugs. “Perhaps you’d touched a nerve. Forgive me if I tried to throw something back.”

She’s still frowning, just a little. “But then why would you mention Shay? Why not... Ezio? Someone more plausible?”

“If you think it’s implausible, why let it worry you?”

“I don’t know.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Have you seen his future? Does he come back to us?”

“The Assassins?” Edward asks. Should he talk any more about the future? She already knows Shay’s a Templar; it’s probably safe for her to know he’s going to stay one, right? “Don’t think so. Sorry.”

She lets out a long breath.

“But he’s all right, you know,” Edward says. If he puts in a good word for Shay with Aveline now, can he take the credit for all their future happiness? “He’s a friend to me, whatever side of your conflict he’s on. And he behaved himself with Kidd.”

Aveline smiles a little at that. Shares a glance with Kidd, then looks back at Edward. “You’re truly worried about what might have happened, aren’t you?”

“Oh, we’re back to me?” Kidd asks. “Best if we leave him wondering, I’d say.”

Edward throws up his hands. “Fine. Not that I care. I’m very fortunately married. And this isn’t going to be a situation like you and Gérald and Ezio.”

Aveline laughs, the frown clearing from her face at last. Maybe she won’t dwell too much on his slip-up.

Or maybe she will, and he really can take credit for her and Shay. He’ll have to ask her in her future.

Chapter Text

Connor never saw his quest ending this way. But here he is, sitting at an inn table, silently sharing a drink with Charles Lee.

They both know that Lee will not leave this place alive. Considering Connor’s condition, perhaps neither of them will.

There’s a movement at the corner of Connor’s vision, but he refuses to take his eyes off Lee. A moment later, someone walks into his line of sight.

It’s his father.

Of course his father is here, at the end.

Haytham’s eyes travel from Connor to Lee. “This is 1782, isn’t it?”

Connor nods. Perhaps he had the year from Desmond. Or a future Connor, although Connor finds it hard to envision anything past this moment.

Haytham sighs. “Very well.”

A moment later Connor finds himself standing against the wall, where Haytham was a moment before. Haytham, in Connor’s body, touches his fingers to Connor’s side and winces at the blood on his hand.

“Father, what are you doing?” Connor asks.

Haytham ignores him. “Charles.”

Lee frowns slightly at the address.

“There are things that have gone unsaid between us for a very long time,” Haytham says. “Perhaps it’s cowardice to leave them until this moment. You have served the Order loyally and well. But you attacked a boy in the woods many years ago.”

He doesn’t sound like Connor. He sounds like Haytham. He’s speaking carefully, deliberately bringing Connor’s voice as close to his own as he can. It’s strange and unsettling to Connor, watching himself speak with his father’s voice.

“You may not have realised it,” Haytham says, “but I was there that day. It put a certain strain on our relationship.”

Lee is shaking, his eyes wide.

“Don’t,” he whispers. “Kill me, if that’s what you’re here for. But not as him.”

Haytham shakes his head. “No, it’s useless to talk about this. It’s far too late. Forget I spoke of it.” He lifts the knife from the table. “You’ve always been dear to me, Charles, but there are people dearer. I do not do this without regret. Goodbye.”

“Father, no!” Connor cries.

Haytham pauses with the blade halfway to Lee’s throat.

“You would kill a friend just to rob me of my revenge?” Connor demands.

“I would kill a friend for a number of reasons,” Haytham says. “You’ve killed both friends and... enemies, before, and it’s clear they weigh on you. Do you think you’ll walk away happy, having killed a man who clearly has no intention of fighting back? He has to die for you to be free, but his death would be a burden on your conscience. Let that burden fall on someone better equipped to carry it.”

He’s still gripping Lee by the collar. Lee is shaking his head, his eyes closed tightly. “No,” he whispers. “No. It’s impossible. I thought we... I always tried...”

Connor, watching, feels a strange twinge of compassion for this man he has hated for as long as he has known what hatred is.

“Besides,” Haytham adds, with a grimly resigned smile, “I understand I’m dead by this point, so at least his loss won’t cost me his support.”

Lee whimpers.

“Father,” Connor says, “this man spoke at your grave. He loved you. To let him die thinking it was by the hands of your spirit...”

“It would be more or less accurate, wouldn’t it?” Haytham asks, his eyes on Lee.

“It would be cruel,” Connor says. “I came here to kill Lee. I did not come to kill him cruelly.”

Haytham pauses.

“I was there when he attacked you,” he says. “As a visitor. Do you remember?”

Connor’s throat constricts; it always does when he thinks of that moment. He nods.

Haytham focuses again on Lee. “You could not have known the boy in the woods was my son, Charles,” he says. “But you could not have failed to know he was a child.”

Lee swallows, and opens his eyes. “M-Master Kenway?” he asks, his voice shaking so badly he can barely get the words out.

“I’m sorry our last meeting couldn’t be under better circumstances.”

“You saw... you knew about the boy?”

“I’ve seen a great many things.”

Lee lets out a shaking breath.

“So you’ve hated me all these years,” he says.

Haytham’s expression softens, just slightly.

“I hated your actions that day,” he says. “I’ve always had great faith in you, Charles. If my desires were the only ones at play here, you would lead the Order until long after my death. But my son will never be at peace if you live, and he will never be at peace if he kills you.”

“I can make my own decisions,” Connor says, hard-edged.

Haytham looks up at him and seems about to say something sharp for a moment, but then he sighs. “Very well. You never were one for obedience, even when your father lived. Naïve of me to think I could have any real influence in your life when I no longer had any real presence.”

“I will end this myself,” Connor says.

“Of course you will,” Haytham says. “And it will haunt you, and you’ll speak to no one about it. But it’s your decision, of course.”

Connor shakes his head. “It will haunt me less than it would haunt you. I do not believe you could kill a friend and feel nothing.”

Haytham smiles, very slightly. “Perhaps,” he says. “But I understand a father is supposed to protect his son. I’ve done rather a poor job of it so far.”

Connor hesitates.

“I will end this,” he says, again.

Haytham nods, and a moment later Connor finds himself back in his aching body. Haytham pauses by the wall, then walks around the table to place a hand on Connor’s shoulder. Connor could shrug it off, but for some reason he doesn’t.

Connor looks at Lee, at his trembling hands, at the pain and fear in his expression. He won’t meet Connor’s eyes.

“My father will not harm you,” Connor says. “He cared for you, whatever you might have done.”

Lee looks instantly at him. “You’re not...?”

Connor leans forward.

“My name is Ratonhnhaké:ton,” he whispers in Lee’s ear. “I am the child you almost killed twenty years ago.”

Relief floods Lee’s face. He grips Connor’s sleeve. “Thank you.”

Connor nods, and lifts the knife.

Chapter Text

“Edward!” Shay exclaims. “Thank God. I was afraid for a moment you’d be Aveline.”

“On the Jackdaw?” Edward asks, amused. “Had a falling-out, have you? I’ll give you shelter as long as you’re here.”

Shay frowns slightly. “We haven’t fallen out. Or... no more than usual. I mean, she’s still an Assassin, and I’m...”

“What’s the issue, then?” Edward asks.

A long hesitation. “It’s hard to explain.”

Edward gestures expansively to the sea around them, his other hand still on the tiller. “We’ve nothing ahead of us but a long sail and my men giving me strange looks. I can take the time to listen.”

It looks for a moment as if Shay’s about to say something, but then he shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Look,” Edward says, “something’s not right. If all were well, you’d want nothing more than to visit Aveline.”

Shay turns strangely pale at that. “Oh, God, have I been that unsubtle?”

Edward laughs. “If you wanted it to be a secret, you’re worse at keeping secrets than I am.”

“You think she knows? God, no, don’t tell me.”

It’s possible, Edward suddenly realises, that this is Shay from before his relationship with Aveline.

“It’s been unbearable,” Shay says. “And the worst thing is I can’t stop hoping. I mean, maybe there could’ve been something there, back when we were both Assassins, but...” He shakes his head, fiercely. “We’re on different sides.”

How to approach this?

“Maybe she’s not as averse to the idea as you might think,” Edward says.

Shay groans. “I don’t need you giving me more hope. I need you to... to take my mind off her.”

“I mean it,” Edward says. “I was there in that cave, remember? Have you been through that yet? She certainly seemed eager to share her body heat with you.”

“So did you,” Shay points out, which, to be fair, is true. He closes his eyes for a moment, as if in pain. “That wasn’t the last time, either. Fell asleep on a freezing night, woke with her pressed against my back. That was hard. Difficult, I mean. And knowing she’d done it out of kindness, and I was repaying her with such thoughts...”

Edward is starting to feel it’s a miracle the two of them ever got past this stage. “Adé, take the helm. I’ve a friend who needs consoling.”

“There is nobody there,” Adé says, with the flat despair of a man who’s said it thirty times before.

Edward ignores him and follows Shay to the side of the ship.

“She keeps changing in front of me, too,” Shay mutters. “I try not to look, but she’ll always ask me to fasten her gown if I’m around. I need some excuse to refuse. I swear I’ll lose my mind if it happens once more.” He leans back against the rail and presses his face into his hands. “How can the world torment a man like this?”

Edward very nearly shouts at him. This man is an idiot, and Aveline is twice the fool for choosing him out of all the visitors at her disposal. But he takes a breath, and tries to adopt the role of the supportive friend who doesn’t necessarily know Shay’s future but does, at least, have the faintest idea of how human interaction works.

“The world’s not tormenting you, mate,” Edward says. “She’s tormenting you. And it’s likely you’re tormenting her just as much.”

“What d’you mean?”

“These things aren’t happening by accident, Shay. You always say you make your own luck; how is it you don’t see when someone’s trying to hand you armfuls of the stuff?”

Shay hesitates for a long moment. “You’re not saying she...”

“Say it never occurred to you and I’ll throw you overboard,” Edward says. “How do you steer the Morrigan when you’re as blind as your own backside?”

“She’s just... she’s friendly,” Shay says. “She’d be the same with any of you. She’s able to put aside our differences enough to see me as a friend. I should be satisfied with that.”

Enough. Whatever the consequences of letting Shay know what awaits him, they’ll be better than the consequences of listening to this for a moment longer.

“Last time I visited you was in your future,” Edward says. “It looked to me like you’d worked things out with her. Honestly, save yourself some anguish and kiss her next time you see her.”

Shay stares at him for so long Edward starts to wonder whether he’ll ever get around to reacting. Eventually, though, he almost flinches away, shaking his head. “You’re trying to make a fool of me.”

“Aveline’s a friend, just as much as you,” Edward says. “You think I’d push you at her if I thought she didn’t want you? Besides, you’d end up bleeding your life out in the gutter. Wouldn’t amuse me as much as you seem to think.”

“Then you didn’t see what you thought you saw. Honest mistake, maybe, but it can’t be true. She knows I’m a Templar. She wouldn’t.”

“Hard to mistake. The last time I visited, I promise you, you were so far inside her I doubted you’d find your way out.”

There’s a pause. Shay opens his mouth and then closes it again.

“Vivid,” he says, eventually. “Thanks for that.”

“Ah, Shay!”

Shay freezes, his eyes going wide. For a moment, Edward genuinely thinks he’s about to fling himself off the side of the Jackdaw.

“And Edward,” Edward says. “Not that it matters.”

Aveline laughs. “Yes, of course. Sorry, Edward. So what were you... Shay?”

“I’m fine,” Shay says, instantly.

“We were just discussing ships,” Edward says, tempting as it is to tell her every word of Shay’s ridiculous self-pity.

“I’m sorry I missed it,” Aveline says. “I’d like to improve my understanding of... Shay, you don’t look well.” She lifts a hand to his cheek. Shay takes a step back and looks pleadingly at Edward.

Edward draws a deep breath in through his teeth, then seizes Shay’s arm and begins dragging him across the deck. “I am going to lock both of you in my cabin, and you are going to stay there until—”

But Shay vanishes as he’s speaking. Edward frowns. He was looking forward to seeing it, too.

Aveline looks like she’s trying very hard not to laugh. “Shay from before?”

“Shay from before,” Edward confirms. “How did you have the patience?”

She shakes her head. “In all honesty, I’m not sure. But I’m glad I can still visit him at this stage. It’s always a pleasure to see the look on his face.”

Edward laughs. “You’re a cruel woman.”

Aveline only smiles.

Chapter Text

“You are now a Templar, harbinger of a new world,” Haytham says, smiling at Shay. A fellow Templar will be a very welcome addition to this cluster of time-travelling Assassins he’s inexplicably found himself saddled with. “May the Father of Understanding guide us.”

Shay smiles hesitantly back at him. “May the Father of Understanding – Master Kenway!”

The last two words come sharp and urgent, and just too late. Haytham is thrown out of his body. He hadn’t noticed a visitor; he usually tries to stay on his guard, but he was so distracted by suddenly meeting Shay in person...

“Leave!” Shay snaps at the men around the table.

Charles narrows his eyes. “Don’t think that joining our order gives you any authority over—”

“We can discuss this later, go!”

“Who is it?” Haytham asks, urgently.

“It’s Altaïr, he’s young – leave, all of you! It’s not safe here!”

“So you turned your back on our cause,” Altaïr, in Haytham’s body, growls at Shay.

Shay is pale, but he stands his ground. “Your cause turned its back on me.”

Charles draws his pistol at once. “Cormac means to betray us? I knew we couldn’t trust an Assassin.”

“Charles, no!” Haytham shouts, although of course Charles won’t be able to hear him.

In a strange way, though, Altaïr rescues Shay from his men; in almost one motion he steps up onto the table and leaps off it, slamming Shay to the floor, pinning him down. Suddenly none of the assembled Templars can shoot; they’d risk hitting the man they think is their Grand Master.

“Make peace with your god, if you have one,” Altaïr says. “Pray that he looks kindly on traitors. Or fight back and kill your Grand Master, and let his followers deal with you afterwards. It’s your choice.”

It’s possible to overthrow a visitor’s control at moments of high emotion, Haytham knows. But it’s something he has yet to master himself. Maybe a lifetime spent suppressing emotions has made it hard to call on them when he really needs them. His false body is tense, his mind working furiously, but it isn’t enough. Even now, with the danger of losing Shay, all he can do is watch.

Or... perhaps not all he can do. He’s unable to make himself seen or heard to the Templars watching the scene; he’s essentially become a visitor to his own body.

But visitors can touch each other. And he still has weapons, exact replicas of the ones Altaïr has taken from him. He doesn’t know whether he can truly use them, as a visitor, but he can try.

Haytham sprints across the room and seizes his own body from behind. Presses his hidden blade to its neck.

There’s cursing from the men around them. But they can’t see this, can they?

Altaïr gives a short laugh, or something close to it. “Do it, then. Cut your own throat to save a man with no loyalty.”

“Don’t, Master Kenway,” Shay says, instantly. “I’m not worth your life.”

“Surely that’s my judgement to make, Shay,” Haytham says. “Altaïr, I’ve spoken to you in your old age. We didn’t see eye to eye, you’ll be unsurprised to hear, but you were reasonably respectful. I hope that was respect born of a long life of reluctant acquaintance, rather than regret at killing me long ago.”

“I do not regret the deaths of Templars.”

“Is that so?” Haytham asks. Perhaps this is the answer: distract Altaïr, keep him talking, until the visit ends of its own accord. The trouble is that visits can vary wildly in length; he can only hope this is one of the shorter ones. “I’ve seen you with your targets. Your words may be harsh, but nobody has ever murdered so tenderly. Look how you’re holding Shay.”

Altaïr hesitates. Just for a moment, but it’s enough for Haytham to know his words have had some sort of impact. “They die because they must.”

“They die because you kill them,” Haytham says. “Here we are, half a millennium after your time. How will the deaths of two far-future Templars benefit you?”

“There are Assassins I know in your time. Your deaths will benefit them.”

“You’re speaking of Connor,” Haytham says. “And...” He looks to Shay. He still doesn’t know the name of the female visitor; they’ve only ever conversed with their blades.

“Aveline,” Shay says, quietly.

“The situation may be more complicated than you realise,” Haytham says. “Connor is an Assassin, yes. But...” He pauses. This isn’t information he particularly wants others to know. But there is much at stake, and perhaps Altaïr will hesitate to slay the father of an ally. “But he is also my son.”

Shay stares at him, the immediate danger apparently forgotten. “What, really?”

Haytham grimaces and nods.

“Very well,” Altaïr says, after a long moment. “Out of respect for Connor, I will not kill you.” He narrows his eyes at Shay. “And what of you, traitor?”

“Some reason Connor or Aveline might mourn me?” Shay asks. “Er...”

And then Haytham finds himself back in his own body at last, holding Shay in that curious way Altaïr does, as if the line between enemy and lover is so thin that he can’t distinguish the two.

Right. First things first. “Can you see Altaïr?”

“Oh, thank Christ,” Shay says. “Not from this angle. Welcome back, sir.”

Haytham almost stands up, but then he remembers that the room is full of armed men who might still think that Shay is a traitor to the Templars. He looks around cautiously, still keeping Shay pinned to the floor. There’s no sign of Altaïr. For now, they’re safe.

“Master Kenway?” Charles asks, uneasily.

“Nobody is to harm Shay,” Haytham says at once.

“Acknowledging us again, sir?” Gist asks. “What was that performance?”

“What performance, exactly?” Haytham asks. “What was I doing?”

“Curious question,” Gist says, raising his eyebrows. “You attacked our newest recruit, for one thing. And then it looked like you were doing your damnedest to stab yourself. Adding some theatricality to proceedings?”

“Assassins,” Shay says. “Using a Piece of Eden. They were researching it when I left. They thought it could be used to control their enemies. Guess they figured out how to make it work.”

Gist looks relieved. “So you’re one of us after all, Captain?”

“So he claims,” Charles says. He hasn’t lowered his gun.

“I can corroborate it,” Haytham says. “I had no control.”

It wrenches him to say it; he goes to such effort to put across a controlled front, and now he’s been made to look weak in the eyes of his men. He’ll have to repay Altaïr for this at the first opportunity.

“Looks like you managed to fight it off, though,” Shay says. “I’m grateful, sir. They’ll need to find a way to restore the artefact’s energy, so we should be safe for now.”

It’s a helpful addition; it’s a story that explains their fight, but won’t necessarily plunge the entire Templar order into a panic over mind-controlling Assassins. Shay really will be a valuable addition to the order, it seems. Haytham is glad he’s come out of this debacle alive.

“I’m sorry, Shay,” he says. “I should have been on my guard.” He can fight off attempts to take over his body when he knows to expect them; it’s getting it back that’s the trouble.

“No harm done,” Shay says, shrugging as best he can in his position. “Is...” He hesitates, looking around at the assembly of very confused Templars.

“Can Shay and I have a moment alone, please?” Haytham asks.

“You’re sure it’s safe?” Gist asks. Haytham takes note of the fact that it isn’t clear which of them he’s addressing. Is his loyalty still to the Templar order, or has it shifted to Shay itself? Still, if Shay is loyal, it shouldn’t be a problem either way.

“I’m sure,” Haytham says, getting to his feet at last. “Leave us.”

Once they’re alone, Shay climbs to his feet as well and stretches. Sits on the table. Gets off it again when Haytham gives him a look.

“What was it you wanted to say?” Haytham asks, although he has an idea.

“Is Connor really your son?”

Haytham nods. “It’s a story I feel I’m still piecing together myself. But yes, he is.”

Shay gives a long, low whistle.

“Do not tell the others,” Haytham says.

“They might have it from Altaïr.”

“They might,” Haytham says. “But I ask you to stay quiet about it anyway. As a gesture of loyalty to me, even if only a symbolic one.”

“Aye, I can do that,” Shay says. “Shame I’m nothing to Aveline or Connor. It’d be good to have a defence if Altaïr comes back for me.”

Haytham shakes his head. “Don’t form connections to Assassins, Shay. Take my word for it: it’ll bring you nothing but grief.”

“Don’t need you to tell me that,” Shay mutters. “And here we are, miraculously linked across time to what feels like a thousand of them.”

Chapter Text

He can feel the tingle of visitation in the back of his head.

But he can’t actually see who’s visiting on a cursory glance around. That means the visitor is trying to conceal himself, which is rarely a positive sign. It’ll be Altaïr, most likely, waiting to interfere the moment Haytham has Templar business to attend to.

Haytham walks swiftly out from the cover of the trees. First point of order when dealing with Assassins: move away from anything climbable.

He hasn’t gone far when there’s a thud and a hiss of frustration behind him; the limited range of visitation has forced his guest out of the branches, it seems. Haytham turns around.

Aveline springs to her feet, looking livid.

“Aveline.” Haytham nods to her. “You’re not hurt, I trust? I’m working alone today, I’m afraid.” Which is probably for the best; things tend to get rather messy if she visits Haytham while Shay is present.

Aveline’s eyes narrow. “Who gave you that name?”

Ah. He’s making his father’s mistake. This is an early Aveline, one from before Shay.

Which means that she and Haytham haven’t yet struck their truce for Shay’s sake.

Haytham’s eyes flick down to the machete in her hand.

“I’d prefer not to fight you,” he says.

“Afraid of a single Assassin?” she asks. She takes a step towards him. “After all the ones you’ve slain?”

This is troubling. Haytham is bound by his word, and by the fact that Aveline... well, he no longer thinks of her as an enemy, or as solely an enemy, although he’s unsure of how far her view has softened in return. If she attacks, he will defend himself, but he’s loath to do her harm.

“I’ve spoken often with you in your future,” he says. “We’re... friends, of a sort.”

Aveline laughs. “You expect me to believe that?”

But she hasn’t come any closer. And there’s a hint of uncertainty in her tone now. Barely a trace, but it’s enough. Haytham knows how to read people; he would make a poor leader of men otherwise.

“You don’t think it impossible.” It surprises him, but he endeavours to keep that out of his voice.

“So am I a Templar, in these future visits?”

It’s said scornfully, and yet the way she’s looking at him now...

She’s waiting. She wants an answer, doesn’t she? This isn’t a rhetorical question; she thinks they might actually meet as fellow Templars in her future. Haytham knows Madeleine de l’Isle hoped to bring her into the order; he had not realised she would apparently come close to succeeding.

Does Shay know that Aveline had doubts over her allegiance at some point? Perhaps; he’s always refused to repeat anything Aveline told him in confidence, despite Haytham’s best efforts.

But in the end she’ll settle on the Assassins, it seems. Is there any chance Haytham can change her path now, push her the other way? It seems unlikely. He’s seen her future, after all, and she must be extraordinarily comfortable as an Assassin to conduct her strange relationship with Shay without wavering.

It is a shame, though, that Haytham will never fight alongside her.

“I don’t know that I should tell you your fate ahead of time,” he says.

It’s clear she isn’t going to let it go. “Why would you not wish to fight me, if I remain an Assassin?”

“There could be any number of reasons,” Haytham says. “Draw your own conclusions. This isn’t a guessing game, Aveline; I’m not going to give you hints.”

“Any number of reasons.” She considers him for a moment, then tucks her machete away. “Indeed.”

Haytham is careful not to relax. She could still whip out the blades at her wrists in an instant.

“Altaïr is a friend we have in common, I think,” she says, coming closer. “An Assassin, perhaps the most famous Assassin. And yet he married a Templar. There’s always been a strange draw between our two sides, wouldn’t you say?”

For a moment he thinks she’s speaking of Shay, and then...

Does she... does she think he wants to spare her out of some sort of attraction? Does she think she can charm information out of him? He’s seen her with this look before, drawing men in with the same intense focus she uses to assassinate them. It reminds him of Altaïr, who kills as if he’s loving; Aveline loves, or feigns love, as if she’s killing. It’s part of the reason he was so concerned for Shay in the early days of their relationship.

“Speechless?” Aveline asks, with a laugh.

Perhaps it would have been easiest to fight her, after all. From anyone else he’d endure the flirtation, might even find it amusing. But Aveline, with her wry, familiar smile that leaves him choking on the life he never had with Ziio...

She’s viewed him variously throughout their acquaintance as an enemy, the other party in an uneasy cease-fire, an inconvenient obstacle to spending fourteen hours a day in bed with Shay, perhaps even as a friend. All of that he can manage. But he won’t be seen as a target for insincere seduction. He has a duty to Shay, and a duty to his own heart.

She’s standing uncomfortably close now, close enough for the warmth of her skin to cross the space between them. Haytham tucks his hands behind his back.

“I think you’ve mistaken me,” he says, quietly.

“Whoa! Sorry, Sh... ay... tham?”

Haytham and Aveline look together to the side. Desmond.

“Uh,” Desmond says.

“Desmond,” Haytham says. Is there a way to explain this without giving Aveline any indication of her future?

Desmond holds up his hands. “No. You know what, I just... I don’t need to know. Whatever arrangement you guys have—” He shakes his head. “Fine. So long as I don’t have to see it.”

Haytham sighs. “Aveline, please step back. This will get you nowhere, and if certain other visitors show up...”

“Concerned about your reputation?” Aveline asks, raising her eyebrows. “Still, as you ask so courteously...”

And in an instant she’s vanished. Haytham feels he can breathe again.

After a moment, he looks back at Desmond. “She was—”

“Please, please, please don’t try to explain,” Desmond says, instantly.

In truth, Haytham doesn’t particularly feel like explaining. “Very well.”

Chapter Text

Edward is sitting against a building with a small child lying asleep in his lap, and for a moment Haytham stutters in his step. Is he about to see himself? But... no, this isn’t their home. It’s Florence, isn’t it?

Edward looks up and sees him.

“Hat Man!” he exclaims. “Thank God. What do you know about fixing children?”

“Fixing?” Haytham echoes. Now that he looks closer, the boy in his father’s lap – Ezio, it must be – is perhaps unconscious, rather than asleep. His face is bloodless, far too pale to be natural. “Is he breathing?”

Edward nods.

That’s something, at least. Presumably Ezio can’t die today, given their future encounters, but it’s probably best not to get too complacent. “What happened?”

“He got into a fight with the... what are they called? The Pazzi, Pazzo, something like that. You know these arseholes?”

“I’m aware of them,” Haytham says.

“One of them pushed him off the balcony up there. A full-grown man, mind you. He’s a child.” He glances away as he speaks, and Haytham takes notice.

“And how were you involved with this?”

Edward at least has the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “I may have given him some comments to make about the mothers of certain parties.”

Haytham sighs. “Of course you did.”

Still, that’s no excuse for pitching a child from such a height. He’s half-tempted to ask where the man went. But he won’t be able to do anything to the culprit in his own body, and he can’t exactly do battle in the body of an injured six-year-old.

A little colour has come back into Ezio’s face, at least. Haytham’s barely registered it when Ezio blinks his eyes open.

“He’s back with us!” Edward exclaims. “How’s your head, lad?”

Ezio smiles up at him. “You’re still here. Ah...” He winces. “Did they beat me? Don’t tell my sister.”

“You’re fine,” Edward says. “You just need to hit them harder next time.”

It’s strange to watch him play the father with another boy. Stranger than Haytham would have anticipated. He isn’t playing the father well, although Haytham has little room to talk, but... that tone of voice he’s using is something that belonged to Haytham, long ago.

In all honesty, though, it’s probably for the best that he won’t learn of Jenny’s existence until he’s nearly thirty.

“Who is that man?” Ezio asks, in a loud whisper.

“That’s the mystery, isn’t it?” Edward asks. “Who are you, Hat Man?”

“Nobody in particular,” Haytham says. “I hear Edward’s been giving you bad advice.”

“No, it worked,” Ezio says, firmly. “They were really angry.”

“Yes, well, making one’s enemies furious is a strategy best employed sparingly.”

“Tell me more things to say,” Ezio says, gazing up at Edward. Haytham’s only ever seen such respect in Ezio’s eyes around Altaïr.

“Who was that little brat?” Edward asks. “The one around your age?”

“Vieri,” Ezio mutters. He turns his head to the side and makes a spitting sound. Haytham isn’t sure whether he’s trying not to spit on Edward’s clothing or just doesn’t know how to spit properly.

“His nose is too big for his face. He looks like a dog, have you noticed?”

“Yes, all right,” Haytham says loudly, as Ezio giggles. “Surely we’ve better things to do than training Ezio to bully his peers. Shouldn’t he see a doctor?”

Ezio makes a face. “I hate doctors.”

“They’re very fond of you, no doubt, with all the business you’ll end up bringing them,” Haytham says. “A shame the feeling isn’t mutual. But you should ask your parents to bring you to one regardless. Where do you live?”

Ezio makes a vague and unhelpful gesture.

“Well, you can lead us there,” Haytham says. “We’ll defend you if the Pazzi try to give you trouble.”

Edward nudges Ezio. “Should probably listen to the man. Up you get.”

Ezio shakes his head and wraps himself in the folds of Edward’s cloak.

Edward looks down at him for a moment, with a silly smile.

“Maybe I could carry him,” he says, looking up at Haytham as if asking for permission.

“We need to know he can walk,” Haytham says.

Eventually they manage to get Ezio onto his feet and away from Edward. Ezio grumbles, but he quickly perks up as they set off towards his house. “Federico won’t believe they pushed me off a balcony,” he says, with a slightly perplexing air of pride. “Will you come in with me? You should meet him. And my sister. And Petruccio’s only little, and he’s not well, so we can’t play with him, but—”

“I don’t think they’ll be able to see us,” Edward says. “Sorry. We’re invisible, see.”

Ezio frowns at him. “I can see you.”

“It’s true,” Edward says. “You’re the only one who can see me and Hat Man here. And now Hat Man’s going to do a dance so you can see how nobody turns to look, aren’t you, Hat Man?”

“Absolutely not,” Haytham says.

Edward grins. “Anyway, we’re your special invisible visitors. We’re just here for you.”

“Federico really won’t believe me about this,” Ezio says, a little unhappily.

“Maybe not,” Edward says. “But you’ll know it’s real, and that’s what counts.”

“Will you come back to see me again?”

“Oh!” Edward exclaims. “Right. Almost forgot the most important thing.”

He crouches down in front of Ezio. Ezio watches him curiously.

“Now, one day, far from this one, you’ll have forgotten my face,” Edward says. “You’ll meet a handsome pirate, and you’ll think it’s for the first time, and perhaps he’ll be wearing clothes that formerly belonged to someone else.” He ruffles Ezio’s hair. “And on that day you’re going to keep your damned mouth shut, aren’t you? I mean, you’re not exactly a paragon of virtue.”

Ezio looks blank. “My mother says I’ll never learn to keep my mouth shut.”

“Your mother’s absolutely right,” Haytham remarks. “But perhaps you should make the effort regardless.”

Edward sighs. “Maybe I’m aiming too high. All right, young Ezio, one day you’re going to grow up, and you’re going to sing like a dying fox. What if I teach you how to sing now? Save all our eardrums in the future.”

“I know how to sing,” Ezio says, indignant. “It is not hard. The minstrels sing all the time, and I am better than them.”

“From what I’ve heard of them, I’d be impressed if you could manage worse,” Edward says.

Ezio instantly and regrettably takes up the challenge.

Chapter Text

“Here to commandeer a ship?”

It’s Edward, of course. The pirate, the false Assassin, following him down the wooden walkway. Did stepping onto Acre’s docks somehow call him here?

“I am not a thief,” Altaïr says.

“No, of course. Just a killer. You’re above that sort of thing.”

Altaïr makes no response to that. He has a task; his target is expected here later, and he needs to establish the lie of the land. He doesn’t like it as a place to strike – it isn’t a setting he feels in command of – but he will make it work.

“You should consider it, you know,” Edward says, after a moment.

Altaïr considers ignoring him. It’s tempting, certainly, but, in his experience, Edward will go to great and infuriating lengths not to be ignored. “Consider what?”

“Taking a ship. You’ll need to put together a crew you trust, of course. Think some of your Assassin friends would join you?”

“I cannot sail.”

“I’ll talk you through it. Maybe you can do something new. I swear, you seem to be going through the same stale motions every time I visit. There’s more to life than scaling towers and knifing guards.”

“My work is important,” Altaïr snaps back, because it’s what he has to believe. There’s an unease in him that grows with every word his victims whisper to him. “Al Mualim—”

The impact is enough to wind him. He grabs instinctively for his sword as he’s stumbling sideways, and—

In the shock of cold water, he realises what has happened. A drunkard has pushed him off the walkway.

Edward bursts out laughing, but Altaïr can barely hear it over the rush of blood in his ears, furious and frightened. He was afraid, when he realised the docks would be the best place to strike, that something like this—

He tries to move his arms the way he’s seen Edward and Shay do it, but he might as well be gripping handfuls of water to keep himself in place.

Edward’s stopped laughing. “Tell me you’re not...”

Altaïr tries to lash out for the boards of the walkway, for the hand Edward is holding out to him, but they’re too far away and the water is dragging him down. He can fight any number of men; he cannot fight the sea.

Edward is cursing as the water closes over Altaïr’s head, and for a moment Altaïr thinks it is the last thing he will ever hear.

And then he finds himself crouching at the edge of the walkway, watching as his own body breaks the surface again.

“God,” Edward mutters through his coughs, as he swims Altaïr’s body back to the walkway in a couple of easy strokes, “the amount of water in your throat, don’t know if your plan was just to drink the sea dry...”

He drags himself up onto the boards and sprawls there face-down, and suddenly Altaïr is back in his own body, heaving up saltwater. He forces his eyes up to see Edward standing over him.

“You can’t swim?” Edward demands, sounding personally affronted.

“I—”

“Ezio’s always banging on about your ‘legendary skills’,” Edward says, arms folded. “I’m meant to respect someone who could drown in a light rainstorm?”

Altaïr grits his teeth. Pulls himself to his knees, despite his body’s protestations. “I never had much cause—”

“Well, you’re going to learn now,” Edward says. “How do you expect to make it as a sailor if you can’t swim? Come on, get back in the water.”

Altaïr stares at him. “No.”

Edward makes a frustrated noise, and then his expression turns contemplative. He looks down for a moment at his own foot, and then at the water, and then at Altaïr. Altaïr sets a hand on the handle of his sword.

“Fine,” Edward says, eventually. “But the next time you visit me, I swear, you’re having lessons. I don’t care if I’m in the middle of a battle. I don’t care if we’re inland. You’re going to learn to swim. And then we’re going to get you a ship, and you’re going to make a name for yourself.”

“Ezio calls me a legend,” Altaïr points out. “You said it yourself.”

“A better name. A name on the seas. You lot keep saying I should become an Assassin; well, maybe I’m the one with the right idea. Maybe you all need to be pirates.”

“I am not going to be a pirate,” Altaïr says.

“You’re going to be a pirate,” Edward says, firmly. “The sooner you accept it, the smoother this will go.”

Chapter Text

Haytham wakes from unsettling dreams of Aveline to realise she’s in the room and, by the sound of things, very much enjoying herself. She and Shay are evidently trying to be quiet, to their credit, but they’re not quite succeeding.

In retrospect, he should have considered this risk when deciding how many rooms to take at the inn.

He keeps his eyes closed. Tries to persuade himself they’re having an extraordinarily pleasurable game of draughts. Perhaps he can drift into slightly more appropriate dreams, or at least distract himself until Aveline departs.

But there seems to be no end to it. Aveline can extend her visits, he remembers. Why did it have to be Aveline? Why not...

Well, it’s a power that could be inconvenient in the hands of a fair few visitors, he supposes. The brevity of Altaïr’s visit saved Shay’s life at his initiation, and Ezio is best in small doses, as is Haytham’s father. But none of them have ever intruded on Haytham’s sleep with quiet gasps. He’s never had to put up with Shay moaning Edward’s name.

This is a path of speculation best cut short.

“I’m awake, you know,” he says, still not opening his eyes.

Aveline giggles. Haytham is a Grand Master of the Templar Order, and an Assassin is giggling at him. “Alas, it seems we’ve been caught – no, Shay, we’re almost there, just a moment longer—”

“It’s too strange,” Shay mutters.

“Come on, it’s only Haytham, it’s not as if he doesn’t know...”

“Stop, Shay,” Haytham says. “Consider this an order from your superior.”

“Thank you, sir,” Shay says, his voice a strange mixture of embarrassed and relieved and something Haytham doesn’t care to think about.

“Get dressed, both of you,” Haytham says. “I want to open my eyes.”

“You are not my superior,” Aveline points out. “And what makes you so sure we’re undressed if you haven’t been looking, hmm?”

Haytham doesn’t bother to respond to that.

There’s a bit of rustling – well, a lot of rustling; both of them wear fairly complicated clothes, a fact Haytham has become very aware of through overhearing a great deal of loud complaining – before Shay says, “All right, we’re decent.”

Haytham sits up and opens his eyes. Aveline and Shay are sitting on the other bed in the room, of course, side-by-side. Aveline is looking straight at Haytham, smiling; he can meet her gaze for only a moment before he has to look over at Shay, who is staring very hard at the floor. There will be no eye contact in this conversation, it seems. Perhaps that’s for the best.

“I think we need to discuss appropriate conduct,” Haytham says.

“I hadn’t seen Shay in over a month,” Aveline says. “I wanted to reacquaint myself with him. You can’t begrudge us that.”

“As I slept in the same room?”

“I thought the risk of being seen would add something to our time together,” Aveline says, quite unabashed.

Haytham draws in a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “Given our shared condition, I’d have thought you risked being seen on every encounter. I don’t see why you have to involve me specifically.”

“Perhaps we wanted a change from Desmond,” Aveline suggests.

“We tried to leave,” Shay mumbles. He still hasn’t looked at Haytham once. “But she’s visiting you.”

“And you couldn’t have woken me politely and asked me to sit outside the door? Or perhaps considered keeping your hands to yourselves for a single visit? There are other ways to enjoy a person’s company, you know. Have you ever heard of playing cards?”

Aveline shrugs. “You always take lodgings in such cold places. Can we be blamed for wishing to be warm?”

Haytham shakes his head. “Never mind. You’re both insatiable, and I suppose I’d probably end up visiting sooner or later even if you had the courtesy to put a door between us. But if this ever happens again, I will sit beside you and I will provide commentary.”

Shay blanches.

Aveline laughs delightedly. “I would love to hear it. Come, Shay; I’m suddenly feeling very energetic.” She begins to unbutton her shirt. Haytham looks away, and she laughs again. “Why, Master Kenway, how do you expect to narrate if you don’t watch? Surely a Templar Grand Master wouldn’t make empty threats.”

Haytham gets to his feet. “Enough. I’m going for a walk. Come along, Aveline; I suppose you’ll have to accompany me, won’t you, if I’m the one you’re visiting?”

Aveline and Shay exchange glances. Haytham can see it coming: the apologies, the promises to respect his sleep in future, if he can at least stay within range of a bed for them now. But...

Aveline hops off the bed. She’s smiling. “Very well. Can Shay join us?”

Haytham blinks.

“We’ll be walking,” he reminds her. “Certain activities will be quite a lot more difficult.”

“It’s as you say,” Aveline says. “There are more ways of passing the time with friends. If you feel neglected, why don’t we all take a walk together?”

“I don’t feel neglected,” Haytham says. “Quite the opposite; I feel I’m entirely too involved in your relationship.”

Shay snorts with laughter. Haytham turns a cool gaze on him, and he quickly drops his eyes again.

Still, perhaps it would be pleasant to spend time in their company. They tend to excuse themselves very quickly on Aveline’s visits: understandable, perhaps, given that they never know when they might next meet. Aveline evidently has no intention of apologising, but she’s offering Haytham a moment of her valuable time with Shay, and perhaps that speaks louder.

“Shay is welcome to join us, if he wishes,” Haytham says. “But I could stay if you prefer.”

Shay shakes his head. Manages to look up at Haytham at last, grinning sheepishly. “A walk sounds good.”

Chapter Text

Desmond doesn’t sleep well. Which makes sense, given that, oh, yeah, he’s been kidnapped by a bunch of freaks and forced to live through the memories of some guy who apparently communicated primarily through stabbing. If he gets out of this mess alive, the Abstergo customer satisfaction department is going to be getting some seriously pissed-off letters.

He doesn’t exactly wake well, either.

At first he thinks the shadowy figure by his bed is Vidic, which is creepy enough. He nearly shits himself in terror when the shadowy figure actually leaps up onto his bed, quick and graceful as a cat, and crouches over him.

“Desmond,” Altaïr growls into his face.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“You were the first,” Altaïr says. “Did you cause this? You will explain what is happening.”

“Believe me, I have no clue what’s happening,” Desmond manages to say through a throat so tight with fear he’ll probably never be able to eat again, even if he doesn’t get murdered here and now. He’s trying to hold his head as still as he can; there’s a blade to his neck, and one sudden movement could open him up. “How are you here? Are you here? Uh... wh-what do you mean, the first?”

“The first person to come to me from another time. This never happened to me before. And then you appeared, and suddenly I find myself constantly interrupted. I cannot fail the task I have been assigned.”

Altaïr’s face is so close to his. He looks so real. Desmond can feel the weight of him, can feel the warmth radiating from his body, can feel Altaïr’s breath on his lips.

This can’t be happening, Desmond tries to tell himself. This can’t be real. This is just an impossibly vivid dream.

“I swear I don’t know what this is,” Desmond says. “There were others? Did, uh, did they mention the word ‘Animus’ at all? Or ‘Abstergo’?”

Altaïr’s eyes narrow. “So you know something.”

“No! No, it’s, uh, it’s just a theory. They mentioned the Animus?”

“No,” Altaïr says. “But tell me what your theory is.”

It has to be something to do with the Animus, right? But, even though he might be able to believe that the Animus was responsible for that weird moment when he turned up in Masyaf as himself, he’s pretty sure there’s no way it could bring Altaïr into the twenty-first century.

Still, it doesn’t seem like a good idea to refuse Altaïr’s request, so he explains the Animus. Or he tries to. Explaining a ridiculously advanced machine to a guy for whom the pulley is still high-tech takes some concentration, and it turns out it’s actually kind of hard to concentrate when said guy seems seconds away from either cutting your throat or sticking his tongue down it. But he manages to get the gist across.

“You can view my memories?” Altaïr echoes, frowning.

Desmond almost nods, but there’s still a blade at his neck. Probably better not to. He tries to kind of blink affirmatively.

“I do not like this,” Altaïr mutters.

“Trust me, I don’t either,” Desmond says. “But whatever you were doing, you were doing it nearly a thousand years ago. The people here can’t exactly stop you.”

Altaïr meets his eyes with renewed intensity. “But you can.”

“No, it’s just your memories, I can’t actually... oh, you mean this, uh, this time travel thing? You really think it’ll happen again?”

“It shows no sign of stopping,” Altaïr says. “And the others spoke of many ‘visits’. You think this Animus caused it?”

“I don’t know,” Desmond says. “Maybe. But I’ll stay out of your way. I swear.”

He’s definitely lost his mind, right? It’s the only explanation. He’s been dragged out of his life and forced into an obviously impossible memory machine by a pharmaceutical corporation, and now his long-dead ancestor is threatening him. He’s pretty sure those aren’t actual things that happen to people. Not to mention the whole ‘growing up on an Assassin farm’ thing. Jesus, is anything in his life real?

He flicks his eyes down to the blade at his neck. “Uh, ‘stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent’, right?”

“I have yet to be convinced of how innocent you are,” Altaïr mutters. But he withdraws his blade.

Desmond lets his head fall back onto the pillow and breathes as deeply as he can manage with his ancestor still straddling him. A moment later the weight and the warmth of Altaïr are suddenly gone, and Desmond raises his head to find himself alone in the room.

He doesn’t really get any more sleep that night.

In the morning, Vidic’s all for shoving him straight into the Animus, but Desmond manages to draw Lucy aside for a quick talk. Even though it’s hard to think of how he’s supposed to approach this.

Okay, well, there’s one possibility he has to eliminate first.

“You know when you and the doc were explaining how the Animus works?” he asks. “Stuff in my DNA, right?”

“Genetic memories,” Lucy says.

“Yeah. So, uh, is that just a fancy way of saying it works through actual time travel?”

Lucy laughs politely, and then she takes a closer look at him and her expression turns serious. “Desmond, you haven’t been seeing anything... weird, have you?”

“Weird?” Desmond asks. “No, just normal stuff. Like... you know those floating dots that show up in your eyes sometimes? And you know when your Syrian ancestor turns up in your bedroom and tries to kill you?”

Lucy’s eyes widen. “You’re seeing Altaïr? Outside the Animus?”

“You’ve heard of this?” Desmond asks, instantly.

“God, Desmond... I’m sorry.” She shakes her head. “There’s a condition called the Bleeding Effect, it doesn’t normally set in this quickly – look, whatever you’re seeing, it isn’t real. It’s a side-effect of using the Animus. That’s all.”

“Oh, ‘that’s all’?” Desmond echoes. “This stuff you guys are forcing me to do is destroying my mind, but that’s all?”

She looks miserable. “I’m sorry.”

So there it is. He’s hallucinating. He isn’t really talking to Altaïr. Well, obviously he isn’t; that’d be ridiculous.

Somehow, it doesn’t actually feel that great to have it confirmed.

Chapter Text

Shaun and Rebecca have gone out for supplies, and it feels stranger than Desmond would have anticipated to be left alone with Lucy. She seems to be getting less and less talkative these days, always focused on the mission. Shaun and Rebecca are getting pretty quiet, too. Maybe Ezio and Altaïr are imaginary, but at least they mean Desmond can actually have a conversation once in a while.

Desmond’s not really in the mood to sit around in silence while Lucy does whatever it is she does on her computer, and he’s feeling restless after six straight hours in the Animus. Maybe he’ll take a look around Monteriggioni.

Lucy looks up from her screen as he’s making his way toward the steps. “Desmond?”

“I’ll be careful.”

“Can we talk?”

Desmond pauses, looking at her. She sounds... tired. Worried.

He grabs Rebecca’s chair, drags it over to sit next to her. “What’s up?”

Lucy doesn’t speak for a while. She’s organising the icons on her desktop into elaborate patterns. Desmond doesn’t know a lot about the technical side of the work they’re doing, but he suspects this might not be an essential part of it.

“I don’t know,” she says, eventually. “I think I wanted to apologise.”

“To me?” Desmond asks. “For what?”

Lucy scrubs a hand over her face. “For everything. For keeping you in the Animus all the time, and... I know I’ve been standoffish. I’m sorry. But I feel like I’m just going to keep hurting you, and it’s hard to look at you when...” She shakes her head.

“Hey, look,” Desmond says. “I won’t pretend this whole thing has been a non-stop party. But you’ve been one of the best things about it.”

“No, I need you to understand this. None of this should ever have happened to you.” She hesitates. “I’m trying to do what I think is right. But you’re suffering for it, and I’m sorry.”

“Come on,” Desmond says, trying to keep his voice light. “If it weren’t for you, I’d still be stuck at Abstergo. Or dead in a ditch somewhere.”

She looks away. “I just...” She takes a breath. “It’s hard to feel you’re doing the right thing when all you can see is how much it’s screwing people up.”

“Lucy.” He puts his hand on her arm. Just lightly, so she can move it away if she wants to.

She doesn’t. She’s quiet for a moment.

“I wish we could’ve met some other way,” she says. “Away from all this Assassin-and-Templar stuff.”

“What, when I was a bartender?” Desmond asks, half-laughing. “I’d make you a drink, you’d drink it, you’d leave. It’s not the kind of thing people make movies about.”

“Yeah, well.” She looks up at him. “Maybe I’d stay.”

He’s thinking of Cristina. Lucy has him pinned down, she’s breathing open-mouthed into his neck, and he’s picturing Cristina goddamn Vespucci. This is the only good thing that’s happened to him since he was kidnapped, practically, and all he can think about is a woman who died five hundred years ago.

It isn’t fair to Lucy. Here she is, and she’s beautiful, she’s smart, she’s with him and for some reason she wants to be. He should be focusing on her.

“You’re really tense,” she murmurs. “Maybe we shouldn’t...”

“No, it’s okay,” Desmond says, maybe too quickly. She raises her eyebrows, a slight smirk creeping onto her face, and he feels himself flush. “I mean – if you’re okay with it. I want this. I just...”

He just... what? He’s just trying to stop thinking about a woman he’s never met? He can’t say that.

She’s looking at him like she’s waiting for him to finish his sentence, so he kisses her instead, and for just a moment he’s not thinking of Cristina, he’s not letting Ezio’s feelings overwhelm his own. He’s...

He closes his eyes and groans. Fortunately, Lucy seems to take it as an appreciative groan.

The thought of Ezio has brought up something he’s desperately been trying to keep out of his head: the possibility that at any moment one of his ancestors could show up. He knows they’re just figments of his imagination, but somehow the thought of being seen at a moment like this still fills him with cold horror.

It’s okay. It’s okay. He just has to keep his eyes closed, and then he doesn’t have to know if they’re there.

Although they might say something. And he can’t exactly block his ears; he has a feeling Lucy would have something to say about that.

For fuck’s sake, this is a moment that might never come around again; why can’t he just lose himself in it?

He rolls Lucy onto her back and kisses along her jaw, trying to push his hallucinations out of his mind. They’re not real; they don’t matter. He’s Desmond Miles, and he’s here, and she’s here with him. That’s what’s real.

But something’s still haunting him, and it takes him a moment to realise it’s what Ezio said a few days back, about what Lucy and the rest of the team might be getting up to while he’s in the Animus. Has Shaun kissed her like this? Has Rebecca? Is he just tracing lines other people have already laid down?

It’s not really any of his business. And the thought doesn’t upset him, exactly, but... it hovers. It’s there, and it’s strange.

“I need to stop thinking,” he mumbles. It’s not really something he meant to say out loud.

“I know,” Lucy whispers back. “Me too.”

He’s lying there afterwards, Lucy sleeping in the crook of his arm, when suddenly he becomes aware that someone’s in the room. He raises his head.

Ezio. Older than Desmond’s seen him before, perhaps in his fifties, and wearing a stone-grey cloak. Desmond rolls his eyes, waiting for the teasing or the high-fives, or whatever the equivalent of the high-five was in Ezio’s day.

They don’t come. Ezio is gazing at him with a sorrow and seriousness Desmond isn’t used to seeing on his face.

“What’s wrong?” Desmond asks, quietly, trying not to disturb Lucy. “Did something happen?”

“Do you love her?” Ezio asks, nodding towards Lucy.

“What kind of question is that?” Desmond asks, uncomfortable. He met her a couple months ago, how’s he supposed to...

“Value this moment,” Ezio says. “Remember that you can speak to me, and I will always make time to listen.”

And then he’s gone.

Desmond settles uneasily back down, thinking again of Cristina.

Chapter Text

“Connor?”

Connor doesn’t look around. The rain is pounding down on him and his hands are numb, slipping on the spade’s handle, and as long as he keeps digging he doesn’t have to think. If Aveline wants conversation, she can find it elsewhere.

She doesn’t ask who the grave is for. Some small part of him, whatever remnant is still capable of feeling, is grateful.

“I could take over,” Aveline says, after a long silence. “You look exhausted.”

He shakes his head. “No.”

She falls silent again. He digs out a couple of spadefuls that are more water than soil, and then he turns at last to look at her.

The rain is sweeping in sheets across the homestead, hiding the mountains in the distance. Aveline can leave whenever she wishes. And yet she’s still here, soaked through and shivering, watching him.

“You should go,” he says.

“Do you want me to go?”

He doesn’t answer. He turns away, shoves the spade into the mud of the grave. It feels like he’s not getting anywhere, like the rain will keep bringing in more earth as fast as he can dig it out. More than once the side of the grave has given way, slid down, left him with more work to do.

And he’s felt something like relief every time it’s happened.

He doesn’t want to finish this.

But he can’t stop digging, and slowly, slowly the grave takes shape. His arms are aching, his entire body is aching, and he shakes with every breath, and the rain is so heavy on his face that he can’t tell whether he’s crying. And Aveline is still there, watching in silence.

The base of the grave is filled with water, swirling around his feet and soaking into the cloak Achilles gave him, but it’s finished. He can’t pretend there’s anything left for him to do.

He tries to climb out, but he’s worn himself out, his muscles are trembling, and if he were just to lie down here...

Aveline crouches at the side of the grave and offers him her hand. He stares at it for a long moment before he takes it, and she heaves him out of the grave, guides him a few steps back from it.

He feels he should say something, but all his words have left him.

She puts a hand on his back, and he can’t even summon the energy to shrug it off. What difference does it make? He just stands there, staring at the empty grave, as his hands slowly wake to the pain in them.

Aveline slips her arms around him from behind. Rests her cheek against his back for a moment, then presses a quick kiss to his shoulder. And somehow Connor finds himself thinking of his mother, on this day he has lost the second of his fathers.

“I can leave, if you wish to be alone,” she says softly.

He’s spent much of his life alone, save for the visitors. And now Achilles, the one constant presence...

“Stay,” Connor says. He barely recognises his own voice.

He feels her nod against his back. “We should go somewhere dry.”

“I can’t,” he says, his throat tight.

“You’ll make yourself ill.”

“I know,” he says. “But I have to stay here.”

As long as he stays here, things don’t have to move forward. He has to put off the rest of his life for just a little longer.

Connor closes his eyes and lowers his head and breathes until there’s nothing but the rain and the wind and Aveline.

“You don’t need to be out in this rain,” he says eventually, although he desperately doesn’t want her to leave. “Go home.”

“You already asked me to stay,” she says, a hint of a smile in her voice. “It’s too late.”

So she eases him down onto the rain-sodden ground, and she holds him, there beside the open grave, until the clouds begin to clear.

Chapter Text

“Impressive view.”

It seems that every visit brings a fresh annoyance. This one, for example, is taking place whilst Altaïr is perched precariously on top of the Cathedral of the Holy Cross. If he fell from here, he would have a good few seconds to regret it before the ground took all regret from him. It is not a situation in which he needs distraction.

People appearing out of thin air is, it turns out, somewhat distracting.

“Anyway,” Edward says, “I don’t think we’ve met. Although I take it from your clothing you’re one of that lot.”

“That lot being those who have earned the right to wear these robes?” Altaïr asks.

“So I’m told,” Edward says. “Incessantly. I killed the man who wore them before; I’d say that’s earning them.”

Altaïr launches himself off the building in a leap of faith. A moment later, there’s a very loud yelp from behind him, followed by some of the most creative cursing he’s ever heard.

At street level, Altaïr leaps at once from the haystack, just in case Edward actually manages to hit it. But it’s clear there’s no danger of that. He’s plummeting towards the street, clawing at the air like he’s trying to swim through it, and—

Edward vanishes an instant before he hits the ground.

Altaïr looks for a while at the spot he would have hit. A person can’t be killed while they’re visiting, perhaps? Perhaps it’s a coincidence, perhaps the visit would have ended at that moment anyway, but it’s probably worth bearing this in mind.

He goes about his business.

Later, as he sleeps in the bureau, he’s woken by a sharp kick in the ribs.

“You tried to kill me!” Edward snaps at him.

Altaïr sits up. It seems safe to assume that this morning’s visit was a recent one on both sides. “I knew you would survive.”

“How, exactly?” Edward demands.

“You said we had never met,” Altaïr says. “But I have met you before. In your future. Which you would not have if you died today.”

Edward’s mouth works silently for a moment. He throws up his hands. “Then why make me fall? Don’t try to tell me you didn’t know I’d be dragged after you.”

“You told me you killed an Assassin and took his robes,” Altaïr says, getting to his feet. “I promised an intriguing friend of yours that I would not kill you, and I hold to my promises. I made no promise that I would not frighten you.”

“Well, you’ve certainly succeeded in that,” Edward mutters. “I’ll be having nightmares the rest of my life. All you knew for certain was that I wouldn’t die? You didn’t meet a future me who said, ‘Oh, hello, whatever-your-name-is, the man who definitely never shattered all my limbs’?”

“It was a risk I was prepared to take,” Altaïr says.

“Fine,” Edward says. “All the visitors I’ve had so far, I want you to know you’re the one I like least.”

Altaïr feels he can probably survive this revelation. He’s never particularly needed to be liked.

“So who’s this ‘intriguing friend’ I owe my life to?” Edward asks. “Another visitor?”

Altaïr shakes his head. “Another Assassin.”

Edward snorts. “The Assassins aren’t my friends. You’ve made that plain enough.”

Perhaps he hasn’t met Mary? Or perhaps he doesn’t yet know of her allegiance. Best not to speak further of her; she, at least, is someone Altaïr respects, and he will not give away her secrets.

“And who exactly are you?” Edward asks. “What is it you do, when you’re not pitching new acquaintances off rooftops?”

Edward will know his name in the future; there seems little point in withholding it now. “My name is Altaïr.”

“A pleasure,” Edward says, with an extremely sarcastic bow.

“And what I do is no concern of yours,” Altaïr says. “But I will not be interrupted or interfered with.”

“Much though I’d love to do whatever you want,” Edward says, “I actually have a better idea.”

And Altaïr is suddenly thrown out of his body.

“Let me back in!” he snaps.

Edward, in Altaïr’s body, winks at him, and then starts to – starts to strip off, there in the middle of the Assassin’s bureau.

“What are you doing?” Altaïr demands.

“Look,” Edward says, throwing Altaïr’s cloak aside and getting to work on his boots, “if I don’t make the two of us even now, I’ll have to get back at you on the next visit, and then we’ll be trapped in an endless cycle of revenge.”

Altaïr can only gape as he becomes more and more exposed. Where can this possibly be going?

“So you just let me do this,” Edward says, “and we call off this feud before it gets started, and maybe one day we’ll be able to speak as friends.” He considers Altaïr for a moment. “Maybe friendship’s too high to aim for. But we’ll see how I feel when the fact that you threw me off a building isn’t so fresh in my mind.”

Which is how Altaïr ends up watching himself standing nude in the Acre bureau, methodically shredding his own underclothes with his hidden blade.

The rafiq comes in halfway through. He leaves extremely quickly.

Chapter Text

It took Altaïr a long time to be comfortable sleeping in the presence of visitors. He will not sleep when Templars are present, of course, but by this point he’s at ease in the company of his fellow Assassins: Ezio, Aveline, Connor. And Desmond, which is fortunate, considering how often he finds Desmond sleeping beside him at Masyaf.

Tonight he’s found himself in Desmond’s time, in the darkened temple. Desmond is asleep, curled into himself, wrapped in the sort of one-person fastened blanket Altaïr can’t remember the name of.

There’s rarely anywhere comfortable to rest here, and it’s colder than he prefers, but Altaïr has long been able to sleep in harsh conditions. He settles on the bare floor a short distance from Desmond, takes off his cloak and tucks it around himself, closes his eyes.

Altaïr sleeps, but he sleeps lightly, and he’s awake the instant he registers someone moving around nearby. He opens his eyes a crack. He’s still in Desmond’s time. A visitor? Or someone from Abstergo, here to take Desmond?

It’s difficult to make out the figure silhouetted against the occasional patches of cold blue light, but there’s something familiar about it. And then Altaïr catches that scent that always seems to accompany Edward, salt and some sort of alcohol, and he can relax a little.

Edward is not an Assassin (or Altaïr has yet to meet him as an Assassin, at least; an older Ezio has told Altaïr that Edward will one day join their order, although Altaïr doubts whether he is suited to it), and in the early months Altaïr refused to let his guard down around him. But Edward rescued Altaïr from drowning. It seems unlikely that he would do Altaïr harm now.

Assuming this isn’t an Edward from too soon after that Cathedral of the Holy Cross incident. But it’s probably safe to go back to sleep.

He stays aware for the moment, just in case. Edward walks around behind Altaïr, out of his sight, and Altaïr sharpens his senses. He’s tempted to roll onto his other side, to keep Edward in his visual range, but he can’t let Edward know he’s awake; that way lies inevitable conversation, and Altaïr is not particularly in the mood for conversing.

From the sound of things, Edward is lying down as well. Perhaps a little closer than Altaïr would like, but an Edward who wants to sleep is still preferable to one who wants to talk or fight. Altaïr can wait until Edward has fallen asleep, and then he can shift away.

Edward shuffles up to fit himself against Altaïr’s back. Rests an arm over his waist.

What?

Altaïr tries not to tense up too obviously. He has to remain asleep in Edward’s eyes. He just has to endure this until Edward starts snoring, and then...

No. He isn’t comfortable with this. It’s doing something to counteract the cold, certainly, but... no.

“What are you doing?” he hisses, trying not to wake Desmond.

“You’re awake?” Edward asks brightly, making no apparent effort to keep his voice down.

He doesn’t seem to have any intention of withdrawing his arm, either, so Altaïr takes it upon himself to remove it. From his waist, rather than from Edward’s shoulder, although the latter is tempting. He stands and turns to glare.

Edward swears very loudly. Desmond wakes up with a yell.

“What in God’s name, man, you can’t just go turning into Altaïr like that!” Edward protests, sitting up. “That’s terrifying!”

“What’s wrong?” Desmond asks, frantic, confused. “Edward?”

“Desmond?” Rebecca’s voice comes through the temple, echoey and distant. Desmond’s companions used to sleep near him, Altaïr knows; perhaps they moved away after one too many visitor-related interruptions. “Everything okay?”

“It’s fine,” Desmond calls back, although he sounds a little uncertain. He drops his voice. “Edward? ...Altaïr?”

“Edward,” Altaïr says. “What were you doing?”

Edward stares at him. “Trying to get some sleep! What are you doing here?”

“You know as well as I do that I had no control over coming here. I was also trying to sleep. And then you decided to intrude.”

“I wasn’t intruding,” Edward says indignantly. “I’m not even tired; it’s the middle of the day for me! I could’ve woken you so I’d have someone to talk to, but instead I was considerate enough to take a nap—”

“Against me,” Altaïr says. “Holding me.”

“I thought you were Desmond! We’re in his time, it’s dark, you two look very alike – has anyone ever told you that? I see someone in Desmond’s time, looking like Desmond; I don’t think I can be blamed for making assumptions.”

It’s said as if it’s an explanation. Edward seems so confident that this explains everything, in fact, that it takes Altaïr a moment’s thought to realise it offers no answers at all.

“You thought I was Desmond?” It proves no more enlightening when Altaïr says it himself.

“Uh, we don’t have to go into this,” Desmond says.

“I don’t see what you’re making such a fuss about,” Edward says. “It’s a friendly embrace. It’s not as if I tried to make love to you.”

Altaïr takes a moment to fight off that image.

“Thinking I was Desmond?” he asks, against his better judgement.

Edward laughs. “No. Well, there was that one occasion—”

“Edward,” Desmond says, desperately. “Please stop talking.”

And Edward does. Edward actually listens to someone and follows instructions. It feels like a momentous event.

“Can we all just... go back to sleep?” Desmond asks. He hesitates for a moment before adding, “Separately?”

“Sleeping apart?” Edward asks. “Not talking and sleeping apart? What a waste of a visit.”

“It’s too awkward,” Desmond mutters, with a glance at Altaïr.

“Fine,” Edward grumbles, lying back down. Altaïr moves to the other side of Desmond before settling down himself. It seems best not to ask any further questions.

When Altaïr next wakes, he sees that Edward and Desmond have shifted close together in their sleep. He watches for a moment. He’s used to seeing Desmond restless in his sleep, fidgeting, but now he’s calm and still, tucked up against Edward’s chest.

The temple seems colder than ever. Altaïr thinks about Edward, warm against his back.

He rolls over, so he can’t see them, and closes his eyes.

Chapter Text

Edward doesn’t know what’s real and what isn’t, and to be honest he doesn’t much care. Kidd’s dead, everyone’s dead, and right now his best option is to keep drinking until he wakes up a decade ago, all his decisions undone.

It takes him a good while to register there’s someone sitting next to him. Aveline, in one of her fine dresses, staring into space.

He knocks his tankard against her arm to get her attention. When she looks at him, her eyes are red. Something wrong. Well, there’s something wrong for everyone, isn’t there?

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I... my father, he died. I wasn’t there.”

“Kidd for me,” he mumbles.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Aveline says, after a moment. “I liked Kidd.”

Edward nods, and then Aveline’s situation manages to filter through. “Sorry for your dad.” He drains his tankard in a toast to... something, probably. Raises his hand for another.

For a time they don’t speak. Aveline can leave if she wants to, Edward thinks, but she’s still here, even though he can’t be the greatest company. Still, he can understand if she wants a moment away from her life. Right now, he’d happily tear his own life up and burn it.

“How long did you know Kidd?” Aveline asks, eventually.

Edward shakes his head. He can’t manage numbers at the moment, and thinking about the past hurts.

“She was... she was the last of us, near enough,” he says. “There’s nobody left.”

“You were important to her, I think,” Aveline says, touching his arm gently.

He looks down, at her hand on his arm, and then he looks up to her face, and he knows what’s about to happen. An instant later, he sees her realise it too.

He waits for a moment, to see if she’ll move away. When she doesn’t, he shifts closer and runs a hand through her hair, disturbing the elaborate curls. They must have taken her ages. Kidd would never have taken the trouble.

Her eyes flutter closed when he kisses her.

It feels good, or something close to it. She’s not Kidd, but there’s something of Kidd in her, even dressed like a lady, and maybe what he needs for now is a mouth to find harbour in, a pair of warm thighs. He needs to – to lose himself in feeling, just for a time.

He slides his hand down her side. She covers it with her own and guides it inward, to the buttons down the front of her dress. Sighs against his mouth.

Some part of his mind’s tugging at him, like there’s something he should be remembering. That they’re in a tavern, that there are people around? But he’s never cared that much about what others think of him, and if this is what they both need...

He’s suddenly pulled away from her, so sharply that his stool overbalances. In truth, she was probably the only thing keeping him vaguely upright. His impact with the floor registers only vaguely in the flare-up of indignation, and then the memories of Kidd hit again, as if they were waiting to ambush him the moment he lost the shelter of Aveline.

“Aveline.” It’s the man in the hat, his voice sharp with anger. “What are you doing?”

“What business is it of yours?” Aveline demands.

Edward can taste salt on his lips. Tears, he thinks, but there’s no telling whether they’re his own or Aveline’s.

Hat Man goes quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. “What year is it for you?”

“Why do you need to know?”

“Well, if we’re not yet on speaking terms, I suppose you’re most likely innocent,” Hat Man says. “I apologise.” He rounds on Edward. “And what about you? Can you think of any reason I might be unhappy with this? Or a mutual friend, perhaps?”

There’s a pause.

“Shit,” Edward mutters.

Hat Man sighs. “As I feared. Perhaps it was foolish of me, but I expected better of you.”

He hadn’t forgotten about Shay, exactly – hard to forget two of your friends are a couple when you’ve caught them in the act multiple times – but somehow Shay hadn’t seemed a relevant consideration. In Edward’s head, Shay wasn’t exactly going to begrudge a friend a night of consolation with Aveline. It occurs to him now that this might not have been entirely accurate.

“Aveline, leave us,” Hat Man says. “Edward and I need to have a discussion about loyalty.”

“You can’t throw her out on her own!” Edward objects. “Her father’s just passed; she needs comfort!”

“Do not tell this man anything about me,” Aveline says sharply.

Just for a moment, Hat Man looks stricken. Or... affected somehow, anyway. His intrusion has brought Edward a little more solidly back to the world, but he’s still not nearly sober enough to read expressions with confidence.

“Perhaps she does,” Hat Man says. “But not like this, and not from you.”

“Maybe not like this,” Edward admits, reluctantly.

“I still don’t see how this matters to you,” Aveline mutters, glowering at Hat Man. Edward finds himself wondering what quarrel they have.

“Aveline,” Hat Man says, “it may be some time before you can believe in my sincerity, but I am truly sorry about your father.”

Aveline’s jaw tightens. She disappears.

Hat Man sighs, and then takes the stool she was on. Edward considers trying to get back onto his own stool, but he’ll have to set it upright again first. It seems an insurmountable task. And the floor’s comfortable enough.

“Edward,” Hat Man says, “I know you’re close with Shay. What possessed you?”

The question brings it all rushing back, everything he’d managed to push out of his mind for a scant few moments. He looks away, his eyes stinging. “Mary.”

“Mary?”

“She died,” Edward says, his voice thick in his throat. “Almost in my arms. I was meant to save her.”

There’s a pause. He’s expecting more of a lecture, and in honesty he probably deserves it, but instead Hat Man eases himself off the stool. Crouches beside Edward. Rests a hand on his back.

It’s an awkward gesture of comfort, but it’s a gesture nonetheless. Edward closes his eyes and tries to forget everything else, to narrow his focus down to that one point of warmth.

Chapter Text

By the time Edward turns away from the bar with his drink replenished, Ezio and Aveline have joined Desmond, Haytham and Shay at the table. He frowns.

“Getting rather crowded in here,” Edward remarks, pushing Ezio off his stool to reclaim it. “I’m not about to die, am I?”

Haytham shakes his head as Ezio, grumbling, takes another seat. Good. If there’s any truth to that strange thing Jenny said at Haytham’s birth, Edward should have a few years yet, but it’s probably worth checking.

Aveline raises a hand to greet him. Her wedding ring glints on it, which is a relief, especially as this is a post-marriage Shay as well; it means Edward doesn’t have to worry about minding his tongue. It’s ridiculous that everyone expects him to keep their secrets from their own past selves.

“Ezio was just telling us a curious story about the Rosa in Fiore,” Aveline says, a touch of amusement in her voice.

“The one where Connor tried to get him banned?” Edward asks. “I’ve heard it.”

“The one involving you,” Haytham says, looking as if he’d prefer to be anywhere else. This doesn’t actually narrow things down a great deal; Edward can personally recall at least four incidents at the Rosa in Fiore that might make Haytham uncomfortable. “The one involving you rather too heavily. Having dropped in on the aftermath, I don’t see why I should be subjected to this again.”

Ah. That story.

“And you know how we ended up in bed in the first place?” Ezio asks, with the sly smile of a man reaching his favourite part of the anecdote. “Edward was hoping for guidance on courting a young man who had caught his eye. A young man named Kidd. You might also know him as Mary.”

Shay shakes his head, looking torn between horror and laughter. “This can’t be true.”

“It is, sorry to say,” Edward says. “The visit had barely ended when I learnt my lad had been a lass all along. Wasted my time, didn’t I?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Ezio objects.

Edward smirks. In truth, he wouldn’t consider it a waste either, but he’s hardly going to say that in front of Ezio. He gestures towards Haytham and Desmond. “And of course these two showed up to disapprove.”

Aveline quickly covers her smile with her hand. “Ah, inevitably. Poor Desmond.”

“And do you know what Edward said?” Haytham asks. “Don’t act like you’ve never kissed a fellow. As if it were a universal experience. Even though it was an experience he himself had only had that day.”

“I was right, though, wasn’t I?” Edward asks. “Well, not about you, but Desmond – oh!” He turns to Desmond. “Oh! I always wondered who that fellow was you kissed, the one you whispered to Haytham about! It was me, wasn’t it? From later on.”

“Thanks, Edward,” Desmond mumbles.

“You kissed Desmond?” Aveline asks, incredulous. “And he was willing?”

“Yes, he was willing! What do you take me for?”

“It’s not like I was enthusiastic,” Desmond says, avoiding everyone’s gaze.

“Don’t say that!” Edward protests. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing! I just...” Desmond shakes his head. “It just kind of... happened. Once.”

“Ezio and Desmond?” Shay asks. He whistles. “I’m feeling mercifully left out. Any more of us, Edward? Altaïr, maybe?”

Aveline gives a small cough. “Actually...”

“What?” Shay asks, looking sharply between Aveline and Edward. “No. Tell me you didn’t.”

Aveline laughs. “It was before us, Shay! And just a kiss,” she adds, evidently catching Shay’s glance at Ezio. “It seems I had to dabble in the wrong visitors before I found the one for me.”

Edward feels he’s being very unfairly put down by this discussion. At least Ezio doesn’t seem to regret their evening together, even if it technically was the result of a mistake. “And I’m ‘wrong’, am I?”

“Frequently,” Haytham murmurs. He’s shifted back from the table slightly.

Desmond looks like he’s struggling not to say something. It’s a struggle he loses, in the end. “So how did it happen?”

“Look, we don’t need to hear about this,” Shay mutters.

Aveline’s smile fades a little. “It’s not an especially amusing story, I’m afraid. We were both upset. I had just lost my father. And Edward...” She hesitates.

“I’d lost Kidd,” Edward says, quietly. He can see she’s trying to think of a way not to say it directly, to spare his feelings, but it’s what he’ll hear anyway. “Or Kidd had died, at any rate. I don’t know if I ever really had her to lose.”

“It’s for the best that Haytham prevented us from going any further,” Aveline says. “We weren’t thinking clearly.”

“Hold on,” Shay says, slowly. “Me and Aveline, we’ve visited as a couple when you were with Kidd.” He’s staring at Edward. “You knew about us.”

Oh, look, it seems today’s the day he dies after all.

Aveline looks puzzled for an instant, and then her breath catches. “I never really thought about it before. Yes, he must have known.”

Haytham buries his face in his hands. Desmond vanishes, his visiting time apparently up. Edward sort of wishes he could do the same.

“You kissed my wife?” Shay asks, quietly.

Edward holds up his hands. “Can we take the fact that she wasn’t your wife at the time into consideration?”

“You could say she isn’t my wife now,” Shay points out. “This is your time; she hasn’t been born yet. So would you kiss her here, in front of me?”

“Don’t fight,” Aveline says sharply, and Shay, who’s half-risen from his stool, sits back down. Edward considers making a joke about who wears the breeches in their marriage. There’s a chance it might not go down well.

“So, to clarify, Aveline is out of bounds even if she visits from before your relationship?” Ezio asks, frowning slightly.

“To anyone who knows about me and her, yes!” Shay snaps. “You shouldn’t need to clarify this!”

“It strikes me as a unique situation,” Ezio says. “What if we learn that your relationship does not last? If knowing that you will one day be together means we should act as if you are always together, does knowing that you will one day be apart mean we should act as if you are always apart?”

Shay opens his mouth. Closes it. Frowns.

“What if I meet my younger self and find him with Aveline?” Ezio asks. “He doesn’t know about your relationship, and neither does she. Do I have a responsibility to stop them?”

“This never happened, did it?” Shay asks, with a slightly desperate glance at Aveline. She waves away the question, beginning to shake with laughter.

Ezio shrugs. “I am merely curious.”

“Please stop asking about the circumstances in which you can have sex with my wife,” Shay says. “And – everyone present, if you meet an early Aveline and you think you have a chance with her, don’t. Let’s forget about the technicalities of cuckoldry and just call it a favour.”

Aveline collapses onto the table and laughs herself breathless.

“So, er,” Edward says. He almost falters at the glare Shay directs at him. “I’ll happily agree to this favour for a friend. But, as the rules weren’t laid out clearly before, surely we can forget about certain drunken indiscretions?”

“Edward,” Haytham says, sharply, “you knew very well at the time to be ashamed of yourself.”

“Oh, come on,” Edward says. “Where’s your family loyalty?”

Shay folds his arms. “Oh, you’d like to talk about loyalty, Edward?”

“You didn’t see him, Shay,” Aveline says. She’s mostly managed to compose herself; she’s sitting up again, brushing back the strands of hair that have escaped her braids. “He was so upset. You know how close he was with Kidd. And it was just a kiss. And I was unattached at the time.”

“Not in his mind,” Shay mutters. But some of the tension’s going out of him.

Aveline sends Edward a grin. “You could kiss Shay to even things. Just once, mind you.”

Shay stares at her. “No, he can’t! How does that make any sense?”

“Will you forgive me, then, if I don’t kiss you?” Edward asks, innocently.

“Oh, aye,” Shay says. “Threats. That seems exactly the way to patch up our friendship.” He considers Edward for a moment. “I’ll probably forgive you eventually. But it’ll take—”

He disappears as he’s speaking.

Well, with any luck Edward’s younger self will already have gone through Shay’s next few visits, and he won’t have to worry about any future hostility. Edward’s already met a Shay older than this one, so he knows they’ll end up on cordial terms again.

Aveline looks for a moment at Shay’s empty seat, then turns to Edward.

“You probably shouldn’t have kissed me,” she says, reproachfully.

“I know,” Edward says. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking clearly. But thanks for not saying that in front of Shay.”

She shrugs. “I didn’t want to make things worse between you. And I probably shouldn’t have kissed you, either, so I suppose it’s fair. You actually were married, and I knew it.”

Edward sighs. “She’d passed by then, though I hadn’t heard.”

Aveline leans across the table and squeezes his hand, briefly. Very briefly. Edward stares at the tabletop for a moment, thinking of Caroline and Kidd, and then he looks up at her.

“So does your offer still stand?” he asks. “I get one kiss with your husband?”

Aveline rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “You’ll have to persuade him first.”

“You’re also married, Edward,” Haytham reminds him, firmly. “To my mother.”

Edward tries to keep any sign of abashment off his face. “I just like to know what my options are.”

Chapter Text

There is a strange man in her bedroom, uninvited. Before the visits began, Aveline would have had her blade to his neck without a second thought. Now... well, it seems this is just something she will have to get used to.

For a moment they stand looking at each other. The man is young, in Assassin robes with the hood down. There is a scar on his lip, in the same place as Desmond’s and Altaïr’s. It’s strange. If she didn’t already have such a scar of her own, she’d think they had all scarred themselves as a sign of their bond as visitors.

“May I help you?” she asks.

“You can see me? You are the one I am visiting?”

Aveline shrugs. “Perhaps I merely felt like asking ‘may I help you?’ to my empty room.”

A smile breaks out over the man’s face.

“I did not realise women could visit,” he says. “The others have all been men.” He bows to her. “Ezio Auditore da Firenze.”

Ah, one of the celebrities amongst them. She knew from Shay that she was likely to meet him sooner or later. Perhaps this Ezio is too young to know the mark he will leave on the Brotherhood, though.

“Aveline de Grandpré,” she says. “I am honoured.”

“And you are also an Assassin?” Ezio asks, nodding to the symbol on her belt.

She raises her wrist to show him the blade there.

“Strange,” Ezio says, “that I should learn of the Assassins so recently, and suddenly my life seems filled with nothing else.” A smirk touches his lips. “Although I cannot complain, if all Assassins are as fine in form as you. How well do you handle a blade?”

Ah.

“Expertly,” Aveline says. “I can spill a man’s blood in an instant. I would prefer not to demonstrate here.”

Ezio takes a swift step back. “I have no wish to make myself unwelcome.”

From an enemy, Aveline welcomes flirtation, paradoxically enough; it tends to make it easier to obtain information, or to tempt her target into letting his guard down. From an ally, though, it can all too easily become an inconvenience. And if said ally is now likely to show up in her life at any moment...

Well, it’s probably best to make sure they both know exactly where they stand.

“We are strangers to each other,” Aveline says, “and this visiting business is new to both of us. I hope we can be on warm terms. But perhaps it is too early to aim at anything more intimate than that.”

“I understand,” Ezio says, bowing his head. “I would be honoured to be considered your friend.”

That was surprisingly easy. “In that case, I’m sure we will get along very well.”

And then, of course, Ezio sees fit to add, “But know that, should you ever desire a moment’s pleasure without consequences, my bedroom door is always open to you.”

He frames it as such a generous offer. It’s hard not to smile at the absurdity of it.

“You have a strange approach to friendship, Monsieur Auditore,” Aveline remarks. “Is this an offer you extend to all your new acquaintances? Are you careful to let everyone know that you are happy to conduct your friendship in a bed?”

“I do not mention it so directly to the men,” Ezio says. “It might alarm them.”

Aveline is startled into laughter. That’s not what she was expecting. “But you’d take the opportunity, all the same?”

Ezio shrugs, smiling. “If it arises, why waste it?”

In a strange way, it puts her more at ease. Ezio hopes for the same thing as her: that they can be friends and allies. It’s just that Ezio’s definition of ‘friend’ embraces the possibility of sleeping together, given the chance.

She can’t pretend it hasn’t crossed her mind, the question of whether sex as a visitor is possible.

Perhaps another time.

Chapter Text

It’s mostly a low-level thing, just kind of in the background when he’s around Ezio, and for a long time Desmond’s able to convince himself it’s not there. Just normal intrusive thoughts. Sometimes you’re going to picture people naked (not that he needs to do much picturing, the number of times he’s dropped in on Ezio in a compromising position), or you’ll be up close and you’ll find yourself wondering how they’d react if you kissed them. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything; it’s just your mind trying to make your life awkward.

It does happen a lot with Ezio specifically. But Ezio has way less regard for personal space than most of the others, so it makes sense.

So he manages to keep it buried until that one weird, lonely moment when he kisses Edward. And then he realises he has a problem. Because there’s a part of him that’s going, Look, it only felt good because you were lonely and it was someone paying attention to you. And that’s true; he’s not particularly attracted to Edward specifically. It was just... good to be that close to someone, anyone, for once. So he’s still straight, right? He doesn’t have to readjust his image of himself.

But deep down, when he was kissing Edward, he thinks he might have been picturing Ezio. And somehow none of that seems like an especially straight thing to do.

He can explain it away when he lies awake thinking of Ziio; that’s the Bleeding Effect, Haytham’s view of her as a lover and Connor’s view of her as a mother uncomfortably tangled up with each other. But Ezio? There’s no easy explanation.

So the feelings have to be Desmond’s own, and he doesn’t really know how to deal with that.

“Desmond?”

By this point, it’s kind of hard to be startled by sudden voices. It’s Aveline, crouching beside his sleeping bag.

“Hey,” Desmond says.

“Are you going to sleep? I can leave.”

Desmond shakes his head. “Can’t sleep.” He sits up. “Everything okay with you?”

“I’m fine. What is keeping you awake?”

For an instant, it seems like a great idea to tell Aveline everything. She and Shay have worked out a romantic relationship as visitors, after all. But, then again, she and Shay live in the same time. And Desmond doesn’t know if he really wants a relationship with Ezio; he just... kind of wants a night or two with him.

Oh, yeah, a couple of nights with his hallucination of his long-dead ancestor. Because that makes sense. God, what’s wrong with him?

“Just... I don’t know,” he says. And then, because he’s an idiot, he somehow finds himself adding, “Thinking about Ezio.”

Aveline laughs. “Trying to make sense of him? I don’t think it can be done.”

“Trying to make sense of something, anyway,” Desmond mutters.

“He is a strange man,” Aveline says. “I wasn’t sure whether we would be friends, the first time we met. He was very... forward.”

No surprise there. It’s hard to assess Aveline’s age in the dim light, but he’s pretty sure she’s post-Shay. “I’ve heard from certain Templars you can be pretty forward yourself.”

Aveline sits back on her heels and assumes an innocent expression. “If certain Templars would open their eyes on occasion, perhaps I wouldn’t need to be. But what about Ezio is troubling you?”

Desmond shakes his head. “Nothing. Forget I mentioned it.”

“I’ve lost sleep wondering about him myself,” Aveline says. “You know, the first time I took possession of his body, he asked me to kiss him? He said it was something he had always wanted to try.”

Desmond snorts out a tired laugh. “Yeah, that sounds like Ezio. Did he tell you he ended up fulfilling his dream?”

Aveline covers her mouth. “Did you...?”

“No!” He tries not to think about whether he’d have taken the chance. “No, it was literally two hims. He was visiting Haytham and Connor at the same time. They were really unhappy about it.”

And now he’s picturing it, of course. He tries so hard not to think about that day; it makes him really uncomfortable, and not in the way it should. Ezio rolling around with himself on the grass, kissing and kissing and kissing him, hungrily stripping his clothes off as if...

As if...

As if this really was something he’d always dreamt of.

Desmond presses his hands over his face. “Fuck,” he breathes.

“Desmond?” Aveline asks.

“The next time I visit Ezio,” Desmond says, “I’m going to have something to say to him.”

The next time he visits Ezio is only a few hours later. From his talks with the other visitors, it seems like Desmond’s visits come way more densely than anyone else’s. There was a while when he tried to figure out why, before remembering this was all just happening in his head.

“Ah, Desmond,” Ezio says, smiling. They’re in his room, in the Monteriggioni villa. Desmond is a little more aware of how alone they are than he’d like to be. “Good afternoon.”

Desmond takes a couple of quick steps back from Ezio, trying to gather his thoughts. How is he supposed to open this conversation?

“You’re really narcissistic,” he says, “and it’s messing me up.”

Ezio frowns slightly. “Half of that I cannot deny. Why does it trouble you?”

“Look,” Desmond says. “I get the feelings of the people I’ve lived as in the Animus, right? And... and...”

God, what is he doing? How is this confrontation going to bring him anything but awkwardness? It’s not like Ezio can pull these feelings out of his head.

“And?” Ezio asks.

“I thought they were my own feelings!” Desmond snaps. “I thought there was no way I’d ever been anyone who wanted to make out with you in the Animus, right? That didn’t make any sense. But I was wrong. You wanted to make out with you. Who the hell is this attracted to themselves?”

Ezio considers him for a moment.

“You are saying you are attracted to me?” he asks.

Desmond makes a frustrated noise. “I’m saying I shouldn’t be attracted to you. They’re just your feelings coming through.”

“But you still have them,” Ezio points out. He takes a step closer. “So if I were to touch you, you would not complain?”

Desmond’s mouth is suddenly dry, his heart pretty much beating out of his throat. He can suddenly see all the possible outcomes of this moment, bright lines leading away into his future. They all end up at regret sooner or later.

“It’s a bad idea,” he says. “It’s a really bad idea. Maybe someday I’ll get rid of the Bleeding Effect, and then I’ll look back and I’ll just feel weird about it.” He hesitates. “You’re saying you’d want me to take over your body first, right? So I’d look like you?”

Ezio shrugs. “It would add something, certainly, but I do not think it essential.”

Oh, okay. His great-great-times-a-million grandfather is happy to make out with Desmond as Desmond. Good to know. It’s probably technically outside the boundaries of incest law, but Desmond’s still pretty weirded out by this.

Although the offer itself isn’t nearly as unsettling as the fact that it’s really tempting.

“It’s a bad idea,” he says.

“You said that before,” Ezio says, with a smile. “But what is your answer?”

Desmond hesitates. Shakes his head.

“Very well,” Ezio says. And then, clearly just to make sure there’s no way Desmond’s ever going to stop being haunted by the option, he adds, “Come to me if you ever change your mind.”

Chapter Text

“Father,” Connor says, wary. It always feels strange to see him on the homestead, wrong somehow. A shadow of the life he never had, haunting the life he’s building for himself now.

Haytham nods briefly. “Connor.”

He’s frowning, something evidently on his mind. Just once, Connor wishes his father would look pleased to see him.

“Have you seen Edward recently?” Haytham asks, abruptly.

Connor frowns. “Three days ago.”

“Did anything strange happen?”

Edward was asleep on a rooftop, cuddling a dead pigeon. “No.”

“And on any visits before that? Was he behaving strangely?”

“He is Edward,” Connor says.

Haytham sighs. “He is, isn’t he?”

Connor doesn’t understand why Haytham wants to know about Edward, but the questions have reminded him of one he has himself.

“Do you and Edward know each other?” Connor asks.

“Of course we know each other, Connor; we’re visitors.”

“His name is Kenway. Or that is what his friend Kidd calls him.”

Haytham looks at him for a moment. “A coincidence, as far as I can tell,” he says. “There are plenty of Kenways.”

Connor nods. “So why are you worried about his behaviour?”

Haytham’s lips twitch in distaste. “On my last visit, I caught him in bed with Ezio.”

“You are sure?” Connor asks, taken aback.

“Fairly sure,” Haytham says. “There is, of course, always the possibility it was Altaïr and Desmond in elaborate wigs.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“So you understand the situation, and because I don’t believe they would object to their encounter being made known,” Haytham says. “Edward has also kissed at least two others of our number, but for their sake I won’t specify names. I hope he doesn’t intend to work his way through the entire array of visitors, but I wished to make absolutely certain that he hadn’t approached you... inappropriately.”

“You are worried about me?” Connor asks.

“The others can make their own poor decisions,” Haytham says. “You are my son.”

Connor hesitates, uncomfortable. The images now in his mind are ones he could happily have done without. “He is very free with physical contact. But no more with me than with anyone else, I think.”

“That is normal,” Haytham says. “Tedious, but normal. But he hasn’t tried anything beyond the bounds of friendship?”

Connor shakes his head.

Haytham sighs in relief. “Good. I don’t think I’d ever have slept again otherwise. If he ever does try anything, stop him immediately.”

For once, his father has given him an instruction he has absolutely no desire to disobey. “I do not need you to tell me that. You fear I might...” He hesitates. “You fear I might lie with a man?”

“I fear Edward will lie with anything that breathes,” Haytham says. “He’d likely take it as a challenge if I tried to warn him away from you, which is why I’m approaching you instead. Take a man into your bed if you must, so long as it isn’t that man. And you’ll need offspring at some point, of course, so Desmond can one day come to be,” he adds, as an afterthought. “Have you made any progress in that direction?”

Connor flushes. “I have had other concerns.”

It’s never really struck him before: what if he does have children one day? Well, it’s certain that he will, if Desmond is to be believed. Haytham will be their grandfather. Should he invite Haytham to see them?

Perhaps not. His relationship with his father is a strange thing, complicated and painful, and perhaps his own children would be better off without it.

But he can’t prevent the visits.

“Ah, yes,” Haytham says. “Other concerns. Your ‘duties as an Assassin’.”

“My people,” Connor says. “My revenge.”

“Of course. Vengeance will bring you nothing, you know.”

“It will bring me peace,” Connor says. “You loved my mother as well. Or you claimed to.”

Haytham falls silent.

The bizarre opening to the visit is still haunting Connor. He considers asking why his father is so troubled by the thought of him with Edward specifically. But this has been an extremely unfortunate conversation, and Connor is reluctant to reopen it.

The two of them stand in silence, looking over the homestead, until Haytham disappears.

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe I’m actually this close to Leonardo da Vinci,” Desmond whispers. A little of the excitement goes out of his face. “Well. In my head.”

“You’ve been admiring his work in the Animus?” Ezio asks, amused.

“In the Animus?” Desmond echoes. “No, this guy is really famous in my time. Like, about as famous as a person can get. Everyone knows his name.”

Ezio laughs, delighted. “I can think of no man who better deserves immortality. What is he known for?”

“The...” Desmond hesitates. “Da Vinci... Code?”

“A code?” Ezio asks. That wasn’t exactly what he was expecting. Still, Leonardo is certainly skilled with codes, and in his strange mind it’s probably exactly the legacy he’s always dreamt of.

Desmond shakes his head. “No, forget I said that. God, Shaun would literally murder me if he could hear me right now. But trust me, he’s really famous.”

“Would you like to speak to him?” Ezio asks.

“Are you kidding? What would I say to Leonardo da Vinci? ‘Congratulations on...’?”

He hesitates. Ezio has to struggle not to laugh. Leonardo is famous in the future, and yet the people of the future do not know why? It seems strangely fitting.

Desmond snaps his fingers. “The Mona Lisa! Pretty sure that was him. But he might not even have painted it yet. Do you know if he has?”

“You do not need to worry so much,” Ezio says. “Leonardo is not a difficult man to talk to.”

“Look,” Desmond says, “it’s bad enough when I feel like I’m boring people who aren’t Leonardo da Vinci.”

Ezio laughs. “You have come to us from the future. How could you possibly bore him?” And he gives up control of his body to Desmond.

Desmond looks down sharply at his body – well, Ezio’s body, now – and then up at Ezio, something like panic in his eyes. “No, seriously, I don’t think I can talk to him. Does he even know what’s going on? Do I have to pretend to be you?”

Being so close to a physical duplicate of himself is a rare pleasure, but Ezio tries to keep his focus. “He—”

“It’s done!” Leonardo exclaims, coming into the room and brandishing his translation. “This one is particularly interesting; if you assume that the first line of numbers is actually giving instructions on how to rearrange the other sets...”

Ezio smiles, watching Desmond’s expression fade from alarm to amusement as Leonardo talks incessantly about codes. Ezio could, of course, ask for the codes himself on a visit to Altaïr, but it seems wrong to do so when Leonardo takes such pleasure in solving them.

“...nothing to help you in your cause specifically, I’m afraid, but what a piece of history!” Leonardo is saying, his eyes bright. He laughs. “Although, of course, with your friends from other time periods, perhaps it’s nothing special to you.”

“You know?” Desmond asks.

Leonardo looks up from the codex page. “Hmm?”

“Uh,” Desmond says, suddenly selfconscious again.

“He knows,” Ezio says. “Tell him your name.”

Desmond shifts. “Uh, I’m not actually Ezio. My name’s Desmond. I’m a visitor. He... I guess he told you how we can take over each other’s bodies?”

Leonardo laughs again. “Ah, of course.” He drops into an elaborate bow. “A pleasure to meet you, Desmond.”

“This is excellent,” Ezio says. “I am sure you will be able to convince him of visiting.”

For a moment Desmond stands frozen, staring at Ezio.

“You said he knew!” he exclaims. “I thought you meant he believed it! How am I meant to convince someone this is real? This isn’t real! Now I’m going to look like an idiot!”

“If this truly is not real, I apologise for making you look foolish in front of a figment of your imagination,” Ezio says. “But please do make the effort to convince him. I would like to have a friend in my own time who understands.”

“No, actually, this is perfect,” Desmond says. “I can do whatever I like, and if he thinks it’s just you, great! I don’t have to be worried about looking like an idiot in front of Leonardo da Vinci, because I’ll just be making you look like an idiot. And you’ll deserve it for shoving me into this stupid situation.”

“If you think you can embarrass me, I invite you to try,” Ezio says.

Leonardo is beginning to look slightly concerned. “Ezio, are you feeling well?”

Desmond hesitates.

“I am fine, Leonardo,” he says. “Only a little tired.” He takes the codex page and the translation. “Thank you for your work on this.”

He’s changed the way he holds himself. After all the time Desmond has spent watching Ezio through the Animus, living as him, he is probably skilled at mimicking him. A strange thought. It’s never really occurred to Ezio before.

“Any time, my friend,” Leonardo says, his expression clearing. “I suppose you have work to attend to? Or can you stay for a while?”

“I can stay,” Desmond says. “Tell me more about these codes.”

Leonardo looks a little startled. “Are you sure?” And then a smile breaks over his face. “No, don’t think about that question. I would love to tell you about codes.”

They talk together until the visit ends, about all sorts of subjects Ezio’s never had the time to listen to. It’s strange to watch. Desmond seems relaxed, almost happy, or at least happier than Ezio has seen him before. But it’s because he’s slipped into Ezio’s skin, into Ezio’s mind. Ezio can’t imagine him ever being so comfortable as himself.

“Ezio?” Leonardo asks. “Is something troubling you?”

Ezio looks up at him. He knows why Leonardo is asking; the visit ended ten minutes ago, and Ezio has been much quieter than Desmond was. Today, in this workshop, it seems Desmond has been better at being Ezio than Ezio himself.

“I am worried about a friend of mine,” he says.

Chapter Text

“Another merchant vessel?” Connor asks, watching the burning wreck they’re leaving behind.

“Oh, it’s you,” Edward says, glancing at him. “I’ve seen you sinking ships from your Aquila, same as me. Don’t act so high and mighty just because your reasons are different.”

Connor frowns. Having different reasons does seem a relevant consideration. “They are the aggressors.”

“Well, my targets are aggressively keeping all the cargo to themselves. I can’t just sit back and let it happen, can I?”

“How many did you kill for this cargo?”

“As many as I needed to,” Edward says. “You’re no fun at all, do you know that? At least Ezio can laugh sometimes.”

“At the deaths of men guilty of nothing?” Connor asks.

“Maybe not that,” Edward admits. “But you’re about to be glad I plundered all this rum, because now I’m sharing it with you.” He takes a swig from the bottle he’s holding. Holds it out to Connor.

Connor shakes his head.

“No fun at all,” Edward mutters again, before draining the bottle.

“Kenway?”

Kenway? Connor never took that name. And who would be addressing him by it here? It’s not the voice of a visitor.

He looks around. They’ve been joined by another sailor, a young man in a red bandana.

Edward raises his bottle to the stranger. “Good hunting. Should’ve got involved. Actually, I think you should join the crew on a more permanent basis.”

“Life under a drunken fool? Don’t know how I’ll refuse.”

“We’re all drunken fools here,” Edward says. “If you didn’t secretly enjoy it, you’d be a banker.” He looks back at Connor. “This is James Kidd, and you’re not allowed to kiss him.”

“Sound advice for yourself,” Kidd says. “Or are you talking to one of your visitors?”

Edward nods. “New one for you, actually. He just needs to hear the rules. Connor, promise me, all right? No kissing.”

Kidd shrugs. “Not a rule, as far as I’m concerned.”

“I have no intention of kissing anyone,” Connor says, slightly bewildered.

“Good,” Edward says. “And you’ll hold to that promise, won’t you? Even if circumstances prove to be... not as you first thought?”

“Careful, Kenway,” Kidd says.

The name sends something sharp through Connor every time he hears it. “He calls you Kenway.”

“Because it’s my name,” Edward says. “D’you want to speak to him?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Suddenly, Connor is in Edward’s body. The empty rum bottle slips through his startled fingers and falls to the deck, but the glass is too thick to break.

“How much did you drink?” Connor asks, a little alarmed. The ship and the world both seem to be pitching independently, out of rhythm with each other.

“I’m sober!” Edward protests. “Or close enough, anyway.”

If Edward thinks this is sobriety, he’s never been sober in his life. Which is perhaps not that surprising, as revelations go.

“So you’re Connor, are you?” Kidd asks.

“Yes,” Connor says. “I was not expecting to meet someone new.”

“Well, it’s happening, so you’ll have to manage,” Kidd says. He holds out a hand. Connor takes it after a moment’s hesitation, and Kidd tilts his wrist slightly as they shake hands, exposing the blade strapped there.

It’s a deliberate movement, Connor thinks. A threat? A sign?

“Edward stole his blades,” he says, wary.

“Some of us earned them,” Kidd says. “I hear you’re a brother.”

Connor glances over at Edward, careful to keep Kidd in his peripheral vision.

“Yes, Kidd’s one of you,” Edward says. “Just as tedious about it, too. You can drink together and talk about how morally superior you are.”

Connor nods. “Yes, I am a brother.”

“Not a conversationalist, though,” Kidd says. “That’s fine; I’ve tongue enough for the two of us.”

Edward, for no reason Connor can see, buries his face in his hands. “In the name of God, Kidd.”

It’s true; Connor is no conversationalist, and he’s never been skilled at making friends. He finds it easiest to connect with people if he can help them in some way, or if they share in some sort of danger together. In a situation like this, what is he to say?

“So what can you tell me about your time?” Kidd asks. “Anything interesting?”

Should he tell Kidd that the Colonial Brotherhood will be almost wiped out in the next few decades? If there’s nothing Kidd can do to affect it, why give him the pain of that knowledge?

“Not getting anywhere with that one? All right.” Kidd leans back against the ship’s rail. “So, what was the moment you realised exactly how unfortunate you were to be stuck in a miraculous time-travelling bond with Edward Kenway, of all people?”

Connor pauses.

“Don’t answer that,” Edward says.

It’s not a story Connor wants widely known, but perhaps the rum in Edward’s system overcomes his reserve.

“It is difficult to pin it down to a single incident,” he says. “But my target once escaped because he possessed my body and went looking for alcohol.”

“You can’t hold that one against me; it was urgent!”

“You’re not joking, are you?” Kidd asks, staring at Connor. “Jesus. If I had this visiting thing with him, I’d have killed him years ago.”

“It is occasionally tempting,” Connor admits.

Kidd grins. “See, we’re going to get along fine, you and me.”

“I’m not that bad,” Edward mutters.

Chapter Text

Connor and the man in the hat are both here (Connor bristling with disapproval, as he always seems to be), but Shay must be the one they’re all visiting; he’s kneeling atop someone, and it isn’t a visitor. It’s—

It’s—

It’s Adéwalé. Older, but unmistakeable. Shay is pinning Adé down between his knees, extending his blade—

“No!” Edward shouts.

Shay stiffens, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Adé.

“Sir?” he asks. There’s a tremor in his voice. “Any chance of a change of orders?”

“It’s Adéwalé, man, can’t you see?” Edward demands. He tries to launch himself into Shay’s body, to take control, but – nothing happens. There’s not even the resistance of a visitor on guard; there’s nothing. He might as well be trying to take possession of a table leg.

So he physically launches himself into Shay instead.

Shay is knocked sideways with a grunt of surprise, and Adé rolls instantly with the movement, bringing up his own blade, and no, Edward doesn’t want Shay to die here either—

“Shay!” the man in the hat calls, and he throws himself onto Adé.

He’s not visiting?

No time to think about that now.

“Hat Man, don’t kill him!” Edward exclaims. “Whatever your quarrel is, he’s a friend of mine.”

He thinks he sees hesitation there. Well, Adé’s still alive, and most of the visitors are quick at killing when they mean to, so the man in the hat must be hesitating.

Edward glances to Connor for support. Connor looks... frustrated, upset, but resigned, as if he knows the outcome of this already.

Maybe he does. Edward feels dread catch in his stomach. There’s time travel involved here; maybe Connor’s seen how this turns out.

“What is this?” Adé hisses into Hat Man’s face. “Playing with me before you strike? Kill me, if that’s what you’re here for!”

Maybe Hat Man’s the one Edward is visiting, if he’s really here with Shay. Edward tries to take him over, but of course Hat Man is on guard against it.

Another physical strike? If Adé gets free, though, both Hat Man and Shay could be killed.

Maybe they’d deserve it.

Shay’s moved to put himself between Edward and the struggle.

“Edward,” he says. “Please don’t make me choose between you and him.”

“You’re helping him murder my friend,” Edward snaps. “Looks to me like you’ve already chosen.”

His eyes dart to Hat Man, who’s...

He’s retracted his blade, and Edward hardly dares to breathe.

Hat Man, keeping Adé’s arms pinned down with his knees, reaches down to unstrap the blade at Adé’s wrist (and when did he get that?). He works it free and starts on the other one.

“You came here to disarm me?” Adé asks, incredulous.

“That wasn’t the intention, no,” Hat Man says. He holds the blades out to Shay (who takes them, looking relieved), and begins to pat Adé down for other weapons. “But our mutual friend would be very unhappy if I killed you, and I don’t favour our chances of retreat if I leave you with so much as a letter opener.”

There’s no mirth in Adé’s laugh. “Don’t try to pretend you loved him.”

“Believe what you will,” Hat Man tells him, coldly. “But there must be some reason you’re living to see another sunrise. Shay? Surely you can spare a few belts; you wear more than enough of the things.”

They leave Adé trussed up and cursing, but alive. Edward has a lot of very angry questions to ask, but Connor gets there first.

“You spared him,” Connor says. He’s staring at Hat Man. “I pleaded with you countless times to spare our informants, and not once did you show mercy.”

“That’s yet in my future, Connor,” Hat Man says, “but I don’t doubt it. Sparing informants is an excellent way to tip off one’s target.”

“Then why did you spare Adéwalé?”

Hat Man glances briefly at him. “Would you rather I’d killed him?”

“Of course not,” Connor says.

“Then why are we having this discussion?”

“Well, if you won’t answer him, maybe you’ll give me something,” Edward says. He’s shaking; he doesn’t know whether it’s anger or relief. Adé’s alive, which is something, but it’s hard to get past two men you counted as friends – well, one man you counted as a friend and one you counted as an infuriating mystery – attempting to perforate another friend’s throat. “What was any of that? Why were you fighting Adé? Why d’you have Shay licking your boots?”

“Wouldn’t say that,” Shay mutters.

“You asked me to spare your friend,” Hat Man says, striding ahead without a glance at Edward. “I did. He may well come after me and Shay; he’s hardly going to forget us.” Now he looks back and meets Edward’s eyes. “I’ve endangered my life for you. I don’t owe you any answers.”

Edward’s still cursing when he finds himself back at the wheel of the Jackdaw, clutching it so hard his knuckles are white. Adé is looking into his face, frowning.

“Captain?”

Edward drops the wheel and throws himself on Adé, in a hug so violent they’re both knocked to the deck.

He doesn’t let go, despite Adé’s protests, for at least five minutes. The Jackdaw nearly runs aground.

Chapter Text

Altaïr is atop a tower, looking out over Jerusalem, when he feels the tingling in his head that means he has unwelcome company. He turns around, angry words on his tongue, and...

It’s a child. A small girl, gazing out through the arrow slits in the tower’s battlements.

For a moment, Altaïr can only look at her in bewildered silence. At last she turns around and sees him there.

“Where did the chicken go?” she asks.

“The chicken?” Altaïr asks, blankly.

“I was chasing a chicken,” she informs him. “It’s gone. Where are we?”

“You are in Jerusalem,” Altaïr says. He thought at first that this was a new visitor, but... he has met the other visitors at various ages. Never this young, but is it impossible that he might see them as children? “Is your name Aveline?”

She brightens. “Are you one of Papa’s friends?”

How can he possibly explain how he knows her? Easiest to ignore the question, perhaps.

“I have work to do, Aveline,” he says. “Stay quiet and wait, and you will soon return to your home.”

Aveline, looking a little crestfallen, sits down against the battlements. Altaïr prepares to dive off the tower... and then he pauses.

If he jumps, Aveline will be dragged after him. She shouldn’t come to any physical harm, but she will still have that experience of plummeting towards the ground, and...

He glances back at Aveline. She’s wrapped her arms around her knees.

It’s the most convenient option, certainly, but can he really justify causing that sort of terror to a child?

Altaïr sighs. Crouches in front of Aveline.

“I need you to get on my back,” he tells her. “And hold on tightly. I am going to climb down this tower.”

Aveline laughs. “You can’t climb down. See how high up we are?”

“I have told you the truth,” Altaïr says. “But you must stay as still as you can.”

Aveline seems sceptical, but she clambers onto his back anyway, locking her arms and legs tightly around him. Altaïr stands and closes his eyes for a moment. This is idiotic. Aveline will suffer no physical injury if he leaps. If he tries to climb down with this extra weight unbalancing him, he could very well fall and die.

He eases himself over the battlements. Aveline gasps quietly.

It’s a very slow, very cautious climb, but eventually he reaches ground level and lets Aveline off his back. His legs are shaking.

“How can you do that?” Aveline exclaims. She’s staring up the tower they just came down, awed. “Could you climb up it again? Can you show me?”

“I need to return to the bureau,” Altaïr says. There was a man at the foot of the tower he had been hoping to ask some questions, but he’s gone by now, and in any case it would feel strange to conduct his usual method of interrogation in front of a child so young, even if she’ll grow up to be an Assassin herself. He has enough information to... well, not enough to satisfy Malik, perhaps, but enough to satisfy himself.

He travels through the streets to reach the bureau; travel over the rooftops seems ill-advised. For once, he’s glad of the ladder up to the roof that houses the bureau’s entrance. He’s not sure he’s ever bothered to use it before.

Of course, there’s no ladder down into the bureau itself. Suddenly this seems an oversight. Malik must keep a ladder somewhere, surely, after the loss of his arm? He imagines the scorn Malik will heap on him if he asks for it to be set up.

Aveline is clearly delighted to climb onto his shoulders again.

Inside the bureau, Altaïr kneels briefly so she can slip to the floor. “I am going to have a private discussion with my friend,” he says to her, quietly. Friend is perhaps not the right word, but brother makes him think of Kadar. “It is not for your ears. But I will return to you soon.”

“Who are you speaking to, Altaïr?” Malik calls from the next room. “If you’ve brought an outsider into our bureau, if you have the arrogance to disregard...”

Malik comes through the doorway, and the words die on his lips.

“No,” he says, after a moment. “You are merely talking to yourself. How did I fail to guess?”

“I have your information,” Altaïr says. “I will speak to you in a moment.”

“Ah, of course. I foolishly thought your duty to our cause might take precedence over conversations with phantoms of the mind. Please, come through whenever you deem it convenient.” He turns sharply and returns to his post.

Altaïr looks a moment at the doorway, then down at Aveline, who has tucked herself behind his leg.

“You’re hiding,” he says, puzzled.

“Maman told me not to draw attention to myself,” she mumbles. “When there are men who seem cruel.”

“Malik?” Altaïr asks. “Malik will not harm you.”

It bothers him, somehow, seeing her afraid. Or... perhaps it is not the fear, but that she believes herself helpless. She is an Assassin.

And then he realises what this moment could be for her, and he kneels to look into her eyes.

“Aveline,” he says. He gestures to the bureau wall. “Do you see that symbol?”

Aveline nods wordlessly.

“If you ever feel lost, seek that symbol,” Altaïr says. “And you will gain the power to strip those men of their cruelty.”

“I will,” Aveline says, quietly, and then she throws her arms around him. “Thank you, monsieur.”

It is perhaps fortunate that they are in one of the few places where Altaïr feels safe; he tends not to respond well when someone suddenly lunges at him. After a moment he touches his hand to her back, uncertainly, and she tightens her hold.

And then she vanishes, and Altaïr is left holding only air.

It takes him some time to remember his task.

“Returning at last to the world where the rest of us live?” Malik asks, when Altaïr enters his room.

“It seems so,” Altaïr says.

“You’re smiling,” Malik informs him. “I don’t like it.”

Is he smiling? It seems strange. This visit has been as inconvenient as any of the others; more inconvenient than most, in fact, given his precarious descent from the tower.

“Reflecting fondly on the last few minutes without you,” Altaïr says. “It will be gone soon enough.”

For a moment he almost thinks he sees a smile cross Malik’s face as well, but it’s for too brief an instant to be sure. “Tell me what you have learnt of your target.”

Chapter Text

There’s a woman in the temple, looking around curiously. Not one of Juno’s apparitions; she’s solid, she’s real (real-looking, he reminds himself).

Desmond’s never seen her before, but he knows who she is. Ezio’s talked at such length about the one female visitor that it’d be pretty much impossible for him not to. Maybe the weirdest thing about his hallucinations is how consistent they are; visits always have the same rules, and if someone alludes offhand to a visit with a pirate, a Templar, whatever, it seems like Desmond can be sure he’ll be meeting them himself sooner or later.

“You’re Aveline,” he says.

A smile catches at the corner of her mouth. “I know, as it happens. And you are?”

“Desmond,” he says. “Hi.”

“Ah, yes, the one from the future.” She gestures to the dark, blue-tinted space around them. “And this is what that future looks like?”

“Not exactly,” Desmond says. “Most of it’s less sci-fi. Although I guess it’s probably still pretty sci-fi for you.” Not that that means much to her, going by her expression. “Uh, never mind.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says. “I should be practising my deportment; I’m not unhappy to be interrupted. You won’t disapprove if my posture’s a little unladylike, will you?”

Desmond laughs a little in surprise. That’s not what he was expecting. He knew she was supposed to be an Assassin; somehow that and training for ladylike posture have never really gone together in his head.

Maybe it explains the dress, though. It’s hard to imagine how anyone could move in that thing, let alone kill.

He’s been vaguely wondering about this since he first heard about Aveline, but actually meeting her has thrown the question into sharp relief. Is he going to be a woman in the Animus one day? There’s no way his hallucinations could predict the future, he knows that, but... he could swear Ezio was talking about visits with a Templar long before he went through Haytham’s memories.

Well, it’s not like things can get much weirder for him. Why not be a woman in the Animus? Why not wear some inconvenient-looking dresses and go through someone else’s posture training? Why not... possibly fall in love with a dude or two, if that’s her thing? They’ll be long-dead anyway, so it’s not like it’ll really affect his life; he’s never going to have to worry about confessing to them. He isn’t exactly going to run off with Sofia Sartor any time soon.

God, when did ‘at least the people you’re in love with died centuries ago’ become a bright point in his life? He needs to stop thinking about this.

“Does it get in the way of... work?” he asks, tapping his hidden blade. “Etiquette training or whatever?”

“Occasionally,” Aveline says, with a sigh. “But you would be surprised by how thoroughly one can take a man’s guard down with the correct approach.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Desmond says. His attempt to edge away from her evidently isn’t subtle enough, because she starts to laugh.

“You don’t need to worry.” She smiles at him. “You are an Assassin as well, are you not?”

“Kind of,” he mutters.

“Then I have no cause to kill you. Ezio can be inappropriate, and yet I let him live. Why would I harm someone who offers me no offence?”

Desmond winces. “Sorry about that.” He isn’t sure why he’s apologising, but... if one of his hallucinations causes trouble for another, he guesses it’s kind of his responsibility? Maybe?

“About Ezio?” Aveline asks. “It’s nothing unendurable. We will be friends, I imagine, once my novelty wears off.”

“He’s a good friend to have,” Desmond says. “Sometimes.”

“I hope we can be friends as well,” Aveline says. “But I hear you don’t believe I exist.”

Damn it. He was hoping maybe no one had mentioned it to her, maybe they’d be able to build a relationship without the awkwardness of her knowing he doesn’t believe she’s real. Which is, yeah, kind of ridiculous. He’s worried that things will be awkward with his hallucination if she knows he knows she’s a hallucination? But it seems like the visits are going to keep happening, and he can’t just cover his ears and close his eyes until they’re over. He might as well be friendly, and ‘by the way, I know you’re not real’ doesn’t really seem to help get things off on the right foot.

“Yeah, I know you don’t exist,” he says. “But... maybe we can be friends anyway?”

Aveline smiles. “I see no reason why not. In fairness, I’m not entirely certain you exist either.”

What?

“Okay, I definitely exist,” Desmond says. He isn’t always sure who he is, especially after a long day in the Animus, but he’s sure he’s someone real.

Aveline shrugs. “People miraculously appearing out of nowhere? It just seems a little strange.”

His hallucinations aren’t supposed to doubt his existence. Somehow, this is bothering him more than he’d have expected it to. “Well, yeah, it’s strange. It’s going on in my mind. My mind, which is real.”

Aveline starts to laugh, and somehow Desmond finds himself breaking down into giggles too.

“Sorry,” he says. “I know this is ridiculous.”

“I have nothing but my own mind to blame,” she says, innocently.

“Don’t say that!” He gives her a little shove, and she starts laughing harder. “Look, I can – I can prove it, tell me when it is for you, tell me where you are, I’ll look up something that’s going to happen in your future—”

But Aveline’s gone. And Desmond’s still smiling, which he’s done so rarely recently that it actually feels a little weird.

Just after his disastrous first meeting with Shay, he asked an older Ezio how many visitors there actually were and got the answer ‘eight’. So Aveline should be the last one. Maybe one day the Bleeding Effect will wear off or he’ll find a cure or something, but for now it seems like he’s stuck with these guys.

Altaïr. Ezio. Haytham. Connor. Edward. Shay. Aveline.

In the last few weeks, Desmond’s had a blade to his throat more than once. He’s had to put up with Ezio... Ezioing, and, although he hasn’t known Edward for long, he’s been assured by the others that Edwarding isn’t any better. He’s seen way too much of Haytham and Ziio, although at least that came before Connor completely screwed up his head about those two. (It didn’t come before Haytham screwed up his head about Ziio, but you can’t have everything.)

But it hasn’t all been bad. There’ve been moments when the loneliness of this whole deal, nothing real in his life but sleeping and time in the Animus, has been getting to him, and...

Desmond laughs dryly.

Well. If he didn’t have his hallucinations, he’d probably lose his mind.

Chapter Text

It doesn’t look like it’ll be an especially interesting visit; Edward and Shay are both here, but they’re both asleep, curled up together in the bed of... the Morrigan, she thinks. She looks around, taking note of the crosses dotted about the cabin. Definitely the Morrigan. Besides, Edward showing up for a visit and throwing himself into bed with Shay seems more likely than the reverse.

Aveline considers leaving, but there’s something to be said for taking a few hours’ sleep without actually losing any time. Not long ago she’d have been wary of sleeping in the presence of a Templar, but by this point she’d consider this particular Templar... a friend, perhaps, of a sort. And there’s space for her. She thinks Shay might have brought in a larger bed since she was last here, in fact, although she can’t be certain; she’s never paid much attention to his sleeping arrangements.

She’s briefly wakened by movement in the night, but it’s Edward, of course, wrapping himself around her like some sort of octopus. An inherent hazard of being anywhere near him when he’s sleeping. She’s learning to live with it.

When she next wakes, there’s light streaming in through the cabin’s windows. At some point Edward has vanished. Shay is lying on his side, watching her.

“You should have woken me,” he murmurs, smiling.

“Ah, but you and Edward looked so sweet asleep,” she says. “Could I truly be so heartless?”

His smile broadens. He shifts into the space Edward’s absence has left between them, and...

He kisses her.

He kisses her.

Aveline goes still, trying to make sense of this – Shay Cormac, a visitor, perhaps a friend, but a Templar – and Shay draws back almost at once, frowning.

“Was that not permitted?” he asks.

Aveline blinks, and darts her tongue over her lips, more to buy herself a moment to think than anything else. “I don’t know,” she says. “It was rather forward.”

Shay throws himself at once out of the bed.

“Oh, God,” he says, looking horror-struck. He grabs his outer coat from its stand, pulls it quickly around himself, leaving the many straps and buckles undone. “Oh, Christ, Aveline, I’m sorry. I thought – I woke up and saw you there and I...” He drags his hands over his face and lets out a low, wordless wail. “God, what have I done?”

“Shay,” Aveline says. She can feel herself beginning to smile, but she tries to look serious; not forbidding, but at least not like she’s struggling not to laugh at his anguish. “If you saw me in your bed and thought it was an invitation, I suppose I can understand.”

Shay shakes his head, fiercely. “I’ve seen you sleeping next to Desmond, I should have known it didn’t mean... we had the codewords, why in God’s name didn’t I use them?”

“Codewords?” Aveline asks.

There’s a sharp rap at the door. Shay throws Aveline a desperately apologetic look, then raises his voice and calls, “Come in.”

The door opens, and Aveline tenses. Haytham.

“I had a visitor who was very insistent on being brought down here,” Haytham remarks. His eyes alight on Aveline, still in Shay’s bed, and he raises his eyebrows; she narrows her eyes in return. “Although I take it you’re already busy.”

“It’s not like that,” Shay says. “She—”

“Shay.” A woman pushes past Haytham and into the cabin. At first Aveline thinks it’s a stranger, and then she realises it’s herself.

The other Aveline approaches Shay with sharp intent, as if she’s planning to hit him. Shay stays her with a hand on her arm and throws a pointed glance over his shoulder.

The other Aveline follows his look and meets Aveline’s eyes. Breaks into a smile.

“Well,” Aveline II says, “this should be interesting.”

“I’ll stay close, I suppose,” Haytham mutters, closing himself out of the cabin.

“Aveline,” Shay says, looking at the new Aveline, “I need your forgiveness. Or her forgiveness. I’ve needed your forgiveness all this time and never known it. How is it that you ever spoke to me again?”

Aveline II bursts out laughing. “Ah, this visit.”

Shay draws breath, then seems to freeze. “Am I permitted to speak frankly?”

“Was your understanding that I pestered Haytham into bringing me here just to play chess?” Aveline II asks. She presses closer to Shay, slipping a hand inside his coat, and...

She’s kissing Shay. Aveline is sitting here, in Shay’s bed, watching herself kiss Shay. It’s impossible to make sense of. Something is tightening in her chest.

“Aveline!” Shay hisses, pulling back. “Not in front of... in front of yourself! She’s not here yet!”

“Trust me,” Aveline II murmurs, “you’ll be grateful for this.”

And Aveline feels her visit drawing to a close. For a moment she considers fighting the end of it, demanding some answers, but right now she’s hopelessly confused. More than anything, she needs some time alone to think.

She’s standing on a rooftop when she returns to her time, unable to remember what she’s doing there.

She touches a hand to her lips. Sits down where she is and watches the horizon, piecing things together in her mind and her heart, until the sun rises.

Chapter Text

“Sorry,” Desmond says. “I just didn’t think I’d be meeting you so... young.”

It’s so strange to have this quiet, serious thirteen-year-old looking at him. How can he talk to a thirteen-year-old? He hasn’t done it since he was once himself.

“Anyway, sorry, I guess you’re pretty confused,” Desmond says. “I’m... okay, this whole thing gets kind of complicated.”

“I know who you are.”

Desmond blinks. “Huh?”

“You are Desmond Miles,” Connor says. “You are a visitor. You came to me often when I was younger, like the others, but then the visits stopped. And now they are starting again.”

This is weird. He knows visits can happen out of order, but the first time he met Altaïr, Ezio, Haytham... they were the first meetings on both sides.

Well, he thinks they were, at least. Ezio wasn’t very talkative on his first visit, so it’s hard to be sure. But Altaïr, Haytham, they acted like they’d never had visits at all before Desmond first met them.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Desmond says. “This is our first visit for me, though, so, uh... nice to meet you?”

Connor inclines his head, very slightly. “My name is Ratonhnhaké:ton.”

Oh, okay, this is before he gets his new name. Desmond can’t ever remember Connor’s original name himself, but the part of him that’s Connor knows it. He tries not to call on the Bleeding Effect too often, but... well, his mind’s a wreck already. Why not let himself think of Connor as Ratonhnhaké:ton for this meeting?

“You are the one who can see our lives in the Animus,” Ratonhnhaké:ton says. “Can you tell me whether the man who lives here will agree to train me?”

It’s only when he says it that Desmond really registers where they are: on Achilles’ homestead, standing outside his mansion.

“Yeah, he’ll train you,” Desmond says.

“How will I convince him? How long will it take?”

Desmond hesitates. “Uh...”

“Boy!”

Both Desmond and Ratonhnhaké:ton turn to look at the house. Achilles is standing in the doorway, leaning heavily on his stick.

“Come here,” Achilles says.

Ratonhnhaké:ton hesitates for only a moment before approaching.

Desmond follows, curious. He was still new to Ratonhnhaké:ton by this point in the Animus – he still is, really; it’s been barely any time since then – and he wasn’t able to sync up enough to see the moment Achilles actually agreed to train him, whatever it was Ratonhnhaké:ton did to convince him he had potential. Maybe this is that moment?

“I was watching you from the window,” Achilles says. “Who were you speaking to?”

Ratonhnhaké:ton tenses. “No one.”

“Oh? You don’t see a person there? Someone invisible to others, perhaps?”

For a moment, they stand looking at each other in silence.

“It’s not spoken of much,” Achilles says. “Some consider it a blemish on our history, or simply don’t believe in it. But both Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad and Ezio Auditore, two of the most significant figures in our order, were rumoured to have periods of madness, moments when they appeared to be speaking to people no one else could see.” He considers Ratonhnhaké:ton. “This may not be what you want to hear, boy, but you may be afflicted with the madness of the great Assassins.”

“The madness,” Ratonhnhaké:ton repeats. He looks distinctly unhappy.

“I have seen it once before,” Achilles says, “and I made a very grave mistake. I will not waste this potential again.”

Well, it looks like Achilles’ real reasons for taking on a pupil are going to remain a mystery. Whatever his reason, Desmond can be pretty sure it’s not that he saw Ratonhnhaké:ton talking to Desmond.

“So you will teach me?” Ratonhnhaké:ton asks.

“I will attempt to impart what knowledge I have,” Achilles says. “Whether you will actually learn it depends on you.”

“Well done, kid,” Desmond says. Feels a little weird to congratulate someone on being welcomed into a professional murder club, but at least it was Ratonhnhaké:ton’s choice.

Ratonhnhaké:ton shows no sign of hearing him. Ignoring him, maybe, selfconscious about his ‘madness’.

It’s not like Desmond loves being treated as if he doesn’t exist. It actually makes him really uncomfortable. His sense of self is so confused and fragmented these days, sometimes the fact that other people seem to see something when they look at him is the only thing that makes him feel real. But... well, if Ratonhnhaké:ton doesn’t want people to think he’s losing his mind, Desmond can relate.

“It’s okay,” Desmond says, quietly. “You don’t have to talk to me when other people are around.”

Ratonhnhaké:ton doesn’t turn to look at him. But he nods just slightly, as if in thanks, and Desmond finds himself back in the temple.

Chapter Text

Haytham knew he wouldn’t be able to conceal his identity from his father forever, of course, but it was a pleasant dream for a while. Now he’s started visiting with an Edward who knows, and his throat tightens at every first glimpse of him. Will this be a young Edward? Or will that uncomfortable knowledge stand between them: here is your son, grown and fighting for the other side?

“Haytham!”

Haytham has barely registered the call before Edward throws himself upon him, in an embrace so violent he’s almost winded.

It’s possible the knowledge is more uncomfortable for Haytham than it is for his father.

“You just spoke your first word!” Edward says, beaming, as Haytham gently extricates himself. “How many are fortunate enough to hear their son’s first word, and then have an adult conversation with that son the same afternoon?”

Haytham has to wonder whether Edward has truly had an adult conversation in his life. “What was the word?”

“Well, it was more of a noise. But you were definitely trying to say something.” He looks around. “And we’re on a ship! The Aquila?”

“The Aquila,” Haytham confirms.

“Where’s my grandson?”

“At the helm, I hope,” Haytham says. “Not all of us will drop the wheel in the middle of the ocean to go running all over the deck.”

“There was always Adé or Anne to take over,” Edward says, with a shrug.

Haytham says nothing in return. He’s absorbed in his own concerns, and his plan for this visit is to remain quiet and let Edward carry out a lively conversation with himself.

It’s usually a reliable strategy, but somehow this time it fails. Edward, in the middle of reminiscing loudly about life on the seas, cuts himself off and looks into Haytham’s face, frowning. “Something’s troubling you.”

“Templar business,” Haytham lies. “Nothing very interesting. Certainly nothing I can discuss with an Assassin.”

“I’m not so devoted to the Creed that I’ll take its side against my son,” Edward says. He doesn’t seem to notice Haytham’s wince, fortunately. “You can talk to me about whatever’s wrong. I’m your father. It’s my job to listen to your whining, however old you get.”

Haytham hesitates.

“I concealed my identity from you for so long,” he says. “It’s too late now for us to act as father and son.”

Edward looks stricken. “Don’t say that.”

“I don’t say this to wound,” Haytham says. “It was my mistake. I could have had a father for so much more of my life.”

“You’ve had me the entire time,” Edward says. “Whether I’m calling you Hat Man or by your name, you’re still my son. Even if I don’t know it yet.” He grins suddenly. “And, anyway, just last week I visited you when you were younger. I called you Hat Man to keep up the pretence.”

Haytham stares at him.

Edward laughs. “You’re not the only one who can keep secrets. I kept Mary’s, didn’t I?”

“Extremely poorly, the way she told it,” Haytham says.

“Only with visitors,” Edward says, dismissively. “You could have dropped in on her in her skirts any time; it doesn’t count. So there you were with your father, knowing he was your father, and there was me, knowing you were my son. I’d say that counts as having your father.”

Haytham is still reeling from the revelation that Edward is actually capable of keeping his mouth shut about something. “When was this?”

Edward waves a hand vaguely. “You didn’t notice times when I was unusually affectionate?”

“What level of affection would you consider ‘unusual’?” Haytham asks, and then, “Times? So this happened more than once?”

“Might happen more in the future, too,” Edward says. “Well. My future.”

Strange. It shouldn’t make a difference; those times are behind him. But somehow, knowing his father has been there throughout his life, looking at him as a son...

Perhaps it would be good to unburden himself. But this is still Edward, father or not, so there must be caveats.

“You can repeat this to no one,” Haytham says. “Particularly Connor.”

“When have I repeated something told to me in confidence?” Edward asks, spreading his hands. “Intentionally, I mean. When I didn’t think everyone knew already. And I was sober.”

Haytham turns away.

“No, look, I’ll stay quiet,” Edward says. “I promise. I promise.”

Haytham looks out over the ocean for a moment. Listens to the calls of the birds overhead. Takes a breath.

“I’ve been visiting with an older Connor,” he says. “It’s been... surprisingly pleasant, occasionally. Companionable. I didn’t think it was possible for us to move beyond hostility. Although I’ll admit the fault for the hostility didn’t lie solely with Connor.”

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Edward asks. “What’s got you looking so miserable?”

Haytham sighs.

“That’s all in Connor’s future,” he says, “so I hope our acquaintance can end on a warm note, from his perspective. I hope he can end his life thinking better of me than I deserve. But I know what lies in my own future, and...” He hesitates. “Well, I can be fairly certain that we’ll end on poor terms. So it’s difficult to feel I’m building a relationship with my son, knowing...”

What is he doing? He can’t talk about this with his father.

“Well, I don’t know exactly what you’re speaking of,” Edward says, frowning slightly, “but I don’t think you can judge a lifetime’s acquaintance by the way it ends. Altaïr tried to kill me the first time we met, you know that?”

“I think Altaïr tried to kill more or less everyone,” Haytham says.

“Right. Well, what if he shows up young tomorrow and succeeds? It’ll be a sour note to end our friendship on, but that doesn’t mean the friendship didn’t exist.” Edward shrugs. “Although I’ll still die cursing his name.”

He’s come a little too close to the truth of Haytham’s future. Haytham shifts, uncomfortable.

“Anyway,” Edward says, “here you are worrying about your relationship with your son, and your son’s down the other end of the ship. Let’s go and talk to him.”

“About this?” Haytham asks, slightly alarmed.

“About anything,” Edward says. “Don’t worry about how it ends. Endings are never going to be cheerful; they’re endings. Worry about now, when you could be having a pleasant conversation with your family.”

“Or a disastrous conversation with my family,” Haytham points out. “My conversations with Connor in my own time have not historically been successful.”

And then he finds himself standing outside his own body.

“Really?” he asks, exasperated.

Edward winks at him, sets off towards the helm in Haytham’s body, and Haytham has no choice but to follow.

Chapter Text

Aveline is always an extremely welcome sight in his cabin. Tempting to draw her straight to the bed, but Shay’s learnt never to skip the codewords.

“Excellent timing,” he says. “We’ve just docked. Should be permitted a good while before anyone looks in on us.”

Aveline nods. “That’s fortunate. I was hoping I could speak to you privately.”

An Aveline from before their relationship, then. Shay tries to hide his disappointment. It’s always a pleasure to see her, in any case. “What did you want to speak of?”

She doesn’t answer at first. She looks troubled, Shay realises. His first instinct is to pull her into his arms, but perhaps that would only make her uncomfortable.

Kills him to stand there and do nothing, though.

“We’re... friends, aren’t we?” Aveline asks. “Despite our different causes. I feel we want the best for each other.”

Shay tries not to smile too knowingly. “I’d say so.”

Aveline hesitates for a moment. “Then can I confide in you? If I expose my soul to you, you will promise to tell no one else?”

“Aveline,” Shay says, “you can tell me anything.”

Aveline shifts on her feet, fidgeting with her cuff. Shay isn’t used to seeing her this uncertain. She’s usually at least better at hiding it.

“Do you think it’s possible to fall in love with a fellow visitor?” she asks at last.

Shay’s breath catches. He always thought his first time with her was the first on both sides. Is it possible...?

“Always suspected there was something between Edward and Desmond,” he says. “You’re only just noticing it?”

She gives him a quick, distracted smile.

“Aveline,” Shay says, quietly, “if you’re falling for a visitor, you can tell me. He might be more favourably disposed to the idea than you think.”

“I don’t think there’s any possibility that Ezio won’t be favourably disposed,” Aveline says. “But he lived so long ago, and—”

“Ezio?” Shay asks, very loudly.

Aveline winces. “I know. It’s ridiculous. But he propositioned me, and... I’ve found myself considering it.”

Shay stares at her. “Ezio did what? You’ve found yourself what?”

“I feel he would think of it only as sex,” Aveline says, miserably. “And I don’t know if that would be enough to satisfy my longing. But perhaps a night with him is what I need to put this behind me?”

This can’t possibly be happening. This is a nightmare.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Shay says. “It’s Ezio. He lived centuries before – before us. And... and he’s Ezio. He’s a fine enough friend, but...”

“You don’t think it’s possible to have that sort of relationship with a visitor?” Aveline asks. She sighs. “I suppose you’re right. I should put it out of my mind.”

He and Aveline end up together, Shay tries to assure himself. He knows that. There’s no way he can somehow... make that unhappen. Is there?

“Well, I’m not saying you have to rule it out completely,” Shay says. “Visitors, I mean. But you can do better than Ezio. Or... different from Ezio, at any rate.”

Aveline nods, looking thoughtful. “There is a certain awkward charm to Desmond. Or perhaps I’m limiting myself by thinking solely of Assassins. Your Grand Master is unattached, is he not?”

Shay stares at her for a long, long moment.

“You’re a monster,” he says, quietly.

Aveline bursts out laughing.

“How could you do this to me?” Shay demands. “How can you just stand there and watch me squirm? Ezio?”

“I didn’t think you’d be fooled!” Aveline protests, breathless with laughter. “How could you believe I was pining after Ezio?”

“Jesus.” He wants to be angry, get a show of remorse out of her, but he can’t help laughing himself. “Just about stopped my heart.”

Aveline raises her eyebrows. “Shall we start it beating again, in that case? You’re no Ezio, of course, but I suppose I can make time for you.”

“You don’t deserve forgiveness this quickly,” Shay grumbles, but he lets her drag him over to the bed anyway.

Chapter Text

Haytham becomes aware that he has a visitor as he’s fastening his boots, and he turns to see Desmond standing in the middle of his inn room. Desmond looks slightly lost, which, in all honesty, is nothing new.

“Desmond,” Haytham says, with a nod. “I’m afraid I don’t have long to chat; there’s Templar business to attend to, and Shay should be he—”

His back hits the wooden floorboards.

Haytham is a cautious man, and with any other visitor, save perhaps Shay, he would have been on his guard. But Desmond? The man’s always seemed so... harmless. Or as harmless as an Assassin can be.

“Make peace with your god, Templar,” Desmond growls, his hidden blade at Haytham’s throat.

“Desmond, this is ridiculous,” Haytham says. “Let me up.”

Desmond narrows his eyes. “Desmond? Remember the name of the one who killed you. I am Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad.”

Ah. He probably should have guessed; Desmond is holding him so close that Haytham can feel his heartbeat. A young Altaïr, then, possessing Desmond’s body.

But is that possible? Desmond is visiting; his body is centuries away.

“Where is Desmond?” Haytham asks.

“A waste of your final words.”

There’s a creak; the door opening, Haytham realises. Has the innkeeper come to watch him murder himself? He’s managing to hold Altaïr off for now, but fighting a person who’s visiting is tricky; he can’t actually do Altaïr any harm. He isn’t altogether sure he’d want to, even if Altaïr weren’t in Desmond’s form.

But Altaïr has tensed at the opening door, distracted for just an instant. Long enough for Haytham to free his wrist, bring his own blade sharply up to Altaïr’s – Desmond’s – neck. Maybe this Altaïr doesn’t yet know enough about visiting to know it’s an empty threat.

Altaïr goes still, and for a moment Haytham knows nothing but the warmth of the body against his, the steel edge against his throat. It... unsettles him, to look into Desmond’s eyes and see such untempered willingness to kill. He’s seen it in many of his acquaintances, of course, but not in Desmond.

And then, through their beating hearts, he hears a voice.

“Desmond?” Shay asks, horrified.

“I’d prefer it if you knocked next time, Shay,” Haytham tells him, mildly. “Assuming there is a next time, of course.”

“Desmond, what in fuck’s name are you doing?”

“It’s Altaïr,” Haytham says.

“In Desmond’s body?” Shay demands. “It can’t be Altaïr. They’d both be visiting. It doesn’t work like that.”

“I thought the same,” Haytham says. He doesn’t take his eyes off Desmond’s. “But he calls himself Altaïr, and he’s attempting to gut me like Altaïr, so he does appear to be Altaïr. Or so I’d prefer to believe, at least. I rather hoped Desmond and I had a cordial enough relationship not to go murdering each other at a moment’s notice.”

Something uncertain flickers across Desmond’s face.

“You care what I think about you?” he asks, after a moment.

Haytham watches him a moment longer, not withdrawing his blade. “I... have an impression of what Desmond might think of me,” he says, carefully. “Are you Desmond?”

Desmond stares at him. “Haytham?”

Haytham raises his eyebrows. “Oh, is my identity in question as well?”

“Oh, God, why am I – what am I doing?” Desmond – it does seem to be Desmond, doesn’t it? – retracts his blade at once. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I... are you okay?”

“I’m unharmed.” Haytham withdraws his own blade from Desmond’s throat, with a relief he’s careful not to display too openly. “Would you mind explaining what just happened? You claimed to be Altaïr, and you certainly seemed to be, but I hadn’t thought it possible for one person visiting to possess another. And where is Altaïr now?”

Desmond hangs his head and groans. “Okay. I can explain this. But I should probably be less, uh.” He hesitates. “Less on top of you.”

“Probably, yes.”

Desmond takes a chair, and so does Haytham, wincing; his back hasn’t forgotten its impact with the floor. Shay drops down to sit on the bed.

“Hi, Shay,” Desmond mumbles.

“Good to see you,” Shay says. “You’re going to explain the scene I just came in on?”

Desmond winces. “Okay. You guys both know about the Animus, right?”

“I have some idea of it,” Haytham says. “It lets you hunt through our memories in search of... something or other.”

“Right,” Desmond says. “Well, I can pick things up from those memories. From you guys. A lot of my time as Ezio was just teaching me how to fight like him. But, uh, I don’t get to choose what I get. So there are all these other people’s memories and feelings in my head, and I have to focus a lot on just... remembering who I am.”

“And this is what you call the Bleeding Effect,” Haytham says.

“That’s right.”

Shay shakes his head. “Didn’t think that was a real thing. I thought the Bleeding Effect was what was making you hallucinate us. Only it’s not, because we’re real.”

“The hallucinations are part of it,” Desmond says.

“And the other parts mean you think you’re Altaïr?” Shay asks.

“Sometimes,” Desmond says. “I’m really sorry. I’m trying to keep it together. It’s just... it’s hard.”

Haytham is silent for a while, absorbing the situation.

“Your allies,” he says at last. “Shaun. Rebecca. Your father.”

“Uh, what about them?” Desmond asks.

“They’re forcing you to use the Animus?” Haytham asks. “Knowing the effect it has on your mind?”

Desmond looks uncomfortable. “Well, the world could be in danger. We’re trying to figure out how to save it. So it’s not like we really have a choice.”

“Couldn’t one of them take over the task?” Shay asks. “You went through Altaïr and Ezio; isn’t that enough?”

Desmond shakes his head. “Connor’s memories are the ones we need, and I can see those because I’m his direct descendant. Shaun or Rebecca would just get their own ancestors.”

“And your father?” Haytham asks. “Or are we your ancestors through the maternal line?”

For a long moment, Desmond just looks at the floor.

“Too late to switch now, anyway,” he mumbles. “He’d have to start syncing from the beginning.”

“He never offered?” Shay asks. He’s sitting forward on the edge of the bed, frowning.

“It’s probably easiest if there’s only one of us losing our mind, anyway,” Desmond says. “Do we have to talk about this?”

It’s difficult for Haytham to judge another man’s parenting; all indications from Connor are that he’s hardly an exemplary father himself. But somehow this is still troubling him. Perhaps the difference is that Desmond seems to need a father, to crave company and concern in a way that Connor doesn’t.

Desmond may have the skills of Ezio and Altaïr – and Haytham himself, a strange thought – but he cannot kill unflinchingly. He needs protection; he needs someone willing to step in when he is overwhelmed. Who in his own time can offer that to him?

“We can speak of other things, if you’d prefer,” Haytham says.

Later, much later, he will find Desmond facing far too many Abstergo guards. Haytham will take over with barely a second thought, despite knowing these are Templars, and will clear the path for Desmond to rescue the father who doesn’t deserve him.

Chapter Text

“Shay,” Aveline says. “You know Haytham well, don’t you?”

What’s brought this on? Strange to think of Haytham when they’re lying together in Shay’s cabin, Aveline warming her feet on his thighs. “I don’t know that I’d say well. The man likes his secrets.”

“As well as a person can, then,” Aveline says. “You’re his visitor, his ally, his friend. You’ve worked alongside him for years. You’ve seen his past and his future. Who knows him better than you?”

He’s never really thought about it like that. It’s hard to name anyone Haytham seems closer to, certainly, even if he has family in their ranks. And yet there’s still so much Shay doesn’t know about him. Something about it makes him uneasy. Or... maybe ‘sad’ would be a better word.

“Why d’you ask?” he asks.

“Have you ever known him to be with a woman?” Aveline asks. “Or anyone?”

Shay hesitates. “It’s not my story to tell.”

He can see Aveline’s tempted to press him on the matter, but she relents. “Another question, then. Have you ever known him to be happy?”

Shay tries to think. It takes a while.

“They’ve both got the same answer,” he says at last. It’s safe to tell her, isn’t it? Aveline likes to tease and mock, but he knows she has enough kindness not to use this against Haytham. And she’s probably guessed that Connor didn’t leap fully-formed from his father’s loins. “Connor’s mother. Ziio.”

“Have you seen her?” Aveline asks.

Shay shakes his head. “He mentioned her to me once. In his cups. The look on his face...”

“It was fond?” Aveline asks, smiling a little.

Shay is silent for a moment. Looks up at the ceiling. “I’d pay not to see it again.”

Aveline makes no answer to that. When Shay can bring himself to look at her, he sees her frowning, looking thoughtful.

“You remember when you kissed me too early?” Aveline asks. “You’d forgotten to use the codewords. I was very confused.”

Shay groans. “Do you have to remind me?”

Aveline laughs. “Don’t regret it too much. It had me looking at you with new eyes. And then a later me came to see you, one who knew the pleasure of your company, and the younger me left.”

“I remember,” Shay says.

“Well, what if we had persuaded the younger me to stay? To join us in the bed?”

Two Avelines? It’s an alluring thought for an instant, before Shay spots the flaw. He has a hard enough time matching Aveline’s appetite as it is.

“I’d be dead of exhaustion,” he says.

Aveline smirks, drifts her hand over his hip. “Undoubtedly. But the essential premise, three abed, you understand that?”

“I’m following,” Shay says. “But what does this have to do with...”

He tails off.

“What does this have to do with Haytham?” Aveline asks, innocently.

“Aveline,” Shay says.

“A possibility, that’s all,” Aveline says, with a shrug. “If you dislike the idea, we don’t have to speak of it further.”

Has she been lusting after Haytham all this time? She can’t have been, surely. “How has this even come to your mind?”

“He’s done a great deal for us,” Aveline says. “And he’s evidently not averse to the pleasures of the flesh, so it seems a shame he’s apparently experienced them so little. And I know you’ve noticed that look in his eye when he sees us in the act.”

“Mortification?” Shay suggests.

Aveline smiles knowingly at him.

Shay shakes his head. “Any man who saw you would stare. You’ll have to forgive me if I’m uncomfortable with my handsome superior actually touching you.”

“Ah.” Aveline grins. “So you’re tempted.”

“What?” Shay demands. “Why would – where do you get that from?”

“You object to having Haytham in bed with me,” Aveline says. “Your handsome superior, perhaps I should say. But he would also be in bed with you. You have nothing to say to that?”

Shay stares at her.

“It’s strange, that’s what I have to say,” he says, eventually. “It just... wasn’t what came to mind first.”

“If anything, I’d say I’d have the greater cause for jealousy,” Aveline says. “You and Haytham are together, physically together, in a way you and I can’t be. The three of us could spend one night together, and then I’ll return to my own time, and perhaps you’ll decide that you’re content with the company of Haytham alone.” She sighs theatrically. “And I wouldn’t even have the right to complain, after our agreement.”

They discussed this a while ago: whether their relationship should preclude any others. What if one of them wants a marriage, children? The Church frowns on weddings where one party is invisible, and it seems impossible to imagine that Aveline could become pregnant on a visit; she’s certainly had enough opportunities to, and there’s no sign of it. Shay’s only requests were ‘not another visitor, and I don’t want to know about it’.

He hasn’t glanced at another woman since this started. He finds it hard to imagine wanting to.

He’s almost certain he hasn’t been glancing at Haytham, either, whatever Aveline might say.

“I’m not about to abandon you for my Grand Master,” Shay says. “I promise you. Anyway, visitors are off-limits.” A thought comes to him, and he laughs; he thinks it’s in relief. “You’re toying with me, aren’t you? Like when you pretended you were in love with Ezio.”

“Yes, if you like,” Aveline says.

Shay hesitates. “If I like?”

But Aveline only presses up closer to him, sighing contentedly into his ear. Shay lies there with his arms full of Aveline and his mind full of Haytham, telling himself not to pursue the matter any further.

He’s never been the best at listening to instructions.

“Am I not enough for you?” he asks, into the silence. “Is there something you need me to do better?”

Aveline laughs and presses a kiss to his hairline. “You’re all I need. It was only a thought.”

It haunts him for a long time afterwards.

Chapter Text

Connor has barely lain down to sleep when the temperature changes, and he knows without opening his eyes that he is on a visit.

He has an unpleasant feeling that he knows exactly where he has found himself. It seems that every visit he’s been on recently has been to Ezio at the Rosa in Fiore. This temperature, this scent in the air, it’s far too familiar. He would happily spend the rest of his life without ever seeing the place again.

“Ah, Connor!”

It’s Ezio’s voice, of course. Connor reluctantly opens his eyes.

Ezio has his clothes on, for now, which is at least an improvement on most of Connor’s recent visits. Connor gets to his feet, looks around. They are at the top of the main staircase, looking down into the lobby. Perhaps Ezio has finished his business here; perhaps they are about to leave.

“I was just trying to decide on a companion for the evening,” Ezio says, shattering Connor’s hopes. “If you’re to be watching, I suppose I should choose someone who appeals to you. Do you have a preference?”

No. Connor is tired and irritated, and he is not at all in the mood to watch Ezio pleasuring anyone. He has never been in the mood, he will never be in the mood, and he has had enough of this.

Ezio looks only briefly bewildered at being forced out of his body, and then his expression, strangely enough, changes to delight.

“You have decided at last to sample the beauties of the Rosa?” he asks.

What? “No.”

But Ezio is talking over him. “You are still untouched, are you not? I am privileged to be present for such a significant moment in a young man’s life.”

Connor can feel himself flushing. It will be more noticeable on Ezio’s face than it would be on his own, he realises, and he turns away to hide it. “I have no intention of...”

“Let us see,” Ezio says, considering him. “Alessandra is kind to the inexperienced.” He laughs a little. “Although she knows, of course, that I am hardly inexperienced. Tell her you wish to play at a first night with a woman, and she will serve you well.”

“That is not why I am here!” Connor snaps. “I am here because you are here, and you have been here on every visit I have made for weeks. Enough.”

“Enough?” Ezio echoes, raising his eyebrows.

“I am putting an end to it,” Connor says. “I will have you barred from this place.”

Infuriatingly, Ezio’s only response is laughter. “I would like to see that. Let me remind you that the Rosa in Fiore is run by my family. How do you expect to succeed?”

“Your family?” Connor asks, taken aback. He knew there would probably be obstacles, but...

“My mother and sister,” Ezio says. “I know you are not cruel enough to cut my ties with what little family remains to me. Claudia will sometimes deny me access when I have annoyed her, but it will take something more than that to have me barred permanently.”

Connor hesitates.

The smile falls from Ezio’s face. “Do you plan to harm the girls?”

“No,” Connor says at once, horrified. “Of course not.”

“Then do what you will,” Ezio says. “Destroy the furnishings. Burn this place to the ground, if you can bring the inhabitants to safety first. But know that I will fund a new location the moment you are gone. We cannot leave these ladies out of work, can we?”

Connor’s aim is beginning to seem less and less achievable. Can he close this business by... recruiting the ladies of the Fiore into the Brotherhood, perhaps?

Well, it might prevent Ezio from visiting brothels, but only because his time will be taken up by sleeping with his recruits.

“I will remind you,” Ezio adds, “that, even if you succeed, you may visit me at an earlier point, when the brothel was still at my disposal. So how will this benefit you?”

Connor draws in a breath, deep and slow, and casts aside the dream of a life uninterrupted by the sudden appearance of Ezio’s buttocks.

“I am sorry,” he says, stiffly. “I did not think this through. I will do nothing to the business or the women here.”

Ezio grins. “I am glad you have had a change of heart. But you should certainly consider doing something to the women.”

“Ezio—”

“Alessandra is over there,” Ezio says, gesturing. He has dropped his voice, although no one but Connor can hear him. “See her fine legs, see her magnificent hair? Imagine burying your hands in that hair; imagine burying your being between those legs. She makes the most extraordinary sounds. You must hear them.”

“Ezio,” Connor hisses, his face burning.

“There is no need to fear. I will be with you the entire time, talking you through. Many men would appreciate the opportunity to learn, and so pleasurably.”

“I am not one of them,” Connor says through gritted teeth, trying extremely hard not to think too long on the matter.

Ezio sighs. “A shame. Shall we go, then?”

Connor pauses.

“Go where?” he asks, warily.

“If you do not enjoy the Rosa, I can wait until you depart,” Ezio says. “A stroll through the streets of Roma, perhaps?”

Connor stares at him.

Ezio laughs. “You see, you had only to ask. Come; the light is beautiful at this hour.”

Chapter Text

“A bad time?” Ezio asks.

Altaïr barely spares him a glance. The number of guards in Acre has always struck him as excessive, and it seems today every one of those guards has joined in his pursuit. If he can just scale this wall—

But he gets halfway up the wall and realises it cannot be done. There is a handhold, a decorative rail like the one he is holding now, but it is too far above him to reach. If he drops, a sea of swords awaits him; if he stays where he is, the archers will take him before long.

He glances over and finds Ezio has already reached the rail above.

“How did you get there?” Altaïr asks, urgently.

Ezio looks at him. “You cannot jump?”

“From here?” Altaïr demands. He is suspended in mid-air, clinging to a wall; how can he jump?

“I can help you,” Ezio says. “With your permission—”

An arrow glances off the stone next to Altaïr’s head. He still isn’t sure whether he can really trust any of his visitors, but he would sooner place his life in Ezio’s hands than in the hands of the Acre archers. “You have my permission. Do what you need to.”

And an instant later he’s clinging to the higher rail, watching Ezio, in his body, leap straight up the wall.

Altaïr seizes control back the moment they reach the top, and he hurtles across the rooftops. The bureau, he just has to reach the bureau. At least this isn’t Jerusalem; he has no desire to hear what Malik thinks of this commotion.

And then he spots an ill-positioned archer a couple of rooftops away, twists at the last moment, dives into a roof garden. An instant later Ezio lands heavily in his lap.

“Did the archer see you?” Altaïr hisses, and then he remembers that Ezio is a visitor. “No, of course not. Did he see me?”

“I do not think so,” Ezio whispers. “Here, lie down, let me...”

Altaïr lies down, and only then does it occur to him to wonder why; his mind was so full of guards and archers and Malik’s scorn that he obeyed without thinking. Ezio clambers over him, seemingly trying to shield Altaïr from sight with his body. A friendly thought, but...

“If the archer looks in here, he will still only see me,” Altaïr points out. In any case, he imagines one cloaked and armed figure looks much as suspicious as another; does Ezio expect the archer to see him and move on without comment?

“Ah, of course.” Ezio sits up, scratching the back of his neck. “I must have forgotten.”

For a moment they listen in silence for approaching footsteps. Nothing; only the sound of their breathing filling the space, gradually easing after the pursuit. Eventually, Altaïr sits up as well.

“I appreciate your help,” he says, a little reluctantly.

“Uselessly concealing you?” Ezio asks, smiling a little.

“Climbing. I would not have been able to reach the roof alone.”

“It was my pleasure,” Ezio says. “Who could have imagined I would one day save the great Altaïr?”

“I would not claim that you saved me,” Altaïr says, stung. “I would no doubt have survived. My gratitude is only because I do not have to clean my sword.”

Ezio grins. “A useful trick, is it not, the climb-leap? A lady named Rosa taught it to me.”

“You learnt it at the brothel?” Altaïr hesitates to imagine what acts at the Rosa in Fiore might require one to scramble up a wall.

Ezio laughs quietly. “Rosa is a person, I promise you. Although she did show me some other techniques worthy of the brothel.”

Altaïr looks at him for a moment. “Is there anyone of your acquaintance you have not slept with?”

Ezio appears to need some time to consider that. Altaïr sincerely hopes the pause is only for show.

“Sadly, yes,” Ezio says eventually.

His gaze is beginning to make Altaïr uncomfortable. A change of subject, perhaps. “Can you teach me the technique? Ah...” He shifts. There is too little space here. “The climbing technique.”

Ezio smiles. “I would be delighted.”

Chapter Text

Violet –

Going through some of the old files, found this. Can you believe we’ve looked into this Shay guy already? Nobody ever tells me anything, haha.

(Apparently the loading issues go all the way back to the 1980s! Get a move on, tech team.)

– Melanie x

Note: A number of the Subject 1 audio files have been corrupted. Transcriptions have been provided for the corrupted files.

SESSION 1

INTERVIEWER AND TRANSCRIBER: Warren Vidic (Ph.D., Head of Animus Project)
SUBJECT: Subject 1 (descendant of Aveline de Grandpré)

SUBJECT’S CONDITION: Mentions headaches. No obstacle to Animus use.

Part audio of interview available.

At end of above clip, audio dissolves into static. Interview continues:

VIDIC: You’ve mentioned issues with the Animus’s visual interface.

S1: Yes. Visual and audio. Some people just don’t seem to show up, so sometimes it’s like Aveline’s just... having one-sided conversations with the air. It... it makes it kind of hard to get immersed.

VIDIC: Immersion is not the aim. You are an observer.

Pause.

VIDIC: We’ve noticed the loading issues. For now, it doesn’t seem we’re missing anything relevant to our research. If this happens again, you can ignore it.

S1: Okay. I’ll try.

INTERVIEW ENDS

SESSION 2

INTERVIEWER AND TRANSCRIBER: Warren Vidic (Ph.D., Head of Animus Project)
SUBJECT: Subject 1 (descendant of Aveline de Grandpré)

SUBJECT’S CONDITION: Elevated heart rate. Headaches have apparently worsened. No obstacle to Animus use.

VIDIC: You requested an interview.

S1: Yes.

VIDIC: Well? What’s made you feel the need to pull me from my research?

S1: Sorry. I just – I’m worried about the people we can’t see. I think we’re missing an important part of Aveline’s life.

VIDIC: We can’t study every aspect of her life.

S1: I know, but... I don’t think they’re just random passers-by, the people who aren’t showing up. I think they’re a few, uh, a few specific people who really matter to her. And there... there’s this one guy.

Pause.

S1: I think he’s called Shay.

Pause. S1 is avoiding eye contact.

VIDIC: ‘Shay’ is the name Aveline occasionally calls when she’s masturbating, correct?

S1 flinches.

S1: I don’t think she’s – I don’t think that’s what she’s doing. Or not all the time. I don’t think she’s alone.

VIDIC: You think she’s with one of the people the Animus can’t display.

S1: Shay. Yes.

VIDIC: Why are you bringing this up?

Pause.

S1: I don’t... I don’t think you understand how hard it is. To be in love with someone and not know what they look like, what their voice sounds like...

VIDIC: You think Aveline was in love with someone she couldn’t see?

S1: No. No, of course not. She could see him. Is there any way you can fix the Animus? So it shows the missing people?

VIDIC: Our technicians are constantly making improvements to the Animus.

S1 seems agitated.

S1: But are you... are you getting any closer to that specific thing?

VIDIC: It’s not necessarily a priority.

S1: Then can you look through my DNA? See if there’s a Shay anywhere in there? I think he might be my missing ancestor. I mean... I don’t know. Some of the things Aveline says – I think he might be a Templar. I don’t know if... but please, just try to find him. I have to see him. I know it doesn’t make sense. But I have to.

VIDIC: Remember that this is not your research. It’s ours.

Pause. S1’s breathing is elevated.

VIDIC: But relations between Assassins and Templars do interest us. Perhaps we can find the time to look for this Shay.

S1: Thank you. Thank you.

INTERVIEW ENDS

SESSION 3

INTERVIEWER AND TRANSCRIBER: Warren Vidic (Ph.D., Head of Animus Project)
SUBJECT: Subject 1 (descendant of Aveline de Grandpré)

SUBJECT’S CONDITION: Elevated heart rate. Elevated temperature. Shaking. Difficulty focusing. Complains of chest, back, head pain. No obstacle to Animus use.

VIDIC: You’ve been looking through Shay Cormac’s memories for some weeks now—

S1: What?

VIDIC: Shay Cormac. The missing ancestor you were so interested in.

S1: Is this a visit(?)? Who are you?

VIDIC: This is Abstergo, and I am Dr Warren Vidic.

S1: God. That’s right, isn’t it? (Laughs.) I can’t believe I thought being Shay would make things better.

VIDIC: You are not ‘being’ Shay. You are looking at his memories. What can you tell me about that interesting artifact in Lisbon?

S1: No. Don’t ask me about that.

VIDIC: It seemed to be destroyed. Do you think there’s any way it might be repaired?

S1: No. No. (Unclear whether this is meant as an answer.)

VIDIC: I might remind you that we looked into Shay at your request. The least you could do—

S1: God. I can feel them both in my head. (Choked laughter.) I might as well be in love with myself. And I can’t see them. I can’t touch them. It wouldn’t matter if I could. I’m not who they care about.

VIDIC: Tell me about the Piece of Eden.

S1: They’ve been dead for centuries. What am I supposed to do?

VIDIC: This is a waste of time. Put him back in the Animus.

INTERVIEW ENDS

Chapter Text

Aveline is not typically an unwelcome sight, as loath as Haytham is to admit that to her. But this is his last day working with Shay on the Morrigan, and he had rather hoped they could spend the evening in conversation.

It makes no real difference, he supposes. They will still visit, after all.

“I’ll look in on the supplies,” Haytham says stiffly, rising from his seat.

Aveline laughs. “Such a loyal friend.”

Shay draws her aside to whisper in her ear, or perhaps to insert his tongue into it; either way, it’s none of Haytham’s business. Haytham makes to leave Shay’s cabin, but he’s almost at the door when Aveline calls, “Haytham, stay.”

Haytham turns. “Stay? I am not your dog.”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” Aveline says, smiling. “Shay’s just explained what day it is for you. I can leave, if you’d like to speak alone.”

“Actually,” Shay mumbles, “I was thinking...”

He hesitates, for a long moment, and then draws Aveline close to whisper to her again. Aveline tilts her head, frowning slightly, and then bursts into delighted laughter.

“You are sure?” she asks.

“I’ve thought on it a long time,” Shay mutters. “Much as I’ve tried not to.”

“Haytham,” Aveline says, beaming, “Shay and I have a proposition for you.”

Haytham has heard propositions from the two of them before. Typically requests for him to stay within range of Shay, on those inconvenient occasions when Aveline visits the wrong Templar. But he’s fairly certain that Shay is the one being visited now.

“I will listen,” he says.

“Come closer,” Aveline says.

Haytham raises his eyebrows. “Is that the entire proposition?”

Slightly to Haytham’s amusement, Aveline comes over behind him and starts physically steering him towards the bed where Shay is sitting. Shay, he notes, looks vaguely ill. “Are you all right, Shay?”

“Nerves,” Shay says, staring at his hands. “Can you just – Aveline, can you just come out with it? I can’t take the waiting to see how he’ll react.”

Aveline stops pushing Haytham, although her hands stay where they are, one on his shoulder, one on his hip. “You could say it instead, if you’re impatient.”

“Aveline,” Shay says, pleading.

Aveline laughs.

Her hold is starting to feel a little strange, now that there’s no movement, no purpose behind it. Haytham ducks away and turns to face her.

You don’t have to keep me held still; I’m not going to run away, he means to say, but Aveline catches hold of his hand, puts her other hand on his hip again, and now they’re facing each other, and somehow the words stutter away on his tongue.

“Shay would like something to remember you by,” Aveline says.

“Shay doesn’t need anything to remember me by,” Haytham says, fighting to keep his focus. “I’m attending to concerns further inland; I’m not dying. And he’d still see me on visits in either case. What are you doing?”

She’s too close. Haytham glances back at Shay, not knowing what he expects to see on his face. Shay looks away instantly, as if he doesn’t want to be caught watching them.

“Just a night,” Aveline says, tracing patterns on his palm. “The three of us. You’ve seemed almost a part of our relationship for years; would this really be such a great step?”

His entire body tenses. The three of us. One night with Aveline and Shay. As if they would ever...

Haytham closes his eyes for a moment, and takes a breath. He looks back at her.

“I don’t expect you to understand why, Aveline,” he says, quietly, “but this jest is very painful for me.”

Aveline stares at him for a moment, her smile fading, and he hates the sympathy in her voice when she speaks again. “Which one of us?”

“Which of us what?” Perhaps a little more snappish than he’d meant it to be, but all he wants to do is get out of the cabin and forget about Aveline’s warm body almost pressed against his own; forget about the nervous, hopeful look in Shay’s eyes; forget about the dead woman who haunts him more persistently than anyone but his father.

“Which of us are you in love with?”

Haytham opens his mouth and finds himself unable to speak.

Aveline watches him, and then she moves closer, and Haytham is suddenly terrified – but she only presses a kiss to his cheek.

“If you’re in love, you should think seriously before making a decision,” she says, softly. “Go. Sleep. I should be able to stay for the night. Come to us in the morning.”

Haytham hesitates for a long few seconds, and then he nods.

“Sir,” Shay says, when Haytham is making for the door, but Haytham doesn’t pause in his stride; he can’t look at either of them at this moment, he can’t hear their voices.

He leaves in the night without saying goodbye.

Chapter Text

He wakes on Edward’s ship. A glance down at himself to get his bearings tells him that he’s... in Edward’s body, or at least wearing Edward’s clothes. Body seems more likely.

He looks around.

There’s no sign of Edward himself, which is strange; he knows for a fact he isn’t Edward. He’s...

He’s...

Who is he?

It’s not that he can’t find an answer. It’s that he’s reaching for answers and coming up with too many. He’s Syrian, Italian, American, English. He’s an Assassin. He’s a Templar. He’s allied to whoever can help him protect his people.

He can’t look at himself and know who he is; this isn’t his body. He can’t ask Edward who it was he swapped with; Edward isn’t here.

And that doesn’t make any sense. What if he is Edward?

Someone clears their throat loudly, and he looks up. A young man is standing in front of him.

Not a man, his mind tells him. Mary. Kidd.

“Sleeping on the job, Kenway?” Kidd asks.

The name means something to him. Yes. He’s Haytham Kenway, isn’t he?

“If you know who I am,” he says, “you’ll know this ship is hardly my responsibility.”

Kidd grins. “Seen through it already, have you? Good to meet you at last.”

“Seen through what, exactly?” he asks.

“Edward’s stupid idea,” Kidd says. “Making out I didn’t know you’d switched. Don’t know why he’s still bothering to hide.” She looks him over. “You don’t seem as timid as I was told to expect.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Indeed? Perhaps any level of reserve seems like timidity to Edward.”

Thinking about Edward is... painful, somehow. Why?

There are gaps in his thought. He should have memories that explain this, he feels, but he reaches for them and he finds nothing. It’s unsettling.

He hasn’t been Haytham for long enough, he finds himself thinking, nonsensically. He’s supposed to be someone else. Or perhaps that’s just wishful thinking; perhaps he is Haytham, dreaming of one day finding himself with someone else’s life.

Who is he?

Timid, she said. So probably not Ezio. But he has so many of Ezio’s memories, so much of Ezio’s life clear in his head. He can’t – he looks through those memories, and he can’t imagine anyone else’s existence seeming more like his. There’s Altaïr, there’s Desmond, there’s Connor, but he’s lived as Ezio for over fifty years, hasn’t he?

Hasn’t he?

Kidd’s frowning at him. “Desmond? Wouldn’t want to disturb you with conversation if you’re busy staring into space.”

No. No. He isn’t Desmond. He’s Ezio; it’s the only explanation. But it’s getting harder and harder to think, there’s too much in his head, and...

Kidd catches him before he hits the deck.

“Kenway,” she says, grimly, “I don’t think your visitor’s well.”

There’s cursing, and Edward, the real Edward, pulls himself out of the open hatch beside them. “Can you get him upright?”

It’s a relief to have some sort of confirmation. Whoever he is, he’s a visitor here. He isn’t Edward. It gives him the strength to stumble back to his feet.

And then there are arms around him, they’re warm and firm and familiar, and he desperately needs familiarity right now. He clings to the other Edward as tightly as he can, breathing him in.

“Father,” he whispers.

“Father?” Edward draws back a little, frowning. “I’m not your father, am I? I mean, it seems unlikely. What with the centuries between us. Any chance I end up discovering eternal life?”

Why would he have said...?

Edward isn’t his father. He knows who his father is; it’s Haytham.

Is that right? There are so many – so many different fathers in his head, so many different families, so many people he’s lost, and he doubles over with his head in his hands.

“Hey! Hey. Desmond. Desmond. Desmond.”

Edward is pulling him upright. Edward’s hands are on his back, his shoulders, his face, and he’s felt this before, this has happened before. He’s so close to knowing who he is. He isn’t Haytham; he’s sure of that now. He doesn’t think he’s Connor.

Why does he remember this? It’s something that made a powerful impact on him, somehow. Edward’s hands on his face, and then – what? Edward’s hands on his face, and then...

He presses forward and kisses Edward, grabbing at him, desperate for something he knows, and yes, yes, he remembers this. He remembers lying on the floor of the temple, shaking and sobbing, Edward holding him, and – he’s Desmond.

Edward only kisses back for a moment before he jerks away.

“Er,” he says, “not that I’ve any objection, but are you in a fit state to be... making decisions like this?”

Desmond groans. “God, don’t start being responsible. You’re supposed to be Edward. I thought I’d just figured out who everyone was.”

“Well, that’s not the only reason I’m stopping you,” Edward says hastily, as if horrified by the idea that he might have done something responsible. “There’s kissing myself, which is... well, it’s interesting, actually, but it’s not something I was prepared to have sprung on me just now.” He lowers his voice, with a furtive glance to the side. “Plus we’re in front of Kidd.”

Desmond looks quickly over at Kidd, who’s watching with her arms folded. Her head is cocked in confusion, but she smirks when he meets her eyes.

“Not sure what was going on there,” she says, “but please tell me you just kissed Kenway.”

Desmond swallows. “Uh,” he says.

He wishes he had his own body back, his own voice. Standing here looking and sounding like Edward, he kind of feels his knowledge of who he is could be whipped out from under his feet at any moment.

Kidd snorts. “And after all the effort he put into keeping me from kissing any visitors, too. The hypocrite.” She considers Desmond for a moment. “Anyway, you all right? Planning to collapse again?”

Desmond flushes. “Uh, not right now. Thanks. And... sorry.” He looks over at Edward. “Any chance I can have my body back? I think waking up like this might have kind of caused the problem.”

He’s himself again before he finishes the final word.

“Sorry,” Edward says, looking stricken.

“Sorry?” Desmond echoes. His mind still isn’t putting things together very clearly right now, although at least he no longer feels slightly hungover.

“You showed up asleep,” Edward says. “I put you in my body to see what you’d do when you woke up. Asked Kidd to pretend he didn’t know. I thought it’d be entertaining. I wasn’t trying to break your mind into pieces.”

“It wasn’t much fun,” Desmond admits. “But you couldn’t have known. I wouldn’t have known how bad it’d be.”

He’s shaking, he realises. He tries to stop it, but it just gets worse.

“It’s something to do with that Animus thing, isn’t it?” Edward asks, watching him like he thinks Desmond might burst into flames at any moment.

Desmond nods.

“It just... it freaks me out,” he says, quietly. “Thinking that maybe the only reason I ever know who I am is ’cause I can look down and see the clothes I’m wearing.”

There’s a long silence.

“D’you want me to kiss you if it happens again?” Edward asks.

Desmond is so startled that he actually laughs. It makes him feel a little better. “Sorry about that.”

Edward shrugs. “I didn’t mind. Well.” He glances over at Kidd again. “Circumstances could have been better.”

Kidd grins. “You’re welcome to kiss whatever visitors you want to, as far as I’m concerned. See, some of us don’t take an abnormal level of interest in how our friends occupy themselves.”

“I think it’s my business if you kiss people who are in my body,” Edward objects.

“Hey,” Desmond says, suddenly. “Can I talk to Kidd?”

Edward gives him an extremely suspicious look.

Desmond holds up his hands. “I’m not planning to do anything weird! I just – I couldn’t meet her properly when I was having a freakout. And I’d like to. I mean, you talk so much about her.”

Edward looks at him for a moment longer. “Absolutely no kissing.”

“Oh, is Desmond coming back?” Kidd asks. She raises her voice, and it takes Desmond a moment to realise she’s addressing him, even though she can’t see him. “No kissing me, he means. You can kiss him all you like. Or try Adéwalé; that’d be interesting to see.”

“Christ,” Edward says. “I don’t know why I spend time with you.”

Chapter Text

Altaïr’s relief at finding himself no longer in Masyaf is short-lived, instantly smothered by the knowledge that sooner or later the visit will end. Sooner or later he will find himself back there, facing a horde of his brothers. There is Assassin blood on his sword, staining his sleeves, and he doesn’t understand why any of this has happened.

He looks around. Sheep fenced off, wooden buildings, forest nearby. The new continent, he thinks, which admittedly doesn’t do much to narrow things down; Ezio is the only one of them who spends most of his time in familiar lands. This doesn’t look like Desmond’s time. He’s on dry land, fortunately, and it isn’t particularly warm, which makes Edward unlikely. Who is he visiting?

He looks around again, frowning.

There is a cloaked figure crouched amongst the sheep, and for a moment, before he recognises the build, he thinks he might be visiting Edward after all.

“Connor,” Altaïr says. “Are you hiding from me?”

It bothers him. They have had their conflicts, but he has never attempted to do Connor harm. They are both Assassins, after all.

However much that means. He attacked Aveline when they first met. He attacked Desmond. He killed Kadar through his own arrogance, and now he is drowning Masyaf in the blood of friends. His allies have never been safe around him.

“I am not hiding,” Connor says, standing.

“Only taking a moment to rest?” Altaïr asks. “On your heels, amongst a flock of sheep?”

Whatever Connor is doing, it doesn’t particularly interest him; he can think of little but what awaits him back at Masyaf. But speaking is a distraction, and any distraction is welcome in this moment, however brief.

They look at each other for a moment, across the wooden fence.

“I stroked one of the sheep,” Connor says, suddenly. “The rest of the sheep gathered around. They all want attention, I think.” He glares defiantly at Altaïr, as if expecting to be mocked or scolded.

It is difficult, it turns out, for a man to look intimidating when he is surrounded by sheep looking expectantly up at him. Under other circumstances, Altaïr might have found it in himself to smile.

“You always seem so serious,” Altaïr says. “I would not have expected this of you.”

“It helps me to calm down,” Connor says. “To think. I...” One of the sheep pushes its head against his hand, and he tails off.

“I am not here to stop you,” Altaïr says.

Connor scratches the sheep gently under its chin, but he stops almost immediately. “It’s too strange. Being watched.”

Altaïr gazes thoughtfully at the flock. Some time to calm down, to think...

“What if I did the same?” Altaïr asks. “Would that set you more at ease?”

Connor stares warily at him. “You want access to my body?”

“We are both Assassins,” Altaïr reminds him, trying to ignore the tightening in his throat. “I will do nothing to work against you.”

“And you will not harm the sheep,” Connor says.

Again, strangely, Altaïr finds himself almost smiling. This is a side of Connor he has never known. “The sheep will be safe.”

Visiting is an odd thing. One moment, Altaïr is driving his blade into a young man he helped to train; the next, he is in another man’s body, scratching behind the ears of some very demanding sheep. At one point he looks up and sees Connor watching him with a strange expression on his face.

“What is it?” Altaïr asks.

Connor shakes his head. “I was only thinking I wished I had one of those... those things from Desmond’s time. The machines that draw a picture. But nobody would ever believe it was you.”

“Tell no one of this, and I will tell no one that I caught you doing the same,” Altaïr says, ruffling the fleece of one of the sheep.

And then he feels the pull of his own time, and ice seems to creep down his back.

The field and the sheep and Connor vanish around him, and he finds himself back at Masyaf, standing on a rooftop, gazing down upon a horde of friends whose minds are no longer their own. In a moment they will be on him; foolish to try to escape an Assassin by climbing. He should leap down and strike, take the initiative now, but he hesitates.

“The Assassins have turned on you?”

He is not alone, it seems. He turns to see Ezio beside him, frowning in concern.

“They are being controlled,” Altaïr says, pacing the edge of the roof, kicking away the hands that reach the top, trying not to think. “I must find my way through to the fortress. I have tried to fight non-lethally, but...” He swallows. It pains him to say it. “It is something I possess little knowledge of. I think I may only have condemned some to a slow death.”

“I know something of stilling a man without taking his life,” Ezio says. “Let me do this for you, Mentor.”

Altaïr hesitates.

“Do not think me weak,” he says. He means it to sound angry, defiant. It comes out a plea, catching in his throat.

Ezio takes his hand and kisses it. “Never, my friend.”

When he takes Altaïr’s body and his burden, Altaïr makes no protest.

Chapter Text

The fire is just beginning to catch when Haytham feels the tingle of visitation, and he closes his eyes, exasperated. He’d prefer the whine of a mosquito; at least that would be a problem he could kill. Visiting has always been a frequently painful affair for him, given the presence of his father and son amongst the visitors. Considering the circumstances in which he last saw Aveline (he can still feel the ghost of her lips on his, and he’s disgusted by his own lack of self-control), he doesn’t especially want to see her or Shay either.

If he’s lucky, perhaps it will only be a young Altaïr, here to attempt to murder him.

He opens his eyes.

It’s Shay, of course.

Haytham looks at him in wary silence, waiting for some indication of how far along this Shay is, how much he knows, whether Aveline might have told him anything. He has the feeling that Shay might be waiting for the same from him, which does not seem a positive sign.

“You left,” Shay says.

Not the conversational opener Haytham was expecting. “I left?”

“The ship,” Shay says, squatting on the other side of the fire. Haytham is struck by the absurd urge to tell him to move back, into the shadow of the trees, so he doesn’t have to see Shay’s face so clearly. “I know you were leaving anyway. But you didn’t say goodbye.”

Is this... is this Shay’s first visit to him after he left the Morrigan? Haytham’s throat goes tight at the thought of the proposition that chased him away. Will he never be allowed to leave it behind?

“I thought we were beyond this,” Haytham says, without much hope. He’d assumed that his first visit from Shay after that incident, when they had done nothing but sit in tense silence, had been the first for both of them. But apparently...

“Not me,” Shay says. “It was less than a week ago for me.” He hesitates. “Hasn’t been the same without you.”

“That’s how change works, I understand.”

“Don’t be like that. We need to talk about this.”

Haytham focuses on tending the fire, so he doesn’t have to look at Shay. “I’d really prefer it if we didn’t.”

“Aveline asked which of us you were in love with.”

Ah, here it is already: the part Haytham is particularly unenthusiastic about discussing. “I recall something like that, yes.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“Because it was a foolish question in an uncomfortable conversation,” Haytham says. He’s said the words so many times in his mind that he can speak them almost without thinking now, as if he’s reciting a poem. “I wished to leave the room as quickly as possible. Speaking would only have prolonged things. There’s nothing more to be said on the matter.”

It isn’t the answer he gave to Aveline two days ago. You asked which, and it’s not you. Well, she was hardly going to believe he’d kissed her for no reason, was she? It seemed she’d accept the lie – that he was trying to work out where his heart lay – more easily than the simple truth: he isn’t in love with either of them. He can’t be in love with either of them. He’s in love with one person alone, and that person hasn’t breathed in years.

But there was an easier excuse within reach, and it shadows his thoughts. He could have told her he kissed her because he was thinking of Ziio. Drunk and in pain and haunted by the woman he loved, he saw a woman with similar fire and made a terrible mistake. It would have had fewer potential repercussions; it would have been believable; he’s almost certain it would have been true.

So why imply he was in love with Shay? Why would that have come to his mind first?

Shay is watching him in silence. Haytham fights to avoid his eyes.

And he was thinking of Ziio. It had been agony, thinking of her, kissing someone else. It was in that moment, feeling every difference in touch, that he truly had to accept that Aveline could never be Ziio; Ziio was dead. And he had been in his own father’s body, kissing with someone else’s lips and tongue, and... he still shudders when he thinks of it. Everything out of place, everything wrong.

And yet he still finds himself thinking back to it. Wondering if it would have felt different in his own body. He was in Edward; can he really be sure...?

But it’s a pointless exercise. He should never have kissed her. It was idiotic; it was agonising. He’ll certainly never allow such a lapse again.

“You wanted to leave,” Shay says at last. “That’s the only reason you didn’t answer. Aveline asked you which of us you were in love with, and the answer was ‘neither’, and you couldn’t take a moment to clear that up. It didn’t occur to you that maybe that was the sort of unanswered question that might keep your friends awake at night.”

Haytham tenses. He’s asked himself the same question so many times. Why didn’t he answer? It seems so simple when he looks back; he could have told Aveline that she was mistaken, that there was no love involved. And yet, in that moment, he hadn’t been able to say a word.

“I will remind you, Shay, that I am still your superior, and I am likely to remain so until you attain a position above Grand Master,” Haytham says. “‘Father of Understanding’, perhaps. When I instruct you to drop a subject, I expect it to be dropped.”

Shay’s expression closes off, and his jaw tightens.

“Understood, sir,” he says, after a moment.

He doesn’t speak for the rest of the visit. As far as Haytham is concerned, his life would be a great deal simpler if Shay and Aveline never spoke to him again.

Chapter Text

It’s Shay and Aveline, in their bedroom at Aveline’s house. Haytham doesn’t know whether he’s glad to see them or not. They’re important to him, and in a way he supposes he’s grateful for the opportunity to say goodbye, but it’s difficult to look at them and know it’s the last time.

“When is it for you?” Haytham asks.

“Been married... three years, I think,” Shay says, with a glance at Aveline. “Philippe’s asleep. He’s a good boy. Easy to cope with. Edward’s assured us we’ll be birthing some right terrors in our future.”

“I imagine I’ll be doing the bulk of the birthing,” Aveline points out.

“What about you?” Shay asks, looking back at Haytham. “When are you visiting from?”

Haytham hesitates. It seems selfish to tell them he’s about to die; they’ll be sorry to hear it (or so he hopes), and it will change nothing.

But he died years ago; they both know it. He can’t exactly become any more dead in their eyes.

“I’m travelling to Fort George,” he says. “I think this may be the last time I see you.”

Aveline presses a hand to her mouth. “No.”

“Turn away,” Shay says at once, rising from his seat. “Leave Connor to do whatever it is he’s doing. It’s not worth your life.”

“I’ve seen my grave,” Haytham says. “So, I believe, have you. We both know that I won’t be persuaded.”

How great a loss is it, really? He couldn’t save his father. He couldn’t save Ziio. He semi-raised a son who’s about to stab him to death, which is not the hallmark of a successful parent. His work for the Templars is the only worthwhile thing he’s ever done, and he knows from visits to Desmond that their great order will one day collapse into a miserable, vicious shadow of its former self.

Shay and Aveline exchange a look he can’t read.

“So this is the end for you?” Aveline asks, sitting down on the side of the bed. She pats the spot next to her. “There’s nothing to be done?”

Haytham sits down as instructed, although he keeps a respectful distance from Aveline. “This is a matter between me and Connor.”

Aveline looks again at Shay, who’s back in his chair by the door. He nods.

Aveline shifts closer to Haytham and takes his hand.

Haytham goes still.

“A long time ago, I told you that Shay wanted something to remember you by,” Aveline says. “You said you weren’t dying.”

“That,” Haytham says, “was hardly the only consideration.”

“I can understand why you might hesitate,” Aveline says. “If your feelings run deeper than friendship for either one of us, or perhaps” – she smiles at him – “for both?”

It’s a possibility that none of them has spoken of before, and so it’s been easy to pretend that it isn’t a possibility at all. Now, suddenly, Aveline has made it something real. Haytham focuses everything in his being on keeping his breathing even.

“It would be difficult,” Aveline says. “Having one night and then moving on, knowing that we were together and you could not always be with us.” She kisses her way down his arm. Nothing more than a little pressure against his heavy sleeves, and yet... “But you say you are at the end of your life. Regret is for people with time.”

“There’s always the possibility I’ll find myself in a decade-long visit before I meet Connor,” Haytham says. His voice is almost steady. “Time enough to regret this. If I’m particularly unfortunate, there might even be an afterlife.”

He feels Aveline’s smile against the back of his hand.

“You’re saying you won’t risk it?” Shay asks, his voice carefully blank.

The prospect of intimacy after so long is a rather intimidating one, particularly with these two. And if he truly does sleep with them at this stage of their lives, all his later visits to them will retroactively become mortifying.

But how long will he have to live with that mortification? He’s thought for so long that the proposition was one he would never be able to consider, but – here he is, about to die.

Aveline sits up, looking at him, expectant. Haytham glances over at Shay, a little uneasy. Even with permission, even with encouragement, it feels so strange to think about touching another man’s wife. Perhaps it would be easier to say farewell with a game of fanorona.

Shay frowns slightly. “You... want me over there, sir?”

Not the message Haytham had hoped to convey; he was looking for some sort of confirmation that the offer was real, that he wasn’t somehow transgressing just by sitting here with Aveline. But Shay’s question twists low in his stomach, and in that moment he knows that – yes, he wants this. He’s afraid of it, he’s spent decades trying to bury his desires, but he’s about to face his own death at the hands of his son. Somehow, other fears seem trivial.

Aveline’s cheek is warm and rough against his fingers, and it’s so easy to kiss her it seems ridiculous that he’s spent so many years fighting the thought. Her mouth opens up under his own; her hands slide over his shoulders, down his back, and she pulls herself so close she’s almost sitting in his lap. She’s warm, she smells of sweat and Shay, and he hasn’t been touched like this in so, so long.

“Jesus,” Shay breathes.

Aveline starts laughing against Haytham’s mouth. She pulls back and beckons to Shay. “Come and join us. If...?” She looks at Haytham, questioning.

Haytham takes a breath, and nods.

It’s so strange to actually be kissing Shay at last, after so much time picturing it, so much time pretending it can’t have crossed his mind. There’s a part of him that feels this can’t be real, that he’s dreaming, that he’s watching from a distance. But his insides are writhing like he’s swallowed a nest of snakes. He can’t pretend he isn’t affected by this.

Shay kisses more clumsily than Haytham would have anticipated, given the amount of experience he’s had with Aveline, although of course Haytham is far from an expert in the matter. He keeps almost touching Haytham – almost gripping his shoulder or his wrist, almost curling his fingers into Haytham’s hair – and then jerking back, as if he’s not sure he’s allowed.

“Sorry, sir,” Shay mumbles, breaking off. “I’m not used to this.” He hesitates. “Should I keep calling you ‘sir’? Or should I start using your name, if we’re going to...” He makes a vague hand gesture.

Haytham actually feels a smile tugging at his lips. He wonders whether it will be his last.

“‘Sir’,” he says, “is fine by me.”

Chapter Text

Desmond knows that Edward is a pirate, of course. He’s heard it from other visitors; he’s heard it from Edward himself. Even if he hadn’t, the flag on the Jackdaw isn’t exactly subtle.

Somehow, though, he’s never really thought about what that means.

In the relatively short time Desmond’s known him (although the last few weeks have felt more like months, the number of ‘visits’ he’s managed to hallucinate without any real time passing), he’s built up a picture of Edward. Yeah, Edward doesn’t generally think his decisions through and he can be hard to deal with, but he doesn’t seem like a bad person. He’s a friend, as far as a hallucination can be. Their weird sleeping arrangement makes Desmond feel secure. Edward doesn’t seem like the kind of guy you might suddenly see, say, slaughtering the crew of a merchant vessel.

Desmond cowers against the rail of the ship, away from the bloodshed. After a moment, when he remembers that this is all in his head, the blades can’t touch him, he closes his eyes and covers his ears and waits for it all to be over.

After what seems like forever, he feels a tap on his arm. He opens his eyes, hoping for Shaun or Rebecca, even though it’s still too warm to be the temple.

“When did you show up?” Edward asks, cheerfully. “It’s a fine haul. You should stay for the celebrations.”

Desmond hesitates.

“Tell me this is a ship full of...” Templars, he almost says, but he knows by now that Templars don’t deserve death just for the side they’re on. “Tell me they were people who had to die for the good of the world. Or tell me they attacked first, at least.”

Edward shrugs. “If it makes you sleep easier, I don’t have any evidence that this won’t benefit the world.”

Does Desmond know a single person, real or imaginary, who hasn’t killed anyone? That doesn’t seem like a question anyone should have to ask.

“Don’t give me that look,” Edward says. “I try not to kill more than I need to. Just until the others stop fighting.”

Desmond avoids his eyes. “I don’t really know if that helps.”

“Oh? I’ll slay the lot next time; we’ll see if you’re singing the same tune then.”

“Don’t,” Desmond says, quickly. “Sorry. It’s great that you only, uh... only murder a few people.”

Edward shoves him over the side of the gutted ship. “Get onto the Jackdaw,” he calls down when Desmond’s clawed his way to the surface, soaked and sputtering. “We’re burning this one.”

By the time Desmond’s clambered up to the deck of the Jackdaw, she’s already sailing. Edward waves to him from the helm. Honestly, it’s a little tempting to hit him.

Desmond resists.

“Adé,” Edward says, as Desmond approaches the helm. “Need to have a private conversation. I’m sure you understand.”

“I understand very little about you sometimes,” Adé says, but he heads out to mingle with the rest of the men regardless.

Desmond pauses. Just stands there, dripping onto the deck, waiting to hear what Edward’s sent Adé away for. The salt is still stinging his eyes.

For a while, Edward says nothing, looking out over the waves. It’s strange to see him quiet.

“All right,” he says at last. “Here’s a thought. We still need more supplies. I was planning to take another ship for them; it’s easier, and... honestly, it’s more fun.”

“Fun,” Desmond echoes, flatly.

“But there’s a warehouse nearby. We plunder that, we’ll be set for weeks. And it’s less messy. Get the sneaking right, maybe nobody has to die.” He pauses. “Might be more Kidd’s area than mine. If we can get her in for it, we should definitely do this.”

Desmond stares at him. “You’re offering to... plunder a warehouse for me?”

“In place of a good few ships,” Edward says. “Could be thousands in your time who owe their lives to you, with all the potential ancestors you’ll be sparing.”

“So you’re not going to stop killing,” Desmond says. “You’re just going to kill less for a while.”

“It’s not nothing,” Edward says, with a shrug. “And it’s the best offer you’ll get out of me. Take it or don’t.” He pulls a spyglass from his hip, puts it to his eye. “What’s this? Looks like a well-stocked vessel on the horizon. What should I tell my men? Are we going after her?”

Desmond freezes. This seems like a heavy decision. People might still be killed in a raid on the warehouse. He isn’t just deciding whether people die; that would be easy. He might be deciding who dies. The idea that a word from him might kill guards at that warehouse...

But letting Edward go after the ship is still a decision, isn’t it?

“You have to get Kidd to help,” Desmond says. “If you think she can get into the warehouse without harming anyone.”

“Believe me, I’m not letting an opportunity to work with Kidd pass,” Edward says. “I’ll tell her it was a deal with you to spare some innocents. She’ll be pleased.”

“Then go for the warehouse,” Desmond says. “Leave the ship alone.”

Edward grins. “All right. Those men over there will pass on their way unhindered, thanks to you. Doesn’t it feel good to spare some lives?”

“Doesn’t it feel good for you as well?” Desmond asks. Somehow, this doesn’t seem as subtle an approach in his voice as it did in his head. “Maybe even like... the kind of thing you might want to do more often?”

“Doesn’t feel bad, exactly,” Edward admits, “but it’s not on the level of a fine new reinforced hull.”

It’s stupid to get upset about this, of course; none of it is real. But it doesn’t feel right. All of Desmond’s friends are murderers; he’s learning to accept this, especially now that he’s killed people himself. But at least most of them kill for a higher cause than ship repair.

“Hey,” Edward says, sounding concerned, and then there are familiar arms around him, and somehow it seems twice as stupid that getting a hug from this murderous pirate is actually comforting. Desmond presses his damp face into Edward’s stolen Assassin robes. There’s blood still drying on them.

Chapter Text

“Is that Haytham?” Ezio asks. Haytham, or someone who looks a great deal like him, is looking over the front of a building with an air of detached curiosity. A man with a passing interest in architecture, one might think. Someone inside that building must die, Ezio suspects, and Haytham is checking the target’s potential escape routes. “How is he so far from you?”

“What do you mean?” Connor asks.

“I thought we could not stray far from those we visited.”

“He is not visiting,” Connor says. “He is here.”

Ezio laughs in surprise. “You live in the same time? I thought we were too far apart to meet in reality.”

Connor shakes his head. “Not all of us.”

Interesting news. Do any of the other visitors live in Ezio’s time? He would be extremely pleased to meet any of them in person.

“Would it be possible for you to visit Haytham while you are together?” Ezio asks. “And in that way meet yourself?”

“It has been known to happen,” Connor says, after a moment.

Very interesting indeed.

“So you are working with Haytham?” Ezio asks. “I should greet him.”

Connor looks warily at him. “You are not surprised?”

“Should it surprise me? Two Assassins in the same place and time, working together?”

“Two Assassins?”

They look at each other for a moment.

“Did he tell you he was an Assassin?” Connor asks.

Something about this seems strange. But Haytham does look older than Ezio knows him, so perhaps... “Did he leave the Brotherhood?”

“I do not think he has ever been a brother,” Connor says. “Not that he would tell me if...” He pauses. “But he is a Templar grand master. We are working together only for convenience, while our goals align.”

Ezio stares at him.

“No,” he says.

Connor frowns. “What do you mean?”

“No,” Ezio says. “He was an Assassin. I saw his blades. The Templars must have tricked him. If they have him on their side, we must help him escape them.”

“A man does not become Grand Master by accident,” Connor says. His voice is almost gentle.

Ezio shakes his head. “The Templars killed my family. No.”

“How long can you have known him?” Connor asks. “If you did not know his side...”

“We were building a friendship, I thought,” Ezio says, quietly. “He was... stiff, he was guarded, but I liked him.”

Something darkens in Connor’s eyes. “He was lying to you. It would not be the only lie he has told.”

The seconds pass, and nothing changes. Ezio has not woken up; Connor has not laughed and admitted that it was an uncharacteristic joke. And Haytham, still inspecting the house, is now an enemy. If Connor is to be believed, he has been an enemy since before he and Ezio first met.

“But the rest of us are still Assassins?” Ezio asks, seeking reassurance. “Aveline? Altaïr? If you tell me Altaïr was actually a Templar all along—”

“They are both Assassins,” Connor says, with the barest trace of a smile.

“Desmond? Edward? Shay?”

The smile vanishes at once. “Desmond, yes. Edward and Shay are... complicated cases, I think.”

“What do you mean? Complicated how?”

But the visit ends before Connor can answer, and Ezio finds himself back in front of Claudia, who is irritably listing all the many improvements that Monteriggioni apparently needs. At the first opportunity, Ezio excuses himself and goes to sit before the statue of Altaïr in the sanctuary. It is a place he often goes when he feels he needs guidance. The true Altaïr, he now knows, is not typically keen to dispense guidance, but Ezio still finds his presence calming, real or imagined.

Complicated? Shay is an Assassin; he knows that without doubt. They have spoken of mentors and training and the Creed. But Edward? He cannot remember Edward ever actually calling himself an Assassin. Did he see the cloak and the blades and make assumptions?

He tries not to think of Haytham, of a friend lost, or a friend who was never truly his in the first place.

A week later, he finds himself on a warm, beautiful island, lush with vegetation, the ocean spread out before him. It isn’t difficult to tell who he’s visiting. He looks around for Edward, meaning to ask him exactly what’s so complicated about his allegiance, and—

Ezio stumbles, horror and shock burning his throat.

Edward is lying dead on the ground.

No. No, it can’t be true, it—

No, it isn’t true. It isn’t Edward, he realises, and the relief strikes him almost as powerfully as the shock. Someone else, wearing Edward’s cloak. Edward is alive and well, crouching beside the stranger.

Edward is crouching beside the dead man. The dead man in the Assassin’s cloak.

An Assassin has been killed, and Edward is the only person in sight.

“Does he need help?” Ezio asks. He has to believe the best of his visitors, surely, if they are to live with each other.

Edward starts at the sound of his voice. Leaps to his feet, drawing a pair of blades. “These are my spoils. If you’re wise, you’ll occupy yourself elsewhere.”

So much for believing the best. “You killed him, then. An Assassin. Your robes were his all along, I suppose?” Every word seems to draw warmth out of his chest, leaving him cold and empty in the tropical sunlight. “So this is before we first met?”

“You can spout all the nonsense you like, whoever you are,” Edward says, “but do it at a distance.”

Ezio dreads the answer, but he has to ask. “Are you a Templar?”

“Am I somehow failing to make myself clear?”

“Answer my question,” Ezio says.

“Tell me what in Christ’s name you’re talking about, and perhaps I’ll be able to.”

“You don’t know what a Templar is?”

“Is that whatever club you two belong to?” Edward asks, gesturing to the dead man at his feet. “Why are you people running around in these heavy clothes, weather like this?”

It’s something. The man he thought was an Assassin ally has been wearing another man’s skin all along, it seems, but he isn’t a Templar, at least.

“Why did you kill him?” Ezio asks.

“Not that it’s any of your concern, but he tried to shoot me,” Edward says. “Reason enough for you?”

“An Assassin? An Assassin targeted you? Why?”

Uncle Mario’s words are speeding through Ezio’s head; they don’t like to kill, but they must, to defend the innocent, to end oppression. The Assassins strike silently against the monsters of the world. Is Edward one of those monsters?

But the question must wait, it seems, because in that moment Ezio finds himself back in his own time, so suddenly that he almost falls off his horse. He slows her to a trot, thinking.

How much does Ezio really know about these ‘visitors’? He has been thinking of them as allies on the side of the Assassins, as friends, perhaps as prospective bedmates if he’s fortunate. But perhaps he needs to step back for a moment and observe, find out who amongst them he can truly trust.

The prospect is bitter on his tongue. But he has trusted blindly before; he gave a man the documents that could have saved his family, and the regret tears at his soul every moment of the day.

If he cannot trust Altaïr, he can trust none of them. He holds that to his chest. Altaïr is an island of certainty, an assurance that he is not starting anew from nothing; there is one visitor, at least, that he can believe in.

Chapter Text

“Desmond!” Rebecca calls.

Desmond flinches. “My break’s over,” he mutters to Shay. “I have to get back in the Animus.”

That can’t be right.

“I hope you’re jesting,” Shay says. “You said you came out ten minutes ago.”

“We’re on a tight schedule,” Desmond says, avoiding his eyes.

“Believe it or not, I’d picked up on that,” Shay says. “Say you’ll be with them in an hour. You don’t have to do everything they tell you. Fight back once in a while.”

Desmond looks warily at him. “You’re a Templar.”

“I’m not saying this because I’m on the other side,” Shay says. “I’m saying this because I’m a human being with a shred of compassion. Take a moment’s rest. Don’t let them put you back in someone else’s head. This work’s killing you.”

“Maybe,” Desmond says. “But what am I supposed to do? Let the world get fried?”

Shay hesitates.

“Okay,” he says. “What if I took over? I could be the one in the Animus for once.”

Desmond stares at him. “You’re serious?”

Shay can’t pretend it doesn’t scare him. He talked a while ago to an older Altaïr, one who was actually prepared to speak with Shay without a blade to anyone’s throat, and Desmond came up in the conversation. It sounds like Altaïr watched Desmond’s mind collapse completely over the course of a couple of months. Shay’s actually kind of glad he didn’t meet Desmond before the Animus wrecked him; that seems like a hard thing to see.

“Wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it,” Shay says. “You’ve been through enough.”

“You work with Haytham, right?” Desmond asks. “Do you want to start bleeding Connor? Thinking your boss is your dad?”

That... all right, that sounds a horrifying prospect. But he hates the idea of watching Desmond go back into that machine.

“It would not be a problem for me,” a new voice says.

Shay looks around, his hand darting to his sword; his hidden blades are easier to access, but they remind him so strongly of his time with the Assassins that he prefers to use other weapons when he can.

“Connor,” he says. “Didn’t know you’d arrived.”

Connor ignores him, keeping his focus on Desmond. “If you need some time away from the Animus, I will take your place. Do not let this Templar undo all you have worked towards.”

“Oh, right,” Shay says. “Because that’s what I’m here to do. Nothing I hate more than people trying to save the world.”

“Will you accept my help?” Connor asks Desmond.

Desmond throws Shay a slightly apologetic glance. “If you’re sure. That would be... that’d be great. I don’t know if the Animus will actually work if I’m... somewhere else mentally, I guess? But, yeah, we can try.” He hesitates. “Thanks.”

Which is why, when Shay watches Desmond’s body being locked into the Animus, the real Desmond is standing beside him, looking on.

“This is weird,” Desmond mutters. “I’ve never seen it from this angle before. Do you think he’ll be okay in there?”

“He can switch with you if he’s having trouble, can’t he?” Shay asks.

Desmond seems to relax a little at that. “I guess so. Oh, hey...”

The picture rectangle in front of Rebecca – screen, Shay remembers – has lit up with an image of Connor, standing in a strange, splintered white space. An instant later Achilles’ homestead springs up around him, and Shay winces.

“Looks like the Animus works for him,” Desmond says, apparently to himself. “Well, it’s really me in there, anyway. I guess thinking I’m out here is better than nothing.”

Shay kicks him in the shin, not too hard.

“Ow! Hey!”

Shay shrugs. “If it’s not real, what’s the trouble?”

“What happened to ‘you’ve been through enough’?” Desmond asks, looking wounded.

“Okay, I’ve marked Connor’s next major memory on your map,” Rebecca says, apparently to the air. The Connor on the screen jerks and looks around. “It looks like he might’ve helped deliver some letters on the way, so we can run through that if you’re having trouble syncing.”

“If he’s having trouble sinking?” Shay asks Desmond.

“Getting into the memory, basically,” Desmond says. “I normally have to go through a few small things Connor did before I can see something bigger.”

But Connor doesn’t seem to have any such issue; he goes from major event to major event without a pause. Probably the fact that they actually are his memories has something to do with it. Rebecca starts to smile, calls Shaun over to suggest giving Desmond an extra hour off tomorrow, as they’re making so much progress today and Desmond’s father isn’t around to stop them. And Shay’s happy for Desmond; he really is. It’s just...

He hadn’t realised how painful it would be, watching Connor’s memories on the screen. Hope and Liam’s deaths are still raw in his chest, and for what? He and Haytham cleared the Assassins out of New York, but here’s New York only a couple of decades later, and innocent people are still being exploited. The Brotherhood is being rebuilt. What did his actions change, really? He put friends in the ground for this, and all the good he might have done is gone.

So when Shaun and Rebecca decide that they can afford the break tomorrow, and Desmond turns to grin at Shay, it’s a little difficult for Shay to smile back.

“What’s wrong?” Desmond asks, his grin fading.

Shay nods to the Animus. “You haven’t been me in this thing, have you?”

Desmond shakes his head. Shay doesn’t know if he’s relieved or not; it’d be good to have someone who understands without him having to explain, but, on the other hand, he hates the idea of someone watching all the things he’s ashamed of.

“But you know I was an Assassin before I joined the Templars,” Shay says.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Well, I left friends behind,” Shay says. “They stayed Assassins. And when we next met, it was under... unfriendly circumstances.” It’s becoming hard to keep his voice even. He stares at the screen, so he doesn’t have to look at Desmond, but it doesn’t much matter where he looks with his vision blurring like this. “I just... I can’t stop wondering if I could’ve done things differently.”

Desmond’s hand on his back is tentative, uncertain, but it’s a point of contact, something real in the haze of what-ifs.

“I had a friend who turned out to be a Templar,” Desmond says, quietly. “And then I met you and Haytham, and... I don’t know. I guess I’m wondering the same thing.”

It doesn’t really make Shay feel any better. How many people in their orders have been through this? Connor and Haytham are on different sides, and he knows that eventually Connor will kill his father, no matter how much Shay might want to prevent it. Aveline and her stepmother, he has learnt, will not part on warm terms.

Is there any way he can really end up on a cordial footing with his many Assassin visitors? Maybe it’s impossible for Assassins and Templars to live together without bloodshed.

He almost hopes that’s the case. The idea of finding that Assassins and Templars can coexist, when he’s already opened up Liam and Hope... he doesn’t know if that sort of regret is something a man can survive.

Chapter Text

Edward stands in the Observatory, a crystal skull before him and a vial labelled James Kidd in his hand. He shouldn’t. It’s not right, spying on friends.

He’s not going to let that stop him, of course; he’s done a great deal worse, and this certainly isn’t going to be the moment he turns his life around. He just feels he owes it to Kidd to at least remind himself he shouldn’t be doing this.

Frankly, though, Kidd shouldn’t have kissed all those visitors against Edward’s wishes, so really he’s justified. Sort of. He might be descending, but at least he’s doing it from the moral high ground. Kidd can’t damn him for this one transgression, surely.

It’d probably be best if Kidd never finds out about this, though.

Right. Better set the vial in place before he can dwell on this any longer. He can think about the consequences when they crash across his bow.

He isn’t sure what to make of it at first. It’s something like a heat shimmer in the air, see-through and indistinct. And then it seems to resolve into a shape, a human outline, and a moment later Edward hears a voice.

“—told Jack you were a lady.”

It’s Anne Bonny’s accent. Now that he’s looking for her, he can see Anne in the figure before him, her features, her dress, all of it glowing gold and hard to make out.

“Don’t think lady’s the word I used,” another voice says, and something in Edward tightens. That’s Kidd. So it’s true; this place can let him see through her eyes. “But there’s no chance he’d’ve let me sail with you if he thought I could fill out my breeches.”

“So is it true, what you told him?” Anne asks. The image of her seems to be getting larger. Coming closer, maybe?

“More or less,” Kidd says.

“Ah,” Anne says, perhaps a little wistfully. “S’pose there’ll be no training to handle a cutlass after all.”

“There’s more to the life than swordplay, you know.” There’s a smirk in Kidd’s voice.

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Anne says. She arches her eyebrows, tilts her head. “I suppose, if you’re willing to show me...”

She’s definitely getting closer. And then the image cuts out. Maybe this place can’t sustain its strange visions for long.

A moment later, though, Anne reappears, smiling. She looks to be holding herself a little nervously, although the nuances of her expression aren’t too clear in this picture made of light.

It takes Edward a moment to make sense of the rest of it. He’s looking through Kidd’s eyes, so that must be Kidd’s hand in Anne’s hair, and Kidd’s other hand dipping to...

No. No. No. No, this can’t possibly be happening. No.

“I’ll show you things that fool Rackham can only dream of,” Kidd says, quietly.

And apparently Edward’s to witness those things as well, whether he wants to or not.

Maybe he should at least try to learn something from this, he finds himself thinking, after a few minutes of frozen staring. Kidd seems experienced, as little as he might like to think about that, and perhaps he’d be able to pick up something useful. But the idea of thinking back to Kidd bedding someone else whenever he’s with a woman... well, it could make things hard. Difficult, that is.

“Hey.” The sudden voice almost startles Edward out of his skin. It’s Desmond looking around at the walls. “Where are we?”

Desmond won’t be happy about this. Still, at least that means Edward will have a companion in his suffering.

“Is this Precursor technology or something?” Desmond asks, squinting at the see-through vision of Anne. Mostly just Anne’s legs by now, actually.

Edward waits.

“What is this? Is it—” Desmond’s eyes go wide, and he leaps back from the image just as a particularly loud moan echoes through the Observatory. “Is it – is this porn? Are you using Precursor technology to watch porn in the eighteenth century?”

“Porn?” Edward asks. “I’m watching Kidd.”

Desmond’s expression somehow manages to become even more horrified. “That’s Kidd?”

“It’s the lady she’s with, apparently,” Edward says, miserably.

“Is this live? Do they know you’re watching this?”

“Oh, yes,” Edward says. “Because you always ask permission before dropping in on the private affairs of others, don’t you, Desmond?”

Desmond flushes. “I don’t – it’s not like I have a choice.”

“You think I had a choice?” Edward demands. “The chance to see what Kidd’s up to falls into my hands, you don’t think I’d be compelled to use it? I’m being soundly punished for it, anyway.”

Desmond gives him a sidelong look.

“What?” Edward asks.

“Nothing. Just... a lot of guys wouldn’t mind seeing this.” Anne’s panting gets louder, and Desmond looks up at the ceiling, his face now thoroughly crimson. “Or hearing it.”

“It’s Kidd,” Edward says. “I mean – I’ve no control over what she does when it’s not with visitors, I suppose.”

“Hate to say this,” Desmond says, quietly, “but it kind of sounds like you don’t have much control over her even when it is.”

Edward shoots him a glare. Gestures at the image. “But still, seeing her with someone – not just someone; she’s with Anne. Have you ever seen Anne? Face that could distract a whole crew and run a ship aground. How am I to compete with that?”

Desmond glances very briefly at Anne. Looks away again.

“Well,” Desmond says, “if it’s making you unhappy, can’t you just... stop watching it? Like, leave? Or – is this weird crystal skull thing the projector? Can you stop it?”

Edward stares at him.

“I could stop watching,” he says, half to himself. He doesn’t know why it didn’t occur to him before. It won’t stop what Kidd’s doing, but at least it’ll make it less present.

Kidd’s gasp seems to brush the back of his neck.

“Maybe in a moment,” he says.

“Edward,” Desmond says. “Leave, or I swear I’m telling Kidd about this.”

Chapter Text

Aveline has never seen Ezio’s Venice so colourful and crowded and noisy. She looks around, marvelling at the fireworks, the music, the strange masks on the revellers.

“A dance, my lady?” asks a voice at her shoulder.

She turns around and laughs. “My, who could that man behind the mask be? He dresses like my friend Ezio.”

“A stranger,” Ezio says, smiling, “who wishes only to dance with you.”

“What is the occasion?”

“This is Carnevale,” Ezio says, gesturing grandly around them. “A great celebration. One person who excels at the games here may win an invitation to the Doge’s party, in the form of a golden mask.” A touch of bitterness creeps into his tone. “Or so it is said.”

“You were snubbed?”

“The Doge is Marco Barbarigo,” Ezio says. “Part of the conspiracy against my family.”

“Ah,” Aveline says. “You intend to be an unruly guest.”

“The mask should have been mine,” Ezio mutters. “But Marco’s cousin Silvio bought the judge.”

“How strange,” Aveline says, affecting a frown. “Why prevent you from winning? It’s almost as if they expected trouble from the man in Assassin robes.”

Ezio looks down at himself.

“Perhaps I could have chosen a more effective disguise,” he admits.

“Perhaps,” Aveline says.

“Take my mind off it,” Ezio says. “Dance with me.”

Aveline raises her eyebrows. “You don’t think that will draw attention, dancing alone? I take it from the mask that you’re at least making some effort not to be recognised.”

“Some things are worth a little recognition, do you not think?”

“A dance, then,” Aveline says, beginning to smile. “But you will behave yourself.”

Ezio bows. “Of course.”

He seizes her and whirls her around the square, and before long they’re both laughing.

“Did you get your golden mask, in the end?” Aveline asks. “Was your mission a success?”

“Marco Barbarigo is dead,” Ezio says, heavily. He is sitting on a low stone ledge, staring out over the waters of Venice. “And Silvio. And so is their bodyguard, Dante.”

Aveline frowns. “You do not seem like a man victorious.”

“It is the bodyguard,” Ezio says. “His death weighs on me.”

“He knew he was putting himself in danger when he chose to guard those men.”

“I am not sure he did,” Ezio says. He holds up a worn piece of paper, one that looks to have been unfolded and refolded many times. “He was carrying this.”

Aveline takes it from him. A letter from a woman. Words of love, but strange, sad.

“But do you even remember me?” she reads aloud. “Or were the wounds too grave? Do my words stir – if not your memory, then your heart? It doesn't matter what they say – I know you're still in there, somewhere. What is this?”

“I made enquiries after reading this,” Ezio says. “Dante Moro was attacked. Marco ordered the attack himself, the rumours say, to take his wife. And Dante’s self was damaged; his memory was lost, he could not think as he could before.”

“How terrible,” Aveline says, softly. “And his wife wrote him this letter?”

“He kept it with him,” Ezio says. “Over his heart. It must have meant something to him. Perhaps, in time, she truly could have reached the person he once was.”

“Ezio—”

Ezio shakes his head. “He could not have known what he was doing. What man would willingly guard the person who took his mind and his love? Dante was a victim of the Barbarigo. If I cannot protect their victims, what good is anything I have done here?”

Aveline crouches, puts a hand on his shoulder. “You didn’t know.”

“If I had studied my target more closely before I struck, I would have known,” Ezio says, quietly. “Am I so impatient that I will kill a man without finding whether he deserves to die?”

Aveline pulls him to his feet, and into her arms. And there’s no music, but somehow they are dancing again, slower and sadder.

“You will learn from this,” Aveline murmurs. “One day you will spare a man who might once have died. And that man will owe his life to Dante Moro.”

“That will not help Dante.”

“No,” Aveline agrees. “You cannot restore his life. All you can do is make sure his death has meaning.”

Ezio is silent for a long moment.

“Is that enough?” he asks at last.

Aveline holds him closer.

Chapter Text

Aveline is warming to the concept of visiting. She has too few friends in the Brotherhood; Agaté is not always easy to talk to, and Gérald, as fond as she is of him, is only one man. With the visitors, she suddenly has a great many people who understand her, who know her double life and have chosen the same path themselves.

Well, Altaïr did try to kill her on their one meeting so far, admittedly, and she’s extremely dubious about this Edward. But Ezio, Desmond, Shay: these men are allies and friends. She’s looking forward to meeting the final two.

Her first sight of her penultimate visitor seems positive.

Aveline’s first instinct, when she finds herself surrounded by the red coats of the British army, is to look for Shay; she knows he tangles with them sometimes. But there’s no sign of him.

Which isn’t necessarily to say he isn’t there. He’s an Assassin, after all; he knows how to hide himself.

On another glance around, she realises that the fort she’s in is dotted with stocks holding Native men and women. She draws in a deep, distasteful breath and lets it out again. They’re to be sold into slavery, no doubt. She hopes Shay is here to help them. If he isn’t, she might just take over his body and free them herself.

Which could put a strain on their friendship, admittedly, but there are things more important than keeping the peace.

She reaches out with her second sight; Shay always shows up as a very intense, vibrant blue, and – yes, that shade instantly catches her attention.

It seems to be coming from one of the men in red coats, which surprises her. A disguise, perhaps.

When she returns to normal vision, she sees that it isn’t Shay at all. A man in his thirties, perhaps, with sharply defined features, his hair tied back with a red ribbon. One of the new visitors at last. It’s tempting to go straight over and introduce herself, but...

The stranger is evidently trying not to attract attention from the men around him. He’s on a mission, and he’s unlikely to thank her if she interrupts.

Aveline hangs back instead, watching to see what he’ll do.

He’s freeing the captives, she quickly realises. He moves cautiously but swiftly, with the assurance of a man who knows his skill.

She leaves before he’s finished in his task, but it’s a promising start to an acquaintance. Even if they aren’t technically acquainted yet.

Her next few visits are enjoyable enough, but she’s hoping to speak to that man properly, and there’s a part of her that’s a little disappointed when she realises her visitor is Ezio again, or Shay, or, if she’s particularly unfortunate, Edward. And then, one day, the stranger appears in her bedroom.

“Aveline,” he says, with a polite nod.

“You know me,” she says, thrown.

He shifts his stance, suddenly on guard. “Is this the first time we’ve met?”

Now that she truly looks at him, he does seem to be older than the last time she saw him. Five years, a decade? It was such a distant first encounter that it’s hard to be sure.

“I saw you once before,” she says. “We didn’t speak.”

“We fought?”

“Together? Or each other?”

He shakes his head. “Never mind. So you don’t know who I am at all?”

“Well, you haven’t told me your name yet,” Aveline says. “We could make a start with that.”

“Why didn’t we speak when you first saw me?”

“Have you ever answered a question?” Aveline asks, beginning to smile.

“It’s not unheard of,” he says. “You’ll have my name, I assure you. But not yet.”

“A man of mystery?” Aveline asks. “I look forward to the first time I visit you in the bath; we’ll see how well you can hide yourself then.”

The man winces. “Yes, well, that’s already happened, and you enjoyed yourself entirely too much.”

“You were freeing Native captives when I first saw you,” she says. “Dressed as a man of the British military.”

Something strange passes across his face, but he turns away before she can interpret it. “Yes, I remember that day. I hadn’t realised you were there.”

“I didn’t wish to interrupt,” Aveline says. “But it was an excellent first impression.”

“The second is likely to be a step backwards, I’m afraid,” he says. “You asked my name. It’s Haytham Kenway.”

Aveline stares at him.

“I have no particular wish to accelerate hostilities,” he says, with a shrug, “but hostilities there will be. I’ve lived through them. And I’d find your anger... easier to cope with, let’s say, than your unknowing kindness. But I wanted to know why we hadn’t spoken, and I seemed unlikely to get an answer if you knew my identity.”

Aveline finds her voice, taking a step backwards. “Haytham Kenway? Haytham Kenway, the Grand Master?”

“Haytham Kenway the florist,” Haytham says. “I know you’re sharper than this, Aveline.”

“I can show you sharp, if you’d like,” Aveline says. “I’ve heard of your work.”

He’s a visitor. He’s a visitor. He could show up at any moment of her life. He could possess her...

“Stay away from my family,” Aveline says, her voice tight. “You and I may fight, but touch them and I will make you regret it.”

“Your father and stepmother?” Haytham asks, and Aveline hates that he knows even that much about her. “I will not harm them in any way. You can have my word on that.”

“The word of a Templar,” Aveline says. “I shall treasure it, no doubt.”

“You say you saw me on that day at Southgate Fort,” Haytham says. “One of... one of the captives asked me to free her. I gave her my word I would, and...”

But whatever he’s trying to say seems to catch in his throat. Not that that matters to Aveline. He can make all the pretty promises he likes; he’s still a Templar.

“You didn’t give the captives their freedom for their own sake, did you?” Aveline asks. “You wanted... information, or soldiers.” She’s becoming angrier with every word she speaks. He deceived her with his actions, into thinking he was a potential friend, into thinking he cared...

“We wanted allies, yes,” Haytham says. “But do not suggest the people we helped meant nothing to me.”

He pauses, looking at her.

“I do rather miss the days when you and I both loathed each other,” he says. “It made everything a great deal easier.”

And Aveline is alone in her room again, tense with fear and fury.

Chapter Text

Shay told her once, not long before the end, that it was best that he was dying first. He said that she was strong enough to live without him, that he’d be lost without her.

It’s true, she knows, but it’s little comfort.

There’s a part of Aveline that won’t stop whispering she’ll never see Shay again, now that he’s gone. She knows visiting will keep them together in some way; Haytham passed away in her lifetime, and she still sees him. And yet, with every day that passes without a visit from Shay, the voice becomes more insistent. Perhaps he truly is gone from her life. Perhaps it’s selfish to expect to see him again, when so many widows must live without visiting.

She looks up sharply when she feels the tingling of a visit. Desmond again, her mind is telling her, or Ezio, or—

It’s Shay. A Templar, but young, younger than she’s seen him in many years.

Aveline wants to rush into his arms, to tell him all that he’s ever meant to her, but... perhaps this Shay is too early, perhaps it would only alarm him. It’s been a long time since she last needed to use the codewords.

“Aveline?” Shay asks. He seems a little uncertain.

“You’re thrown by my age,” Aveline says. She means it to sound light, but the words have ragged edges and they catch in her throat. “Am I understanding correctly?”

Shay grins, a little sheepishly. “I wasn’t planning to say anything about it.”

And it’s that awkward smile, the one that will stay the same through the next five decades of his life, that breaks something inside Aveline. Because here is Shay, already marked by the pain of Lisbon, but young and spry, his whole life ahead of him. And yet Shay is dead and buried.

If she could, she would end the visit now to hide her tears. But he’s visiting her.

“Aveline?” Shay asks, alarmed now.

“I’m sorry.” She gives him a watery smile. “You shouldn’t have to see this.”

“What’s wrong?”

Aveline shakes her head. She shouldn’t ask, she knows, but in this moment it’s difficult to care about what she should or shouldn’t do. “Shay, could you... hold me? Please?”

Shay hesitates. Of course he does; he doesn’t yet know what their relationship will become. It isn’t fair of her to put him in this position.

She draws breath to tell him not to worry, to forget her words, but then he closes the short distance between them and wraps her in his arms. His hold is so firm and his scent so familiar, and she can close her eyes and almost believe herself to be in her thirties again, slowly realising she’s fallen for a Templar, taking the first steps on a journey that’s behind her now.

She’s shaking. Shay holds her tighter.

“Will you tell me what’s wrong?” he asks, softly.

She shakes her head against his shoulder.

Shay’s silent for a moment. When he speaks again, he sounds a little uncomfortable. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Aveline asks, opening her eyes.

“Just... being me,” Shay says. “Being the one who’s here when you need help. You’d probably be more at ease with one of the Assassins.”

Aveline laughs at that. It feels strange in her throat, and she wonders how long it’s been since she last laughed. The past few months have been difficult. “You’re perfect, Shay. Don’t apologise.”

He strokes her hair, just a little, uncertainly, as if he’s not sure he’s allowed. All Aveline wants to do is kiss him.

She closes her eyes again instead. Tries to forget everything but the knowledge that Shay is with her. When he’s here like this, so warm and real and Shay, it’s hard to believe she buried him only a week ago.

Her heart feels tattered and raw when he vanishes, leaving only cold air in his place. She doesn’t know if it will ever be whole again. But she’ll see him again, she tells herself. She’ll see him again. She’ll see him again.

Chapter Text

There’s a woman on the ship. That’s not an everyday sight, but nor is it an unwelcome one.

“One of your rescued slaves?” Edward asks, nudging Adé and gesturing towards her. She’s standing at the rail, watching the shore as they come in to dock, but it’s plain even from this angle that some would see her as merchandise. “Some might say it’s bad luck to have a woman aboard.”

Adé frowns. “Captain?”

“No criticism of you, Adé. She’s a pleasant change of scenery, bad luck or none. We’ll just have to make sure she’s not tossed overboard if there’s a storm.”

Adé’s frown deepens. “Who are you speaking of?”

“The woman over there,” Edward says. “The one I’m waving my hand at. I thought that was commonly understood to mean ‘this is what I’m speaking about’.”

“To my knowledge, there is no woman on the Jackdaw,” Adé says.

Edward looks hard at the woman. One of the invisible people, to join disapproving Ezio and the mysterious hat man? That would explain why she doesn’t seem to be drawing the eyes of the crew. That or he’s picked up some exceptionally disciplined men.

“With the braids, over there,” he says. “You could take her for a man at first glance, from her clothes.”

Adé shakes his head. “There is nobody there. Find another game to play.”

“Suppose I should introduce myself, then,” Edward says, letting go of the wheel as the Jackdaw settles in. “Going by recent experience, this may be the start of a long and strange acquaintance.”

“I am beginning to think the same of our first meeting,” Adé says. “And to question your suitability to sea voyages, if it takes you so short a time to see women dancing before your eyes. Introduce yourself to your imagined woman, then.”

Edward claps him on the shoulder. “Good to have my quartermaster’s blessing. Wish me luck.”

He makes his way over to the unknown woman. She tenses as he approaches, in a way that tells him she’s aware of everything that happens around her, even if she seems to be admiring the scenery.

She turns to face him, and for a moment they look at each other in silence.

“You’re the one I’m visiting,” she says.

He shrugs. “So it seems.”

“You wear a brother’s garb,” she says. “But you fly a rogue’s colours. What should I think of you?”

Edward grins. “Can’t say rogue sounds too bad on your tongue. You’re one of these Assassins, then?”

Her eyes narrow. “I take it you aren’t.”

“Had a few brushes with them,” Edward says. “Might have taken a couple of trophies. But no, I’m not one of your lot. Or one of the other lot.”

“Templars?” she asks. “No, I suppose not. Say what you will about them, but they don’t pillage indiscriminately.”

“You’re not fond of pirates, then.”

“Hard to imagine why anyone might not be, I know.”

“A shame,” Edward says. “Wouldn’t have minded getting to know each other on a more courteous footing.” There’s something very distracting about a woman in breeches, covered in weapons. Maybe he has been too long at sea. “You’re certainly the most interesting of my invisible companions so far. Aren’t you handsome?”

“I don’t know; am I?” she asks, testily. “I rather thought you had more relevant considerations. Such as, perhaps, how highly trained I am in killing.”

“The answer’s no, then?”

“To ‘aren’t you handsome’?”

“To the other question,” Edward says. “The one I didn’t ask.”

She raises her eyebrows. “A man who murders for personal gain is irresistible, of course. And yet somehow here I am, resisting.”

Edward smiles and shrugs. Sometimes you have to take the shot, even when you know it’ll miss. “Well, even if you’ve no interest in a night with a handsome rogue, it seems we’ll have to learn to live with each other.” He holds out a hand. “Edward.”

It’s no surprise to him that she neither takes the hand nor offers her name in return.

“Look, there’s already one of you who won’t tell me who he is,” Edward says. “If I don’t get names from the rest of you, this visiting business is going to be very confusing. And you’re probably centuries away from me, anyway. What harm can I do with your name?”

She drums her fingers on the butt of her holstered pistol for a moment. “What year is it for you?” she asks.

“It’s 1715.”

She pauses a moment longer. “Well, you’re probably too old to pose a threat in my time,” she says at last. “You may call me Aveline.”

Edward makes a face; being an old man isn’t a prospect he particularly likes to consider. Still, at least he has a name. “Aveline. A pleasure to have you aboard this fine ship.”

“Too fine for the purpose you put her to, I feel.”

Edward tenses at that. The Jackdaw’s not long been his, but she was quick to find a place in his heart. “I won’t be accused of mistreating her.”

Aveline smiles. “Well, it’s good to know you’re capable of caring for something outside yourself. Perhaps there’s hope. Have you considered making yourself worthy of those clothes you wear?”

“Ezio’s asked me something similar,” Edward says. “To be honest, I’ve never particularly worried that my clothes judged me unworthy.”

“They speak of a moral discipline you evidently lack,” Aveline says. “If you don’t care for the Assassin cause, you could at least wear something else.”

“I’d love to, believe me,” Edward says. “These robes are far too warm for the weather. But Ezio complained so much that by now I’m wearing them to spite him. And you’re only giving me more reason to keep them on.”

Aveline stares at him.

“Although I’d be willing to take them off if you’re interested in what lies beneath,” Edward offers.

Aveline shakes her head. “There’s no hope for you at all, is there?”

“So I’m told,” Edward says, smiling broadly. “It’s been a delight to meet you, Aveline.”